Divine: A Novel

by Jayce, Aven

  He smiles as my hand is encased by his warm grip. The scent of a light spicy cologne floats through the air as he takes the seat across from me. Voice, check. Scent, check. Good start.

  “It’s James Daniel Keller. My friends call my Daniel, Dan, or J.D., but I’m not a fan of James,” he says as he leans forward.

  That’s too many options.

  “Most people call me Daniel or Dan.”

  I nod, still too many options. One name is all that I need. Although I have to admit I really like nicknames and shortened names, like Div, so I’ll probably call him by all three names. Daniel, Dan and J.D., depending on my mood.

  My book boyfriends have consisted of Ash, Jax, Cam, Knox, and Aiden over the past two years, so it’s so nice to hear a common name like his for once. There must be a million James Daniel Kellers in this world. It’s comforting. Plus, he’s a tall Irish beauty with maple brown eyes. Nice.

  “Thanks for meeting me. I don’t usually go about things in this way. I hope you don’t find me... I hope the note wasn’t too strange.” Fuckin’ hell - sport coat, white shirt with the top button open, and no tie. Hot. I love his hair. Short on the sides, longer on top, has a nice swirl to it. Like soft ice cream twisted in a cone with the top licked off and flattened out. Yummm. I want to lick him.

  “You have a beautiful smile,” he says. “Would you like some wine?”

  He didn’t answer my unease about the note. I tame my smile, wiping the ecstatic Cheshire Cat grin off my face.

  Try not to look too much like you’re in heat, Div.

  “Yes, wine would be nice.” Yay, I’m on a date. “Red wine; Merlot or Pinot Noir.” Wow, that was forward. I place my napkin on my lap as a distraction to my words. I’m so out of my element right now. Haven’t been out with a guy in ages and I called it off with my last boyfriend because he bored me to tears. He played video games whenever I went to see him... that was it. Video games for Christ’s sake. No, he wasn’t fourteen, but he sure did act like he was. I’m glad I never moved in with him, or anyone for that matter.

  “Do you like video games?” I ask moronically.

  “No,” he shakes his head. “Is that a deal breaker? Should I go home now?”

  Ah, good humored. Thank you. And he smiled when he said it so I didn’t have to make a guess if he was kidding or not.

  “No, just curious. I’m not a fan of them,” I say.

  “So tell me what you’re a fan of? Give me a list.”

  That was abrupt. “What do you mean? Like now?”

  “Take out your phone, go into notes and make a list, I’ll do the same, then we’ll compare. Ten items, no more. If we have two things in common, two similar likes or more, I’ll stay and we’ll call this an official date. Something that could lead to greater things. If not, then it’ll probably never work between us, in which case you have two options.”

  What the fuck? Wait, this just went south. What did he say? Do I dare ask or just leave? “What are the two options?” Shit, I asked.

  “If we don’t have any common interests then I’ll leave, but I’ll put a fifty on the table so you can have an enjoyable meal, that’s option one. Or, there’s option two. We can eat and then go somewhere and fuck, but I can’t promise anything after that.”

  I swallow hard, a big gulp of saliva. I don’t know if my mouth is watering because of the wonderful Italian spices that fill the air, because of the wine that was just placed before us, or because of the picture in my head of him fucking me... hard. I know it would be rough, I can tell by the look in his eye and the words that just came out of his mouth. Bastard. I think I like him. He looks so sweet and innocent, but I have a feeling that’s all part of his personality... he’s nasty... a bad boy.

  He’s not serious though, right? With that grin he can’t be.

  “I’m game,” I say, phone in hand.

  We type away. He’s got a smirk on his face that matches mine. This is totally bizarre.

  He sets his phone on the table and waits for me to finish. What am I a fan of? What do I like? Who is Div Hallowell? How much of this is a test?

  His fingers tap the table. How sly, to put me in this position. But I’m smarter than him. I guarantee it. I may be discreet in person, but he has no idea who he’s dealing with. Games like these are where I shine and he’s about to get punked. Punked in the ass.

  “Done.” My phone is on the table and the wine glass is pressed against my lips.

  He puts a hand in his jacket pocket and continues tapping the table with the other. Tap-tap. Tap-tap. I’m ready, you ready? Tap-tap.

  “So, Daniel, before we find out how very different we are, I’d like to know your age.”

  “You want that information even though I’m about to leave?”

  I nod with a show of my teeth. He’s not leaving.

  “Twenty-seven.”

  Young! Oh so very young. Way too young for me, oh no. This really is over. He’s a baby!

  “And you? Div Hallowell? Your age?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  Alright, I lied. Twenty-seven is perfect.

  He touches the screen on his phone and begins. “Do you want to finish your wine, or should we just get this over with?”

  “You’re kind of a dick.” I think I said that out loud. Yeah, by his expression, I definitely said that out loud.

  “There’re reasons people act the way they do. I’m protecting myself.”

  “From what?”

  “Women,” he says.

  Oh, one of those. Why the hell did he show up and agree to this date anyway? He’s a damaged man like the thousands in the erotica genre. Right? They’re all traumatized and fucked in the head, waiting for a woman to save them from their demons. Wow, poor judgment on my part. The guy’s hot, but a complete dick. A dickey-dick. Maybe I should just use him tonight, get laid and move on; then I’ll be the dick. No, I’m not that hard up or easy. Plus, I’m really starting to like him in some sick and twisted way. Maybe he’s not damaged. He could’ve just said that to see how I’d react.

  “I don’t need to wait to finish my wine before we begin because all of your options end with me sitting at this table. You’re the one who might leave, so let me ask you, Dan Keller, would you like to finish your wine before we begin?” Oh shit, there must be beads of sweat on my forehead. My heart’s pounding like the bass in a rap song. Do people still listen to rap? I asked my students once if they listened to rap and at first they looked at me like I was crazy, and then they laughed. Little shits.

  Stay on course. Don’t think about work, stay focused or you’ll start to tighten your fists and scrunch your nose. Think happy thoughts. Fluffy kittens and rainbows.

  “There’s something about that smile of yours,” he says. “It screams confidence.”

  Good, I’ve still got it. People haven’t a clue about all the fucked up shit in my head or my insecurities.

  “Let’s go ahead and begin like you suggested. Hand me your phone, I wanna see your list,” I say in a soft voice with a warm smile. Normally I’d just nod and let the guy take the lead. Not with him. He’s surprised me and now I’m surprising myself. Give me your phone, fucker.

  I nudge my cell forward and he places his on my bread plate as if I’m being served a meal. Our eyes meet then we dive in.

  He’s predictable and I’m not an idiot. I knew exactly what he was going to write. His likes include:

  Porn, Tits, Anal, Beef Jerky, Beer, Video Games (in italics), Boxing, Football, Car Shows like Fast N’ Loud, and fucking fast and loud.

  Most women would drop the phone, pick up their purse and run, but he’s expecting that. His plan was to write down the nastiest shit that no woman would ever write herself. I mean, come on, what man would write that he enjoys reading, watching the Lifetime channel, or eating salads? And what woman would write the crap that he wrote?

  Me. I would. I wrote that list, the one above, that’s what he’s reading right now and the one in front of me is very differe
nt. Fuckin’ A. His real list is as follows:

  Salads, Chick Lit, Shopping, Romantic Movies, Shoes, Italian Dinners, Wine, John Legend, Starbucks, and Fleece Pajamas.

  But that’s not his real list either, now is it? He did exactly what I did. He wrote what he thought I would write. The ideal image of what all men and women like, or are like.

  “Sooo... you enjoy anal and beef jerky?” His brow rises and he cocks his head.

  “And you enjoy Chick Lit and John Legend?” I match his pose. Does this mean he wanted to continue the date? He was trying to match me? Or he knew how clever I’d be and he listed the opposite of what I thought. What the hell? Now I’m confused.

  “You’re playing me,” he says with a grin.

  “No, I think you’re playing me.” My underwear is soaked in sweat to match my armpits and my face. If I stand, there’ll be a big wet circle on my ass.

  “Div,” he leans closer and whispers.

  “Item for item,” I cut in before he has a chance to speak. “A perfect match. My list as a whole is exactly the same as yours. They’re both gender-narrow-minded-specific.”

  He leans back and pours a second glass of wine while our pasta is served. I did win. I can’t believe he’s going to stay.

  “I’m not protecting myself and I wouldn’t have taken option two all the way. I just wanted to see your reaction,” he says.

  I knew it.

  “If you took off after I suggested we could fuck tonight, I’d know you were either a prude, or unable to handle a joke. And if you said we could skip dinner and fuck right away, you’d be too easy for me, not worth my time either way, but you did neither.”

  I swallow again. That was hot when he said he’d fuck me, throwing it into the mix of options, but I was correct; he wasn’t serious. Damn.

  “Is Div a nickname?”

  And just like that, after my nasty list and his comment about fucking, we start a new conversation as if he just sat down at the table.

  “It’s short for Divine.”

  “Middle name?”

  “O.”

  “O what?” he asks.

  “Just the letter O. I think my parents fell asleep while filling out the birth certificate. No name, just a letter.” This part is always the worst. Where did you grow up (Pittsburgh), go to school (Pittsburgh), got any siblings (no), what do you do for fun? What does that even mean, fun? Like kill people? I suppose that could be considered fun.

  Forget I just said that. What I say, do, and think are three very different things.

  This is what I do for fun.

  “I like to drive around town and listen to music.” I watch porn. “I bake sweets - cakes, pies and cookies.” I write erotic novels. “I spend a lot of time reading.” I’ve seen you jerk off and I know you have a nice dick.

  That’s true, actually. I’ve looked in the windows of his home. I’ve even sneaked into his backyard and climbed the stairwell to his second floor balcony. I got to watch him jerk off. I got lucky. Most nights he’s on his computer or reading, but that night was a treat. It turned me on beyond belief. He was standing in his bedroom with one hand on his dresser while the other yanked it. A bit strange that he wasn’t in his bed or sitting down, and then when he came he just let it shoot out. Another surprise. He didn’t try to catch it or cover the tip. His cum stuck to the front of the dresser and slid slowly down until it dripped onto a rug.

  That’s what I do for fun, Mr. James Daniel Keller. I watch you pleasure yourself. I already know you have control over that thing in your pants, and I know you’re single. You’re home alone whenever I check on you.

  Wait, you find that deceitful? Sneaky? I happen to think of myself as brilliant. I want to know what I’m getting into before I get into it, or it gets into me, if you know what I mean.

  Voice, check. Scent, check. Dick, check. Three down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That was... ummm... interesting? It was a good date and it turns out Daniel Keller is a townie. Born, raised, and schooled in this university town of thirty thousand. And now he writes product reviews. He gets paid for articles and to write reviews for companies in order to boost their sales and ratings. He does it for authors and musicians sometimes as well. No joke. I almost spit out my meatball when he told me. Isn’t that ironic? And I thought what I was doing online by having a street team was unethical...

  I didn’t fuck him, by the way. He didn’t get to any bases, and when he moved in for a kiss, I stepped back leaving him high and dry. No nooky and no phone numbers were exchanged, not yet. I have too many other things to do tonight. I have to talk to the Dick Sluts. I need to sell some books. I need to make some money so I can quit my fucking job. I can’t let Dan distract me from my plans. This is important; it’s my life, my future. The guy’s sexy and I like him, but he’ll have to wait.

  Violet Cuddlecock

  Have you Sluts read my new dark erotic novel? It might be an ugly cry for some. Something different than all the rest. You won’t be disappointed!

  65 people like this.

  Violet Cuddlecock’s my pen name. It’s a good one for the genre. Better than a few I’ve seen recently. It’s as if everyone has jumped on the ‘Grey, James, Beautiful, Millionaire, Promised, Step Brother, and so on’ bandwagon, trying everything possible to make their books and names sound like the popular ones. Anyone else notice that? Well, they may just be the smart ones because I went the alternate route and their books do far better than mine. I’m not a clone, at least not that I’m aware of, but writing a book is similar to creating a piece of art, it’s impossible to be truly original, so I should’ve jumped on that train like all the rest. Everything’s been done anyway, so what does it matter? My students shake their heads when I tell them that about their designs, but it’s true. No matter what you write or create, it will remind someone, somewhere, of something else.

  I know this, but I wrote it in my post anyway. Something different from all the rest.

  So my street team gets to work. I sit in bed with my laptop and my long list of Facebook fans, asking them to comment on my post. I want it to stay at the top of the newsfeed. Every time there’s a comment added it jumps back up. That’s no secret; I’ve seen a lot of authors do this on other sites. They post their book, readers comment, and then when it starts to disappear into the Facebook vortex they add a short sentence to boost it back up. Like, thank you, or glad you enjoyed it!

  It makes me want to vomit, seriously, this isn’t something that I’m proud of, but I play the game and it works. After a while more people post that the book sounds good, some say they just one-clicked, while others post that it’s on their TBR list. Marketing, my friends. The entire world is run by ads. When you don’t have a publisher, this is one way to sell books, homegrown advertising.

  Oh fuck, there she is. Another author named Kimmy Firestorm.

  Jesus, now that I think of it, authors’ names in the erotic genre are perfect for the WWE. Erotic books and professional wrestling are one and the same. Next match in the ring will be Violet Cuddlecock versus Kimmy Firestorm. Ding-ding-ding.

  I should’ve called myself Firestorm; that is a good name, it goes along with my dark auburn brown hair.

  I’m a member of over forty author and book sites and Kimmy’s on every one of them. She’s one of those Facebook whores who clog the wall with multiple posts. Every fifteen minutes, Buy my books, sweeties! I love you all! XOXO!

  I want to send her a message, reminding her of the rules, but I hold back.

  Yes, these sites have rules. You can’t flood the wall with the same thing over and over (Kimmy), and don’t beg people to buy your books (Kimmy).

  I admit it, I’m a competitive bitch and some of my fellow authors; like Kimmy, make me want to pull my hair out because people love them so much.

  She writes what I call PG-13 Kid Romance. Not much sex, the women hold out, a deep emotional bond forms between the characters... they have weak libidos, never fucking until the end... not
hing like real life. My books are one-hand-two-finger reads that get you hot and heavy from Chapter One. How did she get accepted into the Sluts?

  I slam my laptop shut and head for the kitchen for a Miller Light.

  My life is meh.

  Mediocre and uninteresting.

  I should just go ahead and do it, kill someone, brush away the meh for a while.

  Mehhhhh.

  I walk around my living room with a beer in hand sounding like a sheep. Mehhh, bahhh, mehhh.

  My God, I’m going insane. I need some friends.

  Everyone in my life outside of the university and Dan are online. My author has thousands of Facebook friends, but I have only thirty-two, real ones, people who are connected to Div. Most of them I met in high school or college, and none of them live in the area. They’re all back in Pittsburgh. It’s a place I’ll never return to because of the bad memories. My mother died...

  There’s a knock on my door.

  I’m in my robe, holding a beer, making animal noises, thinking about my dead parents at nine at night, and there’s a knock.

  I know it’s him. Dan. He wants more, but my house is off limits. Always. No one can come in, no one can see how I live or what I own; it’s private.

  He knocks again.

  I step onto my front porch and into the spring night, shutting the door quickly so he can’t see inside. The smell of rain is mixed with the scent of greasy French fries from the Burger Castle that’s down the road. His hair is wet. Shiny. Dripping. An image flashes through my head of his naked body sprawled out on his bed with his hands tied to the bedpost and his dick stuck in a jar of caramel. I lick my lips.

  He moves closer as if it’s a sign, but I grip the top of my robe, signaling not to touch. His grin’s contagious. Sexy bastard. Uh, he has the face of a young Casey Affleck. I’m in trouble.

  “Div,” he whispers with a hand placed next to my head. “You asked me out to dinner but then you refused my kiss.” His breath smells like a cinnamon Altoid. “I haven’t been rejected since I was fourteen. But that’s how you play, right? It’s what you do to lure men back to your house?”