Ink and Lies

by S. L. Jennings

  Joshua makes a tsking sound and shakes head. “I picked out the red one specifically for this night. Of course, you are gorgeous in anything you wear, but you would have stopped traffic in that red one.” He turns to me, his perfectly groomed brows jumping conspiratorially. “There is a certain sensual danger about a woman in a red dress, don’t you agree, August?”

  I don’t answer. I just stare at him, mentally picturing what a broken nose would do for his business. Or maybe some missing teeth would be better. He doesn’t seem to notice. He turns back to Fiona and very literally shoos her away with a kiss.

  This is my chance. With Fiona gone, I can really give Dr. Dunghole a piece of my mind, followed by some very serious threats of bodily harm. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll do what I’m best at. I’ll lie. Joshua will be outraged, which will lead to his hasty departure, Fiona will return none-the-wiser, I’ll tell her that he’s just come down with a retched case of the BGs or crabs…whatever, then we’ll blow this popsicle stand, grab a couple orders of Pho from our favorite spot, and get home in time to watch Shark Tank.

  However, I’m not even able to put my plan into action when a busty blonde wearing nothing more than a crimson scarf struts up to our table and damn near aligns her massive tits with Joshua’s face.

  “Dr. King! I thought that was you!” she squeals, bouncing those jugs, which coincidentally, don’t move an inch.

  “Lisa! Great to see you, love!” He quickly jumps to his feet to greet the eager woman with a peck on the cheek. Hmmmm. He must be known for his bedside manner.

  “I was just telling my friend about you. She has a photo shoot next month and I told her she has to come see you ASAP,” she grins, waving towards the bar. And sure enough, an equally busty, long-legged blonde waves back.

  “Is that so? Have her call Sue first thing Monday morning. I’m sure I can sneak her in,” he replies with a wink.

  “You’re the best, Dr. King!” she trills, bouncing again. Only when one of her giant titties nearly knocks my drink from my hand does she notice me. “Oh? Is this your friend?” She smiles at me like it’s cheat day and I’m a triple bacon cheeseburger with a side of curly fries. I may not be as flashy as Señor Choco Taco, but I have a face that women like.

  “Lisa, this is August. He’s a very talented writer, or so I’ve heard. He even wrote a book called Tears of Sand.”

  “Tears of Glass,” I retort, shaking her offered hand. She lets it linger in mine for just a second longer than what would be deemed cordial.

  “Really? So, what’s that about? Is it like Fifty Shades of Grey?”

  And there it is. Lisa should just pick up the shrimp fork used to eat the overpriced miso-sriracha glazed tiger prawns and stab me in the eye now. If I had a dime for every time I’ve been asked that, I’d probably be able to pay for this stupid fucking meal.

  “No. It’s nothing like Fifty Shades,” I try to say as politely as I can muster.

  “Oh. Well, that’s too bad. It’s my favorite book, like, ever. Christian is sooo hot.” She looks back at her friend who is staring at our table intently. “Anyway, my girlfriend, Lauren, and I were just about to grab a table. Maybe we could share one?” She looks at Joshua, then back to me, as if she can’t decide which treat to choose at the candy shop. In the end, her gaze rests on Joshua.

  “No can do, love. Maybe another time.” He cushions the blow of rejection with a chaste kiss on the cheek, compliments her outfit, then reminds her to tell her friend to call his office. It’s a successful brush-off, I’ll give him that, but it’s still not the same as letting this chick know that he’s got a girlfriend who is probably freaking out right this fucking minute as she tries to figure out how to turn the goddamn faucet on in the space shuttle-chic bathroom.

  “Clients,” Joshua chuckles once Lisa returns to her friend at the bar, empty-handed. “She’s been in for different procedures—but she’s a big fan of our anal steaming, and our Right and Tight package. You’d like her. She’s fun.”

  Now why did that just sound like, Lisa has an ass that won’t quit and is totally bangable. Trust me. I know.

  Fiona approaches just in time to save me from the shit show disguised as dinner, her face flush and her hair tousled.

  “You okay, love? You were in there for a while,” Joshua greets her, kissing her forehead.

  Fiona nods. “Couldn’t figure out how to turn the darn knob at the sink. Why do they make it so complicated? Not everything needs to be artistic and modern. I was starting to think only a Divergent could turn that thing on.”

  And there you have it, folks. The reason why Fiona Shaw is my best friend. And why she’s too damn good for Joshua King, who doesn’t have a goddamn clue what we’re laughing about.

  SHE WAS ON HER KNEES, begging for reprieve. Whimpering her lust in short, panicked breaths. Ice blonde hair fell into her eyes, but she didn’t dare brush it away. He did it for her. He did everything…for her.

  “Please, sir,” she cried. “Please don’t make me suffer any longer. I need you.”

  “No.” His voice was cold. “You need to be obedient. Did I tell you to touch yourself?”

  She shuddered in defeat. “No, sir.”

  “And did I tell you to entice him? Into tempting him with your body? Did I tell you to let him fuck you?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You enjoyed it, didn’t you? Letting him taste your defiance. You screamed when he pumped your pretty little cunt with his betrayal.”

  Eh. Cunt. Now there’s a tricky four-letter word. Too much? I look over at Bartleby, who is doing what he does best—taking up space and sleeping. He’s no help at all.

  “…when he pumped your pretty little pussy with his betrayal.”

  “No!” she cried out. “I wanted you! I always want you!”

  “Lies! You came for him. You let him steal the orgasm reserved for me. Didn’t you? Tell me you didn’t cover his cock with your sweet nectar.”

  Blech. Well, there goes my breakfast. Why does it have to be sweet nectar? I have yet to have a woman that tastes like fresh-squeezed peaches.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I want you. I want only you inside me.”

  “You wound me with your deceit, my love. It pains me to do so, but you must be punished for your insolence.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “Yes.”

  On his command, she climbed to her feet and he led her to the edge of the massive four-poster bed. She bent at the waist and buried her head in a pillow, offering the sacrifice of her smooth, steamed, bleached ass.

  The fuck?

  I read over my words. Did I really just describe an ass as steamed and bleached?

  Oh, hell no.

  I hit delete and try again, but I just can’t get the words—the image—out of my head. Joshua has permanently skewed my view of the female backside. I’ve never considered myself an ass man, but shit, I’ve been known to perform a pretty badass rendition of Baby Got Back in my day. Sir Mix A Lot liked ‘em round and juicy, not bleached and steamed like dry cleaning.

  I rub my tired eyes and shut down the mean machine after saving my work, as awful as it may be. I’ve been going pretty hard all day in an attempt to cleanse my mind of that atrocious dinner last night. Joshua was everything I expected him to be—handsome, charming, stylish, and a complete douche. It’s not even that he’s a controlling, self-absorbed douche that makes him intolerable. It’s the fact that he’s clueless…totally oblivious to his douchiness. He’s the type of man that doesn’t see anything or anyone outside of his little realm of excellence. If you don’t meet his standards, well, you just don’t exist. And I can see that he’s already begun to mold Fiona into his little prototype of perfection. The dress, the makeup, the hair. Shit, he’s even making her eat kale! What kind of cruel and unusual punishment is that?

  And I really should be pissed at Fi for even going along with his evil regime. I mean, yeah, I know her biological clock is a ticking time bomb, and
she’s practically had her wedding planned since she was six years old. But that doesn’t mean she needs to cling to the first fucker with a decent head of hair and a good orthodontist.

  Besides. She has me.

  She’s always had me.

  “What do you think, Bart?” I ask the lazing cat aloud, currently perched on a stack of notebook paper on his side of the desk. He barely even flinches in my direction but his ears perk. “Should we call Fi and tell her what a giant, massive, catastrophic asshat her boyfriend is?”

  Bartleby finally spares me a glance, his jade-flecked eyes slanted with the remnants of slumber, and answers with a purr before going back to sleep.

  “She thinks she’s in love with him, you know. She actually thinks this Dr. Dingleberry is the one. Like, I can see that shit in her eyes when she talks about him, as if he walks on water and turns Arbor Mist into a 2010 Grand Vin de Château Latour. Seriously, who does he think he is? With that stupid hair and those stupid dimples and that stupid fucking accent.”

  At that, Bartleby pulls an Exorcist, his head turning 180 degrees to give me the side eye.

  “Yeah, I said it. He’s stupid. Stoooopid. About as stupid as I feel talking to an overweight furball that licks his own ass.”

  Shit. I’m really losing it.

  I need some air. I need some perspective. And as much as I hate to admit it, I need Fi.

  Half an hour later, I am speeding down 1st on my Harley Davidson FXS Low Rider. Now I know what you’re thinking—how very cliché of me to be a writer, or an artist in general, who rides a motorcycle. To be fair, it’s a classic, and it belonged to my grandfather. So to not accept it would be a slap in the face to him—and all mankind—really. I’ve spent a small fortune keeping it in its original condition, probably way more than it’s worth. But you can’t put a price on nostalgia. And let’s face it… it’s pretty badass.

  When I arrive at Durkin’s, the Speakeasy-style joint aptly housed across the street from both our favorite bistro and bookstore, Fiona isn’t there. I shouldn’t care—I’m often late because…well, punctuality isn’t my strong suit—but this is the second time, and Fi is that annoying person who always shows up five minutes early. I don’t want to speculate, but there has to be a reason behind it.

  I order an Old Fashioned from the hipster-stache’d bartender and settle into a booth. I haven’t eaten yet, so I put in an order of Poutine, which is the Canadian version of Disco fries. Fi loves their Poutine. When we first discovered this place, she made me come here at least twice a week for them.

  “Sorry!” she bristles, sliding into the booth beside me. When she leans over to kiss my cheek, I notice two things. One, she smells good. Not that that’s a bad thing. But I can tell she’s freshly showered and perfumed. The good shit too. Not the body spray from Victoria’s Secret that litters her bathroom vanity.

  Two, she’s wearing a dress and heels. And not just any heels either. Fire engine red “Fuck Me” heels that are never meant to be removed when the actual fucking is occurring. I should know. Chapter 12 of House of Noire by Hope Hughes. The clothes come off but the shoes stay on.

  “Interesting choice of attire for little old me, Fi. You really shouldn’t have.”

  She smiles sheepishly. “I’m meeting Joshua a little later.”

  “Oh?” I try not to sound affronted. I really do. Come on, it’s Saturday night. Of course she has plans. What young, attractive person doesn’t?

  Ding ding ding!

  “About Joshua…” I take a sip of my drink while Fi orders a glass of wine from a passing server.

  “Oh no. It was only a matter of time, wasn’t it? I couldn’t escape this. Go ahead, August…lay it on me.”

  “Shall I start with the most obvious omission?”

  “And that is?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that you failed to tell me he was a fucking Hemsworth!”

  “A whaaa?”

  “A Hemsworth! Australian. Alarmingly pretty. Looks kinda dumb…but isn’t.” I tack on that last part solely for her benefit.

  “I told you he was from Australia.”

  “Yeah, but not that side of Australia!”

  “What do you mean that side of Australia? Sydney?”

  “Um, no. The small island off the coast where they genetically mutate their people to make us red-bloodied Americans look like Sloth from The Goonies.”

  “Oh, hush.” She waves me off, but she’s smiling, a rosy blush painting her cheeks. She knows Joshua is exactly that superhuman in the looks department, and maybe part of her feels flattered to be with him. I get it—in a world of plastic and pretention, Fiona’s girl-next-door beauty isn’t really appreciated. It was what set her apart in college. She would rather swath her slight frame in oversized sweaters and ankle boots than those teeny tiny booty shorts with the words Juicy written on the butt that girls in her dorm were partial to. And that’s exactly what drew me to her all those years ago.

  The first thing that gave me pause was her music. It was the era of 50 Cent when he was only a nickel, Bootylicious Beyoncé, and the Federline decline of Britney Spears, and she was listening to The Fray circa Grey’s Anatomy. I only knew this tidbit of pop culture because Fiona’s roommate, Tami, was my current flavor of the week, and she was heavily into some guy named McDreamy. As luck would have it, my flavor of the week turned into my taste of the month, so I got to see Fiona more often than not. She was always the same—college sweatshirt three sizes too big, melancholy music, and nose stuck in a book. Not the usual required reading either. Most times it was cheesy romance novels, but sometimes she’d surprise me with books I had read, or would read. Good books. Books that made me want to know more about the girl who coveted them so passionately.

  I only knew her name was Fiona because her roommate mentioned her once in a while. I never saw her at parties. I never heard any Neanderthal-esque locker room talk about her. And she never seemed to notice me. Which was odd. Because I was noticed, especially by the opposite sex. Even when I didn’t want to be.

  The first time I spoke to her, I’d decided she was deaf. I was waiting on Tami to get done with her study group down the hall so we could go on our date (which really meant pizza and cheap beer in my room followed by sex) and I had grown tired of watching the top of her head as she read. About as tired as I’d grown from listening to some guy whine on about saving a life. I asked her what she was reading. And I got…nothing. I cleared my throat and tried again, earning the same response. I was just about to chalk it up as an auditory dysfunction on her part when she looked up at me with tear-glazed eyes narrowed in annoyance.

  “I’m pretty sure you can read. So why don’t you do us both a favor and stop trying to act like you’re actually interested.”

  Well…damn.

  “I, uh, I am interested,” I stammered.

  “Really.” She gave me a look that was the equivalent of calling bullshit.

  “I am. I’m an English major with a minor in Creative Writing. It’s my duty to know these things.”

  “Your duty?” She rolled her eyes. “Oh, please, spare me the whole valiant spiel about saving the world one passé trope at a time. I know you’re an English major. We share most of the same classes.”

  “Oh. Yeah. I knew that.” I did not know that.

  “Oh really? Well, you’ve been boning my roommate for a few weeks now. Why haven’t you said hi in—oh, I don’t know—one of the half dozen times we cross paths on campus daily? But I guess when you’re so grossly self-absorbed, it’s hard to notice anyone that isn’t you or presently screwing you.”

  I had no words. I had just spent my afternoon memorizing every honored Charles Dickens quote in existence for the Brit Lit Nazi, yet I had zero words to help me right at that second. The smug look on Fiona’s face wasn’t helping either.

  “Ok. Fine,” I said, admitting defeat. “But it’s not like you were so eager to speak to me between trying to rewrite The Virgin Suicides.”

 
; “Excuse me?” She closed the book and let it slip off her lap.

  “How is anyone supposed to talk to you when you hide in clothing that you obviously purchased at Big and Tall, and you play music that makes anyone within ten feet spontaneously menstruate?”

  “Oh, you,” she spits, shaking her head in disgust. “You…you…stupid jerk butt.”

  I died laughing. Like, seriously died right there on the squeaky-as-fuck twin bed situated right across from this mousey, brown-eyed girl who was the most intriguing person I had come across all day.

  “Did you just say…?” Still dying. “I could have sworn we were in college, away from Mom and Dad. You do know it’s okay to say bad words, right? No one is going to take away dessert for a week.”

  “Ha ha. I know where I am. But I’d rather not stoop to your level of fatuity. If one cannot express himself in a way that does not involve expletives, surely it is a reflection of his intelligence…or lack thereof.”

  “Or surely it just really gets his fucking point across.”

  We sat in the tiny dorm room, lit only by the desk lamp she used for reading, staring each other down. Silently trying to outwit the other until they broke.

  I was the one to break.

  “So… what are you reading?”

  Fiona picked up her paperback from the ragged quilt that covered her sweatpants-swathed legs and opened it, flipping to find her lost page. “Twilight. Vampire falls in love with a fragile human. I’d tell you how it ends but you just interrupted me as it was getting to the good part.”

  “Oh good God. Tell me you’re not into those books.”

  “Those books?” she said without looking up from her page. “You mean, entertaining? Inspiring? Bestselling?”

  “I mean, corny romance drivel. A few days ago, you were reading Anna Karenina.”

  She shrugged. “For the fourth time. I like to mix it up.”

  And that was how August and Fiona became Rhys and Fi.

  Over the next twenty minutes, I found myself wanting to know everything about her. I asked her what she would consider the best books of all time, and I told her mine. She told me how she had spent her summers interning at a small press magazine solely centered on romance books. She wanted to be immersed in the culture as much as possible, even if it meant she didn’t write. I told her I wanted to be the next great novelist, and there was nothing I could do on God’s green earth but write.