by Willa Okati
“While I’ve got you?” A metallic taste formed thin and sour at the back of Harper’s tongue. “While I’ve got you?”
“Oh God, here we go.” Rory rolled away.
“Rory, what does that mean, ‘while’?” Harper’s pulse sped up. “You’re not staying? You’re my muse.”
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” Rory stood, dusting off his legs. “Drop it, Harper.”
“I can’t ‘drop’ the intimated threat that ‑‑”
“End of discussion.” Rory walked away, pointed toward the bathroom. “I’m showering. Alone, fuck you very much.”
Harper watched him go with the distinct feeling that he’d just taken a sledgehammer between the eyes. “What’s the matter with you?”
In answer, Rory slammed the bathroom door. Harper sagged on his elbows, drool and drying semen streaked over chest and chin, feeling twice as stupid as he suddenly realized he looked.
BING-BONG. Harper yelped and flipped over. The doorbell? He checked his watch. Time tended to lose meaning when he lost himself with the muse. Seven-twelve ‑‑ a.m. or p.m.?
BING-BONG, the doorbell insisted, followed by three sturdy thumps. “Pizza!” his impatient visitor barked.
Perplexed, Harper got to his feet. He snagged a pair of loose track pants within easy reach and shuffled them on.
Peering through the peephole, he squinted at the distorted image of a middle-aged type with Elvis sideburns and a goatee, dressed in a red polo with a keep-it-warm box balanced on one arm.
“I didn’t order any pizza,” he called. “Wrong apartment.”
“No, you didn’t.” The deliveryman looked directly at the peephole, fixing Harper’s stare with a certainty that told Harper doors didn’t stop this guy from seeing him clearly. “Your muse did. We need to talk. About Rory. Do you think you might want to let me in now?”
Chapter Eight
BLINK
Harper’s apartment disappeared, replaced by the falling dusk of open New York air and green, green grass.
The pizza guy, sans box, snapped his fingers to get Harper’s admittedly highly distracted attention. “First things first. Ground rules for the chat. I do not want to hear about the sex, okay?”
“What the ‑‑” Harper turned in circles, staring at the outside world he distinctly did not remember traveling to in person.
“Temporal relocation.” The pizza guy resettled his cap over his ears. “You’re not allergic, are you?” He gestured at the trees.
“We’re in Central Park.”
“Stunning powers of observation, this one.”
“No.” Harper stood firm, hoping the pavement beneath his foot would not choose next to fling him somewhere in Taipei. “I was in my apartment. You were outside with pizza. Now we’re in Central Park.”
“Like I said. Temporal relocation.” The pizza guy crossed his arms. “No one can hear us. It’s not as if we’re physically present.”
A Segway zoomed through him.
“See?”
Horrified, Harper stumbled back. “Who ‑‑”
The pizza guy rolled his eyes. “Let’s skip the dramatic ‘Who are you?’ and ‘What have you done to me?’ speeches, shall we? Answers: for the third time, temporal relocation. Think of it as a step out of time and space. Or a dream. I’m Rory’s boss.”
The Segway hurtled through the pizza guy, going the opposite direction. Harper pointed, finger shaking.
“For the love of Pete. Step off the path, at least. I promise you won’t end up in where you were thinking we might. Taiwan, was it?”
“Taipei.”
“Irrelevant. We’ve got big stuff to talk about, so do you want to have this discussion or not?”
“Not,” Harper replied without hesitation. “One hundred percent not. I want to be back in my apartment fighting with Rory.” He furrowed his forehead. “Minus the fighting part.”
“That would be why I’m here.” The pizza guy ‑‑ geez, Harper could not keep calling him that ‑‑ folded his hands before him. “If you need a name for me, call me the Clerk. I’m not Rory’s top-dog boss, but close enough.”
Harper tried to follow the one-sided conversation. “Muses have middlemen?”
“Noooo.” The Clerk drew out the single syllable as if catering to one of the genuinely thick. Harper supposed he couldn’t blame the guy.
Wait. Yes, he could.
“They have keepers,” the Clerk explained. “In special cases, anyway. I’ve been tracking you since Rory got here. Like so.” The peculiar blurring of a muse-type creature bleared Harper’s vision, his only warning before the surly coffee-cart vendor stood before him, glaring. “Grunt.”
“Fuck!” Harper jumped back.
The Clerk blurred again, growing a pair of boobs and long, shiny blonde hair. Shelly held up her camera phone. “And like this, too! Smile!”
“Gyah!” Harper made the shape of the cross.
Chuckling, the Clerk resolved himself into his normal, middle-aged-man shape. “Don’t worry. I don’t spy on you two when I hear the moaning start.” He wrinkled his nose. “Trust me. That you don’t have to worry about.”
“You intrusive son of a ‑‑”
“Thanks.” The Clerk brushed off Harper’s anger. “Rory hasn’t told you much about muses, has he? How the day-to-day operations work?”
“Beyond a weird analogy about flower vases and some bits and pieces, no.” Questions sprang to life in the forefront of Harper’s head, along with the bitter taste of suspicion. “Why?”
The Clerk canted his head to one side, narrowly eyeing Harper. “Did he tell you he was on probation?”
Harper stared at him.
“The answer to that one would be a great big honkin’ no, then.” The Clerk produced a clipboard much as Rory had at the studio, drew a pen out of thin air by his ear, and drew an exaggerated check mark on a list. “I’ll deal with him later. For now, how’s he been with the inspiration? Ideas coming to you on a regular basis? Don’t tell me about the sex.”
“Wait.” Harper shook his head, hair flying over his eyes. “I’m confused.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“Go back to the word probation. Jesus Christ on a ‑‑”
“Central Park pigeons are as notorious as promised,” the Clerk observed. “Count yourself lucky that load didn’t land on actual flesh.”
If there was a more disturbing sensation in the known universe, Harper never, ever wanted to hear about it. He shook his arm.
“You know what? Let’s keep this quick.” The Clerk waved his clipboard briefly at Harper and ran his pen down the list. “Rory is a muse. Rory is here to help you through writer’s block desperate enough to attract our attention. Rory is on probation.”
“Explain probation.”
The Clerk cleared his throat. “Pro-bay-shuhn. Noun. One, the act of testing. Two, the testing or trial of a person’s conduct ‑‑”
“I know what the word means. In context, you’ve lost me. ‘Splain, please.”
“Simple version? His last two assignments, Rory screwed up. Creative differences. They asked for transfers and sent him back. And before you ask, yes, you can do that. The paperwork’s a nightmare, but it’s possible.” The Clerk wielded his pen. “Are you interested?”
“No!” Harper’s tongue tripped in forming a new question. He swallowed down a lump of uneasiness. “What would happen if I did?”
“To you? You’d get a new muse.” The Clerk shrugged. “To Rory? Three strikes and he’s out. That’s why I’m keeping a careful eye on him.”
“Out of what?”
“Out. O-u-t,” the Clerk spelled for him, making his clipboard vanish. “Of existence, if you want specifics. He would cease to be. He would be an ex ‑‑”
“Are all of you smart-asses? Don’t answer that.” Harper backed away. “You’re not taking Rory away from me. The end.”
The Clerk’s eyebrow rose. “Careful about getting too attached. He
won’t be here forever.”
“He mentioned. What does that mean? He’s me. My inspiration. He can’t leave. Can he?”
“Can and will.” The Clerk took off his hat to better scratch his head. “Rory’s extra. More than your norm, corporealized by the need to get you past the hump that’ll make or break your career. When you’re on the right track and past the U-turn point, he’ll go poof. Is that simple enough, or do I need to use smaller words?”
“But he’s mine.”
“Oh-kay.” The Clerk checked off three boxes in rapid succession. “Writers are insane, I swear. Give me a cellist any day. A painter, even, if he’s not given to slicing and dicing his ears like that Van Gogh whack job.” He shuddered. “Don’t ask Rory anything else about being a muse. He won’t be able to tell you. Is he doing his job? Providing inspiration?”
“Yes.” Harper stood his ground. “I’m keeping him.”
“Sure you are,” the Clerk replied in absent tones with fully realized ‘dream on’ subtext. “We’re done here. Or I am. Note to self: Spray with Crazy-off before a follow-up visit.”
“You’re ‑‑”
The Clerk rolled his eyes. “Sweet Mary. Why do you even care so much? The sex? You can get decent booty on any street corner if you’ve got an itch to scratch. Trust me, you’ll get sick of Rory sooner rather than later. Everyone does.”
Harper wondered if he could punch an incorporeal middleman in the gut, and if he did, would it make a sound?
“No,” the Clerk replied. He eyed Harper narrowly and poised his pen over the final check box. “You can’t change the rules. Any of them. Don’t even start thinking it’s possible.”
“But ‑‑”
“But, schmut. We’re done here. For now.”
Harper blinked ‑‑
-- and found himself standing in the doorway of his apartment. He held a cooling pizza box in one hand. Artemas had two scaly flippers planted on his bare foot, focused on the scent of anchovies.
“What are you doing?” Rory asked, popping into place by his side while scrubbing at his hair with a towel.
Harper opened the pizza box to stare eye to eye with a plump anchovy that looked uncannily familiar and couldn’t think of a single thing to say except, “Hungry?”
“Thumbs-up and fan-fucking-tastic idea.” Rory snaffled a slice of pizza from the box, sagging under the weight of its toppings. He hissed at the burn of melted cheese and stuck his finger in his mouth, sucking away the sting.
Ten minutes ago, Harper would have followed the path of that lucky mozzarella and replaced finger with tongue to see how marinara and Rory tasted in combination. Probably darn tasty.
Now, he wasn’t so sure. Rory was leaving him. Would be gone. I’ve gotten used to you. I need you. I lo… Don’t go. Please?
“Something wrong?” Rory asked, muffled as he stuffed the pointy end of the pizza slice in his mouth. He moaned, a nearly pornographic noise of pleasure and pounded the floor with his heel. “So. Damn. Good!”
“It’s yours,” Harper said absently. “I’m not hungry.”
“Your loss, Fonda.” Rory rolled his eyes, chewed, swallowed, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand. They still gleamed with a faint trace of grease. Harper knew if he kissed Rory right then he’d taste spices, piquant herbs, pepper, and tomatoes. That Rory would gleefully abandon pizza for home-cooked snacking.
He didn’t, and wasn’t sure why.
“Something is wrong,” Rory said, frowning at Harper. “This isn’t about us scrapping earlier, is it?”
“No. So very not. And I’m sorry.” He traced the defined edge of Rory’s cheekbone, unable to resist the urge to touch, to make sure Rory was still real and still here with him.
Rory transferred the pizza box from Harper’s arms to a precariously teetering perch on the coffee table. He pressed the back of his hand to Harper’s forehead. “No fever. Maybe I’ve been workin’ you too hard.” He bit his lip and looked adorable enough, in a scruffy way, to eat with a spoon. “Get back inside, shut the door, and go sit on the couch. I’ll, um…soup.”
“You’ll soup?” Harper repeated, confused.
“I’ll make soup, dork. If you want some.” Rory seemed genuinely worried.
“I’m okay. No soup.” Harper tested the inside of his head to see if the judgment held up. So-so. “Pizza’s fine. Maybe I could stand to eat a little.”
“Dining a la couch okay by you?”
“Yeah.” Absentminded, Harper left the door open and trudged to the den. He didn’t realize what he’d done until he heard tumblers clicking behind him.
“You’re welcome,” Rory said, scowling. Still naked, Harper noticed. He must have been starkers all along, everything hung out for foot traffic to see, had there been any.
Not that any of his neighbors would have been surprised by a harem of scantily clad boys trooping out of his apartment given the racket they’d made for days, but…
Harper blinked exaggeratedly, eyes too wide, then snapped tightly shut.
“Seriously. What’s wrong?” Rory sank to one knee beside Harper. He took Harper’s chin in his hand and turned him so they faced one another. “You’re freaking me out here. Your head is a strange, strange place, my friend.” Rory tore off a corner of crust and poked it between Harper’s lips. “Eat up. You need food. Calories, starch, carbs, grease, sugar. The five basic food groups. I don’t deal with pyramids. I’m old-school.”
“You ‑‑” How old, Harper had intended to ask. The words dried up and crumbled on his tongue before they could be spoken.
Rory picked a slimy piece of fish off the pizza. He pinched Harper’s cheeks open and plopped the anchovy inside. “Shut up and eat. Then you’re going to bed. For sleep, so don’t even ask. I know you can’t resist this” ‑‑ he undulated ‑‑ “but for one night, sawing logs instead of popping wood might be the way to go.”
“Yeah, all right.” Harper chewed, obeying the letter of the law if not the spirit. He couldn’t let this go. He wouldn’t.
At his side, Rory huffed. Harper could taste his worry more strongly than the tart olives he chewed. “If you’re ‘fine,’ then I’ve got some beachfront property in Wisconsin to sell you.”
“Rory ‑‑”
“There’s all kinds of crazy muddy waters in your aura. Something go wrong?”
Harper shrugged, attempting a cheerful smile and, he suspected, massively failing. “I have to work out some things in my head.” Like how to keep you.
A spike of alarm hit sharp. “You’re not looking in there to see what’s wrong? That’s not like you.”
“No, I’m not. Given the look on your face, I don’t know if I wanna peek inside your head.” Rory shook his head emphatically. “Strike that. I know I don’t. Executive decision of the muse. We’re officially calling it a day. Everything that needs to be written tonight has been written. All that’s left to do is clean up those self-edits before we send Janie the next three scripts, and we can tackle them in the morning.”
“Okay,” Harper said, only paying half-attention.
“Something is so not right here,” Rory muttered. He patted Harper’s chest and clambered off the couch. “You like hot toddies? I’m gonna make you a hot toddy.”
As Harper watched him go, clothes shimmered into being on Rory, loose track pants hiding his bitable ass and camouflaging his runner’s legs. An old athletic T-shirt Harper recognized as one of his own, large enough that Rory swam in the soft-washed gray with holes at the hem, appeared to hide the elegant curve of his back and the width of his shoulders. He still looked sexy. Rumpled, worried, and like a locker-room fantasy, especially if your tastes tended toward the French rugby team.
Harper opened his mouth to ask why Rory had abruptly abandoned his free-nudity policy, and then shut it, not really up to a wrangling embroilment at the moment. He crossed his legs tailor-style on the couch, bare feet beneath him, and stuffed in a healthy bite of pizza.
Chapter Nine
Purrrrrrrrrrrr.
Harper burrowed deeper into the fluffy softness of his pillow and made a face. His hand had begun buzzing, dragging him out of the half-slumber he’d managed ‑‑ too many ideas ‑‑ and someone had let a cat in. Heads were going to roll.
Purrrrrrrrrrrr.
“Only you would bring something that vibrates and isn’t fun to bed,” Rory griped behind him. His body warmth shifted away and took a protective layer of quilt with it, leaving Harper’s back exposed to a sudden chill. “Gimme.”
“Mmmmf.” Harper pulled the far edge of the pillow over his eyes.
“You are far less fun when you’re out of it than a guy might otherwise anticipate,” Rory informed him, slapping noises indicating a fruitless search. “Where’d you put your friggin’ phone?”
“Huh?”
“Never mind, idiot. I’ve got it.” Rory dropped a wet-willie smooch on his temple. “Go back to sleep. I’ll take care of this one.”
“Mmmmf.”
Rory grunted. “Lookie here who this is. What the hell’s he doing calling at four a.m.? Pfft. Dick.” He poked Harper in the ribs. “You mind if I talk to your ex and give him what-for?”
Harper flapped his hand at the end of his wrist. He couldn’t care less as long as he was left alone to chase the elusive phantom of sleep hovering at the edges of his mind, not that it seemed likely. His brain was infected with visions of sheep galloping away from their counting fences at full speed.
A small corner of Harper’s awareness coughed politely, tapped his shoulder, and gently guided his awareness to the phone cradled between Rory’s ear and shoulder. You might want to be aware of this.
Wait. What?
Rory punched the Call button. “Patty, baby, what’s shakin’?”
“Fuck!” Harper’s eyes shot open. He stared in bleary horror at Rory, who’d dragged himself upright, back propped against the headboard.
Rory hooked his ankle over the back of Harper’s knee. “Who is this, you ask? I forgot, we haven’t been introduced. Call me Rory, or lucky bastard, whichever you prefer. That’s not enough? Clarification: I’d be the guy tapping the sweet ass you were damn fool enough to walk away from.”