Ink and Lies

by S. L. Jennings

  Like most bookstores, the bestsellers display sits right in the front. And amongst the sea of literary elite sits Hope’s newest title, Heat Wave, a steamy romance involving muscle-bound, tattooed firemen. According to my agent, copies have been flying off the shelves at an alarming rate since Hope’s gender was revealed by an unknown source. Secretly, I think she was the one to leak the info in an attempt to build hype before release. I hate to admit it, but it worked. Still, it doesn’t make me feel any better about my failure at writing something I’m truly passionate about. Between those pages of Heat Wave are over-exaggerated sex scenes mixed with watered-down writing. And the kicker is, most of those scenes are birthed from truth. I pulled from my catalog of wild experiences with women around town, even adding a few of Fiona’s more unique stories. I definitely borrowed the lovey dovey crap from her. There’s no way I’ve ever said anything remotely as corny as, “I’d walk through hellfire to kiss you just one last time.” No fucking way.

  I take a few minutes to scan the New Release table and grab the new Dan Brown for the Colonel. He’s a fan of the popular stuff, as well as military dramas and memoirs. I offered to write his story, but he insisted that his life wasn’t nearly interesting enough to document. Growing up listening to his stories, I knew he was being modest.

  “Next month, we’re hosting a local authors signing.” Delores smiles as she rings up my purchase. “You know we’d love to have you here.”

  “Why? I’ve already sold my one book for the year. Let’s not get greedy, Delores.”

  She laughs, causing her full cheeks to nearly eclipse her small brown eyes. “Oh, August. You’ll get there one day, dear. You just wait and see.”

  I arrive at the senior village, hardback and two maple bars in hand, and find the Colonel in the entertainment den, situated in front of a football game. The Seahawks are up by fifteen, so I know he’s in good spirits.

  “No beer?” he grumbles in greeting, not even bothering to glance in my direction. It’s a mystery how he knows when I’m near. I always swore he had eyes in the back of his head. The man was impossible to sneak up on.

  “Sorry, Colonel. Not today. How about donuts?” He’s been asking for beer for longer than I can remember, knowing he can’t drink. Pancreatitis and mild dementia sealed that deal.

  He grunts out a response and scoots over so I can sit down, his eyes still glued to the screen. “These Whiners are getting spanked today. I didn’t realize it was possible for Colon Kaepernick to get any shittier.”

  I take a seat beside him and open the bag of fried, frosted deliciousness. “Good one, sir. Hey, why can’t Kaepernick use the telephone?”

  “Why?” he replies before tearing into a maple bar.

  “Because he can’t find the receiver.”

  “Hey, son, want to hear a joke?”

  “Sure,” I nod.

  “Colin Kaepernick!” He barks out a husky laugh before devouring his donut. I slide him a to-go cup of coffee that he eagerly gulps down. A passing nurse shoots a look in our direction and shakes her head.

  “Colonel, didn’t I tell you to ease up on the coffee? Water. You need to be drinking more water. And that junk food isn’t doing you any favors either.”

  Eyes still on the television screen, Grandfather grumbles a retort and grudgingly slides the rest of the contraband over to me.

  “Mr. Calloway,” the nurse begins, pointing her attention to me. “Please don’t let your grandfather trick you into bringing him snacks. He’s supposed to be watching his intake, doctor’s orders.”

  “Sorry, Nurse Tabatha. It won’t happen again. I’ll even make sure he drinks a few cups of water and takes a walk before I leave.”

  At that, the Colonel mutters a curse and Nurse Tabatha gives us a “Mmmm Hmmm” before strutting off. I chuckle under my breath.

  “Well, looks like I better tell Fi to bring carrot sticks instead of baked goods.”

  At that, the Colonel perks up. “Fiona? Ah, how’s my girl?”

  “Doing well, sir. We just had brunch a little earlier. She sends her love and promises to come by soon.”

  “Good. That sounds…good.” While his eyes are trained on the game, the hard line of his jaw visibly relaxes. “She still seeing that doctor?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Shame. I don’t like him.”

  Ha! So it’s not just me. “You met him?”

  “No. I don’t need to. Just don’t like him.”

  Before I can even fix my mouth to question the Colonel, we’re interrupted by a familiar voice. And considering the way my grandfather grunts out his distaste, it’s not a happy interruption.

  “Benny? Benny is that you? I thought I heard voices. Oh! It’s that handsome, movie star grandson of yours. How are you, honey?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” I say, rising to my feet as Helen Ashford enters the common room. Helen is a 70-something spinster who has been after my grandfather since the day he moved in. Although he’s made it clear that he is anything but interested, she still insists on hounding him, calling him Benny and going out of her way to intrude on his space and sanity.

  “Why, yes you certainly are,” Helen replies, molesting me with her eyes. I hurriedly sit down to escape her ogling. “I’ve been telling Benny that my granddaughter just moved into town, and I’m sure she’d love to meet some new friends. Did you tell August about my April, Benny? I’m sure they’d hit it off.”

  The Colonel mutters under his breath, and I’m only able to catch the words “crazy” and “old.” Although he’s the one who instilled in me the value of respect and manners, especially towards women and my elders, apparently he’s forgotten those lessons.

  “Oh, Benny, wouldn’t they be adorable together?” Helen continues, oblivious to my grandfather’s aggravation. “How about you take my April on a date, August? Show her around.”

  “Oh…um…well…” I’m stammering, completely at a loss for words. Seems like the words really have abandoned me in every aspect of my life.

  “Oh? Is there something wrong, dear? Do you have a girlfriend?”

  “Um, no, but—”

  “Are you a gay? Because if that’s the case, it’s ok with me. It would make sense. The pretty ones are usually fruits.”

  “Helen!” the Colonel barks. “Knock it off, you old bat!”

  “What, Benny? There’s nothing wrong with it. We all suspected, just as well. Didn’t you say he was a writer? And his pants are quite snug. Not to mention those pouty, girl lips…”

  “That’s enough, Helen!”

  The white-haired vixen waves him off, again completely undeterred by the Colonel’s terseness. I, on the other hand, am delightfully amused by their exchange, even with my sexuality in question. I’m tempted to whip out my notebook and take notes.

  “August, if you’re looking, I do have a grandson. I’ve always suspected he was a little funny…”

  “I’m flattered, ma’am, but no, thank you,” I say through a chuckle. “I’m not gay. I like women.”

  “Oh?” At that, her interest peaks, and I’m not sure if it’s solely for her granddaughter’s benefit. She turns around to a group of tables where some women are playing a hand of Gin Rummy, eavesdropping, no doubt. “Did ya hear, Caroline? He’s not a fruit! I told you so,” she calls out. Then she looks back to me, mischief gleaming in her eyes. “So… my granddaughter?”

  I look to the Colonel for help, and find him wound tighter than a knot. We both know Helen won’t let up until she gets what she wants. That’s why she’s so hell bent on gaining my grandfather’s attention.

  “Ok. I guess I could show her around…”

  “Great!” Helen trills, clasping her tiny, wrinkled hands together. “She’ll be thrilled. Maybe the four of us can double date…”

  “Not a chance in hell, Helen,” the Colonel grumbles. “You got what you came for. Now let me enjoy the game in peace.”

  The snow-capped cougar struts away, round hips swaying in her pink
and purple jogging suit. I stare after her, wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into, and try to concoct a way to get out of it.

  It’s halftime when the Colonel finally turns to look at me. “She’s pretty,” he says.

  I look around. “Who? Helen?”

  “No. Her granddaughter. She’s pretty, and you’d probably have a good time. And if she’s anything like her grandmother, you won’t be disappointed.”

  I nearly choke on my next breath as I stare at my grandfather in disbelief. “Colonel…you didn’t.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, boy. Of course I didn’t. I’m a married man.” According to the Colonel, “Til death do us part” did not apply to his devotion to my grandmother, Lee. Their love was the definition of a true romance. A young airman traveled across oceans, risked his life day in and day out in the belly of battle, only to be completely disarmed by a wide-eyed, beautiful girl during a week of R&R in Thailand. Her name was Sumalee, but the Colonel called her Lee for short. He found her serving drinks in the Red Light District of Phuket. She was barely seventeen, and under normal circumstances, would have been paraded as merchandise available to tourists and horny soldiers for rent by the hour. But, her mother was a madam and, up to that point, she’d refused to sell her daughter. Unless…it was the right price.

  Apparently, one hundred American dollars was the right price back in 1965.

  He didn’t buy her to sleep with her or take advantage of her. He wanted to save her. He saw her—living in filth and ruin within the confines of paradise—and he couldn’t imagine a light so bright, so beautiful, being dimmed by circumstance.

  He married her without ever even touching her, and brought her back to the states. In time, she learned to love him just as madly, deeply as he’d loved her the very moment he laid eyes on her. It was pure, undiluted by pride and pretense, and it was real.

  That was love. Not the agonizingly self-serving shit people claim to feel these days through Instagram pics and corny Twitter hashtags. #OhEmGeee #SoEffinInLoveWithMyBae (heart-eyed emoji, kissy face, heart)

  #PleaseChokeOnADick (side eye emoji)

  “I never doubted you, sir, but you said…”

  “I know what I said. People talk. I listen. They think I don’t, but I do.”

  The older man looks back at the television, his jaw tense. I know it bothers him that I’ve insinuated that he’s been with another woman. We’ve discussed it before—him moving on after my grandmother died. I knew he was lonely and I couldn’t bear the thought of him wallowing in grief until it killed him…until I lost him too. But he was more than adamant that he would remain faithful to Grandma Lee’s memory, and did not appreciate me challenging the sanctity of his vows.

  “So…she’s pretty?” I ask, trying to smooth things over. The Colonel isn’t sensitive, but he has no patience for foolishness.

  “She is. Blonde, blue eyes, tall…your type. Says she’s an aspiring beautician or something like that. She’s pretty. But not like Fiona.”

  Ah. Of course she’s not like Fiona. No one is, in the Colonel’s eyes. And this girl sounded like the exact opposite of her.

  Fi is just a pixie of a woman with wispy brunette waves and small, delicate features. Her frame is slight, yet soft, and she’s modest with her subtle curves. She moves as if she’s made of water—fluid and weightless. And her voice is merely a whisper of autumn wind on a brisk day. She smiles at complete strangers and laughs at nothing. Animals and babies make her teary-eyed, and she is fiercely in love with all things love. She isn’t just sunshine on a rainy day; she is refuge in a hurricane. And she’s my best friend. Yet, somehow, the Colonel can’t seem to remember that.

  “She’s dating the doctor, remember, Colonel?” Insisting that Fi and I were just friends would be beating a very dead horse.

  “Humph. He’s no good for her. I don’t like him,” he grumbles, reiterating his disgust.

  “Well, apparently, we’re having dinner on Friday.”

  “You and Fiona?” There’s a hint of hope in his voice.

  “Me, Fiona and the Doctor.”

  He grimaces as if a nasty taste has just invaded his mouth. Yeah, Colonel. I feel the same damn way. Still, I find myself saying, “She’s happy. Fi is happy with him.”

  “And are you happy with that?” he asks, turning to me. Age and wisdom shine in eyes painted with the same shade of deep brown that he passed down to me.

  “I guess I have to be.”

  He grunts, saying all there is to be said, and we go back to looking at the television. He wants Fi to be happy, just like I do. But he wants her to be happy with me, and that’s just not possible. What she’s searching for…I can’t provide. I can’t give something that I don’t believe even exists. And I won’t ruin ten years of real friendship to step out on a fairytale. Her fairytale, not mine. The idea of commitment is more along the lines of Stephen King’s It to me.

  “Hey, want to hear a joke?” the Colonel says, as the second half begins. I expect another dig at Kaepernick. Next week, Michael Stafford will be the butt of our jokes when the Seahawks play the Detroit Lions.

  “Sure, Colonel.”

  “What do you call a man that says he doesn’t believe in love?”

  I turn to my grandfather, complexity resting on my brow. “What?”

  “A goddamn liar.”

  SHE STOOD BEFORE THE FULL-LENGTH mirror, ice blue eyes sweeping over every naked inch of her 5-foot 7-inch frame. Long strands of spun gold cascaded down her back and over her bare shoulders, causing the curled ends to tickle the tops of her full, heavy breasts. Her fingertips traced the curve of her collarbone before sneaking downward, grazing her erect nipples—

  Erect? Like two mini hard cocks? No. Definitely no.

  …grazing her pebbled nipples. She could still feel his mouth on them—licking, sucking…biting. If she closed her eyes and pinched them hard, it was like feeling him again. The memory was so fresh in her mind that warmth and wetness began to pool between her still trembling thighs. She throbbed for him, ached for him. She needed him to fill the hollowness within her with his…

  Massive rod?

  Hardened flesh

  Glorious shaft?

  Fuck. Me.

  …to fill the hollowness within her with his pulsing length. Every second without him inside her made the void that much deeper, and every minute sent her spiraling into an endless pit of yearning.

  The throbbing between her legs intensified to the point of pain, and she groaned in her impassioned misery. She needed relief. She needed to feel that fullness. She needed to feel his heart beating inside her again, giving her life…giving her sweet death.

  With tentative fingers, she parted silken folds and stroked the burning—

  Burning? Is it Gonorrhea? Shit…

  …touched the sensitive, sizzling skin that quivered under her touch. She moaned loudly and caressed herself again. And again. And again. Until the need for more became too severe to ignore any longer. She slid her fingers to the empty place that wept with craving. Slick with her own desire, she inserted one finger into her hot sex until her palm rested atop her trembling mound. She stroked herself fiercely, hungrily. Desperately. Another finger and she was crying with the need for release. The need for him. She squeezed her eyes shut and imagined her fingers were his. And when she added a third, she fantasized that it was his hard cock impaling her and making her scream for more.

  She was right on the cusp of crumbling, panting out her surrender through lips smudged with red when the sound of footsteps startled her from behind. But it was too late to stop now. She catapulted through fear and shame and allowed herself to break apart. And as she stood there, staring at her flushed face and shaking in the wake of the storm, she watched as strong arms wrapped around her body.

  She collapsed into him, too exhausted to even hide or explain. He touched her jaw gently, angling her face up to his so he could taste the deceit on her crimson lips. She moaned in his mouth and he sucked her
tongue. They kissed like it was the very first time… and the last.

  Then in an act so seductive, so erotic, he reached down and slowly guided her fingers from her body and brought it up to his own mouth. With dark eyes trained on her reflection in the mirror, he licked the arousal from her hand, lapping up every sticky, sweet droplet.

  When he was sated by the taste of her sin, he brought his lips to her ear and whispered, “You taste like sex. And lies.”

  She turned to him, pressing her bare breasts against his rumpled linen shirt. The very same shirt she’d had pressed and starched that morning.

  And with her voice flat, devoid of any and all emotion, she said, “So do you.”

  I sip my third cup of coffee and reread the words I’ve just typed. Four hours. Four hours I’ve sat here, and this is all I have to show for it. Still, something is better than nothing. Even if it’s not a great something.

  Fuck it.

  I look up at the wall clock fashioned like a cat that Fiona gave me years ago. I hated cats. Loathed them with a fiery passion. But, as fate would have it, I inherited a stray that the Colonel had taken in but couldn’t keep at the senior village. And what do you know…I’m a cat person. Probably because I realized cats are much like writers—moody, withdrawn and prone to fall asleep at any given moment.

  Just as the small hand points at eleven, my own little furry asshole, Bartleby, slides his body between my feet, his purrs a plea for attention. It’s eleven o’clock at night, and I haven’t moved from this spot all day. Hell, I haven’t really moved from this spot since Sunday night—three days ago. My dingy, faded Where the Wild Things Are t-shirt reeks of stale whiskey and sweat, and may actually sprout arms and legs and peel itself from my body. My golden brown hair is a greasy, matted mess, and I can’t remember the last thing I ingested that wasn’t Cocoa Puffs or coffee. Or the main food group in a writer’s diet—alcohol.

  How did I get here? And what the hell have I missed?