by Sarina Bowen
I don’t know if it’s for my benefit or because he can tell Steven is watching us, but suddenly I don’t care anymore.
I may have been invisible to my ex, but this man, this man right here, he sees me.
When he pulls away, I’m smiling. For a few reasons. 1) The throbbing. 2) Because now he’s ordering appetizers. And 3) When I look at Steve to sort of flaunt my hotness and my hot man kissing me, I realize it wasn’t Steve at all, but some stranger.
Huh.
15 Naked Skydiving
Tom
I don’t know how long we’ve been here, but it’s long enough that I’m drunk. Not on alcohol, actually. I’m drunk with desire. My dick is as hard as rebar, and every few minutes he makes a noise of complaint, and I have to adjust myself just to shut him up.
“So then,” I say, and for a second I forget what I was talking about. We are surrounded by empty platters of appetizers: sticky buns, pupu platters, crispy wonton strips. Everything sounds sexual to me. It just does. “I’m sorry,” I admit. “I have no idea what I was saying.”
“You were saying something about why you’re currently unemployed.” The way Brynn says the word, it’s like I should get a ribbon or something. Like she’s comforted by that.
“Technically, I’m on hiatus,” I say, and then I giggle. Me. A thirty-eight-year-old man. I giggle. Because suddenly, hiatus sounds a lot like high-anus. I don’t really find that sexual. “We’re on high-anus,” I say. I said it. I did. Out loud.
She snorts. “Why? Did you get bored of traveling the world? Meeting exotic women? Playing Mr. Fixit in too many locales?”
She’s laughing, and I want to snuggle my manness into her femaleness. But I’m serious. I’m so serious that I’m nodding. “I’m serious. That is exactly what happened. I mean, I’ve been doing this show for nine seasons now and it’s always the same, you know? Go into some house, tear shit down, pound it back up, flirt a little, do too much cocaine, sky dive naked, inject…” Her mouth is open. Wide. I laugh. “I was just seeing if you were paying attention.”
“I’m loopy,” she says. “But I can still pay attention. Please tell me that last part isn’t true.” She looks at me with this kind of plea in her eyes, and I want to scoop her into my arms and make everything better. Like, everything. The world. Politics. Cable television. I want to heal everything.
“I don’t do drugs. Strictly against it. But I do like to be naked.”
“While sky diving?”
“Well, no. There’d be too much…flapping. And you sort of need a parachute for, you know, your life and all. But in my own home, I’m naked a lot.”
“You just walk around naked?” she asks. She seems genuinely interested.
I nod. “Sometimes.” I lean in and whisper, “I don’t even walk around. Sometimes I just sit there.”
“And do what? Oh, god! Don’t answer that!”
“I just sit on my couch and watch Netflix. There’s some quality programming there.”
She laughs, and I laugh too. And yes, it’s because we’re both “loopy” and full of Chinese takeout-type food, and the lighting is dark and moody, and I’m comfortable and horny, yes, all of that, but there’s something else. There’s an easiness about her that feels just…like she doesn’t need fixing at all.
“Come home with me,” I say, all conversation about work abandoned. We can get into that later. But for right now, I’m serious. For real. I want her to come home with me. “Spend the night.”
“With you? Naked?” She draws out the word a little, like she’s weighing the idea.
I’m way past weighing, though. The only thing I want is to be home, in a real bed, with this woman. “Exactly. Let’s go get very, very naked.”
Her eyes darken, and she takes a quick breath. Then she lets out a little whimper.
We are definitely getting some tonight, my dick says.
Hush, I warn him. Silently this time.
“I can’t,” she says, sitting back in her chair.
Wait, really?
“Wait, really?” I say aloud. “Is there someone else?” This idea panics me, and not just because I don’t like cheaters. I’m so wound up right now that the idea of someone else putting his mitts on Brynn makes me feel a little insane.
Slowly, she shakes her head. “I can’t, because we’ll ruin it.”
“Ruin what?”
“The boathouse,” she whispers. “It was perfect.”
I run this statement through my brain a few times, trying to figure out what’s wrong. I’ve never been super smart, but this just doesn’t make sense. “It was perfect,” I agree. “You don’t think I can bring the magic again? Hell. I’m just warming up.”
Her eyes flare. But then she shakes it off. “I really can’t take that risk. You of all people should understand, since you know Hollywood.”
“What?” My show is produced out of New York. But it’s rude to correct a lady, and it’s just stupid to argue with someone you’re trying to get naked.
“Think of all the bad remakes!” she says, her pretty face suddenly horrified. “Remakes always flop. Everyone knows this. Hello, Psycho?” She shakes her head again at the travesty. “And The Bad News Bears.”
“Hmm.” I see her point. “Point Break, too. And Dirty Dancing.”
She swallows hard. “You’ve watched the original Dirty Dancing?”
Whoops. I have to make a quick calculation—truth or lie? Seems like a bad idea to lie to the girl you’re crushing on. “Yeah. I’ve watched it way more than once. It’s like an old friend I used to know. Sometimes it’s lonely when we’re shooting in a town I don’t know. Rewatching movies is nice.”
She puts a hand to her bosom and sighs happily, and I smile at her because it’s such a pretty sight.
“Do I lose my man card for that?”
“No sir. The world has changed. You can keep your man card. Actually, you get a gold star on it for liking Dirty Dancing.”
“Good.” I place my elbows on the table and lean closer. If those kisses I got earlier are all I can have tonight, I’ll take it. It’s probably madness for a guy who works with his hands to argue with a PhD, but I’m thinking I need to give it the old I-didn’t-make-it-through-college try. “Listen. I don’t want a remake.”
“What?” Her expression dims.
“You’re right. Remakes are terrible. But that was never the plan.”
“It wasn’t?”
I shake my head. “This was meant to be a series, not a one-time blockbuster. Our night in the boathouse was just the…pilot episode.”
She blinks, and I have the sudden urge to kiss her eyelashes.
I’ve got it bad.
“Now, most people would put episode two in my king-sized bed. That’s the obvious script. We could tie your wrists to the headboard, and I could put your ankles on my shoulders and bang you into next Tuesday.”
Brynn gulps.
“…but if you want the season to be a true success, we should really save that until later on. So episode two should be the kitchen counter. We could go back to my place and make something for dessert. Like, I dunno…”
“Cherry pie,” she breathes. Her cheeks are stained pink, and her pupils are blown.
“Right! You’re good at this. Cherry pie. There will be flour and stuff all over the countertops when we’re done, right?”
She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. And she licks her lips a little.
“Right. So. The pie is baking in the oven, but that takes a while. While we’re waiting for it, I kiss you. And things get a little heated, so I have to sweep the rolling pin right off the counter top—” I mime swiping everything off our table. “—and hoist you up and just do you right there while the pie bakes.”
Her chest is heaving, and both her hands have a white-knuckled grip on the table. She’s definitely buying what I’m selling.
And since I’ve hit my stride—because planning killer TV shows is my calling—I just keep going. “Episod
e three is a shower scene. Duh. But I have this rather rough stone in my shower, and I don’t want to bruise your spine against the surface. Ouch, right? So I’ll just have to pick you up and bounce you on my dick.”
Yesss! my dick shouts.
“Hang on pal,” I tell him. I’m pretty sure I don’t say that out loud, but whatever. I’m on a roll here. “Episode four could be the bed, I suppose. But a lounge chair on the patio sounds even better. No—the hot tub! Or a bubble bath. I want to wipe soap bubbles all over your tits…”
Holy shit. I’m aching now. My dick feels like reinforced concrete. I’ll have to invest in roomier shorts if I’m going to woo Brynn with dirty talk. And is it hot in here?
My girl isn’t faring much better. She looks like she might burst into flames across the table. So it’s time to put us both out of our misery. “A series, Brynn. Not a remake. Let’s go back to my place and do some…” I drop my voice low. “Storyboarding.”
Wordlessly, she grabs her handbag off the back of the chair and stands up.
I rise, rifling through my wallet. I leave a stack of bills. My truck is out in back, and Brynn’s friends dropped her off, so we don’t even have to argue about who’s driving.
She leans into my chest when I put my arm around her as we walk toward the door. The warmth of her body against mine is crazy-making. I want this woman with every ounce of my being. Since I’m six-three and two hundred fifteen pounds, that’s a lot of ounces.
I guide her to the door. We open it and step outside.
Then the world explodes into light.
16 Giant Man Truck
Brynn
It takes a while for my lust-addled brain to make sense of the blinding lights washing over me. They’re flashbulbs. Lots of them.
“Look over here, Tom!” a voice shouts.
“Who’s the lucky girl?” another yells.
“What the…” Beside me, Tom is flustered too. But he shakes it off faster than I do. “Brynn, honey, this way.” One of his brawny arms steers me around the side of the building. “The red truck,” he says tersely. “Go!”
Apparently I’m good at taking directions. For the second time in a week I take off running just because someone urged me to. I break for the truck, and its taillights flash as I approach, signaling that it’s unlocked.
“Hey, Brynn!” a voice shouts from the mob behind us. “What’s your last name, little bunny?”
“Don’t answer that,” Tom barks. He’s right behind me. The way Tom is parked, it’s the driver’s side of the truck that’s facing us. Tom catches my hand in one of his, then yanks the driver’s side door open.
It’s sort of amazing that he’s able to whisk me right off the ground and onto the seat. I’ve never been whisked before, and it’s nice. It really is. Then he pats my hip and I like it so much that for a moment it escapes me that he wants me to scoot over.
I scoot, sliding across the macho leather seats of Tom’s giant Man Truck.
He’s seated beside me and cranking the engine not a second later. The locks click down with a thunk, and he throws on the headlights. A pack of paparazzi shield their eyes from the glare. He revs the engine, and they scatter. It’s sort of a Keystone Cop kind of thing, all this scattering, and even though things are a little intense right now, I laugh. Because that’s what I do with intensity. Laugh right in its face. Take that, inten— And we’re moving. I forgot we were having a moment, but Tom saying, “That’s right, assholes. Move,” reminds me.
The truck heaves forward. The tires screech, and a moment later we’ve left them all behind in the dust. I hear a couple of them coughing, even.
We drive.
Or rather Tom drives, and I sort of breathe heavily. I have to admit, his alpha-ness just then was sorta hot. In English departments, there aren’t paparazzi or big trucks, and I think that’s really a shame. “Wow,” I say, and I mean it.
“I know,” Tom says, “I’m making excellent time.” Leave it to a man to be conscious of making good time. Though he is hitting all the lights just right. I’m still kind of woozy from remembering him list all the rooms of his house where boinking should happen. Would happen. Would be happening imminently. But as my lust dials back from eleven to, say, a nine, I realize that he looks tense. “Okay, is that whole scene…normal for you?”
“No, not at all. Not since…” He cringes.
“Since when? I didn’t even know they had paparazzi in Michigan. I thought they maybe shriveled up in the cold.”
“I thought that too,” he says through gritted teeth. “That’s why I’ve been hiding here.”
“Hiding?” Oh god, maybe Tom is some kind of psycho serial killer. “Hiding from the cops?”
“No! Did they look like cops to you?”
Maybe. The kind in silent movies. But I don’t say that out loud. Sometimes my imagination runs away with me. A tiny bit. Just enough to make life interesting. “Why are all those people with cameras chasing you?”
He glances into the rearview mirror. “I have no idea, but it can’t be good.” He reaches for his phone in the cup holder and hands it to me. “Can you look at my texts? My agent’s name is Patricia. Whatever’s going on, she’d be the one to know.”
I take the phone, and indeed, there is a string of texts lighting up the security screen and I don’t suppose that psycho serial killers are willing to hand off their phones. This is somewhat comforting to me.
“The passcode is H-O-M-E,” he says.
I tap that in. “Your first message is from Braht. It says: What color are her panties this time?” Ugh. “You told him about my Easter panties?”
“They were the only clue I had! Next time, leave behind your business card.”
The man makes a good point. “Your next message is from Patricia. She says: That’s one way to tell the world that you’re back on the market.”
“I have no idea what that means.” Tom shakes his head.
My own phone is dancing a jig in my handbag. So I pull it out.
Ash: Oh, honey. We’re here for you.
Sadie: Wow. You weren’t kidding. I’m sorry the world is seeing that, but it really WAS the hottest sex ever to hit a boathouse. *Fans self*
Ash: Sadie, she doesn’t want to hear that right now.
Sadie: Why not. If I just broke the internet with my sex tape, I’d want to know it was a good one.
“OH MY GOD!” I shriek. “THAT’S WHY THE PHOTOGRAPHER CALLED ME LITTLE BUNNY!” I really do say that in all caps because what’s happening in my brain is in all caps and it includes my Easter panties, his giant cock, and me revving like a lawn mower.
“What’s the matter?” Tom is maneuvering his giant Man Truck between the gates of his mansion. But instead of waiting for an answer, he slams the truck into park and jumps out.
As I spin around in my seat to watch, he slams the gates closed, wraps a thick metal chain around the joining parts, then padlocks them together.
Another set of headlights appears beyond the gates. “Fuck,” Tom says. He gives the car the finger and then does a flying leap back into the truck. He really has some superhero moves, this Tom.
If I weren’t freaking out right now, I’d probably find it hot.
He parks the truck inside his giant four-stall garage and then kills the engine. Everything goes dark, including my phone because I’ve stuffed it back into my bag, hoping against all hope that I’ve leapt to the wrong conclusion. We sit there a moment in the silence while my brain explodes.
“Can you tell me what’s the matter?” he asks, his voice deep and smoky beside me.
“S-something about a sex t-tape,” I stammer. It can’t be true. It just can’t.
“A…what?” He grabs his phone off the seat and starts scrolling. His frown is illuminated by the blue light. And he’s handsome even like that, damn it.
My thoughts are like a popcorn machine without the top on. Bouncing all over the place.
And now I’m a little hungry for popcorn. I like it
really salty and with so much butter that your hand glistens with popcorn magic and— FOCUS BRYNN!
“Holy shit,” Tom whispers. “Jesus H.” He stabs the screen one more time, and then there’s a soundtrack. First, a female sigh and a moan. The indistinct growl of a sexy man.
My traitorous nipples harden immediately. Down, girls!
“Unnnh,” the female voice says. “Fuck me. FUCK ME.”
Every inch of my skin goes cold the moment I recognize my own voice. But even then I’m not absolutely sure. This couldn’t be happening to me. Holding my breath, I lean over to see Tom’s screen.
Now, when you get really stressed out, your brain makes some weird accommodations. For five seconds or so my mind refuses to acknowledge the right half of the video on Tom’s phone. And the left half is glorious! There is a fine pair of muscular man buns clenching on each erotic thrust. I could watch that all day.
But then my subconscious dares me to take in the rest of the frame. And I look.
And I really shouldn’t have.
“Omigod,” I gasp. “Oh. God. Tell me that’s not on the internet. Where did you get that? DID YOU TAKE THAT VIDEO OF ME? Omigod.”
Tom stops the video and drops the phone like a hot potato. “Brynn, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“Did you do this?”
“No! I’d never… God, no! I don’t know who took that. Only a monster would do that. Well, only a monster would share it, because, actually, that was some seriously fine footage—”
A slap rings out, and I think it was from me. I’ve smacked his big biceps in anger.
Tom grabs my hands and holds them together. Then he dips his head and kisses my palms quickly. “Brynn, listen. We’ll get to the bottom of this. I’ll fix it. I promise you.”
“You can’t fix it,” I sob. “They’ve already seen! When it’s seen, it cannot be unseen! It’s burned into all their retinas!”
“Who are ‘they,’ exactly? And retinas burn? Really?”
I’m a little hysterical now. Though he’s right—it’s unclear who’s seen what, and maybe I’m panicking for nothing. But once you see someone fucking, it’s hard to picture them doing their taxes. They’re always fucking! Even at a funeral. If my friends already know about this video—and a horde of photographers know—it must be serious.