Making a Scene

by Trudy Doyle

  “I thought there were machines for that.”

  “Machines.” He scowls, taking my arm as we start to walk. “They’re for wimps.”

  One of which he definitely appears not, especially with his hand hot enough to burn through the fabric to my skin. I swallow again. “You do all that work yourself?”

  “I have a couple assistants.” He puts his fist to his mouth, stifling a yawn. “And…oh, all right, I lied. I do have a couple machines. Still, it’s a lot of work but I enjoy it. Though not so much the getting up at 2:30 a.m. part.”

  “Which I hope explains why you look like you could fall asleep right underneath that lamppost, and is not in any way a reflection on me.”

  He stops, staring at me. “You’re kidding, right? Jesus, you’ve had my attention since I picked up your first book. I mean, you’re such a great writer. And seeing you walk in my shop had to be the best compliment you could’ve paid me.”

  It’s a good thing the streetlamp’s in his eyes because I can feel myself going swoony all over again. “Thank you. Truly. Though I, uh…” Good Lord, he has me tongue-tied. “Damn, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Now that I’m finding hard to believe.” Again his hand is at the small of my back as he guides me around a gaggle of trash cans. “Never met a writer that didn’t have something to say.”

  I laugh, suddenly struck with the urge to tell him everything. “Then meet your first one, because this one’s been staring at a blank page for two days now.”

  He frowns sympathetically. “What is it, writer’s block?”

  “Writer’s cement,” I say, hoping it sounds dramatic enough, because no way am I going to explain what’s really behind it. “I’ve spent so much time in my apartment looking at nothing I’m starting to go out of my mind.”

  He looks both ways before we trot across a street. “Maybe all you need is a change of scenery.”

  “A friend of mine suggested that. She thought I should try the library.”

  “And stare at more walls? No, what you need is to be out in the world.”

  “So maybe I should hang my laptop around my neck like drummers do in marching bands and walk around town for a while?”

  “Very funny, but what I’m thinking is you could bring your work to Serious Joe.”

  “To your place?” Now I stop, looking at him. “You want me to write there?”

  “Sure. We’re a Wi-Fi hot spot and right on a really busy corner. I could even set you up near an outlet so you don’t have to wear down your battery. And I guarantee you, with the courthouse down the road, we get enough interesting people coming in to blow your block to smithereens.”

  “Hmm…maybe that wouldn’t be too bad.” Especially since one of the most interesting people is standing right next to me now. Not to mention getting me out of my Josh-contaminated apartment. “That’s awfully nice of you.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Remember what I said before about being selfish? Well, don’t they make museums out of where famous writers work? Think of the business you could bring me.”

  I laugh out loud. “Oh come on! I’m hardly Hawthorne!”

  “And Dickens used to publish in newspapers. It’s all relative.”

  “Is it?” I take a few steps away, crossing my arms. “I should have suspected under all that kindness lay an ulterior motive.”

  He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, the evil grin returning. “Who, me? Never.” He shivers a bit, reaching for my hand. “C’mon, let’s keep moving. It’s starting to get cold out here.”

  “No,” I say firmly. “I’ll say good night here. I’m not going to walk a step further with someone who just wants to cash in on my notoriety.”

  He looks genuinely hurt. “Pam, I’m joking! I wouldn’t tell anyone who you are, honest.” He holds out his hand. “Now come on, I won’t leave you on the street. Please.”

  Oh man, I could play this to the hilt. Because I just love to see a man beg. But that would be really mean when he’s looking so sincere. So I cut him a break, at least for the moment. “You’re not leaving me on the street.” I look over my shoulder. “I live here. But thanks for the sherry. And the offer.”

  He takes my hand and draws me closer, his fingers closing over mine. “Now who’s being bad, hm?” He gives them a squeeze that warms me right to the bone and when he lets go, I feel oddly disconnected. “Good night, Pamela Flynn. Shall I see you tomorrow?”

  I hop the few steps up my stoop and open the door, turning as I step inside. “Now what kind of writer would I be if I didn’t leave you hanging?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets, tossing me another smoldering look. “Certainly not Pamela Flynn. Good night, then. Sweet dreams.”

  Good God, I think, closing the door. Sweet dreams of who? I fly up the stairs and into my apartment, keeping the lights off as I toss my purse to the sofa and run to the window. I can see him crossing the street, hands still in his pockets and collar up, but just before he reaches the corner he turns, looking my way. I jump back from the window and order myself not to think about what that may mean, but already, my analytic mind has gone to work, churning with possibilities. When I move back to the window, he’s gone.

  I also try not to think about what the last hour has meant, but it pecks at me as I get undressed, wash my face and teeth, climb onto the sofa that’s become my bed. As I stretch my legs and sink into the cushions my body slowly unwinds, the slow tick-tick-tick of my kitchen clock the only sound easing me into sleep.

  These few unfettered minutes are usually my best time for plotting, when the ideas flow freely and undisturbed, when there’s nothing around to divert my attention, when I have the added benefit of my uninhibited subconscious. Which, this night, is focusing on nothing but Roark Carmelli.

  I see him making his way home, wherever that is, though it must be close if he’s walking around town like me. I see him opening his door and stepping into a house decidedly masculine—leather furniture, dark wood, utilitarian. But then how could I be sure, because what do I really know about him? I’ll bet a whole lot less than he knows about me.

  Yet there’re some things I feel from observing him he’d do religiously, like leave his keys on a table by the door, hang his coat in the closet, set his phone to charge. Still, I could also see him doing some totally guy things like slugging milk right out of the carton, kicking his shoes off in the living room, listening to sports highlights on ESPN as he gets ready for bed. When he’ll finally cut through all this boring foreplay and it’ll get interesting. At least for me.

  Because I’ll get to watch.

  I snuggle under my blanket as The Roark Show begins.

  First, his shirt. He yanks it from his jeans and of course he unbuttons slowly, as he’s occupied with why the forward threw the ball from center court and blew the game. Flick, flick, flick, flick, goes each button, revealing first his throat, then his pecs, down to the ridges of his taut belly before he shrugs it off with those majestic arms. Next the belt, sliding it from his hips like a whip before he does something supremely cruel: he turns around. Hey! Don’t deny me the pleasure of seeing you unzip. Bad Roark! I say, his arms going to work, hands hidden at his waist before a swift motion sends his jeans downward and with a bend forward he steps out of them, tossing them and his shirt to a chair.

  But it’s not as bad as it sounds. Because by his turning around I did get a look at that gorgeous back, as wide as a football player’s and a perfect vee down to his trim waist, all leading to a rump still teasingly hidden. I see he’d been wearing those tight cotton boxer-briefs under his jeans, which he now snaps against his waist before he reaches down and yanks off his socks. He drops them in the hamper as he walks into the bathroom.

  I will not go into what he held in his hand a minute before. Not in that context at least. But we’ll get back to it, I promise. Because something nearly as interesting is happening right at this moment: Roark is sliding off his underwear. And holy mama, be still my heart.
/>   Criminy—will you take a look at that ass?!

  I imagine my hands on it sliding upward, soft yet firm in my palms, trailing my fingers toward that delicious cleft at the small of his back. I imagine this as he stands naked at the sink, bending to wash his face and brush his teeth, his reflection in the mirror sublimely benign as he flosses and finishes. He’s so tall I have the distinct impression something’s resting on that sink as he checks for a much, much, much tinier something in his eye, and my heart starts pounding because I know he’s about to turn around and my voracious voyeurism will finally be awarded the grand prize. But again, he’s cruel, and when he flicks off the light, he sends my expectations and his silhouette into the dark.

  But I’m patient, I can wait. This is my fantasy, after all. He tosses those boxers into the hamper, checks a few more things I have no interest in and, before long, he goes into the bedroom and into the light of his bedside table. His back is still to me as he sets the alarm and his watch to the night table and pulls down the covers. Now my heart’s really pounding and I hold my breath. Then he turns.

  Oh. My. God. Virgins would faint at the sight.

  Damn good thing I’m ages from being one.

  One could pen poetry, sings songs, exalt. I’ll do my best to do it justice.

  A flaccid cock is an awesome thing to behold, resting yet full of promise, a conduit of both prodigy and pleasure. It is both vulnerable and powerful, beautiful and grotesque, a totem of masculinity as well as an idol of awe for the feminine. It shifts and sways between his legs as he climbs into bed, slipping to the sheet as he twists to turn out the light, finally settling against his thigh before he pulls the covers to his neck. In the thin light his body is a blue mountain against the mattress and, as he closes his eyes and curls into sleep, I can only hope he’s thinking of me.

  And then I fall asleep too, breathless for tomorrow.

  Chapter Four

  I’m almost out the door, laptop case slung on my shoulder when the phone rings. Oh God. All I need now is some early-morning harassment from my agent. I brace for Renee and pick up the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hiya, Pam.”

  My spine ices over. “What do you want, Josh?”

  “Just seeing how you’re doing. Miss me?”

  “I’m seriously not in the mood. Get to it.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. Because the way I figure it, you owe me.”

  I laugh out loud. Balls beyond belief. “You’re joking, right? I don’t owe you shit.”

  “You got that right. You owe me money.”

  I lower my laptop to the floor and myself to a chair. I must be spinning in some alternate universe, because this conversation is making about as much sense as Bill Gates in a soup line. “Aside from the fact that for two months you lived in my house rent-free, eating my food—”

  “That I prepared, as well as washing your clothes—”

  “And your own that I bought, like those Speedo Fastskins you just had to have for when I paid to take you snorkeling in the Keys last month. I can’t see how in the world I could possibly owe you a cent.”

  “You can’t? Well how does a little plagiarism look to you?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t sound so shocked, Pammy. You know the part in chapter twenty-two when Shields splices those scenes together she found in the cutting room trash? The part the whole chapter hinges on? You stole that from me.”

  “Are you insane? I found that just where she did—in a D.W. Griffith biography.”

  “You found that on page forty-seven of my thesis. And. You. Know. It.”

  Hoo boy, this is what I get for hooking up with a drama major. “Josh, as much as I’d like to stick around and indulge your little fantasy, I’m due back on Earth. See you.”

  “Oh yeah? Well, pay me what you owe me, or you’ll see me in court.”

  “Pay you! Please tell me how in the world I would ever owe you anything?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Pammy. You owe me $35,000 to cover tuition for the semester I just blew. Thanks to you, my thesis is shot to hell.”

  I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. “Then go look for it there, because hell is where you’ll rot before you get a dime out of me!” I hang up and throw my phone across the room, wondering why I’d risk destroying a $300 piece of electronics for this undeserving prick.

  Okay, so now I’m pissed. I mean steam-shooting-out-the-ears fired up. I want to kick something, smash something, but instead I grab my laptop and run for the door. But not before I spy his glasses on the mantel. I sweep them to the floor then stomp the living crap out of them until they’re nothing but a mangled twist of plastic and metal.

  I’m feeling better already. I head out.

  The last thing I need right now is an accelerant, but all I can think of is coffee, coffee, coffee. I jaywalk across the street, nearly kissing a couple of cars head-on, and as though guided by radar, I find myself at Serious Joe. The doorbell tinks as I walk in.

  Roark looks up from a table he’s wiping. “Oh no, what’s wrong?” he asks, as if he’s a psychic reading my mood.

  “Is it that obvious?” I say, my crappy mood easing just seeing him. Because how cruel could the world really be if there are genuine people like Roark around, counter-balancing scum like Josh. “Sheesh…” I groan, my shoulders sagging. “It’s not even ten, and already my day’s heading for the crapper.”

  He comes over and places a hand on my shoulder. “Come on and sit down,” he says, guiding me to a table by the window. “Get settled and I’ll bring you some coffee.” As I do, he pulls back with a squint. “I think I know what you need. Be right back and oh—there’s the plug underneath, see?”

  I look. “I do, thanks.” And smile, which he returns so generously I wonder what I’m doing to deserve it. After so many months of unrequited generosity to Josh, I suppose my graciousness response has gotten a little rusty, and as I set up, adding to the other people already tapping away on their keyboards and tablets, I wonder how hardened I’ve become by the lack of it.

  But doing for Josh seemed second nature to me, and when he reciprocated with being what amounted to my houseboy, I almost felt ashamed for letting him. It got to the point where anything he did for me felt more like a gift than repayment, which makes it all the more shocking now that he’s turned against me. Which is the part that hurts the most.

  “How’s this?” Roark asks, sliding coffee, a still-steaming croissant and a small plate of sliced melon to the table. “Enough? We still have some quiche Lorraine.”

  “No, this is wonderful,” I say, never meaning it more, the strong and sweet mix of food a perfect analogy for the man bringing it. “What do I owe you?”

  I can see he’s ready to toss it on the house, but he’s no fool. After reading my mind again, or more likely the insistent look on my face, he says, “How about five dollars?”

  “How about ten?” I counter, and slip the bill into his pocket, startled when the gesture makes him flinch.

  “All right,” he says, “I’ll take it. But the balance does entitle you to five minutes of counseling. Are you game, or do I put it in the literacy fund can up there on the counter?”

  “I already know how to read,” I say, sweeping my hand to the chair opposite. As he takes it, I add, “Hey, that comes out to one hundred and twenty an hour. You’re kind of expensive, aren’t you?”

  He grins. “But infinitely worth it. Now,” he says, leaning in with all earnestness, “tell me what’s distracting you this beautiful morning.”

  You, is my first response, with those eyes so deep and dark and intent on me. The hell with his body, his face, that lush mane of hair. Give me the gaze of an interested man for the most potent aphrodisiac of all. Should I tell him about the call from Josh? It is kind of personal, and I really don’t know him very well. But on the other hand, maybe his impartiality is exactly what I need.

  “Okay.” I take a sip of coffee, as delicious as yesterday’s. “Sinc
e you asked… My ex-boyfriend is threatening to sue me.”

  “For what?”

  “Plagiarism.”

  “Seriously?” He shakes his head. “Some balls, right?”

  A little laugh escapes me. Not only has he affirmed how ridiculous the situation is, but to my amazement, he doesn’t even question whether Josh’s claim is valid. “He’s working on his master’s, and he’s saying I stole from his thesis for my next book.”

  He lifts a brow. “Drama major?”

  Has this guy hardwired my brain? “You don’t by any chance know him, do you?”

  “I know a lot of ass clowns. Did he let you read his thesis? Or did he live with you and he figured it kind of rubbed off?”

  “Yes, I read it, and yes, he lived with me, but I have no idea what he figures, and to tell you the truth, I think I’d shoot myself if I did.” I can’t believe I’m saying these things, let alone admitting to my own bad judgment. Though amazingly enough, not for spilling it to Roark. Somehow he makes me want to. “I should have never let him move in with me.”

  “So why did you?”

  “I don’t know. I guess I felt kind of sorry for him, the struggling grad student and all, though he did take care of my house and cook for me.” I shrug. “Plus he’s much younger than I am, and at my age that can be extremely flattering, especially when there’s the pitiable fact that, well…”

  “You were lonely?” He looks at me, and not without sympathy. Almost with an affinity, and all at once I wonder what his story is. “I’ve heard how solitary a writer’s life could be, alone in your head all day. Especially when you’ve been doing it for years. Tell me, how old are you?”

  A hell of a question to ask! Because how many strangers would actually expect to get an answer? Though coming from Roark it seems so logical, a natural part of this discussion. Still, I know I’m going scarlet, feeling the rush of blood spreading up my neck. But when I look at him I see nothing but his unwavering focus on me, mesmerizing in its efficiency. Like how I could probably tell him anything and he’d still be nonjudgmental yet thoroughly on my side.