The Love Interest

by Kayley Loring

  Thank you for your kind words about my chapter. It means a lot to me that you liked it. I’m enjoying writing this book more than I’ve enjoyed writing anything for a long time. It’s not about us, obviously, but I get to think about you while I’m writing, and that makes me feel closer to you. I like having your voice more than Jack’s in my head. That fucker.

  I didn’t know you love Rumi, but that doesn’t surprise me. I don’t usually read poetry, but the Rumi book was a gift from someone very special to me. I hadn’t read it in over a decade. But it’s a uniquely intimate experience, kissing a beautiful stranger while watching the sunrise. That time with you reminded me of those poems. And, in some ways, you remind me of the woman who gave me that book.

  I’ve never been married. I was engaged, when I was much younger, to a woman named Sophie. I don’t talk about her. I should though. But I guess I was afraid that if I talked about her, I’d be letting her go. I loved her very much. We met at Yale. I asked her to marry me. We didn’t get married right away, even though I wanted to. She didn’t want to start planning a wedding right after we graduated. She wanted to spend a year traveling the world with me. So, we did that. And it was great. Until it wasn’t. She started to show signs of illness when we were in Andorra, but she insisted it was the high altitude. She didn’t want to ruin our trip. I’ve never been able to forgive myself for not insisting we go home sooner. She had leukemia. She had treatments. If she had been diagnosed sooner, there would have been a better chance that she’d beat it. She was still so young. It didn’t make sense that someone that full of life could get so sick, so fast. Nothing about cancer ever makes sense, as you know.

  I never got to marry her. But I loved her as much as a man can love a woman, I think. I know that she knew that at least.

  I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, now that you know this. I loved and I lost. Others have loved and lost before me, and many of them did not become rude assholes because of it. That’s just how I roll, I guess. Or whatever the kids are saying nowadays.

  Have you ever been in love before? Tell me what you know about marriage. You write of a married couple rather well for a twenty-five-year-old. I apologize if that sounds condescending. Or maybe I don’t, because I’m a rude asshole and you’re fun when you’re angry.

  Sincerely,

  Sad-Eyed Grumpy Assface

  Dear E,

  Dammit. Why can’t you just be a rude asshole all the time? Your notes regarding my chapter were indeed unwelcome in that letter, but I have been considering them. Thank you.

  My heart aches for you and Sophie though.

  I can’t bear the thought of you losing the woman you loved like that. I don’t know why it hadn’t occurred to me that you loved someone who died, like Jack Irons. I’m so sorry she got sick. I’m so sorry the treatments didn’t help. I’m so sorry you blame yourself, but I also understand that kind of guilt. I can’t tell you not to feel guilty, even though it’s not your fault. I know how hard it is when someone you love is sick. But I hope you’re not too hard on yourself anymore. I don’t even know if I can be hard on you anymore. It’s not that I feel sorry for you. I just… I’m really sorry. I wish I could give you a hug.

  But thank you for telling me. I’m sure it’s hard for you to talk about it, and I’m grateful that you did… Did Sophie like milkshakes? It’s the last thing I’ll ask you about her. You can tell me anything, whenever you want to. I’ve just wondered about that ever since we met.

  As for what I know of marriage—I don’t really know what I understand about anything until I’ve written about it. I’m sure you know what that’s like. But I know how much my parents love each other. I know how they love each other. They’ve always been great parents to me, and they’ve always had a lot of passions and interests. But I’ve always known that their greatest passion in life is each other. Not in an obsessive, irresponsible way. But what they have—it’s big. I’ve never seen two people who are so committed to each other, even when they’re driving each other nuts.

  When Sissy (my mom) got sick, my dad nearly fell apart. We both had to stay strong for him. I mean, you always want to put on a brave face for the loved one who’s sick. And my dad tried to stay positive for her. But he was just despondent when she was first diagnosed. If I hadn’t been there to make sure the restaurant and my dad’s other business were still running smoothly, they would have lost everything. I don’t say that like I’m some sort of a hero. What I’m saying is—they love each other a lot. And on some level it inspires me, and on another it has always frightened me.

  I guess I’ve been afraid that if I fall in love like that, I’ll let everything else fall away, and I’m not willing to let go of everything else.

  So, when I lived in California, I had a string of (what the kids call it nowadays) fuck buddies. I like sex. I’ve had a fair amount of it, with a number of good guys. But I’ve never had sex with someone I was in love with before. And I haven’t had sex since moving to New York, even though I’m basically horny all the time. How do ya like them apples?

  Although you and I have different backstories, I guess I’ve been resisting the possibility of a first love in the same way that you’ve been resisting the possibility of a second.

  Sincerely frustrated,

  Me

  Dear F,

  You complain about me being a grumpy asshole and you complain about me not being a rude asshole all the time. I can’t win with you, so I’ll just continue to be myself all the time despite your complaints. I will also continue to fantasize about different ways to keep your sassy mouth busy so you can’t complain about me. How do ya like them apples?

  And thanks for telling me about all the sex you’ve had with other guys. Never do that again. I won’t pretend that I’m not relieved to know that you haven’t slept with anyone else since moving here. But I also shouldn’t ask you to wait for me. You’re a beautiful, horny twenty-five-year-old woman in New York. You should be having fun. You should be having sex if you want to… You should be having sex with me, but you can’t. Not yet. It’s not ideal.

  You’ve already been through a lot. You’ve taken a lot upon yourself. You were supposed to come to New York to follow your bliss. I’m afraid I haven’t made your life here very blissful. When you aren’t writing or in classes or waiting tables, you should be enjoying the city with someone who can show you and your cock a good time. It’s up to you—it has always been up to you—to decide how to deal with me.

  Sophie did like milkshakes. It was something I’d forgotten until recently. Until the night we met, actually. She liked strawberry milkshakes, and I used to tease her about it. I couldn’t go near anything strawberry-scented or flavored after I lost her. But my niece brought up milkshakes that night, so I ordered one. I forced myself to enjoy it, I suppose, because on some level I knew it was time for me to start enjoying things again. And then I saw you.

  Your grumpy, terrible, and also still very frustrated asshole,

  Me

  Dear E,

  I know it’s been a while since I wrote you. I can tell from the lingering looks you give me at school, when you think I can’t see you, that you’re wondering if I’ve been busy enjoying the city with Goliath and some other guy’s cock. I wish that were the case. It’s not that I haven’t been thinking about you. Quite the opposite, in fact. It’s just getting really hard to go back and forth between the three parallel universes we live in.

  I’ll be writing at the diner, late, this Saturday night. Just thought you should know.

  —Me

  P.S. A customer left a really cool pen on my table at the restaurant. I didn’t keep it, but I bought one for myself. I thought you’d like it too and wanted to text you about it. I was sad that I can’t just text you about things like that or anything at all. Just thought you should know that too.

  25

  JACK IRONS

  The Departure by Emmett Ford (The Jack Irons Series, Book Six)

  Catalina was froze
n, staring across the Whispering Gallery at him. The red-haired man with the scar had one arm gripped tight around her waist and a gun to her head.

  Jack wanted to know what Catalina was going to say. He would find out. But he’d have to kill yet another man first. He just didn’t know how he was going to do it yet.

  Trouble. This woman was endlessly troubling. Even now, with a gun to her head, she was beautiful. Even now, as he was aiming his pistol at the man who held her captive, he could not take his eyes off the outline of those nipples beneath her blouse. They were mesmerizing—even from thirty feet away—pointing right at him. He wanted to kill that man and every fucking thing that got between him and Catalina’s gorgeous, delicious, pink—

  Oh, for shit’s sake.

  Really?

  Does this woman not own a bra?

  Why are you wasting my time, man?

  Why are you wasting your time?

  Just go to the fucking diner, Professor. We both know you aren’t going to get any real work done until you see her. Put me out of my misery. Put your dick out of its misery. Put that beautiful twenty-five-year-old woman out of her misery. Go find her at the diner and take her straight to Pound Town. For one night only. Or for every night. What the hell. No one has to know. It will be good for both of you. It’ll be hot for both of you. You need sex. She likes sex. She told you. She hasn’t been getting any since she moved to New York. You’d be doing both of yourselves a favor—she’s not going to tell anyone. She’s a smart woman. She’s not crazy.

  She wants you.

  You want her.

  How much longer do you think she’ll wait for you? There are at least a million guys in this town who would give her what she wants at any given time. And she deserves it.

  Do you really think your dad’s respect is worth more than everything you could have with Fiona?

  This is about so much more than inspiration.

  It might even be about more than hot sex.

  This is your life.

  This may be your last chance at happiness.

  But more importantly—get your hands on those tits. You’ve got a deadline, and I can’t take any more of this shit.

  26

  WILLIAM DEXTER

  Lording Them over Him by Fiona Walker

  All eyes were on William Dexter as he entered the salon, but William only had eyes for Lucy Finch. He knew precisely where he would find the girl—in a corner, scribbling in her notebook. He had also come to expect a greeting from her two constant, gregarious little companions. Even through the fabric of her usual modest attire, they made their presence known. However, tonight he was stunned to find the neckline of her gown to be rather scandalous. This private affair was for artists of the libertine sort and most of the other women in this house were either scantily clad or completely nude, but William would not have another man catch sight of his secret love’s lady parts.

  “Lucy!” he growled. As he loomed over her, the direct view of her ample bosom aroused as much as it infuriated him.

  “Lord Camden…” Her manner was calm. She smirked and did not lift her gaze from her notebook. “Fancy meeting you here.”

  “You must cover yourself up at once.”

  “Oh, must I?” She straightened her posture, jutting her chest out while innocently pulling up her skirt to reveal the most gorgeous legs William had ever seen. “Which part would you like me to cover up?” She batted her eyelashes as she lifted the hem of her skirt to conceal her décolletage.

  William’s sexy blue eyes nearly bulged out of their sexy sockets, but it was the sexy bulge in his trousers that Lucy could not take her eyes off of. “Bloody hell, woman. Are you drunk?”

  “Indeed, I am, my lord. But it is you who appears to be under the influence…of my hot, young body.”

  Right, then, darlin’.

  That’s a load of bollocks.

  Havin’ a pint now, are we? Good for you, babe—goin’ out on the piss. It’s Saturday night, innit?! ’Ave some fun, why dontcha? No need to work while you wait for Professor Darcy to show, now is there? Just a little creative writin’ exercise, I know, but let’s not bring me and Lucy into it, okay? We need a night off too.

  Order yourself another one, tits out and sit tight.

  He’ll show.

  You know he will.

  And when he does—you go on and lord them over him.

  You show that tosser what he’s been missin’.

  Cheers, luv. ’Ave a good one.

  27

  FIONA

  You’re right, William.

  I’m just gonna hang out here and have another beer. By myself. In a diner. In Manhattan. At one o’clock on a Saturday night. Like most super cool twenty-five-year-olds.

  I’m just a little titsy. Just exactly the right amount of tits…tips. Tipsiness.

  Maybe I shouldn’t order another one.

  “Ellen! Heyyyy, Ellen! Hi! Can I have another one of these delicious beers, please, Ellen? Thank you, Ellen!”

  Ellen glances over at me from across the room and nods once. She loves me. Oh, Ellen.

  I love it here. I’m so glad I’m here instead of at the three other things I was invited to tonight. Jed keeps texting me selfies from some loft party in Queens. He took a picture with a woman that he thought was the girl from Glee but was in fact a very elegant floor lamp with a wig on it. So he’s having fun.

  And I’m doing this. But not for much longer. If the professor doesn’t show up in half an hour, I’m leaving. That will be it. I can’t wait for him any longer.

  There’s less than two weeks left of this semester. After the last fiction workshop class in mid-December, Professor Ford and I don’t have to see each other on campus. This would be a relief if he wanted to see me outside of class. It will be absolute agony for every single part of me if I can’t see him until May, when his teaching contract is over. There’s a very good chance my clitoris will turn to dust if I use my Magic Wand one more time. While fantasizing about my fiction prof going down on me in his office. Plus, I’ve never been through an East Coast winter before. What if my frustrated, overly stimulated nips freeze and actually fall off when they rub up against something? Because I refuse to wear a padded bra. #freethenipple. I feel very strongly about this.

  I’ve thought about it a lot, and I’ve come to the conclusion that the only three things that can dim these high-beam headlights are Emmett’s hands and Emmett’s mouth. Although, things will obviously get worse before they get better. Or maybe I haven’t thought this through all the way yet.

  Where’s my beer?

  Ellen is nowhere to be found.

  Neither is Professor Grumpy Face.

  My phone vibrates, and somehow I know it’s my mom texting me. I know it’s not Jed again, and I know for sure that it’s not Emmett. God forbid he should text me from his personal phone. It has been less than a week since I saw my parents back home for Thanksgiving, but I miss them already.

  SISSY: Hi there. Long time no cock pic.

  ME: Hi Mommmmyyyyyy!!!!! I’m sorry. Been soooooo busy.

  SISSY: Are you having a beer?

  ME: You don’ know me!

  ME: Yeah you do. Yes. I am. How are you? You should go to bed soon.

  SISSY: I’m doing great, honey. Your dad misses you already. He’s been very grumpy lately, so maybe you should call him sometime.

  ME: OMG. Grumpy men. Can’t live with ’em. Can’t cheer ’em up. Can’t shoot ’em.

  SISSY: You said it, not me. Any grumpy men in particular you’re trying to cheer up and thinking about shooting? Is that why you’ve been sooooooo busy?

  ME: Um. No.

  It was so hard not telling my mother about Emmett when I saw her, but I didn’t want to get her hopes up. I also didn’t want to tell her because I had a feeling she’d tell me to forget about him, at least until May. She probably would have made me do an energy healing exercise to visualize cutting the cord between myself and him, and I’m not ready to do that ye
t.

  ME: Just grumpy men in general, I mean. Any requests? For cock pic backgrounds?

  SISSY: You haven’t been to Times Square yet, have you?

  ME: Oh, good one! I should take him to the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree!

  Ellen finally drops off another pint of beer and scowls at me. “Anything else?”

  “Just another one of your beautiful smiles, please.”

  She rolls her eyes and walks off.

  “Thank you, Ellen! You’re the best!” I refuse to become a New Yorker if that means accepting that rude waitresses hate me. I’m gonna tip Ellen so big she’s going to want to adopt me.