Me Tarzan, You Jane

by Camelia Miron Skiba

  “So, what’s next?” Lucas’s once-over look feels like a slap to my face. “Have you taken pictures of us? Should I worry about you using them without our permission? I have really good lawyers. Just won a trial against an author who used one of my photos for her cover without buying it. And when it comes to family I’m more than protective. At all costs.” His kiwi-green eyes sting, as do his accusations.

  I don’t know how this man stands himself. Arrogance must be his middle name. He must’ve been raised in a barn or better—in a jungle, swinging from one vine to another and howling at the stars. He is as bad as any of Hollywood’s bad boys: ill-mannered, disrespectful and full of himself. If there were such a thing as King of Bullies, he’d be the winner.

  “I . . . I didn’t—”

  “Jane, are you okay?” I hear Mona but can’t see her. Lucas blocks the doorway.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” I rush to reply. My high-heeled sandals are of no help; even when I push on my toes I still can’t see Mona over Lucas’s shoulders.

  He doesn’t move. I do the one-step left, one-step right dance, but I’m his prisoner.

  “I need to go. I’m late for the conference,” I whisper, but put force behind my words as if I hold back. “Please?”

  I only hear teeth grinding before he gets out of my way. I take a step toward Mona, but Lucas’s arm comes up, grabbing the doorframe about the height of my chest.

  “We are not done.” My skin breaks into goose bumps at the sound of his booming voice.

  I leave the volunteers to finish packing and closing the registration and hurry inside the conference room. I find an empty chair in the back and pull out my notebook.

  Women on the stage, talking about their journey through writing and publishing, fascinate me. Some of them laugh at the number of rejections—21, 65, even 249—before they signed with an agent, followed by a multi-book contract. Some have written their whole lives, some have just begun. Some have finished one novel, others have too many to count stored under their beds or in the attic. They also share the stories of support, or the lack of it, they’ve received from their families and friends, the sale of their first book, the heartache of the first bad review.

  I relate to some of their stories. I also have boxes filled with stories written since high school, but I haven’t published any. Nor did I query agents. The stories I wrote before Evan’s death end with love lasting for all eternity. I found the hard way that eternal love doesn’t exist, and I stopped writing after his death, too broken to find pleasure in it any longer. Then, about a year later, I woke up one morning panicking that some of my memories of him, our memories, would fade, disappear like smoke in the wind, that I won’t be able to hold onto them, keep them safe in my heart, in my mind.

  Along with the memories, I got back my love of writing. I even wrote a few new stories and reworked some of the old ones. I felt renewed, energized, like I had a new purpose, a new goal. Searching the net one-day I stumbled across a contest for short stories with the theme “Summer Love.” In a moment of haste I uploaded one of my stories. I remember the pounding in my chest, the thrill, but also the panic of good God, what have I done?

  I dwelled on it for a while, then realized I had to let go before I went insane. That night I dreamt of Evan for the first time since he’d passed away. He told me how proud he was of me, for putting myself out there and following my dream. The truth is, I imagined becoming a published author a lot, but had never really tried anything to make that dream come true. I thought it was hard. Not that I shy from hard things, but public speaking terrifies me. Besides, it’d take me away from my family, and I’d give up on any dream that would require that kind of sacrifice.

  Between the last workshop and dinner I have forty minutes, enough time to run to my room, take a quick shower and change into a red dress. I love the feel of it on my skin, silky and hugging me like the sun on a warm summer day. My hand is quick and steady when I reapply makeup. Next I curl my hair in a loose bun at the nape of my neck. Half a bottle of hairspray is a must before I exit the room. As I walk down the hallway I dial Mom’s phone. I miss Ella even more when I hear her sweet voice. She cries and Mom ends the conversation with, “Don’t worry. Ice cream will do.”

  The main ballroom buzzes with people. I stop and talk with several ladies, then find my table. I have the honor of sharing it with my favorite author, Mrs. Marie LaSalle. She’s an international bestselling author of historical romance novels, my genre. She looks and is dressed as if she stepped out of one of her novels, a long gray dress with folds down her skirt and white lace around her middle. The pearls around her neck match her porcelain skin, while tiny white flowers pin her Scottish red curls behind her left ear.

  Marie’s green eyes sparkle when she says, “If you read my last novel, The Duchess’s Lover, you’ll recognize this box.” She lifts a box that fits in my palm, older than time with its edges covered in gold. The lid pops open and a ballerina twirls in the middle of the box, soft music flowing out of it.

  “It’s Jacqueline’s,” I exclaim. Marie’s nod encourages me to continue, “She lost it during her trip to Windsor, but Richard found it and brought it back. That rake needed to lose Jackie to realize what a jewel she was. You should consider writing a sequel to it. I adore that novel.”

  “If I ever get a break.” Marie waves a hand. “My agent signed me up with a new house for a three-book deal for the next two years. Not to mention my old house, for which I still have two more books to write.” Marie sighs, then takes a long sip of water, seemingly lost in her thoughts. “I only wish for a vacation. Somewhere without technology. No calls, no one to sign me up for another appearance.” Marie looks at me with tired eyes, searching my face for something—I don’t know what—then says, “Be careful what you wish for…”

  A few women join us, interrupting Marie’s musing. Up close and personal Marie’s nothing like I imagined. She’s an author with lots of novels under her belt, traveling around the world to promote them, and yet here she’s a woman like any other, kind to share from her experience with anyone willing to listen.

  I help myself to a second plate of Caesar salad and grilled chicken. I don’t have the heart to refuse Marie when she returns with an extra macadamia nut and white chocolate cookie.

  “You strike me as the kind of girl who likes this.” She hands me the cookie.

  “Oh, thanks, Marie. You wanna hit the gym with me after dinner?” The cookie falls apart in my mouth, chocolate and nuts crunching between my teeth.

  “You go, girl. Exercise for me too, while I savor wine and a good looking man.” She motions toward the back of the room where Aaron, Tatum, Michael and Cameron chat.

  I forgot about the guys. Either this kind of hard partying is something they pull off pretty often, or they slept all day. They look fresh and perky, saluting the audience as Susan introduces them one by one. From afar even Cameron looks rested, and I’m happy to see him among us. I hope last night was a lesson. And I hope his big brother will keep a better eye on him. Speaking of big brother, I’m surprised he’s not among the guys. I thought he was part of the contest, was he not?

  I don’t see Lucas, at least not anywhere near, and I’d rather die than search for him. Maybe he had an epiphany about what a jerk he is and went to enroll himself in a college for manners. It’s critical he learns some.

  From the stage at the front of the room, Susan’s voice comes crystal clear through the microphone. “I know everyone here is eager to get the ‘Agent 00 Heart’ contest going. But before we move on, we have to announce the winners of the short story contest. I was told by the judges that this year’s contest was one of the best they’ve had so far with the highest number of submissions. Over 1,000 submissions and only 20 made the shortlist.”

  I know I made the shortlist, otherwise I wouldn’t have been invited. I’m not overly concerned about being one of the winners. I’m already a winner for being picked among the best stories, a great accomplishment for a
newbie like me.

  “I’ve three winners in these envelopes.” Susan waves them then rests her hand on her hip, the stark color of the white envelopes contrasting with the black of her trousers. “The author placing third place and winning a one year subscription to Pen to Paper Magazine, is . . .” Susan pulls a notecard out of one envelope and says, “Carla Menotti.”

  We applaud and cheer Carla. She either has good genes or is just young, maybe college young. As she makes her way to the stage, Carla’s blue-dyed hair doesn’t move, but rather stands up like a hedgehog’s.

  Susan holds another notecard. “Second place. Second place takes home a trip to New York to visit Johnson Literary Agency and a lunch with fabulous agent Donna Johnson. The author placing second is . . . Mackenzie Applewood.”

  People cheer Mackenzie who joins Carla on the stage. I met Mackenzie earlier, a mother talking nonstop about her twin boys. The room is finally quiet and Susan says, “And finally the author winning the competition this year is—”

  “You forgot to say what this person won.” I’d recognize this voice anywhere; it’s Virginia’s cracked, smoker voice.

  A few people laugh. Others agree with Virginia.

  “Ah,” Susan slaps her forehead, “right. The prize. Well, the prize is . . .” she walks between the podium and Carla and Mackenzie like she has nothing better to do.

  “Come on, Susan. Tell us,” Virginia yells, joined by others.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you,” Susan laughs. “The winner is offered the chance to work with an agent, none other than Alexis Faustino from the Treasure Books Literary Agency in New York.” A general gasp and swooshing turns the room into chaos, and some people even stand and applaud until Susan holds both hands up, motioning for everyone to calm down. When silence is restored, she says, “But that’s not all. She’ll also work with Lucas Oliver for the cover of her debut novel. Talk about being lucky, huh?”

  I pray I don’t win. Working with Lucas Oliver would be a total disaster, not to mention my heroes don’t look anything like him. My heroes have brains and manners, something he totally lacks. And a literary agency in New York would mean a lot of travelling, which would take me away from my Ella. If I sign up with anyone, it’ll have to be on the west coast. I learned today that there are a ton of agencies nearby, maybe not as powerful as the New York ones, but still good enough for me.

  People applaud and cheer, and I do the same, but because of my musings I missed the winner’s name Susan just announced.

  Several seconds pass, but no one joins Susan at the front of the room. “Where is she?” Since I haven’t heard the winner’s name in the first place I don’t know who to look for. Susan’s words catch my attention. “I saw her earlier. In fact, she deserves a round of applause for helping with the registration. Jane, Jane O’Malley, where are you?”

  Chapter 5

  Jane O’Malley.

  Oops.

  That’s my pen name.

  No idea how I walk to the front of the room where strangers hug me or shake my hand. Some familiar faces come into focus then fade, absorbed by waves of people eager to congratulate me. This nagging voice of sheer panic I know all too well. When I’m the center of attention, it screams in my brain to run away without looking back. But I can’t. My feet grow roots next to Carla and Mackenzie, who guard me on both sides.

  Aaron, Michael, Cameron and Tatum surround me next, talking at the same time, and I wonder why people choose to do that when one can only respond to one question at a time anyway. I resort to nodding and smiling since their words make no sense. Someone walking around with two cameras huddles us together to snap photos of us. This goes on until Susan restores order by whistling, sticking two fingers on each side of her mouth. Somehow this simple gesture and the sound that comes with it makes me snap out of my haze. Incredible joy washes over me, encompassing my heart in warmth and energy. I’m beyond ecstatic.

  The evening moves on to the next event, the “Agent 00 Heart” contest for which the guys prep to compete. They all pretend to start a race of some sort, taking different positions as if running, skating or boxing. Only Cameron pretends to prepare his gun, palms together and index fingers pointing up in the air.

  Susan breaks down the step-by-step instructions on how to pick the winner, not only by the size of their muscles, but by personality traits, answers and conduct during the contest, to which I can only say, “Amen sister.”

  Carla pulls me along. “Come.” Mackenzie walks ahead of us.

  “Oh, yeah, the guys take the stage now. I’ll go back to my table,” I whisper.

  “No, we go to that table over there.” She points at a table to my right covered with a red tablecloth and a wide poster with golden stars reading, “The Winner Takes It All.” There are four chairs at the table but no one seated. For a split second I wonder who the fourth person is, then wish I didn’t. Bringing three bouquets, Lucas walks to the table and waits for us.

  By what unfolds in front of me, there’s no way I can get out of what’s coming. I dread Lucas’s hug, the small talk pretending he cares, the photos we’ll take. I’d be more than willing to give up my share to Carla and Mackenzie. They can’t get enough of Lucas, both reminding me of rosebuds awakened by morning dew. Did I just roll my eyes? I’m pretty sure I did.

  Lucas hands me the last bouquet of colorful daisies, and pulls me in his arms for a lingering kiss on my cheek, the photographer snapping photos of us. A spark of heat travels through my body, and I wonder what a real kiss would feel like. Stop, stop, stop! If there were a way for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge to miraculously pop between us I’d walk barefoot across it only to distance myself from this insufferable guy.

  I pretend not to recognize the way my body reacts to him, betraying my mind, like a traitor his master. I pretend not to feel the wall of muscles and his sculpted thighs, hard against mine. I pretend not to smell his cologne—green walnuts, leather, and coffee beans come to mind—because if I do it, I’m lost.

  “Naughty Jane,” Lucas murmurs in my ear. “I’ve heard your writing is really hot. Can’t wait to read the sex scenes. Who would’ve thought you, the queen of ice, have such a vivid imagination? We’ll have a hell of a time shooting your cover. I already have something in mind. I’ll show you the right positions.” When I look up he winks and chuckles.

  He must mistake me for someone else. I do not write sex scenes, hot or not for that matter. But I won’t waste my breath trying to convince him otherwise. My attempt at extricating myself from his arms ends in an even tighter embrace. Somehow he steers me toward the wall, which was very close anyway, and signals the photographer to take photos of us.

  “Let go,” I mutter between my teeth as the photographer tells us how to pose.

  “Consider it a thank you for saving my brother. I’ll teach you one or two things you should use for your next hot scenes.” He inclines his head, his tone low as if only for my ear. It’d be impossible for anyone to hear him anyway because Cameron just took his shirt off and dances, which sends the crowd into hysterical ovations. “My room or yours. Either way, I’m happy to oblige.”

  The photographer turns her back on us to snap photos of Cameron, and I use this moment to turn in Lucas’s arms to face him. I lick my upper lip and bite the lower one, placing both hands on his chest, relaxing in his arms. His left eyebrow arches and a low growl comes through his parted lips. With lazy fingers I rub his shoulders, then down his back. His nipples pebble under the cotton white tee he wears. As I run my nails down his lower back, the bulge in his jeans hardens against my abdomen. His breathing deepens as heavy, black lashes conceal desiring, green eyes. I have him right where I want him.

  “If you and I were marooned on an island, I’d die before I let you show me anything.” Pinching the skin between his ribs, I twist until he grunts.

  He lets go. I rush away, only my knees feel wobbly and my heart rams in my chest. What an idiot! How dare he talk to me like this?

  “Hurry up, everyo
ne, cast your vote to find out who’s the bomb,” I hear Susan’s voice loud over the speakers.

  I stop to vote before returning to my original table, next to Marie.

  “Did you vote?” Marie holds both my hands in hers, a giddy smile on her face.

  “I did. Did you?”

  “Who did you pick?”

  I lean toward her and whisper, “Aaron. And you?”

  “Me too!”

  I’m gonna miss Marie, I know. In the short time we’ve spent together she’s inspired me to resurrect my dream. She’ll forever be my favorite author.

  I haven’t had the chance to savor or understand what happened tonight, my winning the contest and what that really means for my future. I would’ve loved to imprint this moment in my mind, for when times get tough and I doubt myself and want to throw it all away.

  I have Lucas to thank for stealing my moment.

  Cheers, whistles, and applause pull me out of my reverie. Susan places a golden sash on Cameron’s shoulder, who becomes the official “Agent 00 Heart” winner. My head pounds and I consider leaving. People are so preoccupied with one another that I doubt anyone will miss me.

  Once in my room I call Mom to check on Ella. She assures me Ella only had ice cream twice today. I check emails and messages before swapping clothes for shorts and sneakers and rush to the gym. Ten minutes of stretching and I’m good to go. I hop on a treadmill, next to three women who walk at a relaxed pace, a brunette and two blond ponytails moving in the rhythm of their steps. I saw them during registration but can’t remember their names. As I try to fit a bud in my ear the women’s conversation turns my stomach upside down.

  “Did you girls hear? One of the authors was seen leaving Lucas’s room sometime during the night. I wonder who she is,” the woman next to me says. She’s the fit one, with toned arms and legs.

  “Why does it matter who she is?” The woman to her right replies. She wears matching red tank top and shorts. “Are you jealous?”