Ink and Lies

by S. L. Jennings

  Next up, the well-read dick to my left. “And you’re right. Many famed writers have shaped this great nation. And since you seem to be so knowledgeable on the literary market, it’s probably no surprise to you that independent publishing is a multi-million dollar industry, with most of that money going straight into our pockets. See there’s a little thing called royalties, buddy. And self-published authors get to keep the largest slice of the pie. So trust and believe, no one is begging. Now you, on the other hand…you will probably be begging to get out of the doghouse later tonight.” I angle my gaze on the strawberry blonde woman tucked under his arm. “The tan line around his finger is from a wedding ring, sweetheart. And that Rolex on his wrist is a swap meet special. The second hand glides, not ticks. You’ll have to brush up on your gold-digging skills.”

  Flustered, both jerk-offs sputter unintelligibly, looking to their blonde god for guidance.

  “What the hell, man? What was that for? We were only having a laugh.”

  I lean over, fists pressed into the table and glare trained on the lying, cheating bastard known as Joshua King. “Of course, you are. This is my laughing face. Can’t you tell? Don’t be so sensitive, Joshie.”

  “Look, whatever you think you saw or know, it’s not what you—”

  “What? Not what I think? Now what would give me the crazy notion that I had witnessed something that would be significant to me? Is it Botox Barbie damn near giving you a hand job under the table? Or could it be the fact that you lied about a make believe business trip and sent Fiona out of town so you could have a night of debauchery?”

  “Now, you just wait one minute, August—”

  “Oh! So you do know how to pronounce my name. Apparently, you’re not just a pretty face that likes to steal women’s dirty panties.”

  “You’re out of line,” Joshua grits, giving me his angry face. It oddly resembles Zoolander’s Blue Steel. “You need to leave right now before things get ugly.”

  I straighten up and hold up my palms in mock defeat. “My apologies. Didn’t mean to ruin your evening. But FYI,” I say to his female companion, my voice loud enough to be heard over the bustling roar of the bar. “Crocodile Dundee digs poop play. I hope you’re well stocked on your fiber.”

  Two raps on the tabletop serve as the proverbial period on this conversation, this night, and soon enough, he and Fi’s relationship.

  “FI, CALL ME WHEN YOU get this. It’s important. And don’t talk to Joshua until you do.”

  It’s the second voicemail I’ve left since I hit the exit of Durkin’s along with my four text messages. When she finally calls me some time after midnight, I’m still wired from my run-in with Joshua.

  “Oh my God, Rhys. Is everything ok?” There’s panic in her voice, and I instantly feel bad for the dramatics. But there’s no way I could have let him get to her first.

  “Yeah, but you need to listen to me. Come straight to my apartment tomorrow morning. Don’t even go to your apartment. I have something really important to tell you, and it’s time sensitive.”

  “Wait…won’t you still be in LA?”

  “No, I flew back early. I’m home.”

  “Oh. Is this about the job?”

  “No, nothing like that. But promise me you won’t talk to Joshua until you see me. Promise me, Fi.”

  “I promise, Rhys, geez. You’re scaring me.”

  “Don’t be. Just come see me, ok? Come straight here.”

  “I heard you the first time. I wish you would just tell me now. I won’t be able to sleep tonight knowing something is wrong.”

  “Don’t worry, Fi. Everything is about to be exactly how it’s supposed to be.”

  Sleep is a struggle, and I pass out some time after penning over 5000 words on my new story. I don’t even know where I’m going with it or what I’m even planning to do with it. It’s not a Hope story, that’s for sure. No insta-love or surprise pregnancy. Not even a stitch of clothing has been lost in the second chapter. It looks, smells, feels like romance, yet for some reason, it doesn’t. It’s just…real.

  After I wake from slumber sponsored by scotch, I make a concerted effort to tame the anarchy that is my apartment. You know those stories where the bachelor is some neat freak weirdo, and everything must be pristine, including his women? He also works 80 hours a week and has time to cook gourmet meals, work out daily and wash his dirty gym shorts. Yeah. That’s not me.

  I’m not a slob, per say, but my neurosis requires a certain level of chaos to thrive productively. So there are a few dozen sheets of rumpled paper lying about, along with multi-colored sticky notes claiming most flat surfaces. I’m grown up enough to throw away my empty food cartons and pizza boxes, but there is a fair amount of used coffee cups cluttering the kitchen counters. And there are books. Everywhere. Books on shelves, books on tables, books on the sofa, books stacked on the floor. I’m a writer, but I will always be a reader first.

  My buzzer sounds a little after noon, and for the first time in all the years I’ve known her, I’m nervous to see Fi. A few weeks ago, I would have answered the door in whatever I had on when I rolled out of bed, chin unshaven, teeth unbrushed and hair uncombed. But here I am—showered, smelling good and wearing actual pants. This just seems bizarre to me, and apparently to Fi too.

  “Whoa. Going somewhere?”

  “No,” I shake my head. It looks like I’m trying too hard. This is Fi. She doesn’t care what I look like. Shit, during the last leg of a deadline, she’s used to me moonlighting as one of those Duck Dynasty guys.

  “Oh. Well, you look nice.” She steps inside and looks around, visibly stunned by the tidiness of my place. “Ok, Rhys, spill it. You had me race back here like my car was on fire. What’s going on? I’m worried.”

  “How was the concert?” I ask, stalling for time. I planned on telling her about Joshua, but I didn’t factor in hurting her. Fuck. This isn’t going to be as easy as I initially thought. What did I expect? Of course, news of Joshua’s deception will crush her.

  “How was the concert? It was great, you know that. But we can talk about that later. Please, Rhys. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Have a seat,” I offer, leading her to the living room. “I’m thirsty. Want a glass of water? Mimosa?”

  “Whatever,” she replies, rolling her eyes. “Just get on with it. Joshua was able to fly back early and wants to meet up in a couple hours. Said he has a surprise planned for me, and I still need to get home to get ready.”

  Joshua. Fucking Joshua. Of course he does.

  “I thought I asked you not to talk to him until we spoke. What did he tell you?”

  She winces at my erratic behavior and shrinks back. “Nothing, geez. He sent me a text. I just replied with Ok. Seriously, Rhys, you’re acting crazy. What’s going on?”

  I have to do it now. I have to tell her the ugly truth, no matter how it’ll crush her already fragile heart. Luckily, I’m here to pick up the pieces.

  “Fiona, I saw Joshua last night.”

  “What? Wait, how did you… but he just got back in this morning.”

  “No. He didn’t, Fi. He was at Durkin’s last night, and he wasn’t alone. He also seemed shocked to see me.”

  “What are you talking about, August?”

  “I don’t think Joshua ever went to Portland, Fi. I think he wanted to get you out of town so he could hide what he really was up to. And with me gone, he’d be able to go out freely. He was drinking, laughing, acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world. And there was a woman hanging on to him as if she was comfortable with his body. Touching him the way a woman touches a man that she plans to sleep with…or already has slept with. Are you getting what I’m saying?”

  She’s silent, unmoving, maybe even unbreathing, as she processes the information I’ve just given her.

  “Fi, say something,” I whisper, sliding an arm around her shoulder. Her body is as stiff and tight as a board. She swallows through the lump in her throat.

&nbs
p; “I’ll take that drink now.”

  I jump up to retrieve a glass of water and a tumbler of scotch. I’m not entirely sure what type of drink she’s seeking, but the way she swipes the amber liquid is all the answer I need. She downs it like it’s a shot of tequila during Spring Break in Cancun.

  “More,” she demands, her voice raspy from the liquor. I hurriedly refill and place the glass back into her eager palms.

  “Fi, I know this is difficult for you to hear—”

  She cuts me off with a raised hand, signaling me to stop. She sips her drink, —slower this time—but within minutes, it’s gone.

  “Better?” I ask, looking for any indication that I should refill. She simply nods and sets the glass down.

  “This woman… was she pretty?”

  “Fiona, you don’t want to hear—”

  “Just answer me, please.” Her voice is barely above a whisper, but the pain is boldly evident. “Was she pretty? Tall? Slender? Glamorous?”

  I started this conversation with truth. I can’t deviate now. “Yes. She was.” But she wasn’t you.

  “And did it seem like he wanted her to touch him?”

  “He did. I’m sorry.” I don’t know why I’m apologizing for that prick, but I just can’t stand to see the dark shade of dejection painted on her porcelain face.

  “And did it seem like he was open to do more than just touching with her? Like, maybe he was hoping, willing, trying to fuck her?”

  The word fuck from her lips sounds harsh and foreign to me, and I reflexively pull her into my arms to shield her from her own wicked tongue. She breaks in two, releasing a flash flood of tears that drowns the words from her quivering lips. So I speak them for her as I hold her close to my chest. I murmur them into her soft brown hair. I whisper them along her neck and earlobe. And I draw them onto her tear-streaked cheeks with the slightest graze of my mouth.

  “Fi, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

  Her sobs rip me open, and I’m unable to feel anything beyond her pain. There’s no joy in this. No sense of victory or validation. There is no satisfaction in destroying Joshua. Because in the process, I’ve destroyed her. She is merely a casualty of war.

  She holds onto my shirt, pulling me as close to her as I can get in hopes of sharing the hurt. It’s too much for her to bear. And if I could go back to just minutes ago, I would take it all away. But then where would that leave her? In that lying fucker’s arms.

  It’s several minutes before her body stills and her tears dry, yet she doesn’t let go of me. I’m in no hurry to let her go either, so I angle my body so I can lift my legs onto the couch, pulling her with me. My back to the armrest, I position her damp cheek against my chest so I’m able to wrap her in my warmth.

  “It’s not fair, Rhys,” she whispers. “I thought he actually liked me for me…possibly even be in love with me. But nothing changes, does it? It’s not fair.”

  “I know it’s not, honey. But the real injustice is you wasting your time on some smug asshole with a black card who looks at you as an accessory. You made him look like a decent human being, Fi. You asked me to find one tolerable trait in him, and I did. It was you.”

  “Hmph,” she snorts in manufactured jest. “Well, since it was all just an act, that doesn’t count.”

  I rub her back from her neck to the bottom of her spine. “Hey. Don’t say that. Maybe he does really care for you, yet has commitment issues.”

  “Then why get into a committed relationship?”

  “Did you two ever sit down and say that you would be exclusive?” Her silence speaks for her. “Fi, you can’t expect someone like Joshua to figure out the rules unless you spell them out for him.”

  “I just thought… we’re together all the time! Every day! When would he have time to date other women? And considering all that we’ve done, all that I did for him—because of him—why would he want to?”

  I pull her up so her face is aligned with mine, so she can see the truth in my eyes. “Because he’s a selfish, self-absorbed dick who doesn’t know what he has right in front of him. Because if he did, he would have no need for other women. He wouldn’t have to question whether or not he loved her, because it was physically impossible not to. And every second he suffered trying to fight against that fact would be an act of self-inflicted madness, because deep down, he always knew he was in love with her. Right from the start. From the top of her messy bun to the toe of her knee high socks. She was his muse, his soul mate. She was the beauty in his world of heartbreak.”

  Big brown eyes, glassy with fresh tears, stare at me as if trying to unearth the message in my words. But I stare right back, unwavering. Unwilling to take it back. I won’t take it back. Not anymore.

  “August…” She doesn’t say it with its usual tinge of annoyance. My name is light and breathy on her tongue, like a feather caressing her lips. I brush my fingertips over her mouth, mimicking my thoughts, and she leans into the touch.

  Her hands tremble against my chest, saying, “What are we doing?”

  Mine rake through her hair to the nape of her neck, replying, “Everything we should have done before. Rewriting our story.”

  I guide her lips to mine slowly, waiting for her to resist. Expecting her to slap me across the face and tell me I’m crazy, that I’m just imagining the bold electricity causing sparks between us in jagged, neon strands. But the assault never comes, because she wants this. She wants me. In the way that goes beyond friendship, beyond attraction, and beyond the pages.

  Tongues collide in an erotic tussle of pants and licks. Her lips are softer than I expect, yet as sweet as I’ve imagined. Her warm breath sustains me, lending me life as I sink further into her kiss. She fists my shirt in a haze of hunger, her nails lightly scoring my chest. My hands grip her ass and hips, and I pull her in closer to me, desperately trying to mold her body with mine. She gasps into my mouth at the sensation of me throbbing against her, the quiver of my cock radiating through denim and cotton. She feels me there…wants me there. And I have every intention of taking her there.

  Fiona whispers my name as my tongue slides down her neck, finding the sensitive spot that every hero in every book seems to know like the back of his hand. Her hands pull at my short-cropped hair when I tease it, nipping her flushed skin with my teeth. Her body is so responsive to me; I can feel her nipples harden through her light knit sweater. It feels like a thousand pounds of wool right now. I all but rip it off her and fling it across the room before doing the same with mine. Her bare skin sears against mine, the friction of our hunger causing every nerve ending to burn bright in radiant cobalt and vermillion and merigold. I feel her in my bones, aching in delicious pangs of need. Desire is wet heat that seizes my joints and ligaments, making it impossible to do much else but kiss her…hold her…love her.

  I’m on my feet and she’s in my arms, my waist tucked safely in the warmth between her legs. I move us through the living room where we once sat cross-legged eating takeout and listening to music, down the hallway that she helped me paint Hale Navy, and into the bedroom where her back meets my bed for the very first time. Her ankles are still locked around my ass, giving me perfect access to the fly of her jeans, so I slide my fingers down the flat expanse of her belly to battle the metal lock of her denim captivity. I go slow, giving her the chance to back out. Giving her the chance to tell me no.

  She doesn’t say no.

  I lean forward, kiss her jaw and her neck. Leaving her mouth free to tell me to stop.

  She doesn’t say stop.

  I hook my finger into her belt loops and slide her jeans down her thighs, taking my time, deliberately giving her the opportunity to tell me we can’t.

  She doesn’t tell me we can’t.

  I’m on top of her, working my own jeans down my legs and kicking them off with more gusto than I’ve ever felt within these four walls, plastered in secrets and painted in lust. I’m so eager to feel her, to
fuck her. No, not fuck her. To love her. To make love to her. Make love like I’ve never loved before. Because I haven’t. Before this moment, before me and her. Before kiss-burned thighs and peach-tipped nipples and honey-flavored lips, I’d never known love. Because to me, love was a fantasy. A fairytale. And Fiona is and always has been the happiest of ever afters. She’s my ghost. My reason for trusting in something as intangible and lucid as the air whistling through my clenched teeth as I push inside paradise. And, as I dip my head to kiss her through the pleasure of drowning in her ocean, the pain of letting go of all my inhibitions and insecurities, I know that for the first time, I irrevocably, intensely, insanely believe.

  I HEAR MUSIC.

  Fiona is naked and lying beside me, the sheets are tangled at our feet, and I hear music.

  In movies, music is the backdrop to every pivotal scene, especially love scenes. But for me, music is the scene. It attaches itself to a memory and inks itself on your heart, so every time you hear that particular song from that point on, you’re instantly transported back to that moment. You relive it. You breathe it. You feel it like you’re right there, gripping the headboard, sliding inside her, hearing her whisper your name over and over.

  However, the music is slightly skewed.

  Sex in romance resembles your standard Bedroom Mix tape back in college. Sometimes it’s light and fun and flirty like “Your Body is a Wonderland.” Or maybe it’s racy and enticing like “Sex on Fire.” On a good day, it’s the epitome of eroticism like “Freek’n You,” or if you’re lucky, just downright XXX-rated like the cult-favorite “Closer.”

  However, it is never, ever—under any circumstances— supposed to be like “One Minute Man.” I’m a fan, but hell no… I don’t need Missy Elliott pouring salt in the already festering wound of my ego. Bad (quick) sex doesn’t happen in romance. So what the hell just happened here?