His Curvy Temptation

by Christa Wick

  Halfway through the script, she stopped and had a little cry, seeing where the ending was going for the equally lonely young man in the dark room.

  A knock at the door to the screening room had her quickly rubbing at her eyes to hide the evidence of how deeply the writing had affected her.

  "Come in," she called and drew a deep breath.

  Declan opened the door, his face as tight with tension as she'd ever seen it.

  "Are you okay?"

  She nodded and offered up a feeble smile.

  He didn't seem convinced. "You've been in here three hours, Mel."

  Her brow furrowed and she tapped the tablet's screen to wake it from the sleep it had fallen into. He was right. A two-hour script should have taken her an hour or less to read, but she'd been in the room for three hours.

  She nodded at the tablet as an excuse. "I started thinking what it would look like. I'm only halfway through the script. Is there a happy ending?"

  His mouth pinched then smoothed as he answered. "In a way."

  "You've got to get this made," she said as he moved to join her on the couch.

  Taking a seat, he pointed at her tablet. "May I?"

  She nodded, but saved the file she was working on first then navigated to the folder she had made for the script. Handing him the tablet, she returned to reading the script.

  "It's like you were looking inside my head," he said after a few minutes. "These are really great, Mel."

  She offered a pleased smile and turned back to the front of the script, her index finger stuck between the pages she had last been reading.

  "There's no writer credit on the front page."

  She heard him exhale, the sound not so much a sigh as all of the air leaving a man—something infinitely sadder than a sigh could be.

  "I've adapted and supplemented it from another writer's work."

  Melanie listened to the silence between his words. There was so much he wasn't telling her. Putting the script aside, she curled her hand against his thigh and placed her head on his shoulder.

  "The young man in the apartment—you only refer to him as W."

  W for writer?

  "Willie..." he answered. "Willie wrote a lot of the fairy king's story."

  "And you wrote Willie's," she intuited. "After he died?"

  Declan nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed something down. Fresh tears threatened and Melanie drew a deep breath.

  "You really have to get this made," she repeated.

  Declan lifted his head and looked at her, his wistful smile mirroring the one she had drawn on the fairy king's face.

  "Someday," he said, returning the tablet.

  32

  With Declan having a few more calls to make, Melanie returned to reading the script. The one thing that struck her as odd was that there were no female characters. The gloomy king with his gloomy male servants, the infant child abandoned in the king's woods to starve to death or be eaten by wolves and W—always alone, even his hallucinations populated only by other men or ravenous insects.

  Chewing over the odd feature of an all male cast, Melanie flipped to her "Fatshion" folder and opened up an existing template of her body. The folder was filled with outfits she had designed for herself but would never make.

  But she loved imagining herself in them.

  She started adding in the lines of a flowing velvet skirt and bodice in the same black with silver trim that she'd done for the fairy king. The sleeves were a sheer black silk with stiff cuffs in a gun metal gray. Instead of the king's heavy headdress, she made a simple net of pearls and moonstone, a small pendant hanging in the center of her forehead.

  Feeling the stroke of a finger against her neck, she shrieked and almost threw the tablet across the screening room.

  "Sorry, baby girl."

  Declan climbed over the back of the couch and down to the front row of recliners where her tablet had mercifully landed on a cushion instead of the hard flooring. Returning via the aisle, he slid next to her but kept hold of the device.

  He tapped the screen, waking it.

  "Is this saved?"

  "No," she answered and suppressed the urge to glare at him when, instead of giving the tablet back, he tilted the screen so she could tap in the commands to save the file.

  Settling the device on his lap, he backtracked in the folder and started opening up the finished images. "I thought your big dream was to be a costume designer?"

  "It is," she answered, feeling a little defensive.

  "I didn't see you putting any of these outfits in your closet."

  Who was playing interrogator now?

  The suppressed glare emerged on her features as a scowl.

  "You should be selling these," he said, deftly moving the tablet out of reach when she tried to snatch it from him. "Instead, I bet I'm the only one who has seen these."

  She squeezed a reply past tight lips. "Not exactly."

  Her father had seen one—or at least its original. It was the prom dress she had dreamed up when she still thought there was a chance one of the boys at her high school would ask her out.

  She reached for the tablet again and he let her have it—but not without cost.

  "Come on, Mel," he coaxed. "I showed you mine."

  The hook sank exactly as he knew it would. She shoved the device back into his hands and he spent a few more minutes looking through the images, his face a series of soft smiles, wistful looks and devilish grins.

  Powering the tablet off, he handed it back to her with an announcement.

  "We're going out—shopping."

  "For what?" She hesitated to ask, knowing there could only be one answer.

  He gestured at the device. "For everything—machines, fabric, everything. I definitely want to see you in that scarlet number."

  Her cheeks turned the mentioned shade but she didn't argue with him. He was, for an unknown amount of time at least, giving up a dream he had been nurturing for years. All she had to give in return were parts of herself—her time and appreciation, her body, even her insecurities and aspirations.

  "Fine," she agreed and started making a mental list. "But you're paying."

  Getting a professional machine, shopping for fabric and other supplies, and having lunch at an outdoor bistro where Melanie felt like everyone dining, driving by and walking on the sidewalks was staring at her was a four-hour marathon. When they returned to Declan's home, all she wanted was a very long nap.

  He was happy to oblige. Mentioning some papers he needed to clear out of the room in which he planned on setting her work area up, he gave Melanie a slow kiss and a pat on the butt then disappeared with a stack of bins he'd purchased to hold the papers.

  She shook her head as she walked up the stairs. A dozen eighteen-gallon totes to hold "some papers." If he'd really been as celibate as he claimed following his early Hollywood days, he probably had a huge porn stash to pack up.

  She shook her head again, this time harder in an attempt to dislodge the image of Declan thumbing through a porn magazine, his big cock in his hand and oozing pre-cum. It was almost impossible to rid her mind of the image. She had every line of his amazing body memorized. And she would have given sworn testimony that the muscles of her pussy had memorized every last tactile detail of his cock. Just a flash of imagination had her contracting reflexively, need surging through her body.

  Pulling the top cover over her and shoving her hands beneath the pillow, she took deep breaths until she drifted off to sleep. A few hours later, Declan woke her to a light dinner before he brought her back upstairs for a long soak in the tub, the bubbles near overflowing and his touch gentle and teasing.

  When they crawled back into bed together, they made love.

  The tone between them had changed, at least for the night. When their bodies met, it was more relaxed, less wild. The heat was slow to reach its burning point, but when it did, the fire stayed with them through the night, even as they slept.

  Waking the ne
xt morning, they found the tide of public opinion had turned in their favor.

  For a little while at least.

  33

  Stepping out of the shower the next morning, Melanie caught her cell phone before it vibrated off the counter from an incoming text message. She missed seeing the sender's ID so she set the device aside, unwilling to ruin the relaxed state the shower had brought by one of the small trickle of texts that continued to come in from the more persistent or new crazies.

  She toweled off and reached for the big fluffy robe she'd brought from her apartment when the phone started moving across the counter again. She picked it up to see Cammie's name.

  Texts from her best friend had been few. Calls between them had been even more scarce but lasted as much as half an hour. That was about as long as Cammie could keep herself from mentioning all the stuff floating around about Melanie and Declan.

  The world was royally pissing off the dancer with its treatment of her best friend. But she had a hard time realizing Melanie just wanted to keep her head buried in the sand as long as she could.

  Thumbing the device on, she navigated to her messenger app and selected Cammie's name.

  "I promised myself I wouldn't send you any links. But check this one out—just stay away from the comments."

  The second text also came with a link.

  "Okay, read this comment."

  Another thirty seconds later, the phone vibrated with a third text, complete with links.

  "These two comments."

  Girding her loins, Melanie tentatively clicked the first link to find a blog post with a photo of a very big girl with a very hot guy. He wasn't a model but he could have been. Instead, he was a clinical biologist and the woman, whose blog it was, noted she was getting her doctorate in psychology. The rest of the post detailed her love affair with the hot guy, whom she had married the year before.

  Melanie could feel the pain the blogger had felt as she detailed how most of her family and friends thought he was too handsome for their relationship to last. Many of his family and friends suggested the same opinion, some subtly, others with an open hostility.

  But there they were, happiness evident in their pictures together. The wedding on a Hawaii beach with the few family and friends who believed in them all along, the hike up Mt. Shasta, date night selfies of them, heads pressing together and both of them wearing big grins that lit up their eyes and the air around them.

  The last picture, an ultrasound of the baby growing inside the woman, almost made Melanie drop the phone as her eyes blurred with tears.

  And then she read the last line and had to sit on the toilet as her head started to spin.

  This world I see reflected online is not the one I want my daughter to grow up in. #iamwithmelanie

  Melanie wiped at her face and clicked the second link Cammie had sent, this one a comment to the original blog post showing a proud, thick chick wrapped in the arms of a blue collar wet dream, his biceps bulging as he lifted her off her feet. Link three was a cowboy's wife, link four was a firefighter's fiancée. All of them repeated the hashtag.

  #iamwithmelanie

  "Did you look?" Cammie texted.

  Melanie managed a short text, the screen still blurry from the emotions churning inside her chest and gut. "Yes."

  "I bet that Shayna bitch is shitting jet engines right now."

  Melanie belted out a laugh. Leave it to Cammie to come up with a visual that would forever be implanted in Melanie's mind.

  "Probably," she texted back. "Thank you for this. Now excuse me while I go find my man and have some wild, passionate sex with him."

  The phone buzzed one last time as Melanie placed it in the robe's pocket. She didn't need to read the message. She could hear her friend's "hell yeah!" from halfway across the city.

  The afternoon passed as planned, her riding Declan or his strong body draped over hers as he turned her into a rippling pool of liquid need.

  The next few days saw the #iamwithmelanie movement gain massive momentum. Cammie, after finding out about Melanie's Fatshion folder convinced her to post a few images online. That led to a registered letter from a European fashion house being delivered to Declan's address because there was no other way to contact Melanie if she didn't recognize the incoming number.

  Then a certain plus-size comedienne with a big box office draw reached out to Declan, again with a registered letter, to inquire about his interest in starring opposite her in a romantic comedy. He laughed about it, but Melanie could see the faint glimmer of relief that not all of Hollywood was turning its back on him.

  Then came phase two of Shayna's attack—Michael Strake confessed.

  34

  Working on the scarlet gown from her Fatshion folder that Declan had drooled over, Melanie glanced at her vibrating phone to find that her mother was calling. The satisfied smile from doing something she loved flatlined, her involuntary response followed by an immediate flood of guilt.

  There was no denying their relationship had grown exponentially closer in the last two weeks, her mother finally discovering a more emotive side of herself that existed outside of the feelings that she experienced in the books she read. But Melanie couldn't quell the anxiety every time she saw her mother's number flash on her phone's screen.

  Bracing herself, she took the call.

  "Hi, Mom."

  "Sweetheart," Nancy began, her voice already infected with the warble Melanie only associated with the rare bat in the Colorado house. "Are you okay?"

  Nancy wasn't screaming in between her words, so it wasn't her phobia triggering the thin warble. Had Dodgy Roger proved himself a scoundrel somehow? Was he hurt?

  A hollow burn pierced Melanie's chest as she remembered the distracted voice in which her mother had delivered the bad news about George Archer's death.

  "I'm fine, Mom," she answered after too long a pause. "You're upset, please tell me why."

  It was better just asking Nancy outright than guessing at the mystery that was her mother's mind.

  The warble grew thinner as Nancy tried to answer. "I know you told us to turn off those alerts."

  Melanie's cheeks flash cold as the blood drained from her face. Had the world turned its fickle heart in another direction already?

  "But the news had been good, like those lovely dresses. I wish you'd shown me those before."

  Certain her mom never would have done more than glance at the pictures in the past, Melanie tried to keep Nancy focused on the reason for her call.

  "Mom, if you can't ignore the nasty comments, you need to turn the alerts off again, okay?"

  An icy tickle at the back of Melanie's neck told her the problem wasn't that simple. Her mother sounded like she was on the verge of tears—tears she was apparently ready to cry on her daughter's behalf.

  "Roger doesn't think it's true." Nancy continued with her half finished thoughts.

  Roger didn't think what was true? He didn't think that Melanie was a rolling lump of lard who wasn't even fit enough to grease Declan's dick before he stuck it into some runway waif as CZ's Corbin Dash had suggested?

  "There's so much floating around out there and I'm not looking at it," Melanie patiently explained as her cheeks started to heat, anger at all the comments she'd been trying to ignore forcing blood to the surface of her skin. "So I don't know what you're talking about. What's not true?"

  "I don't know, sweetheart...are you okay?"

  Putting the phone down for a second, Melanie covered her face and blew into her hands, the warm air relaxing muscles that had grown tense. Picking the phone back up, she forced a smile and hoped it softened her voice.

  "Just tell me what you read."

  "An article on that awful Celebrity Zone website."

  Melanie sighed. Of all the warnings she had given her mother, staying away from that digital rag mag had been the one she had repeated most often.

  "He said he attacked you—sexually."

  A wave of dizziness slammed into
Melanie. Her grip tightened on the phone a microsecond before it would have slipped out of her hand.

  "I assure you," she growled at the accusation. "Declan has done no such thing."

  "Strake," her mother corrected.

  Melanie heard what sounded like mouse clicks and then her mother repeated the name of the executive. "Michael Strake. He said Declan...well, he claims that Declan arranged the whole thing to get you into bed."

  Melanie's nose began to sting, her eyes blinking rapidly in response. Switching the phone to her left hand, she woke her tablet and opened its browser. As soon as she put a "c" in the URL field, the software filled in the website address for the tabloid.

  She tapped the address and was immediately punished with a headline that ran all the way across the top of the screen and felt like a knife sinking into her gut.

  STRAKE ADMITS TO DECLAN BAIN'S SEX ASSAULT SCHEME

  Bile filled her mouth and she choked it down. There was no way she could click the link and read it while her mother was still on the phone.

  "Are you okay, sweetheart?"

  She wasn't. Her stomach churned with acid and the light breakfast Declan had prepared them of salmon and melon. She felt dizzy and wanted nothing more than to slide off her chair, onto the floor and spill her guts all over the expensive white tile.

  "Michael Strake is a psychopath," she answered evasively. "He’s pissed off at Declan, who rescued me from Strake getting too handsy."

  Her cheeks heated at the ridiculous word, a word that tried to make it less than what it was. She wasn't sure why she was trying to lessen the reality of the attack.

  For her mother's benefit or her own?

  She sucked a ragged breath in, control of her emotions tenuous. She needed to get her mother off the phone before the facade of being okay slipped completely.

  "Mom, please stay off these sites. If something happens, I'll tell you—"