M: Really?
What?
M: You know how I feel about being ignored.
I told you. I was busy.
M: You're always busy. That shouldn't get in the way of our arrangement. How long have we been doing this, Lana?
I don't know.
M: Four months, Lana. Every day, for four months now, I've spent at least a little bit of my time thinking about how to shock you. Surprise you. Pleasure you. And this is the thanks I get.
You know my situation.
M: You always made plenty of time for me before.
I want to say something else, to make up more excuses, but my stomach's already in knots over it. You see, M thinks my book is a true story. Like everyone else, he thinks me and "Damien" are actually a couple. He thinks I'm in love, committed, deeply attached to another man. And yet he's happy to do this with me.
Scumbag.
It's amazing how much I don't care, when he says just the right thing to turn me on. It's amazing how little it matters, when it's just about sex. But it's starting to feel like more than that.
Keep it together, Warden.
I'm so starved for a meaningful emotional attachment with another human being, I'm actually starting to...
I can't. It's M. For fuck's sake.
I finally respond.
I'm not making any more excuses. Take it or leave it.
M: Doesn't work like that.
What the hell does that mean?
I think it works however I want it to work.
M: Wrong. That's not why you're doing this.
Oh, really? Why don't you tell me more about my private thoughts and motivations. I'm fascinated.
M: You have to play the competent entrepreneur in your real life, and you do it well, but it scares you. It's all new. It's nothing you were ever prepared for. What if you fuck up? All the responsibility is on your head. You need a place to go and rid yourself of all that responsibility. A place where someone tells you to jump, and all you have to do is ask how high. You need a release. And you think I'm the man to give it to you.
I blink at the screen a few times.
You're nuts.
M: Search your feelings, you know it to be true.
I love it when you talk nerdy to me.
M: Take off your panties.
Why should I?
M: Because you want to. But you need someone to give you permission.
God, I hate him.
You don't know anything about what I want.
M: If only that were true. You think I enjoy dealing with you and your bratty attitude? It's basically charity work. I'm compelled to help you like the good Samaritan I am. That man of yours certainly isn't scratching that itch.
This is the first time he's directly referenced Damien. There's a sour taste in my mouth, but I'm still throbbing between my legs.
Because he's right. I want it. I want all of it. I don't even know what I want, and that's the point. He knows, so I don't have to. How does he have that power over me?
Obviously it's just my mind playing tricks on me. What I really want is to follow orders, and he's just exceptionally good at giving them. He's inside my head, convincing me of my own desires so seamlessly that my libido can't even tell the difference.
I feel a little bit lightheaded. As I unbutton my jeans, another message comes in.
M: Don't touch yourself.
Damn it.
Not only has he anticipated my next move, he's aware that I'm already following his orders without having to be told again. I hate being a foregone conclusion. I hate how well he knows me, better than I know myself.
How is that even possible?
More importantly: How am I going to function with another human being up in my space? Dean is sleeping just a few feet away, through a way-too-thin wall. I keep reminding myself that I just need to get through my parents' visit, but those two weeks are going to feel like an eternity. M's influence over my life has grown so gradually, weaving itself into every moment, every breath, that I didn't realize how insidious it was until now.
I step out of my panties and shove them into the hamper before shimmying back into my jeans. The fabric rasping against my sensitive flesh is uncomfortable, but in a really nice way. I glance at myself in the mirror - my face flushed, eyes so dilated they look black. My heart races, and I feel like I'm balanced on a razor's edge.
Almost like I could...
I tap out a message to M.
I need to know if I have your permission.
M: Are you that close?
I think so.
M: You have my permission to come, so long as you don't use your hands. Or anything else. Just squeeze those gorgeous thighs together and rock into the feeling.
I sit down on the edge of the bed. Now that I know I'm allowed to, a rush of arousal leaves me weak-kneed and quivering. I close my eyes and follow his instructions, slowly rocking back and forth so that the stiff seam of the fabric rubs where I need it most.
My phone buzzes and I force my eyes open again.
M: You'll never come again without thinking of me.
When the pleasure explodes, low in my belly, I curse softly. I'm cursing at him even though he can't hear me.
I'm determined to prove him wrong, though a part of me fears he's not.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Wager
Jack is laughing at me, over the phone. "You're a national treasure, do you know that? Please never stop making terrible decisions for my entertainment."
I scowl. "I wouldn't be in this mess in the first place if you'd just agreed to help me out."
"This again." He's still laughing. "I promise you, the mess would've been a thousand times worse with me involved. I'm also a walking disaster; the difference is that I know how to avoid the situations that are gonna make it worse. You're better off with Shithead. Just don't fall in love with him again."
"Right," I snort.
"Don't laugh," he warns. "Much smarter people than you have done much stupider things."
"Thanks," I groan. "Great pep talk."
"I'm just trying to nip this in the bud. You fell in love with him for a reason, and you're gonna start remembering those reasons the more time you spend with him. You're gonna start forgetting all the very good reasons why you ended it, and then you're going to put your mouth on his mouth..."
"None of that is going to happen," I promise him. "This isn't you and Christine all over again."
"Shhh!" he hisses. "Don't invoke her. For fuck's sake, woman."
"I am over him. Trust me," I tell him. "And more importantly than that, he's over me. He's the one who left, remember?"
"I'm just saying," Jack replies, mildly. "If you were over him, you would've moved on."
Of course, he defines moving on a little differently than I do. It's true I haven't really dated anyone since Dean left, but that doesn't mean I'm still in love with him.
"For your information," I blurt out before I can stop myself, "I have moved on."
"You mean the epic drought has ended, and you didn't see fit to tell your bestest friend about it?" he drawls. "I'm hurt."
"Occasionally, I like to keep things to myself," I tell him, forcing my tone to sound casual. I haven't breathed a word of this M situation to anyone, naturally, and it's making my pulse pound just thinking about it. "It's a very informal thing. I couldn't ask him to lie to my family for me. That's why I called Dean. Also, because you're no fun."
There's a few muffled clanking noises on Jack's end. He's probably trying to figure out a way to make ramen more interesting, as usual.
"You know why Dean agreed to do this, right?" he says, finally.
"Because he feels guilty."
"Wrong," Jack replies, right before a loud clanking sound almost deafens me. "Ow. It's because he still loves you, idiot."
I roll my eyes at no one. "Sure. That makes a lot of sense."
"Think about it," Jack says. "You're not going to ask your boy-toy
to do it, because you know he won't. Because he's not in love with you. And I wouldn't do it, because I don't indulge in total fucking insanity for friends, no matter how much endless entertainment they provide. That's something you only do if you love somebody like you're in a damn Nicholas Sparks book. I'm not saying he's trying to win you back, but nobody thinks this kind of thing is a good idea unless there are some serious hormones in play."
One of Jack's more charming qualities is that he always believes he's right. Sometimes he actually is, but this isn't one of those situations. He never met Dean. He didn't see how things fell apart, the way Dean's eyes went empty, whatever light had drawn me to him in the first place slowly extinguishing.
"You could not be more wrong," I inform him.
He just chuckles. "Mark my words, Warden."
***
Before I knew my parents were planning a visit, I agreed to do a book signing downtown during the same week. Of course, they wanted to come and see all the excitement. I promised them it would be boring to hang out there for hours if they weren't actually interested in getting autographs from the signing authors. But they demurred and insisted, so here we are.
Dean acts as my assistant, but everyone knows why he's really here, and everybody wants to meet him. He plays the part so well, smiling and ducking his eyes down when people pay him ridiculous compliments. Most of them are just very sweet, but a few of them brush a little too close to flirting. I mean, I don't really care, but they don't know that. They think we're together. It twists in my stomach a little; how can people be so brazen?
The longest line in the room is for Adrian Risinger's table. Of course. I can't see him very well from this side of the room, but I can see the six-foot-tall banner advertising his presence. He's always the celebrity at these things, one of the few male romance authors who's revealed his true identity:former CEO, current billionaire, and basically the only reason he comes to these things is pure ego. It's irritating on principle, even though all his book sales go to charity.
But now that I see him interacting with his fans, how engaging and genuine he seems, and how they're all glowing when they walk away from his table - a grudging respect starts to form in the back of my mind.
There's a social hour for the authors after this, and I don't really expect Adrian to show up. I managed to get passes for my parents to attend, and my mom's sipping champagne and giggling to herself while my dad just surveys the room and tries to figure out what the hell is going on. I grope for my phone in my purse, hoping for some kind of distraction, and it's not until I hit the button a few times that I remember it died a few hours ago. I forgot to charge it last night.
"All those people wanted to see you!" my mother marvels as Dad rolls his eyes.
"She already told you how many thousands of copies she sold, how is this more impressive?" he grumbles.
Mom shakes her head stubbornly. "I don't know. It's just different when you can actually see their faces." She beams at me. "How are you handling it, honey? I know you're not such a big fan of being social."
"She's great with them," Dean cuts in, handing me something that I hope to God has a high alcohol content. I take a sip and make a face. Not high enough. But it'll do.
"Very gracious, they absolutely love her," he goes on.
"Not as much as they love you," I tell him, with a forced smile. "How does it feel to be a rockstar?"
"Pretty damn good!" he says cheerfully. He's refusing to pick up on my subtext. Which is a positive thing if I'm mostly concerned about people buying the lie, but slightly less so if I'm trying not to kill him.
There's a little murmur from one end of the room, attracting my parents' attention. At least that reduces the risk of them noticing the steam pouring out of my ears. A moment later, I realize what the cause of the commotion is.
Adrian Risinger just walked in.
I didn't get a good look at him before, but I certainly do now. He's a tall drink of water, with dirty-blond hair, expensively cut, and a neatly trimmed beard. He's slightly too handsome for real life, but only slightly. There's something about him that's sharp, I can't quite put my finger on it - not his clothes in particular, not his features really, but an overall quality that makes me want to sit up a little straighter and listen to what he has to say.
The voluptuous redhead beside him is also tall, I realize after a moment - just not nearly as tall as he is, but she'd almost stand eye-to-eye with Dean, and her heels aren't that high. I have to admit that I'm surprised. About the curves, not the height. My heart twinges a little to see a man like him with a woman like her. I know it happens, in theory, but seeing it is an entirely different thing. When I used to go out with Dean, I felt like everyone was staring. Wondering. What the hell does he see in her? Was she skinny when they got together?
There's no room for wondering with Mr. Risinger's girlfriend. I can picture him falling in love with her. I'm a little bit in love with her. It helps that he's obviously still smitten, smiling and glancing at her and showing no indication he's aware of anyone else in the room.
He shakes a few hands when people manage to get his attention, but he's clearly making his way towards the bar, and therefore towards us.
"Who's that?" my mom hisses, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head.
"Adrian Risinger," I murmur, keeping him in my peripheral view. Is he actually going to come talk to me? "He's a real-life billionaire who writes romance novels about billionaires."
"What?" My dad looks like his head's about to explode. And not in a good way, like my mom's.
"Lana," says a voice, and I turn around to see Adrian's girlfriend approaching me rapidly. "It's so great to finally meet you! I loved your book."
"Thank you." I sort of gape at her for a second as she shakes my hand.
"I'm Meg," she informs me.
"Right," I say. "Of course. The muse."
Adrian smiles, flanking her. "And then some."
Meg's eyebrows jump slightly, in a way that tells me that he probably just grabbed her ass. The body language fits. It's a bold move in a room with so many glances wandering in their direction. I'd be pretty pissed if Dean ever did that to me in public, even at our closest.
"It's not as glamorous as it sounds," says Meg, and Adrian's eyes suddenly widen as her arm slides behind his back. "Trust me."
She returned the favor. Because, of course she did.
"Tell me about it," says Dean, and a sudden understanding dawns on Meg's face. She untangles herself from her lover and steps towards my fictional one.
"So you're the famous Damien," she says, shaking his hand with a smile. She's referring to him by his book-name, of course. I'm still not quite used to that. "Well done."
"Way to raise the bar," says Adrian. "We're all fucked now."
"Let's face it, you were fucked in comparison to most serial killers," says Meg. "And some of the lesser demons."
He winks at her.
"You're welcome," says Dean, grinning. The urge to roll my eyes is powerful, but we're supposed to be in love. Then again, Meg and Adrian are very obviously in love, and also very obviously balanced on a knife's edge of biting sarcasm that seems like it might suddenly tumble into something that's very inappropriate for a public setting.
I'm insanely jealous.
This is, if I'm being perfectly honest with myself, the kind of relationship I could picture having with M. Not that I do. Not that I ever would. But they look so happy.
You don't know him.
But it doesn't feel that way. It never really has. I suspect I know him better than I ever knew Dean, at any rate.
I shake my head in a valiant effort to dismiss the insanity that seems to have taken hold. I have to pull myself together. Once this whole mess is over, I'm breaking things off with M. Right now I need it for my sanity, because it's the only part of my life that makes any kind of sense. But after I've managed to delicately end the situation between me and Dean, and convince my family that I'm not dying of a br
oken heart, I'm moving the fuck on.
At least I learned something from him. Now, I know what I want, and I can go after it. He's hardly the only dominant man in the world, and I doubt he's even the one I mesh with the best. Right? I mean, what are the odds?
After I introduce Meg and Adrian to my parents, we say a few polite goodbyes and the power couple starts making their rounds in the room. I meet a few more authors, some I've heard of and many more I haven't, and Dean charms every single person he meets.
I almost forgot how charismatic he could be. The first time he walked up to me in the park, I was sure it was the setup for a prank reality show. Guys like him don't go after girls like me.
Except, of course, when they do.
We'd passed each other plenty of times before. I'd noticed him, of course, the way you notice handsome well-dressed men when they cross your path. But I never expected to look up and see him sitting down beside me on the bench, offering me a snack-size apple pie.
"They gave me an extra one," he said with a grin. "Figured I might as well share it with somebody."
The Absolutely True Story of Us Page 3
