The more I wrote, the easier it got. I seemed to instinctively know what had happened in Peter’s life. I knew exactly how to change it up for Johnny’s version of the story.
I spent a lot of time focusing on the interactions between Johnny and Michelle. Michelle was sweet, not manipulative. Peter helped me to develop the character to be as non-Hollywood as possible. She worked in an office, she rode the bus to save money and avoid the perils of parking. She had more squish than a hard-bodied starlet. She didn’t have an agenda when it came to Johnny. She let him pursue her because she liked his good looks and personality. Through my pencil, their relationship grew.
What I had gathered from Peter, his wife had come with an agenda. She was a starlet and saw him as her gateway to an acting career. Michelle in Johnny’s story was going to be loving and nurturing. According to Peter, his wife had been pushy and driven.
I sat upright. Hunching over notebooks in the middle of my bed was doing my back no good, but it was the only place I could write where Peter could show up and not be an issue. I read, then reread the passage again. I wanted to get the scene where Johnny met Michelle just right. Originally Johnny had been hitting on her with absolutely no reason for her to respond positively to him. He saw her on a literal street corner waiting for a bus, and he kept asking her if she wanted to go for a ride on his motorcycle.
Kind of creepy, actually. And then I figured it out.
I added in some Latino boys calling out rude things to her, and Johnny steps up and calls them out on their shit. Adding in the guys trying to hit on her, gave Johnny a chance to be Michelle’s hero, and gave her a reason to agree for him to ride the bus with her. Johnny didn’t have to do much, just enough to be protective to soften Michelle. After all, Johnny had been as annoying, okay maybe not as rude, but it was still unwanted persistent attention.
It wasn’t a bad way to meet someone. I nodded in agreement with myself, I read the passage again. Maybe I needed to go in and rework some of it from Michelle’s point of view. I knew she thought he was good looking, and she got a bit of a thrill when he asked her to ride his motorcycle. Something about a hint of danger with some good looking stranger asking to take her for a ride. But I hadn’t conveyed that to the reader. The entire scene was from Johnny’s point of view. Of course, Peter only ever shared his own point of view, so that made sense.
I don’t know, maybe I should rework it. I could write the bus riding scene from Michelle’s point of view. I know I wanted Michelle to fall for him pretty fast. And I didn’t want to have a full year pass in the book before they finally got together. It was supposed to be a romance novel, they should fall in love instantly then spend the rest of the book bickering and fighting their emotions for each other, before finally succumbing to the realization they are deeply and truly in love.
Nope, not this time. This one is going to be a bit different. Their relationship will grow and develop, and it will be about that evolving emotional tie, even after they fall in love, and get married. It’s going to be about a lasting relationship. So typical romance story plot lines were out the window. Screw it. I wasn’t a trained writer, hadn’t learned literary devices or rules. So it wasn’t as if I purposefully breaking any of them. Hell, I didn’t know if there were rules to follow to begin with. I did like that concept: rogue romance novel rule breaker.
Writing on my own without anyone to provide feedback was more difficult than I cared to admit. I wanted to show this to Peter. Other passages I had written with him around, so I could bounce ideas off of him as I worked. Trying to figure how to deal with Michelle on my own was tricky, doable, but tricky.
We didn’t have a central plot that I could identify yet. Just Johnny and Michelle establishing a relationship, her family, and Johnny arguing with his agent over what roles would really build his career. Note to self: make sure he eventually fires that agent and accepts the career-defining role. Even Johnny’s injury wasn’t a major plot building make-it or break-it moment in the story. I thought about having Michelle get pregnant and the stress of Johnny’s injury triggering a miscarriage. But it wasn’t traumatic enough.
Every time I started to write a scene around this tragedy it never worked out. Johnny turned out to be accepting and understanding. I couldn’t make him so angry he would want to leave her. I had the same situation with her. I tried to get Johnny hooked on pain killers, but instead of angering Michelle to the point of leaving him, she bucked up and helped him through the rough patches of weaning off the medicine. Michelle Cole was forming into a really terrific character, no wonder Johnny Urban wanted her. She loved and supported him without any extra drama. I could see why Peter wanted a woman like her. His actual wife had been nothing but drama.
I felt the pull to sleep in the back of my eyes before I even realized Peter was around.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” I tried to fight as my eyes rolled up into my head and I slumped back against the mattress.
“I had stuff to show you,” I complained the second I saw his smiling face.
“You have stuff I want to see.” He was such a tease.
“No,” I spun away from him, dancing off the bed to get out of his reach. “I’ve written more, and you need to see it. You need to tell me if it works for you.”
Peter lounged back, his arms folded behind his head. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”
I crawled back up on the bed and sat cross-legged next to him. He was distractingly gorgeous, and mine. I could happily sit and stare at him for hours. He was better than some story. If he wanted this revised reality of his created, we had to do some work.
I lifted my hands with a shrug. “No notebooks, I can’t read it to you.”
He ran a finger over my knee. “Tell me, like a story.”
I looked up at what would have been a ceiling in my bedroom but was a swirl of nebula clouds and stars in this realm. “Once upon a time,” I started with a very put upon sigh.
“Lover…” Peter’s tone had that admonishing hint to it. He wasn’t mad, but I probably should behave.
“Okay,” I lifted my hands in a ‘here it is’ gesture, and began.
“Johnny meets Michelle over a series of days. Always in the same place. Um, the first day it’s raining, and he’s just left his manager’s office. Or maybe it needs to be his agent, anyway, he’s on his Harley.”
Peter shook his head. “He needs to be on an Indian or a Triumph. Something a little less mainstream.”
I nodded. What did I know about motorcycles? Now, I just hoped I could remember to change it the next time I had a pen in my hand and my notebooks in front of me.
“He’s on his motorcycle and it’s raining. He’s bitching to himself about idiot drivers in the rain when he sees her. She is the most perfect, most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Her face is a perfect oval with full lips and eyes like large black diamonds in skin the color of dulce de leche. And she is a freaking drowned rat because of the rain. So he pulls out of traffic and offers her a ride, which she declines.”
“Smart woman.”
“Exactly. This impresses Johnny. He has an umbrella from the manager’s assistant and he gives it to the woman. He then says something dorky, and rides off.”
“Dorky? He should be suave. I would have said something charming and made her laugh.”
“Yeah, but you aren’t Johnny Urban.” I tilted my head and smirked at him.
“Are you so sure about that?”
“He says something dorky. Now, shush. The next day, he’s leaving the same office and sees the woman again. He decides to check up on her, make sure she didn’t catch a cold. She still refuses to accept a ride from him. This time when he leaves her he says the same thing again and realizes it’s dorky, and he’s become a cliché with a catchphrase.”
“What does he say?”
“Something like ‘stay safe’ or ‘safe journey.’ Something like that. Now, realizing this is her bus stop, he sort of stalks her for a few days. Introduces himself, a
ll that. He does this for the rest of the week, and even over the weekend. He’s actually kind of clueless as to why she’s not there over the weekend. She’s been at that bus stop every day at five o’clock, so why not again on Saturday? He doesn’t check on Sunday, having had an a-ha moment, but he’s back on Monday.”
“What happens differently, or did you write this up like a montage for a film that needs to cover a lot of repetitive action?”
I thought about what he was asking me for a moment. “I think I just wrote it straight. I mean there is dialog and stuff so it’s not as repetitive as it sounds. I mean like the next time he goes to see her, he actually takes a car to the intersection and is waiting for her to ask if he can ride her bus with her since she won’t ride his bike with him. Wow, he sounds really stalker creepy.”
“He sounds like he is pursuing a woman he likes.”
“Yeah, but she’s said no. He really should drop it and leave her alone. I mean if I were her, I’d start walking the extra mile or two to another bus stop. But this day is different, this time she sees him first. And she says hi to him. She does like him, he is ridiculously cute, and he seems concerned about her. And then this carload of Latino boys start catcalling her. They are tossing around all kind of Spanish epithets, and then Johnny steps up to tell the guys off, even though he doesn’t speak a lick of Spanish. You don’t speak Spanish right?”
“No, I don’t,” he chuckled.
“So now Johnny is Michelle’s hero.”
“But he didn’t do anything.”
“No, but he tried, and that’s the point. He showed Michelle that she mattered. Especially since as soon as they drive off, he clues in that he’s been a total asshole by hitting on her for all this time.”
“What? A guy needs to be persistent,” Peter said.
“No. A guy needs to listen to women and respect their boundaries. Johnny earns bonus points by realizing his own faults. Men owning their shit is crazy attractive.”
“I thought women wanted heroes and big muscles.” He lifted his arm and flexed his not inconsiderate bicep.
I sighed. “Big muscles are nice, but nothing is as hot as a strong man being vulnerable, apologizing, and not just being an asshole.”
“So that’s what Johnny does next? He says sorry and leaves?”
“Exactly, but Michelle stops him.”
Peter’s accent slipped and I heard hints of those long ah sounds so common in a New England accent. “I like where you’re going with Michelle. She’s very likable.”
“She is.” I agreed, surprised that I actually created a likable character.
“She’s the kind of woman I should have fallen in love with,” he stated, a hint of regret in his voice.
“What do you mean?” Happy that I created a sympathetic character, I needed to know how she was different, what was it about Michelle Cole that worked?
“She’s supportive, yet reserved. She hasn’t thrown herself onto Johnny expecting him to rescue her from the life she has. She doesn’t have expectations of him because he is a famous actor. She’s actually interested in having a family, and not giving him lip service.”
“Is that what happened to you?” I asked.
“I fell in love with the wrong type of person. She wasn’t in love with me as much as she was in love with what she thought I could do for her. My wife’s idea of support was to provide me with drugs so I could keep working. Your character is nothing like that. I like what you’re doing with her.”
I beamed. High praise indeed. I bounced on the bed, jostling him. “Do I get a cookie?”
“Something better.” He reached for me. “Come here.”
I slipped into his arms, and suddenly waves crashed on the beach off to my right. I could feel a slight breeze. Peter hadn’t brought me here in dreams for a while. It was that boardwalk he had liked. It had taken a while, but I finally figured it out—we were in Santa Barbara. He brought me here once or twice before he started really talking to me, back when he was still just a reoccurring dream.
Now that I was aware of his dream manipulation I paid more attention to my surroundings. I could see the waves, but I could barely hear them. I could see seagulls, but no noises came from them. I knew without even trying to deviate from the path, that I wouldn’t be able to run onto the beach and dip my toes in the cool water.
If it weren’t for the breeze, and the general ambiance for being outside, I would say we were on a movie set. It looked like we were actually here, but it was all an illusion. Illusion or not, it was nice to be outside and not have to worry about sunscreen, or getting a sunburn—there are definite benefits to this dreamscape.
Peter casually strolled. His hands thrust deep into his pockets and he smiled at me, easily laughing. I was not casually strolling, I bounced and walked backward in front of him so I could see his face. I flailed my arms around animatedly.
I was excited. I was making something out of words. Things were actually coming together.
“Why are we here?” I spun, the little sundress I wore twirled out, and I’m pretty sure I flashed Peter my panties.
“You are amazing. You are creating an entire world with words and your imagination. I wanted to bring you somewhere special. Do something a little different. Show you how impressed I am.” He left the paved walkway and started out across a manicured lawn toward the ocean.
I skipped after him. I really could get used to this being outside without any of the consequences. I couldn’t think of the last time I had been to the beach without sunscreen on, let alone with my shoulders and back exposed.
He continued to walk until we reached a beach picnic set up. A large blanket was spread out, and a colorful umbrella guarded over it, and two champagne flutes. Peter held out his hand to me and helped me to sit. He lowered himself into a lounging posture next to me. We clinked glasses and sipped the bubbles.
“Can I swim?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Why not?”
“I don’t have a bathing suit.” I indicated my dress, expecting him to dream-time me into a different outfit.
“You don’t need one. This is a private beach, there is no one else out here. Just you and me.”
“You mean skinny dip?” I was enjoying the whole not needing sunscreen, but, getting into the ocean naked?
Peter was up and pulling his clothes off. “Come on!” he called as he ran into the waves. He stopped when he was about knee deep and waited for me with his hands on his hips. He looked kind of silly. Hot, sexy, naked, and silly.
“Oh, hell,” I muttered. I pulled the dress off and kicked out of the panties and skipped into the water after him.
Of course, the water was perfect. I splashed Peter and then dove in farther. He followed me and captured me in his arms. His lips were warm and salty wet. My skin slid against his, and suddenly his nudity didn’t seem so silly to me. I wrapped my legs around his waist and he carried me back toward the shore.
Where the waves lapped the sand, Peter lowered me to the earth and followed me down to cover my body. Waves washed up and over our legs as we kissed and touched and twined together. Peter slid into me and I felt him and the ocean surge against me at the same time. As our tempo increased, the tide increased, as if the ocean responded to our thrusts and needs.
Wrapped in warm water, and Peter’s body, I cried my orgasm into his mouth. As was his fashion, that was his clue to step everything up a notch. He slid out of me and flipped me over, tugging my hips up and back. I balanced forward on my hands, my butt spread toward the sea. A wave crashed into me and licked my sensitive flesh, all swollen and sensitized from his driving into me. I moaned. The ocean hit every nerve ending I had and felt like the lick of a wet tongue.
Peter laughed in triumph. And then he was pulling my hips to him, and thrusting. The waves and his balls caressed my clit in a syncopated rhythm that accented what his cock did to my core. As if the ocean had hands, I felt caressed over all over my skin. Peter reached forward and held my breasts,
tweaking my nipples between his dexterous fingers.
I lifted up onto my knees and leaned back against his chest as he continued to drive into me, using the ocean like some kind of third member to our tryst. I came again, this time screaming out into the open. Seagulls returned my cries.
I turned in his arms, my mouth finding his again. “I want you in my mouth,” I said as I reached down between us and stroked his hard length. He was marble covered in the softest velvet, and I wanted to taste him.
He lowered to his elbows back against the sand, and I watched as this time the water licked up his leg and tickled his balls. He hissed in appreciation, and I knew he had somehow turned the water into our own private dream sex toy. I spread my knees, so I could enjoy the ocean’s licks as I lowered my mouth to his length. He was salt and seawater and the warmth that was Peter.
I found it hard to focus solely on providing expert fellatio because every wave caressed my folds and hit my clit seconds before running around the base of Peter’s shaft. It only took a few times for that to happen before I was changing my position and kneeling over Peter’s shoulders. If I was going to be licked as I sucked him down, I wanted his mouth on me. For added fun, he added his fingers without any prompting.
He came with a roar that tickled my flesh, and I pulled back, letting him come into the water. After he exhausted his orgasm, he grabbed my thighs, flipped me over and started all over again. Dreamscape sex was the best. He had the stamina and return rate of a porn star. I could go all night with orgasm after orgasm. We could scream and no one would hear us. And we could make love outside, on the beach, with no sand in sensitive places.
12
“You are remarkably calm for having broken up with David recently,” Trina said. We were having milkshakes and onion rings for lunch at the Soda Shoppe, per our usual. I hadn’t seen Trina for almost two weeks. Her husband had whisked her away for a surprise trip to Aruba, leaving Sophie with his mother.
Dead Sexy: Second Endings 1 Page 10