by Willa Okati
“You’re screwed.”
“In a nutshell.”
“Up shit creek without a paddle.”
“Yes.”
“Eyeball deep in aquatic dragons who think you’re crunchy and taste good with tartar sauce.”
“Rory.”
Rory snickered. “Calm down, Cujo. I’m just yanking your chain. Still here to help.” He took the pencil away from Harper, tossed it in the air, and caught it neatly. “So you’re working on all this hush-hush stuff yet still expected to put in the same hours and effort on Twilight Rising. Lisa’s good, but she’s not Superwoman. Am I right?”
“She’s been fantastic, yeah. I can’t ask her for more. I have to start pulling my weight around here again, too. Fuck.”
“Don’t hyperventilate on me.” Rory flashed the few inches separating them and appeared at Harper’s side, his palm warm and solid on Harper’s back, grounding him.
“Sorry.” Harper rotated his neck, glumly noting the return of the stiffness Rory had massaged out before.
“If a man ever needed a muse…” Rory said cheerfully. “One thing I can’t figure out, though. Why haven’t you pulled Lisa in on the In Outré writing? Wow. Say that three times fast. Two heads are better than one, and she’s got fire. She could help.”
Harper looked away, a knot in his throat.
“Ahh.” Rory drew out the universally recognized sound of comprehension. “Shoulda seen the truth before. You don’t want to risk her future, no, but at least in small part this is about control. And pride. Someone handed you a once-in-a-lifetime chance to let your baby grow up, and you can’t handle being in over your head. More, you hate it like poison when something spins out of your hands.”
Harper snapped his pencil in half.
“If you don’t have a map and a solid hold on the wheel, you flip.” Rory chuckled. “No wonder you lost your cool when I showed up. Fighting like you do makes sense now. Bites the big one to be you today, doesn’t it?”
“In a nutshell,” Harper mumbled, scarlet warm to the tips of his ears, shuffling his feet. “So now you know all there is to know.”
“I doubt it. There’s always more left to learn. It’s cool. What I don’t get already, I’ll pick up as we go. Right at your side.”
“Sweet merciful God.”
“With you all the way.” Rory stretched his arms above his head, laced his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. “Your personal, personal assistant.” He leered at Harper, overflowing with good cheer. “Here to take care of all your needs, and I do mean all.”
“You’re not letting the sex thing go, are you?”
“Not on your life. You’re a challenge, Harper, and I love me a challenge. I ‑‑”
“You!” the contralto bellowed at far too close a range.
Harper squeezed his eyes shut. “Damn it.”
“What?” Rory cocked his head.
“Janie, that’s what. Or rather, who,” Janie informed Rory, close enough to touch. Composed of one-half ninja and one-half cast-iron, Janie had no compunctions about using her sneaking skills when she had passed normal wrath and moved on to incandescent fury. “Who the hell are you?”
Rory gulped.
Janie snatched Rory’s badge between two short-clipped fingernails and held it to the light. “You’re not serious. A new P.A.? Who hired you?”
Rory’s mouth worked. No sound emerged. That was disturbing.
“I did,” Harper said, scoping Rory surreptitiously.
Janie let the badge fall. “Harper, I ought to tear you open right down the middle. You know you have to clear new hires with me.”
“I’m sorry ‑‑”
“Too late for that now.” Janie examined Rory narrowly. All she lacked was a magnifying glass. “Pretty boy. Disturbing contacts, interesting dye job ‑‑”
“The curtains match the carpet,” Rory blurted, then shut up with a clack of his jaw. “I mean, the carpet matches the curtains. I ‑‑”
“I didn’t ask. Harper, does he have any useful job skills or is he here for decorative purposes only?”
Rory shook off his momentary freeze. Janie had that effect on any man who valued his balls. “Absolutely. I’ve got years of experience with writing.”
“Do you.” It wasn’t a question.
Rory answered anyway. “Yeah. I’ve worked as a creative consultant on half a dozen movies.”
“Really. At your age.”
Still not a question. Rory still answered, either not knowing he was taking his life in his hands, or counting on his charm to win Janie over. “I’m older than I look.”
Janie hesitated. Harper tried to watch without looking like a spectator at the French Open, zinging back and forth between the two. No. Was Rory going to get to the dragon queen too? Really?
She huffed. “Fine. I don’t have time to argue. Harper, you pull another stunt like this, especially when if we breathe wrong Rialto will toss us over and end our careers, and I will toast you on a gridiron before slicing you thinly from the toes up. Got that?”
“Loud and clear.”
“And you ‑‑” Janie swung around to glare at Rory. “Get me a coffee. Large. Bring back decaffeinated and I will dangle your big head from a pike and your smaller head from a gaff.”
Rory nodded hard.
“Verbalize! Am I understood?”
As close to meek as possible, far closer than Harper would have thought possible, Rory said, “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.” Janie turned away, whipping out a PDA and stylus. “Harper, get with those actors, and I damn well better not find out the rumors I’m hearing about missing scripts are in any way true.” She swung back around, hair coming loose from its haphazard knot, not in the least bit alluring. More of the jungle Amazon queen lacking only a physical manifestation of a killing stick.
Rory stepped, not highly subtly, behind Harper.
“Speaking of which,” Janie started, with the gleam of a tiger who’d just spotted fresh meat on the move, “how’re those proposed In Outré scripts coming? What about the breakdowns for future plot development?”
Rory tugged at the cuff of Harper’s sleeve. “Breakdowns?”
Janie pounced. “Thought you had experience.”
“He does,” Harper hastened to say. “Rory’s just, uh, a little overwhelmed. Not that we’re saying you’re scary.” Oh, crap. “Breakdowns. Right. I’m working on it right now. We are. Together. Everything’s under control.”
“Hmm. Sure as hell hope so, for your sake.” Janie hesitated, then softened. Harper stiffened. He knew what was coming next.
As predicted, the hard lines of Janie’s tightly set expression softened. She reached up to pat his cheek, once again the comfortable friend and associate he’d laughed with over a pitcher of sangria in SoHo, hooting at the crazy odds of making a successful show pitch and figuring, why not go for it just for the giggles?
That had been months ago, and a hundred, increasingly tense meetings before. The knot tightened in Harper’s throat. Had he changed more, or had she?
“Harper… I love you. I do. You took a chance on me, and I appreciate it. I hope you understand that. So now I’m trusting you to do it right. Okay, hon?” She ruffled up his hair. “That’s my boy.”
Harper kept his head down as Janie walked away, stylus flying over her PDA screen.
“Damn,” Rory breathed, reverent. “She reminds me a lot of someone I know.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” Rory watched her go. “Masterful guilt trip. I thought your aura looked like a thunderstorm. Hers is more like the wrath of God.” He rubbed his forearms, goose bumps ridged on his skin. “I would hate to be the one to tell her you’ve got nothing.” He brightened. “Lucky us, we won’t have to. I thought of a few story arcs during that whole rant. Great ones. You’re gonna love ‑‑”
This time, Harper didn’t wait for the invitation, or for loose lips to sink his ships. He seized Rory by the sh
oulders, hauled him in, and planted a messy smooch on his muse’s lips.
Rory wobbled when Harper let him go. “What was that about?”
“Here you come to save the day,” Harper explained.
“Oh.” Rory slapped Harper’s ass. “I can get behind that. Get it? Behind?”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Spoilsport. Where can we go to get started? Strike while the iron’s hot and all that jazz.”
“I would get the one muse that depends on clichés.”
“Smart-ass.”
Rory elbowed him. “Clichés are clichés for a reason. They apply. Trick is to know when to hold ‘em and when to fold ‘em.”
“Okay, now you’re just digging for a reaction.”
“You’re getting better at this.” Rory swung around to face Harper, walking backward. Harper kept pace, amazed at the grace of his progress. Or was it regress? Either way, Rory never tripped over anything or lost his balance, and when he should by all rights have collided with a moving wardrobe cart or backed into a grip hauling some equipment, they missed each other by split seconds.
Perhaps Rory cheated by flickering past the obstacle. Harper arched an eyebrow. “Creative use of quantum physics, there.”
Rory pointed a finger at him in mimicry of a gunshot bull’s-eye. “See? Knew you were the brainy type.”
“So you’re inspiring reality to shift?”
“Duh. So where are we headed? I’m following your vibes.”
“What does that even mean? Are you reading my mind again?”
Rory shrugged. “Sort of yes, sort of no. More like picking up traffic signals. Light’s green, trap is clean. Point me in the right direction and I’ll turn off my scanner. Writer’s room again?”
“Good as any,” Harper agreed.
“You know, by now I don’t have to read your mind to know what you’re thinking most of the time, but I bet you still can’t read mine unless I’m” ‑‑ he cupped his hands around his mouth megaphone-style ‑‑ “really broadcasting. Tell you what, if you can nail what I’m thinking right now, I’ll give you a cookie.”
“‘Nail.’ You’re thinking about sex.” Harper rolled his eyes, amused.
“Lucky guess. And quit grimacing all the time like a goon. Your face’ll freeze that way.” Rory nimbly back stepped over a tangle of cables. “Why don’t you have an office?”
“Technically, I do.”
“So why not use it? The writer’s room is soaked with you… I can tell you’re always in there. Like brandy in tiramisu. Damn, I could go for a sugar fix.” Rory’s expression flickered briefly, gazing at a point in time far away, ravenous in a way Harper had thought was reserved solely for perving on him.
“Huh. So I rate about the same on the lust scale as an éclair, now?”
“Crème filled,” Rory gibed.
“Maybe so, maybe not. Office…” Harper cracked his knuckles. “Thing about offices is, even when the door’s closed, if someone knows you’re in there they’re going to interrupt.”
“True. So how’s the writer’s room different?”
“I honestly don’t know, but Lisa’s the only one who barges in on me.”
“So good to know,” Rory murmured, undressing Harper with his eyes.
Harper cleared his throat.
Rory smirked even as his stomach grumbled, probably stuck a few phrases back on the thought of éclairs. “Semen contains mostly sugar. Did you know that?”
“No, but a lot of things make infinitely more sense now.”
“Harper, Harper. You’re gonna outdistance your teacher in a minute here. But you were saying?”
“Nothing much else to add. I’m not a fan of my office. Right now it’s mostly used for storage.”
Rory cocked his head. “There’s something more than interruptions putting you off your five-by-seven. Bad memories attached, maybe? Your aura just went Code Brown.”
Harper flashed back on Patrick, bent in half over a stack of memos ‑‑ probably reading them and taking mental notes both before and after orgasm ‑‑ and made a face. “Writer’s room is just behind you.”
He waited for Rory to let them in and clicked the door closed behind them. “What do you think?”
“About what, and past, present, or future?” Rory put his hands on his hips, scanning the work-worn conference room. “I think more things than you could dream of.” He tapped his foot, eyeing the whiteboard. “Not enough room. Supplies, we need supplies. Pencils? Pens? Paper? Laptop would be even better. I promise I won’t let you fall asleep and drool the hard drive to death.” He clicked his tongue and winked in his best lounge lizard style. “There’s all kinds of ways to keep a writer up and running that don’t involve caffeine, if you get my drift.”
“Kind of hard to miss. There’s a stash of office supplies back here in the case hidden behind the whiteboard.” Harper pried it away from the wall. Never easy; the size of the board made the maneuver awkwardly akin to unfurling a sail.
“Ha!” Rory propped his hip on the conference table. “Not quite James Bond, not really even Agatha Christie, but not bad. Any gold doubloons back there? Age-old secrets? Portraits of Dorian Gray?”
Harper stifled a laugh. “Pastel note cards are as exotic as it gets. Sorry.” He retrieved a spiral-bound notebook and a handful of ballpoint pens. After a moment’s thought, he included several pencils.
“Fantastic.” Rory went straight for the pencils, tucked one behind his left ear, and twirled a slim, newly sharpened No. 2 between his fingers. “Grab me some of those. Nice open space here, decently big table.” He took handfuls of paper products from Harper and tossed them casually on the surface, paper fanning apart and pens rolling in wonky starburst patterns. “A comfortable work surface is key. I like to spread out, really get my hands dirty, ya know?”
“I’ll bet you do. As often as you can.”
Rory feigned a double-take. “Was that a dirty joke?”
Harper considered. “It might have been.”
“You do me proud.” Rory flicked away a fake tear. He turned to the paper, shuffling purple and blue note cards into a ragged pile. Hands busy, he muttered, “Hey, uh, thanks.”
Harper paused in reaching for a pen that had rolled to rest by the tips of his Converse sneakers. “For what?”
Rory’s attention was riveted on the notebook, flipped open to a fresh page where he’d already busied himself scribbling strange graphs that made zero sense upside down. “Never mind.” He looked up, wicked as a kid planning to rob a candy store. “Just…eh, hell with it. You’re not half-bad, for a neurotic-ass writer.”
Harper tipped his head back, hooting. Warmth blooming in his chest made him want to relent and return the compliment, telling Rory he wasn’t so terrible as a hyperactive, sugar-junkie pain in the ass.
As he opened his mouth, his pocket began to vibrate.
Rory perked up at the vibration in proximity to his favorite location. “Harper, you been holding out on me? Is that remote controlled?”
“It’s just the cell phone again, wise guy.” Harper dug in his pocket, pretending to ignore Rory’s “Woo-woo!” and “Is that a BlackBerry, or are you happy to see me?” comments. He flipped the phone open without looking at the caller ID and once again remembered immediately why that was never, ever a good idea.
Too bad that particular lesson never stuck between calls.
“He shoots, he scores, nothing but net and twice in one day. Either you really are slipping or you’re leading me on, Harper.”
“Patrick.”
“Hang. Up.” Rory dropped his pencil and upped his ‘tude. “We’re not goin’ another three rounds with that asshat. Harper?”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Patrick had his game voice on, the rich, sensual tones snaking tendrils around Harper’s senses and attempting to cozen and lull him into trust. “Were you in conference? Apologies for interrupting. Are you working on your new project? Care to offer me a sound bite?”
; Attempt didn’t equal accomplishment, especially when mutual loathing entered the picture. “Quit screwing around, Patrick. Tell me what you want so I can say no. It’ll save us both time.”
“Rude, Harper. I’ve sent you an e-mail.”
“And?”
“And I think you may want to take a look. Are you on your BlackBerry? Good. I’ll hold.”
Abruptly at his side without visibly crossing the room, Rory nudged Harper. He wrinkled his nose as if he’d caught a whiff of something rotten. For once, he said nothing, though he stood with a certain conviction that told Harper he wasn’t going anywhere before the conversation had come to an end.
Harper thought he’d rather that was earlier rather than later. “Sorry. No can do. I’ll get back to you.”
“Like hell. I’ll crack your password and delete his e-mail first,” Rory mumbled. He sounded almost…jealous?
“Fine.” Patrick chuckled, far too amused by himself. “If you don’t want the link to the YouTube of the hour ‑‑”
Harper stiffened. “You didn’t.”
“-- featuring a prominent writer stumbling through Manhattan seemingly drunk before nine a.m. ‑‑”
“Bastard.” Harper forgot Rory, shimmering heat waves of anger clouding his vision.
“-- and funnily enough, no Bluetooth can be seen on either ear. Interesting. Tell me why it’s really so important that you have a sterling public image right now ‑‑ cough, Rialto, cough ‑‑ and I’ll take it down with a formal apology,” Patrick replied. “I know you, Harper, and you’re hiding something big.”
“If I was ‑‑”
“There’s no ‘if’ to that.”
Harper’s fingers twitched. “If I was, what do you plan to do about it? YouTube me to death?”
“For starters,” Patrick agreed.
“A slow death by a thousand cuts.”
“Harper, this isn’t the dark ages. I prefer a million mouse clicks instead.”
Harper’s temples throbbed. “What do you get out of this, Patrick?”
“More than a byline. Can’t say anything else, unfortunately. Confidentiality agreements. You know how those get a man by the short hairs.”