Fantasy

by Christine Feehan

  “I think,” Jake said, setting down his fork, “that all of us live lies once in a while. It’s a part of life, until we figure out what it is we really want. Maybe you’re just being too hard on yourself, Randy.”

  “No, I don’t think I am. I haven’t been entirely honest with you, Jake.”

  He didn’t want to hear this. Not now. Not here.

  “Could we not talk about this right now, Randy?” He hated himself for the words the moment he saw the vulnerable, disappointed expression on his roommate’s face. “I need to go up to the room and get a few things. Could you wait here? I’ll be right back.”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  Miranda watched as Jake wove his way through the coffee shop and out the door. And she wondered what she’d hoped to accomplish by telling him the truth about who she was and what she was up to.

  They still had one more night in their room. If he found out she was a woman, would he boot her out?

  No. He was a writer. He understood the need to get a story, to write something with a unique point of view, to understand something that intrigued or infuriated you.

  Miranda sighed and picked up her soupspoon. Okay. They’d get through tonight, but on Sunday morning, over breakfast, she was telling him the truth.

  Jake let himself into the hotel room. He did have to get a few things, but it had really been an excuse to get away from Randy—

  As he strode swiftly past the luggage stand, he accidentally tipped over Randy’s duffel bag, sending some of the contents spilling out on the carpet. He knelt down to pick them up and stilled when his fingers came into contact with a pair of emerald green silk bikini panties.

  Women’s panties.

  His tired brain fought to make sense of it.

  This Randy was a complicated man. Not only was he on the brink of publicly admitting his true sexual orientation, he seemed to have a fetish when it came to women’s underwear.

  It was none of his business. He didn’t want to know. Stuffing the contents of the duffel back into place, Jake slung it back up on the luggage stand and headed toward his laptop.

  Miranda loaded up for the afternoon. Entertainment Weekly, Vanity Fair, and just in case the first two choices seemed too feminine, she grabbed a copy of Men’s Journal. She could give it to Jim when she went to work on Monday.

  After checking out with a few more candy bars and two bottles of soda on top of the magazines, she felt ready for anything.

  She and Jake found seats in the far back and settled in for the afternoon.

  “And so ,” Anton shouted from the stage, pacing like a manic tiger, “with all that you’ve learned today, you’re ready for your final exam!”

  “This should be good,” Jake muttered. He was in the middle of an article in Entertainment Weekly, while Miranda was trying to finish Men’s Journal. Candy wrappers littered the floor in front of them, as well as two empty plastic soda bottles.

  “Oh, I can’t wait,” she said. Somewhere in the middle of the afternoon, she and Jake had gotten back on track. A shared sense of humor helped a lot. That, and the fact that he’d put on a killer pair of reading glasses. How could one man look so sexy?

  “You will go out tonight and have dinner with your roommate,” Anton shouted. “And after that, you will go to one of the bars along the beach and, supporting and encouraging each other, you will each pick up a woman! And after using every technique I’ve taught you today, you will take it as—far—as—you—can!”

  The audience roared. Miranda blinked. Pick up a woman?

  She glanced at Jake and blurted out, “I don’t think I can do this.” Then, realizing what she’d just admitted, she covered her mouth in horror.

  “Randy,” Jake said quietly, “I’m not going to tell on you if you don’t do the assignment.” He hesitated. “And I know. About Jim.”

  She felt the color drain out of her face as she stared at Jake. In the background, Anton was still yelling, exhorting the men to “take it all the way! Pass this final exam!”

  The audience reaction was deafening. A true crowd mentality.

  “You do?” she said weakly, still facing him. “How? What gave me away?”

  “You talked about him in your sleep.” Jake hesitated. “Do you love him?”

  Comprehension dawned.

  He thought she was gay.

  4

  “Love him?” she said. “Jim? No, I don’t.”

  “Okay,” Jake said, studying her. “Listen, Randy, I might have overstepped a boundary here, and if I did—”

  “No,” she said swiftly. “You didn’t.”

  “Maybe I assumed something I shouldn’t have, and if I did, I’m sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay. But I need to explain something to you.”

  “Are you all ready?” Anton yelled from the stage, pumping up the crowd.

  “Yes!” roared the collective audience.

  “Which one of you is going to become Mister Speedy!” Anton yelled back, but Miranda barely heard him. She had to get Jake to understand.

  But not here, not when there was a chance that someone might overhear what she had to say. It was bad enough that she had to tell Jake she’d lied to him, let alone admit she’d duped an entire auditorium full of men.

  She didn’t want that kind of attention directed at her. And she certainly didn’t want Bertie to know she’d witnessed his entire confession. Work would be absolutely unbearable if he found that out.

  “Can we—can we just go out to dinner?” she said, feeling miserable.

  He gave her a long, measured look. “Sure.”

  They walked to a tiny little Italian place just off Ocean Avenue. And though the food was excellent, Miranda found she didn’t have much of an appetite. She knew Jake noticed the way she merely pushed her food around her plate.

  “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said. “That wasn’t my intent.”

  “I know.” Things were going terribly wrong. She’d have to tell him the truth tonight. What was the worst that could happen? He’d ask her to leave, she’d go back to her apartment in Culver City and return the following day to finish the seminar. He’d already told her he wouldn’t turn her in for not completing tonight’s assignment.

  Still, there was a part of her that was scared to tell him. Jake Blackhall was a notoriously private man, and they’d really talked the night before. About private, intimate things. And she wondered if he would’ve talked to her the same way if he’d known she was a woman.

  Probably not.

  She could see a distinct potential for him to be really pissed off at her. Especially when she told him she was going to write an article about the whole weekend. It would be tantamount to stealing his thunder.

  How had everything gotten so complicated?

  “Jake,” she said as their waiter cleared their plates away, “I don’t really want any dessert. Do you think we could leave?”

  “Sure.”

  They were walking down Ocean Avenue when they passed a noisy bar, and as Miranda glanced in, she recognized several of their classmates there, trying out their Swiftest Seduction techniques. She slowed as one man in particular, the one who liked redheads, caught her attention.

  Jake came to a stop beside her.

  “Want to go in?” he said after a moment. “Just to see how they’re doing. If this stuff actually works.”

  She was curious. Actually, she wanted to see if any of the stuff Anton had taught them today would work in the real world. It would add a lot to her article, how this seminar played out in real life. Readers would want to know.

  And it would delay the inevitable, going back to their room and confessing all.

  “Okay.”

  He found them a table in a far corner of the immense bar. As it was a Saturday night in Santa Monica, the place was packed with both men and women on the prowl. The music was loud, the lights low—and the drinks surprisingly good.

  Mr. Redhead seemed happy; the auburn-haired waitress that he’
d started flirting with was paying plenty of attention to him. But then again, maybe she just wanted a hefty tip. Miranda scanned the area. Thank God, Bertie was nowhere in sight.

  She’d watched as Jake had gently flirted with the hostess, then several of the waitresses, and finally a female bartender. Actually, he’d only been responding to what they’d started with him. The man was a walking magnet for the opposite sex.

  “You don’t seem to be having any trouble with women,” she observed. “You could probably go home with any woman here.”

  He gave her a look.

  “I’m serious,” Miranda said. Then she realized that these women meant next to nothing to Jake. Though it was clear he enjoyed the sexy, flirtatious interaction—and what man wouldn’t?—he really did want that one special woman he could feel close to, and give everything to. What had he said last night?

  You know that feeling, when you know you really love a woman and want to be with her for the rest of your life? I’ve always just wanted to be able to lay the world at her feet. Give her everything. Give her all of me.

  That was Jake’s fantasy.

  And Miranda found herself jealous of this woman who would get all of Jake. All she would get was his pity and compassion, because he thought she—rather, he—was a total loser in life who couldn’t even seem to make up his mind about his sexual orientation. Who was a total coward when it came to relationships.

  This was too hard. Too painful. She had to tell him the truth.

  “Jake,” she said, touching his arm. “I have to tell you the truth.” She took a deep, steadying breath. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  He leaned forward, attentive. The look in his dark blue eyes was kind, and she just couldn’t stand being the recipient of his pity.

  Get it over with.

  “Inside,” she said, pointing to her chest. “Inside, underneath all this, I’m really a woman.”

  His expression incredulous, he sat back in his chair.

  There. Well. She’d finally done it. The truth was out; there was no going back.

  He seemed at a total loss for words. Then he leaned forward and said, “You mean you’re—you’re—transgender?”

  If it hadn’t been such an emotionally loaded conversation for her, Miranda would’ve laughed. He thought she was a man who felt he really should’ve been born a woman! Like on the Jerry Springer Show, “Women Trapped in Men’s Bodies! What Should They Do?”

  “No, I mean I’m really a woman!”

  “I heard you the first time. Have you—Jesus, have you had the surgery done yet?”

  Tears of frustration sprang into her eyes. This was not going well. And the last thing she wanted to do was break down and cry in front of this guy. Then he’d really think she was a total loser.

  “Give me a minute,” Miranda said, her voice choked with emotion, then she got up and started across the large bar, heading for the rest rooms. She needed a moment of privacy; she wanted to lock herself into a stall until she got herself under control. Then she’d come back and, if she had to, unbutton her shirt and—

  What? Show him her bound-up breasts?

  A sob escaped her as she strode across the floor, then came to a stop in front of the two doors to each rest room.

  Which one do I use?

  She was dressed like a man, had a man’s haircut, shoes, shirt, suit. If she went into the ladies room, she might start an incident. Yet she didn’t want to go into the mens room—

  Swallowing down her feelings, blinking back frustrated tears, Miranda turned and stared at Jake. No time like the present. She’d ask him if they could leave, they’d go back to the hotel room, and if she had to change in the bathroom and walk out in her underwear to get her point across, well then, that’s exactly what she’d do.

  And if that didn’t work, she’d call one of her brothers and ask him to identify her as a woman over the phone. Marty, her youngest brother. They were closest, and he would understand that she’d gotten herself into another mess in her quest for a story.

  And keep it quiet.

  Transgender!

  She ran her fingers through her hair in frustration, then started back toward their table. That was the exact moment she bumped into the sexy blonde.

  And all hell broke loose.

  Jake sat at the table, pondering the new twist his relationship with his roommate had taken. Forget the seminar, he should do an article on Randy. The kid was a lot more tortured than he’d thought. Talk about a messed up sense of who he was.

  Or maybe not. Maybe he wasn’t screwed up at all, just wanted to be who he truly was and honestly connect with another person. In the end, wasn’t that what they were all trying to do, in the seminar or not?

  He realized he had another piece of his article, and took the small pad and pen he always carried with him out of his pocket.

  Miranda careened into a busty blonde in a cling-wrap-tight pink minidress and white boots—a Pamela Anderson lookalike—and almost knocked her over.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, grabbing the blonde’s arms and steadying both of them. “My fault, I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “Aren’t you a sweetie pie!” the busty blonde cooed. “Imagine that, a man who actually apologizes!”

  Several of the women standing around her laughed. Miranda smiled and started to back away.

  “Not so fast, sweetie,” said the blonde. “I should thank you.”

  And before Miranda realized what was going on, the blonde grabbed her shirtfront, pulled her close, and began to kiss her.

  The sudden burst of laughter from the crowd caused Jake to look up just in time to see a blonde woman with an amazing little body in a tight pink dress kissing Randy.

  Really kissing him.

  What the hell—

  Did Randy think he had something to prove? Was this his idea of doing their final assignment?

  And why did Jake have the distinct feeling that everything was spiraling out of control?

  She was a great kisser, Miranda realized dizzily as she pulled away and looked at the woman, at her glistening, bubble gum pink lips. Her lip gloss had tasted sweet, like candy.

  This was easily qualifying as one of the strangest nights of her life. Okay, make that the strangest.

  “Thanks,” the blonde whispered. “For being nice.”

  “Okay.” Miranda took a deep breath. She wondered if this qualified as their homework assignment. Sure, why not. “Gotta go.”

  “Not so fast,” said a deep male voice, and she turned to see a man who looked like a mountain, glaring at both of them. “Lizzie, what the hell was this man doing to you?”

  “Nothing, Steve,” whispered the blonde, and Miranda knew in that split second that she was afraid of him—and with good reason. If he’d been a dog, he would’ve been a fighting pit bull.

  “Oh yeah? Don’t you bullshit me, I saw the way he was kissing you!”

  “Listen,” Miranda began.

  “No, you listen to me,” Steve said, and, grabbing her shirt, he hoisted her up into the air and started outside.

  Jake couldn’t believe what he was seeing. The guy had picked Randy up as if he were a doll. Jake started up out of his chair and began to push his way through the mass of bodies crowded around the bar, but it was slow going. People were partying, and not in the mood to move.

  “Fight!” someone yelled. “Fight!”

  “Move!” yelled Jake.

  Randy wouldn’t stand a chance.

  Jake continued to struggle toward the exit, hoping he’d be able to stop what was about to go down.

  “Listen,” said Miranda, who had shot to her feet the moment Steve had dropped her in the alley, “can’t we talk about this like reasonable—”

  Steve charged her. She darted out of the way, then raised her hands in front of her face, palms out. Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest she was afraid she was going to be sick.

  “Hey, come on, please don’t hit me, I don’t want a
fight—”

  She dodged him again, but knew he was closing in for the kill.

  He could see Randy through the glass windows, out in the alley behind the bar, dodging and feinting like a little lightweight boxer trapped in the ring with a heavyweight champ. And as Jake pushed his way out the door, not even caring who he bumped into in the process, his brain registered something—awful.

  Randy fought like a girl.

  Then—Oh shit, he is a girl!

  Randy’s a woman. A real woman.

  That was what he’d—no, she’d been trying to tell him.

  How could he have been so dense? Because he hadn’t been looking at what was right under his nose. Now it all made sense, the way she’d talked, the excessive modesty, even the silk underwear he’d found in her suitcase.

  Randy Ward was a woman. A woman who was about to get the shit beat out of her by the Incredible Hulk.

  Jake raced toward the two of them just as the man punched Randy in the stomach. She doubled over in agony and fell to her knees.

  She fell against some trash cans, knocking them over, spilling something smelly all over the good suit Jim had loaned her. She couldn’t feel anything but the intense, overwhelming pain in her stomach. Tears burst out of her eyes and ran down her face, and all she could hope was that this guy wouldn’t pick her up and hit her again—

  Then, mercifully, she passed out.

  “What the hell is wrong with you, hitting a woman?” Jake turned on the huge man, confronting him. Jake knew he was out of control; he was almost shaking with his anger. Several other men had gathered outside the bar and were watching. This fight was really getting interesting, now that the two opponents were more evenly matched.

  “What do you mean, a woman?” the Neanderthal demanded as he rounded on him. “He messed with my woman, and I taught him a lesson! You want one?”

  “No,” said Jake, turning and starting to walk away toward Randy. Then he changed his mind, turned back, and decked the guy.