by Damian Bloom
“That’s still a good start.”
“I’m thinking enemies to lovers,” I explain, drawing some confidence from his words of encouragement. “They’d both have some skeletons in their closet, some dark secrets that would keep them from being together. Not anything too heavy, though. I want to keep it cozy.” I sip more of my coffee. “This really is delicious,” I say. Then, barely stopping for a breath, I continue describing my vision: “Maybe a small town. Enemy families, perhaps. Or maybe not. It’s a bit too Romeo and Juliet. Although I do like Romeo and Juliet. Sure, it’s a bit dramatic and unrealistic, but I feel like some of the elements could-”
“Wait, wait.” Adam holds up his hands. “Slow down a little. I’m not sure I understand. And this would be a thriller?”
His question gives me pause. It makes as much sense as that banging body of his on a writer.
“No, a romance.”
He stares at me for a long moment, then points to a framed picture of a huge book cover. His name’s at the bottom, in scarlet letters. I recognize the title. A House at Midnight. The book that started Adam’s career. “You know I write thriller novels, right?”
I nod.
“But you want to write romance.” He speaks the words out slowly, as if I might have trouble grasping them.
“Oh, I assumed you already discussed this with Peter…”
I can’t say I haven’t been wondering about this myself. A thriller/horror writer would teach me about writing romance? It hardly sounded like a match made in heaven. But Peter told me he’d talked everything over with Adam, and if he didn’t see a problem with it, I wasn’t going to turn down a hugely successful writer’s help just because he happened to write in another genre.
“Have you read any of my books?” Adam asks.
“Uh, not yet.”
Not only that, but I’ve never read a thriller or a horror book in my life. And I’m proud of it. But I guess that’s a piece of information I’d better keep to myself.
Adam presses his lips together.
“Maybe you could teach me general stuff,” I offer. “You know, about the writing process—drafting, editing, revisions, style, publishing. Things like that. Not anything too romance specific.”
I finish the coffee. Adam looks up at the ceiling and folds his arms behind his head. He thinks for a long time, or maybe time just seems to pass more lazily.
“Romance,” he whispers to himself. He scoffs at the idea. “Really?”
“What’s wrong with romance?”
He hesitates, but his disdain for the genre is palpable. “Isn’t it a little…childish? The happy ever afters and all the blushing and the lingering stares…” He spits the words out like they’re poison. “It’s all so predictable.”
I can only imagine how appalled Grandma would be if she were to hear this affront. I sit up straighter as I try to hold back my annoyance. “It’s reliable.”
Adam sits up, too, towering over me even when sitting down. “It’s boring.”
“Cozy.” There’s an edge to my voice.
“It’s delusional.”
We stare each other down, so close that I can almost feel his breath on my skin. Five minutes ago, I would have drooled over his good looks. But now, he is the embodiment of all the assholes with superiority complexes that have ever made fun of me for my reading preferences. As if thrillers are all that.
“No, it’s not. It’s inspiring.”
“You think it has anything to do with real life?”
With every word spat out, we raise our voices until we’re almost yelling at each other.
“Of course.” I sit up, shoulders taut. “What, you don’t believe in love?”
Adam’s eyes have turned to piercing slits. He analyzes me like I’m a crossword puzzle. Then, he leans back, a relaxed expression back on his face, and I curse myself for letting him get to me like that.
“Nah, I don’t,” he says. “It’s all a load of bull if you ask me.”
I do my best to regain my calm. How can anyone not believe in love? It would have made as much sense if he’d told me he doesn’t believe in oxygen or gravity. And suddenly, I’m not annoyed anymore. I pity him. What a bleak, sad life he must live.
“Nothing but empty promises,” he goes on. “Just like the genre you want to write in.”
I grit my teeth and saunter over to his bookshelves, pretending I sprung to my feet with a purpose and not because he was getting to me. The titles alone give me the creeps.
“What do you believe in, then?” I ask, proud of how collected and disinterested I sound. “Why do people spend their lives together? Why do they marry? Why do they build families?”
“Lust, at best.”
“And at worst?”
“Greedy human nature. They stand to gain something from the other person. There’s some way they can use them.”
I turn to him. “What about friendship? What about family?”
He shrugs, almost repressing a scoff. “People love you for the role you fulfill in their life, for as long as you do. But these ideals of unconditional, unlimited love…They’re just that—ideals.
“That’s so sad.”
“Is it? Or is it realistic? How many so-called soulmates don’t end up cursing the day they met?” He runs a hand over his eyes like he’s growing tired. Or bored.
I feel like a mouse in a cat’s lair. Maybe I should get going.
“What’s sad is that people can’t accept their own nature. If we only took a good look at ourselves in a mirror, we’d see the darkness and the dirt that lies inside of us. But we’d rather make up sweet stories and delude ourselves with ideals of selflessness and unconditional love.”
I can’t listen to a word of this—what a misanthropic, depressing know-it-all. I fling the backpack on my shoulder.
“So if you want to know what I think brings people together, that’s my answer. Hormones and selfish interests. There’s nothing romantic about it.”
Adam takes a breath when he’s done talking, looking a little puzzled, like he’s not quite sure where all of that came from. I’m sure it was lying right under the surface, waiting to fall onto the first pair of unsuspecting ears. He must not have had someone to rant to in a while.
He rakes a hand through his beard. “Look, I write thriller novels. Dark stuff. That’s all I do and all I know. And I’m damn good at it. But that’s probably the exact opposite of what you’re looking for.”
“That’s true.”
The short sleeves of his shirt cling to his bulging arms when he stretches. He stands up and takes a few steps toward me, dwarfing me again.
“So, I don’t know if I’m the right person to teach you anything, really.” Adam presses his large palm to my arm, squeezes comfortingly. I’m still miffed at him but can’t deny how breathtaking he is. I don’t think anyone could. Too bad he’s got such an ugly, cynical outlook on life. “I wouldn’t want to be wasting your time.”
I hold his gaze. Is it my time or his he’s worried about?
“I wouldn’t want to waste yours either.”
Without waiting for his guidance, I turn and slowly retrace my steps. He follows.
“I’ll think about it, okay?” he says. “I’ll let you know what I decide.”
Something in his tone, in the weight of his words, in his careless, self-assured attitude tells me he likes things his way. He enjoys being in charge.
“I’m sorry if I was harsh,” he adds. “I shouldn’t have gotten so…heated.”
Hearing him apologize disarms me, especially because he sounds honest.
“If I’m honest,” he says, “I don’t know the first thing about romance. I was talking out of my ass earlier.”
He gently grabs my arm and turns me to him. His muscles don’t only have aesthetic purposes because he maneuvers me like a rag doll. Suddenly, I’m staring at the base of his neck, where a few strands of chest hair poke out. We’re so close that his body heat warms me up.
; “The last thing I want to do is discourage a young writer. If you want to write romance—if you want to write anything—you should go ahead and do it. Regardless of what a bitter thriller fanatic like me says.”
Maybe it’s the proximity, maybe it’s his apology, but my feelings toward him do another 180. His perfect smile melts me like toffee. My stomach rumbles with desire.
There I was, only minutes ago, scrunching up my nose at his theory on how people are lustful beings that only want each other for sex, and now my underwear is suddenly too tight, and my head fills up with fantasies of everything I’ve stayed away from so far.
What would that muscular chest feel like pressed against mine? What would it be like to stab my fingers into his giant back as he thrust his-
I stop myself, shake the thought off. Trying to avoid Adam’s inquisitive gaze, I look down, but I’m met again by the impressive bulge in his gray sweatpants.
One more time, my mind goes haywire. I picture him pinning me against the wall, his lips on mine, his hard-
Stop!
“You okay?” He steps back so that he can take a better look at me.
“Yes, sorry,” I mumble. “Anyway, don’t worry about it. I wasn’t offended or anything.”
What is wrong with me? I’ve never felt so turned on. My stomach feels funny, too, like I might throw up soon. That’s the last thing I need.
“Good. You’ll need thick skin in this industry.” He clasps a hand on my shoulder, sending sparks through my body. “Wait here for a second, okay?”
He returns to the living room, and I use this time to regain my self-control. When he comes back, he hands me a book.
A House at Midnight. The title stands out at the top of the cover, in blood-red letters. By Adam Allister.
“You said you never read it,” he explains. “It’s probably not exactly your style, but I didn’t want you to leave without a birthday present.”
My head is reeling. I don’t know what to make of this man. One moment, I think he’s a cocky asshole; the next, he does something like this.
“This is really sweet,” I barely manage to say. “Thank you. I can’t wait to read it.”
“I signed it for you.” His face breaks into an excited smile.
I open to the first page, where he’s scribbled: To Luis and the beginning of the most beautiful love story of his life.
“What does this mean?”
“You and your writing.” Adam rubs the back of his neck like a bashful little boy. “It’s the sweetest love story you’ll ever experience. And it’s only just beginning. I envy you.”
It feels like my next smile is so wide that it barely fits in the hallway. “Thank you.”
I turn toward the front door, suddenly in less of a hurry than before, and, as he leads me to the exit, Adam brushes a hand over my lower back again. A hungry sort of heat flashes through me. It’s a dominating gesture, but, for some reason, I like that a lot.
“I predict you’ve got a long, fruitful career in front of you, Luis.”
His words sound like a definite goodbye, and it’s only at this moment that I realize I want to see him again. I spin on my heels when we reach the door. “So you’ll tell me what you decide?”
“Sure.” He doesn’t sound convinced. It’s as much of an answer as I know I’ll get.
I hold the hardcover up. “I promise to return the favor. As soon as my first book comes out, you’re getting a signed copy.”
“I’ll hold you to it. Take care.” Then, Adam sends me off with a charming smile.
I’ve been dismissed. Backpack heavy on my shoulders, I waddle to my car. With every second that passes, Adam feels less and less real. If my brother didn’t know the man, in a few days, I would probably conclude he was a figment of my imagination.
My head, my chest, and my gut are clumps of confusion and contradictions. I’ve never needed to sit in the car for fifteen minutes only to clear my head after meeting a man. But then again, I’ve never met someone as inebriating as Adam Allister.
6
Adam
Luis and his brimming backpack pop into my mind when I zip up my gym bag. The image steals a chuckle out of me.
Rain patters on my windows. Outside, it smells like wet pavement, and I take a deep whiff of it.
The guy was cute, I have to admit. The moment I opened that door and laid eyes on him, I pictured him in my bed, clutching the sheets. Slim body, innocent bright eyes almost too big for his face, a round bubble butt I would have loved to bury my face in.
Just thinking about him gets my dick hard.
He was so perfectly my type that I was ready to break my self-imposed abstinence. I would have liked nothing more than to yank those jeans off and spread his cheeks open right on the couch, to hear what delicious moans would escape from behind his luscious, plump lips when I thrust into him.
I might have even made a move had he not proven himself to be precisely the kind of guy I need to stay away from: young, gullible, head in the clouds. A romantic.
I park in front of the gym and run inside. It’s pouring now, and by the time I reach the building, I’m almost drenched. But I’ve missed the rain.
A primal, animalistic energy makes my mind run again and again to the adorable Luis. I try to channel it into the workout as I pile up the weights and push my muscles to their burning point.
I hate breaking hearts. I may not believe in love, but I’ve known the pain of thwarted expectations, and it hurt like a motherfucker. Men like Luis, who’s really barely older than a boy, live in a world of illusions. He could turn even the raunchiest fuck into a love story, only for me to then have to play the bad guy and rudely bring him back to reality. The reality that I can’t be fooled into anything other than a sexual arrangement. Not anymore.
Sweat gathers on my forehead and drips off my chin. A strawberry blonde-haired woman in a neon pair of leggings crosses the room toward the ellipticals. She throws me a look, smiles, looks away. Classic. That would be my cue to chase her. And maybe I would, if I could manage to think, but right now, my mind is overflowing with Luis, for some reason.
Luis. A believer in pure, fairy tale love. Please. He’s twenty-three. He’s too old for that.
Why would you even want anything more than sex, I ask myself as I carry out my deadlifts. Sex is honest; it’s simple, natural. Therapeutic, even. Like lifting weights, it anchors your mind to your body, to the here and now. It silences the never-ending chatter of your mind long enough for you to take a breath.
As soon as I take a break, a flood of irritating thoughts rushes into me. It’s not really Luis I’m annoyed with. As I chug down a few mouthfuls of water, I try to come to terms with the fact that I’m annoyed with myself. At Luis’s age, I was just as bad as him. I would have eaten up any ol’ bullshit about love. As a matter of fact, I did.
I could see in Luis’s eyes that my thoughts on love scared him. I shouldn’t have dropped all of that on someone who’s still so green. He’s not ready for the truth.
I wonder what he’d say if I told him about my past. Would he even believe me? Would he believe that I was once as foolish as him? That I whole-heartedly believed the first woman who ever told me she loved me? That I trusted her enough to marry her fresh out of high school? That I only learned my lesson when it all came crumbling down, reducing my life to rubble?
I send Luis away from my mind for the rest of the workout. Especially when I shower, because rubbing my naked body and thoughts of Luis would be a dangerous combination. I wouldn’t want to get banned from the gym or be known for sporting boners in the showers.
Although I usually prefer rushing home after a workout and showering there, today, I plan to stop by the bookstore on the way home—the one Luis and I both seem to be fans of. Bertha is a small independent store, squashed between a thrift shop and a family-owned pizzeria.
The coffee shop Luis works at is right on the other side of the street, and it takes a considerable amount of self-control no
t to find an excuse to cross over as I pass by.
The white-haired seller and owner of the store peeks over her rimless glasses and smiles at the sight of me. Mrs. Bertha is the image that comes up in most people’s minds when they hear the word granny. Her curly hair assumes the shape of a hat however she may cut it, she wears a pair of glasses whose usefulness is uncertain because she’s always peering either over or under them, and she speaks in a high-pitched constant tremolo that sounds like she’s always on the verge of tears.
“Adam, dear, I haven’t seen you for a while.” She forces herself to frown, to match the sternness of her accusation, but her face quickly relaxes back into a kind smile.
“I haven’t had much time for reading, Mrs. Bertha.”
She plucks the glasses off her nose and wipes them with the hem of her shirt. “Oh, yes, always the busy writer. That’s alright; you’re excused. You just hurry up and finish that series.”
“Right on it. I promise.”
The swift old lady moves right on to business. “What are we looking for today?”
That’s a good question. I didn’t come in with a clear battle plan, just a hunger for new books. I let Mrs. Bertha know I’ll be roaming around the shelves for a while, and she leaves me to it.
First, I saunter directly into the thriller and horror section, pick up a few new releases.
But soon, my mind starts wandering again. It must be the bookish environment that brings Luis back before my eyes. I dig my fingers into the covers of the books I’m holding.
Fucking romance.
If he were writing something worthwhile and genuinely entertaining, like thriller or horror, or even a murder mystery, my day could be a lot more fun. I’d probably be showing off everything I’ve learned in the past five years in front of a fine-ass piece of twink meat. If I wouldn’t already be balls-deep inside said fine piece of meat.
I lower the books in an attempt to cover my swelling crotch.
Romance. I give the stink eye to the section as I pass by it, with its pastel covers that swarm with naked torsos and sighing maidens. Gritting my teeth, I reluctantly decide to approach it. Warily, like one would walk up to an unfamiliar animal.