by Ash Harlow
I rubbed my hand over my mouth, considering Katrina. “I think you’d be a big issue to Steele.”
“Write it, then,” she said, her eyes filled with mischief. “Give your fans something different, a heroine they identify with.”
“It’s fantasy, Poppins. Steele doesn’t exist. What exists is all in the reader’s mind. They project themselves into the story. Those fans, a lot of them want to be the one to tame Steele. The others just want a good fucking. What I write about him is the blueprint for an alphahole manwhore, but the readers add the embellishments, the crystals and sprinkles, until they’ve made themselves the perfect hero. Whether he’s lovable or loathsome is up to the individual reader. How do you see him?”
“Lo—” She stopped before she gave herself away. Wise woman. “It’s not really my genre, so I don’t feel qualified to give my opinion.”
“The fact that you’re a woman qualifies you.”
We both took a drink.
“I don’t agree. You need to give your fans what they want. Hit the marks they expect, fulfill the fantasy for them. Isn’t your ability to do that what makes you successful?”
She was right, of course, but I’d lost my hunger for it. “It is, but it’s not what I want anymore.”
“So, why do you write romance?”
“Money. I’d written a couple of serious things that Sarah had shopped around for me, but although publishers liked them, they didn’t see a market for them at the time. I was frustrated, so I asked Sarah what the publishers did see as the market. She said, ‘Bring me romance, a hot guy who’s always hard. Bring me kinky sex and a hero who walks the edge of decency, and who’s not afraid to cross the line. A guy who every woman thinks she wants, but whom most would run a mile from in real life. Bring me their wildest fantasy, Stone. Bring me you.’”
I paused for Katrina’s reaction, enjoying the rapid play of emotions across her face. Distaste, excitement, arousal—all quickly packed away and sealed up in an airtight little evidence bag that she could hand in to CJM if required.
“People say the books are autobiographical.”
“Writers lie if they say they’re not.”
“So the person who writes serial killers wants to murder? Is that what you think?”
I winked at her. She’d work it out. I moved to pour more wine, but Katrina put her hand over the top of her glass.
“I’ve probably had enough,” she said.
I couldn’t tell if she referred to the wine or the revelations. “You’ll fall in love one day, Poppins, and discover that there’s never enough.”
She leaned back in her chair and pulled her legs up. She looked that way women often did when you talked about love. Wistful.
“How are you going to make Steele fall in love?”
“Easy. I’m going to write him the woman of his dreams. Someone with so much inner beauty, he doesn’t notice what’s on the outside. His world without her will be a bleak nuclear dawn. Of course, she’ll fuck like a rabbit in heat and give head like she’s competing for the star role in the Linda Lovelace biopic.”
“And never get a UTI.” Katrina giggled, nudging her glass toward me. “I think I need more wine.”
I happily obliged.
“So, this girl. She’ll give head like Nina?”
Nina was the impossible-to-choke, cock-sucking champion I’d written into book three. If she was in a scene, she was either on her knees or lying on a bed with her head tipped backward over the edge, begging for Steele’s cum. “She’ll be better than that.”
Katrina’s eyes glinted, her lips parting and forming a shape that distressed my dick.
“That’s hard to imagine,” she finally said.
“Not really,” I replied, pouring wine into my mouth and focusing on the distant river, hoping to quell the surge of activity making my jeans too tight. My hand had been the only thing to touch my dick since Lily, and the drought didn’t look like it would be ending soon. “Love will change his perception of great sex from a physical release to something deeper.”
“So, the sex won’t be so...rough.”
“The sex will be how they both want it to be. It will rise organically from their relationship and suit whichever scene they’re in. It will be rough and tender. I can guarantee that.”
“It’s a bit overwhelming. The idea of a guy expecting sex like that would knock the confidence from me because I know I’d be hopeless at it.”
Halfway through her second glass of wine, Katrina was loosening up. Something in me—my ego, I expect—wanted to show her that, yes, it would be overwhelming, but if anything, it would leave her full of confidence. Thankfully, I still had enough wits about me to put that thought away. “One day, Poppins, I hope you discover that’s not true.”
When her eyes widened again, I had to look away.
She nursed her glass, stroking the stem, oblivious to how that appeared from my point of view.
“The love thing. How are you going to make that happen?”
“Don’t you worry about that. It’s what I’m paid to do.” I honestly had no fucking idea.
“Except, you’ve never written a happily ever after.”
Thanks for the reminder, Poppins. I’d never experienced one, either. But there was a novel about a psychotic killer gathering dust on my hard drive, and I wasn’t a murderer. Love, I hoped, would be a piece of cake. “This time, I have to, so I’ll do it.”
“What if you created this character, this love interest, and Steele doesn’t go for her?”
“As an assistant, Poppins, you suck. Of course he’s going to go for her. He just needs to recognize that she’s his ideal woman.”
She slipped off her glasses, folding in the arms and placing them carefully on top of her yellow legal pad, which lay on the patio table, before giving me the cutest grin. I’d like to blame the wine, but I didn’t think that was the reason Katrina was getting sexier by the minute.
“But, we’re back to that love thing. People just don’t fall in love. There has to be a reason.”
“There isn’t a reason beyond attraction. Love is a biological drive that exists outside logic. That’s why you get the lawyer falling for the drug dealer. They can’t help it. Some fight it, but in the end, they either walk away, alone and miserable, or they make a career-ending hookup. There’s no escape and there’s no avoiding it, because love is as subtle as a punch to the gut.” Allegedly.
“Do you think everyone’s capable of falling in love?”
I’d never had a conversation like this with a woman before. In fact, I’d never thought this hard about love. “Sure they are. I’m just not sure every person will find the one. Or that the person they believe to be the one will be available for a relationship.”
Watching Katrina, I couldn’t tell if she’d had her heart broken or never been in love. I was about to ask her when her phone rang.
“Oh, hell, it’s Sarah.”
She pushed her wine across the table, then answered the phone. There was a lot of head nodding before Katrina told Sarah I wasn’t there. Obviously, that got a reaction.
“What I meant,” she said, “is that he’s locked away, working. Yes, I believe the book’s coming along well.”
When she finished the call, she gave me a look of exasperation. “I had to lie for you,” she said.
“You don’t have to lie for me.”
“Well, I had to lie for me, then. I need this job, Stone, and you need to write.”
“Relax, Poppins, you’ll get your book.”
“On time?”
“Of course.” My phone buzzed. I ignored it, not wanting to deal with Lily right now.
“You’d better get that.”
“It’s fine,” I said.
“It might be Sarah.”
“If I don’t answer, she’ll think I’m working.” When it buzzed again, I remembered Todd and some friends said they might stop by on their way back from a trip up north. I glanced at the screen. Todd. “I’ve
got some friends coming over—”
“I’d better go.” Katrina leapt from her chair, grabbing her things.
“You can stay. Have some dinner with us. They’re bringing takeout.”
“No, really, there are things I have to do. Other work.”
“For your mother?”
“Don’t.”
“Let me drive you home.”
“It’s a mile down the road. I’m fine. Thanks for the wine.”
I was pleased she was going. Todd was worse than Steele, and God knows who he had with him. My quiet day was shaping up to be a long, loud night.
9
Katrina
The car cruised past me when I was almost back at the cottage. I stood on the road, watched the indicator blink and the tail lights disappear as it turned into Stone’s driveway.
I shouldn’t have cared, but I did. A guy was driving. Todd, I presume. There were at least two other women in the SUV. I was glad I hadn’t stayed. They’d have been smart and sexy, dressed in the hottest clothes. They’d have been characters from Stone’s books. I would have felt like the frump, the hired help. I would have felt like the nanny.
Everything I’d been feeling while having a drink with Stone vanished. His was a different world, and I was the unseen assistant behind the laptop who made stuff happen. What I wasn’t was the clever creative star, or part of that scene.
My thoughts returned to the comments on the Facebook page, and I imagined that Stone’s friend had picked up some of those women, delivering them with the takeout to the house.
Ugh. Totally not my scene at all.
It was after eleven when I went to bed. I spent the evening setting things up for the new FaithLit launch, but there was still more to do in the morning. Once in bed, I couldn’t sleep. I was up to Stone’s fourth book, and I flicked open my Kindle and began to read. I read slower this time, our earlier conversation influencing the way I approached the story.
This new partitioning of my life required a dual personality worthy of its own story.
From FaithLit to Filth: One Woman’s Descent to the Dark Side.
The first hookup took place on the third page. If my mother ever got hold of these books, she’d send me to a camp for reprogramming. Even worse was the fact that, yes, reading all that sex made me hot. I couldn’t deny it, but I knew I’d also be embarrassed tomorrow if I thought about that scene when I was in Stone’s company.
The hero spanked the girl’s ass, and she’d loved it. I don’t think I’m prudish, which is probably the sign of a full-blown puritan, because no regular person even goes along the ‘I’m not a prude’ track. Even worse, as I lay there trying to sleep, I imagined myself in that scene, just the way Stone predicted his readers did. If I wasn’t careful, I’d be creating a fake Facebook profile and joining the comment fest on his page.
The next morning, I found Stone’s house looking like the aftermath of a frat party. The SUV I’d seen as I walked home the evening before was still parked in the driveway. Stone had given me a key, so I let myself in through the front door. Somewhere in the house, the shower was running. The patio was littered with bottles and cans. Abandoned glasses held dregs, a saucer overflowed with cigarette butts, and a skimpy piece of clothing hung over the back of the chair I’d occupied the previous afternoon.
This had all the evidence of Stone living up to his reputation.
On autopilot, I gathered bottles and glasses, ignoring the ugly pit that had opened in my chest. Stone’s behavior yesterday had been unlike him, and I’d bought into it, believing that his reputation was nothing more than a publicity stunt of soap-operatic proportions. Like one of his fangirls, I’d turned the time we spent sharing a glass of wine on the patio, the bike ride, and the lunch into something bigger that ended in a sex scene worthy of one of his stories. Worse, I’d given the potential of us a lifespan beyond the forty-odd days we were destined to spend together.
Yes, I’d spent a moment in the small hours thinking about us doing things together next year!
And what woman wouldn’t? Everything he did was with an air of masculinity, peppered with testosterone—the sharp glint of his gray eyes, the dimples, the hard, well-proportioned body, and most of all, the don’t-give-a-fuck confidence. It was dizzying stuff, and if he could package it in an aerosol can to spray around, the guy would make a fortune.
I resolved to shut down all of my stupid thoughts. I was a realist who’d suffered a brief short-circuit, but I’d rewire and get on with the job I was being paid to do.
I’d get the book out of Stone and move on to big things.
In the kitchen, I poured dregs from glasses into the sink, scraped food off plates, and loaded up the dishwasher. The benches were littered with takeout containers, unused napkins, and spilled food. It was clear the guests had come to party, but not to clean.
I found a trash bag and filled it, then all I had to do was wipe the benches, find the recycling bin for the bottles, and start making coffee.
“This must be Poppins.”
I tried not to groan. The male LA accent was backed up by a female giggle.
“I want a Poppins, too,” the girl added. Her voice squeaked like a fifties B-grade starlet.
Best morning ever. I’d now become a stupid joke.
“Haven’t I popped in you enough, Cleo?”
Yuck. I turned in time to catch an ass-grab that almost lifted the starlet’s tiny skirt to her waist. Any higher, and I’d see what the guy, who I presumed was Todd, had eaten for breakfast.
“I’ll make coffee in a moment,” I said. “And by the way, the name’s Katrina.”
Todd came over and shook my hand, introducing Cleo, who barely looked legal or properly clothed. They settled themselves on the barstools at the kitchen island like they were at a diner waiting for the menu. I hoped they didn’t expect breakfast. Taking care of Stone was one thing. Cooking for guests was not in the job description. They could head into town if they wanted food.
I fired up the coffee machine, hoping Stone would soon be through so that I could escape to my office. Todd wanted his coffee black. He ordered without looking up from his phone. Cleo asked for a double-shot nonfat soy latte with no foam. I bet she was fun in the Starbucks queue. I made her coffee with milk, which was essentially what she’d requested without realizing it.
While I played barista, Cleo’s brain cells met as she tried to describe something she’d recently eaten. “My Mom’s got a new boyfriend.”
“Again?” Todd asked, tapping the screen of his phone.
“This one’s British. He brings her presents and flowers. Like, the other week, he bought her a Terry’s Chocolate Orange. It was chocolate, but it tasted like orange. I mean, it looked like an orange, except it was chocolate. A sort of chocolate and an orange. Isn’t that just so British?”
“Amazing,” Todd mumbled, his fingers skipping over the screen.
Cleo giggled. “I know, right? When I tasted it, I said to him, Brian—or was it Barry—this is amazing!”
They were clearly expecting table service, so I delivered their coffees, certain I’d hear the verdict while I fixed a coffee—double shot—for myself.
Todd expressed more gratitude than the coffee warranted, making me think his hangover was vast.
I waited for Cleo to taste hers. “It’s quite dry,” she said, screwing up her pert nose and licking the foam from her pink, glossy lips.
“You’re thinking of last night’s wine,” I muttered. I thought I was free to escape only to be surprised by the appearance of a Cleo clone, as if these women had been ordered up, same model, choose your own hair color. This one had jet black hair in contrast to Cleo’s stark platinum, but everything else looked and sounded pretty much the same.
Except she was wearing nothing more than a t-shirt I’d previously seen on Stone. Ouch.
“Where’s the big man?” She squeaked.
“Right here, babycakes,” Todd replied.
Cleo giggled.
/> Much more of this, and I’d hurl.
“Not you, hot Toddy,” she said, wrapping herself around him and doing something with her tongue in his ear. She eyed the coffee I’d just made myself.
“Is that for me?”
“Sure.” I put it down on the counter. “I made it just how you like it.”
The new girl frowned, then shrugged.
“This is Mindy,” Cleo said, pointing at her friend, “and this is Poppy.” Her finger swung in my direction.
“Katrina, pleased to meet you,” I said, fast and flat, turning the sentence into one long word.
“Is there honey in this? It doesn’t taste like it.”
Of course, honey in coffee. Why hadn’t I thought of it? “Two teaspoons,” I lied.
“Okay,” she chirped, and took another sip. “And what do you do, Katrina?”
At least she was taking an interest. “Brain surgery,” I replied. God, I was going straight to hell for this. I decided to forgo coffee in favor of peace in my office. “Help yourself to everything,” I said, gesturing toward the pantry and the fridge with a generous spread of my arms. Without waiting for a response, I turned to leave the kitchen, smacking straight into the stone wall of a certain man’s chest.
He grabbed my upper arms to steady me. “Poppins,” he said, his grin evil.
“Her name’s Katrina,” Mindy offered. At least someone paid attention.
I tried to pull from Stone’s grip, but he steered me backward from the kitchen and around the corner.
“Apologies for the mess and the morning guests. Todd was in no state to drive. Leave it all. I’ll clean up when they’ve gone.”
“Too late. It’s clean. You look a mess.” His hold was causing an awkward sensation in the pit of my stomach, but he didn’t take the hint to let go when I wriggled.
“Then you can clean me, too.”
“Sorry, not in the job description.” The sensation in my stomach became heavy. There’d been a shower scene in book four that involved two characters getting clean, dirty, then clean again.
“It’s an evolving document. I’ll make the necessary changes.”
