by Karina Halle
“Deal.”
He sighs, looking at his phone. “I better go get the car back from the winery.” He gets up, stretching his arms above his head and my eyes go to the hard planes of his hips, the slice of washboard abs.
“You sure you don’t want me to come?” I ask.
“Stay here and rest,” he says. “I’ll be right back.”
He heads for the door.
“Blake,” I call after him, my heart thudding in my ears.
He pauses with the door open and glances at me over his shoulder.
I fucking love you.
“Thanks,” I tell him. “For taking care of me.”
He breaks into an easy grin. “Of course. You’re my girl.”
His girl.
His girl who is brutally afraid to hand him her heart.
He leaves and I let out the longest breath, collapsing back into the couch. I lie there for a moment, almost being lulled into sleep, when my phone beeps.
I reach for my iPhone and hold it above my face.
It’s a text from Sarah.
Is it true what they’re saying? Is this really you?
And then there’s an Amazon link.
Oh my god.
Everything in me freezes, ice cold.
I click the link, hoping, hoping, hoping…
It takes me right to the Amazon page for Falling for the Secret Male Stripper.
Holy fuck.
HOLY FUCK.
NOOOOOOOOOO!
The phone drops right on my face, clocking me right on the nose.
“Arrrgh!’ I cry out in pain. I sit straight up, my head spinning, everything spinning and fuck my life, is that blood coming out of my nose? I wipe my finger underneath and stare at the red smear.
But that’s the least of my worries. I frantically try and open the phone and text Sarah, my fingers shaking as I try and type.
What are you talking about? Where did you hear that?
I see the three dots flashing. They disappear.
Then come back.
Then disappear.
“For fuck’s sake, write what you were going to say!” I scream at the phone, shaking it.
Finally: Blake told Georgia and Alan. He said you were really successful now and you wrote together. I just wanted to let you know it’s cool. I just bought both your books. I had no idea you were that slutty lol.
I stare at the screen, dumbfounded.
He told them.
He told our secret.
He’s going to ruin my life.
I text her back: Please don’t tell anyone. That was supposed to be a secret.
Again with the flashing dots.
Then: I’m sorry, I think everyone knows. It’s all over Facebook.
“WHAT?!” I scream out loud and instinctively toss my phone across the room.
I cover my face in my hands and rock back and forth on the couch, trying to breath.
It’s on Facebook.
My parents are on my Facebook.
Maybe there’s still time, I think to myself. Delete every tagged post!
I bring out the laptop and go on Facebook.
It’s everywhere.
Some posts are genuinely trying to be helpful “Hey I went to school with this girl and now she’s a successful author, check it out.” Others are mocking, “Dude, who knew Amanda Newland was such a pervert?” And some are just straight up posting on my page: “Is this true? Is this you?”
I immediately start untagging my name from the posts, praying my parents aren’t still friends with anyone from my high school but it’s too late.
My phone rings.
I don’t even have to look at it to know it’s my mother.
I shouldn’t answer. I should just ignore it and try and do as much damage control as possible. But what’s the point when all the people I was trying to hide this from already know?
The damage is done.
And I’m so fucked.
I answer it.
“Hello?” I ask innocently, pretending that my head isn’t on a chopping block.
I just hear heavy, ragged breathing, like one of Khaleesi’s dragons figured out how to make a phone call.
Then, “Guess what I found out today?” my mother says, her voice so icy, eerily calm, it chills me to the bone like only she can.
“The world is round after all? Dinosaurs are real?”
She ignores that. “I found out that my daughter is not at all the person I thought she was. I found out that she’s a cheap fraud, a charlatan. A hack.”
“You heard the news,” I say flatly.
“The news? What is wrong with you?” she screeches over the phone. “Do you realize you’re going to hell by writing this stuff?”
“I’ll probably see Aunt Sylvia there.”
“How dare you,” she says. “I haven’t told your father yet about your, your…hobby. But when I do, I don’t know. Amanda, I seriously don’t know what he’s going to do or say. He might cut you out of the will.”
I can barely form words. “Seriously?”
“Oh now you’re worried? You don’t give a damn about your parents until the money stops flowing is that it? Is that why you think you can write this trash?”
I groan loudly, pressing my fingers into my head. I can’t think.
“I don’t care about the will,” I cry out, feeling my defenses come down. “But why can’t you guys just be supportive without going to extremes. Why can’t you just accept me as me? That’s all I have ever wanted.”
“As a daughter who writes porn?” She makes a sound of disgust.
“It’s not just porn!” I yell, so sick of this argument. “I’m writing my fantasy just as I always have, the book you don’t even care about, but do you know what? Even if I only wrote erotica, I wouldn’t care what you have to say. I make people happy! Blake and I provide readers with fun and entertainment and an escape from their lives, which is a damn good thing because life is hard and really sucks sometimes. Life isn’t a fairy-tale and not everyone in gets a happily-ever-after, but in our book world they do. And believe it or not, it’s made me a better writer.” I pause, breathing hard. “I don’t want to be ashamed of it. I’m not. So take it or leave it.”
Silence.
I almost think she’s hung up.
Then I hear a faint sniff.
“You know,” she says venomously, “I had a hard time being proud of you before, for turning down Alan and your bright future with him and continuing on with your silly degree. But I tried. I did. But now, now it’s impossible. I don’t even want to tell people you’re my daughter anymore.”
I can’t handle it. I burst into tears and hang up the phone.
Then I collapse to my knees, trying to hold it all together.
Kind of seems impossible now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Blake
The cab to the vineyard seems to take forever, traffic clogging up the highway, and once I get to there the winery is busy with people.
It’s a gorgeous day though and I’ve got a gorgeous girl waiting back at my apartment.
My girl.
I start humming that tune as I stroll through the tasting room and end up buying a bottle of pinot gris and a bouquet of yellow flowers. She probably won’t want to drink the wine for a few days but the flowers should at least cheer her up.
As I head back to the car I look around, remembering how completely weird last night was. Amanda was absolutely bombed and while I was drunk too, I had to keep it together for her sake. She was open and vulnerable, surrounded by all the sharks of her past and I wasn’t about to let anyone take advantage of her in one way or another. She may act like she’s got a coating of armor around her but I know how deeply she feels things sometimes.
That’s why when I ran into her prat of an ex and his legs-for-days girlfriend, I couldn’t help but defend her. She may have not needed me to be her knight in shining armor and I hope to god it never comes back to her because I’m
pretty sure that would be the end of us, but I couldn’t let them make fun of her and her ambitions. I had to let them know just how successful and talented and smart Amanda truly is.
So I fought her battles for her because I know she would do the exact same thing for me. I have her back. She has mine.
Another reason why I love her.
Bloody hell. My own thoughts make me pause, a kick in the chest.
Love.
I didn’t even think it was fucking possible after Rachel. I swore I would never give myself to another girl, that I would keep everything in my heart cold and wrapped up, not a thread loose.
It had worked so well.
Until she walked into my life and pulled loose a string I never noticed.
And I unraveled.
Slowly.
But surely.
Fucking pansy, I tell myself, starting the car.
But even if I am, it’s all still true.
I am a pansy.
And I’m madly in love with her.
I sigh heavily and drive off down the highway. Because the world works in strange ways, “Can You Feel the Love Tonight” comes on the radio. I turn it up, roll down the windows and start belting it out with a huge shit-eating grin on my face. It’s just like that scene in Jerry Maguire where Tom Cruise is signing “Free Falling,” except much, much lamer.
When I get to the apartment, the bottle of wine in one hand, bouquet of flowers in the other, I still have that Tom Cruise grin on my face. I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop smiling.
Until I open the door.
And see Amanda standing in the middle of the living room, her hands curled into fists, her eyes blazing into me with fire and brimstone.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her. She looks like she’s near tears but the fury in her expression has me staying back and close to the door in case I need to run for my life.
“You told,” she seethes.
Bollocks.
“Told what?” I ask cautiously, stepping over to the kitchen to put the wine and flowers on the counter. I feel like I’m a bomb diffuser and it’s about to go off at any second.
She shakes her head slowly, her fists opening and closing. “You told everyone at the party that we write erotica together. You told them our pen name. You told them about everything.”
Her voice is thin and reedy, stretched by the anger I know she’s barely holding back.
I raise my hands and inch backward. “I can explain.”
“You asshole!” she yells, running at me, pounding her fists on my shoulders, arms, chest. Damn she has hands like rocks.
“Ow, ow, ow,” I say, trying to shield myself, holding up my knee to keep her back. “Please just listen.”
“You told them our secret!” she yells, her face as crimson as her hair, a vein ticking on her forehead. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
She breaks away and walks back into the living room, her hands grasping her head. “How could you do this?” she whispers.
“Hey, I did it for you,” I call after her, keeping the kitchen island between us, in case.
“What?” she snaps, slowly turning around and coming back to me. “You did what for me?” she asks, leaning against the counter, eyes flashing.
“Look, that tosser of yours and his girlfriend were saying mean things, okay? You know, those underhanded comments about how weird you are and how you’re a dreamer and the usual, good luck with being a writer, you’ll never make it, and so what was I supposed to do?”
“They said that?” she asks, horrified.
“Yeah but it doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter! Now they know I’m an erotica author! Do you think that made them respect me? You should have just punched him in the face.”
“I wanted to!” I yell at her. “And it did make them respect you, as they should! You should have seen their faces when I told them. I may have dropped how much money we make too and believe me, in the long term, it’s more than they’ll ever know. They were impressed, Amanda. I shut them right up in their tracks. Words work better than fists.”
Her face softens with worry and for a moment I think the anger is fading but then some kind of wall goes back up again and her eyes turn hard and mean. “That wasn’t your secret to tell. Now everyone knows. My parents.” She shakes her head, looking away. “You have no idea what it’s like to be a constant disappointment in your parents’ life. Now I’m practically disowned because of you.”
“Amanda, it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh fuck you!” she yells, spinning around and jabbing her finger in the air. “Fuck you Blake. You keep telling me what matters and what doesn’t and guess what? Some things do! Some things do and you don’t get the right to comment on what things matter to me because it’s personal and you should know that. You should know that about me. How do you think your father will feel when he finds out?”
I still and swallow hard. “He doesn’t have to find out.”
“Oh really? Because I’ve already gotten an email from someone at the Victoria Times Colonist wanting to interview us both for being secret successes.”
Fuck. “You didn’t say yes…”
“Of course I didn’t! I wouldn’t betray our trust like that. I’m not like you.”
Now I’m angry. “Hey, I was defending you!”
“And I didn’t need you to defend me. I just needed you to keep your stupid mouth shut for once!”
“You could be a bit more grateful, you know,” I tell her, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “It wouldn’t kill you.”
“Grateful? You ruined everything for the sake of your ego.”
“My ego?” I practically roar. “What the fuck? You’re fucking daft, you know that!”
“We had an understanding. We were in this together. And to think I trusted you. I trusted you with my heart!” she sobs.
I stare at her, gobsmacked, as the rage boils through me. “Your heart?” I repeat incredulously. “You’ve never given me your heart!”
She swallows hard, her chin wavering. She quickly rubs the makeup out from under her eyes and part of me wants to rush over to her, to hold her and tell her I’m sorry again and that everything will be all right.
And the other part of me is breaking apart and coming back together, hardened. Not understanding how easily she can flip like this, how she can just say these things like I haven’t meant anything to her, like she’s never trusted me at all.
I had to have meant something to her. It couldn’t have just been in my head.
“You’re right,” she says with a sniff, looking away. “I never gave you my heart.” She shrugs and gives me a sad smile. “It was probably for the best.”
She grabs her purse and starts to head out the door.
I should stop her.
I shouldn’t let her go.
I should make her stay.
There are a lot of things I should do. But all I can feel is my heart dissolving in my chest like someone’s poured a vat of acid over it.
So I watch her go.
“By the way,” she says, pausing before she closes the door. “I may have fed Fluffy and forgot to put the lid back on. Have fun.”
“Argh!” I cry out, immediately feeling like he’s on me already.
The door slams shut behind her.
And I can’t believe what just happened.
I’ve lost Amanda.
And Fluffy is somewhere loose in this apartment.
Look at you, you sad arse, I tell myself, trying to steady my nerves and repair my heart all at the same time. I make my way onto the balcony, the only place in the apartment I figure is safe from the monster, and try to think.
Fuck.
I was an idiot.
Not just about telling her ex about our secret. I seriously regret that now and I was sober enough to know what I was doing. I just got so caught up in the moment, I needed to say something. And she was right. I didn’t need to defend her.
But god it felt good.
Maybe it was my ego talking after all.
I lean back in the chair and look across the harbor. It’s far too beautiful of a day to break up. The clouds need to come in, the rain needs to come down, a cold bitter wind needs to carve right through me, matching how empty I feel inside. Instead there are birds chirping from the trees and children are playing happily on the grass below by the seawall.
I get out my phone and place a call to her.
It goes straight to her voicemail:
“Hi, this is Amanda Newland. I don’t check my voicemails ever so please hang up and text or email me. If this is a telemarketer or my parents or someone born before 1961, better luck next time.”
I know she doesn’t check these but I leave a long babbling message, apologizing, and ask her to call me back. Then I call her back.
Again.
And again.
Text.
Email.
Wait.
Nothing.
I decide to head to the store and see if Kevin’s there. If he is, I’m totally borrowing him and bringing him back here for a Fluffy hunt. At least that’s one problem I’ll be able to solve.
Meanwhile, I wonder if I can talk to my father and break the news to him before the word gets out. Amanda’s old friends and my friends don’t run in the same circles but it’s a small world and obviously if a journalist has already caught wind of this supposed story, there’s a chance that word could travel down the grapevine to the bookstore. I mean it is pretty ironic. Son of the city’s most elite bookstore is a randy smut-peddler.
Except I really don’t want to do it. I mean, I’m dragging my feet to the store, opting to walk because it will take more time. But it’s time to be a man and own up to it. If I was prepared to throw Amanda under a bus, I can throw myself under a bus too.
“Dad,” I say as I enter the store.
He looks up from the register in surprise. I wasn’t supposed to come in today. Luckily it’s quiet in here.
“What is it?” he asks, frowning at my grave tone.
I guess that’s a good sign. I don’t see any signs of torches and pitchforks. He obviously doesn’t know yet.
“I have something to tell you,” I say to him.