#1 Muse ~ T. Gephart

by Gephart, T

  I laughed, his cockiness sort of endearing. “How do you know I’d ask you to stay? Some of us have to work you know, Nick, so maybe I don’t have time for shower sex.”

  He opened his mouth in shock and whispered, “No time for shower sex? Who even says that?”

  Nobody.

  Nobody said it, especially when you had the hottest man alive in your bed and he was promising to deliver orgasms. But I did have to work, and losing my new job so soon would definitely suck.

  “Maybe we could have quick morning sex instead?” I suggested, not willing to just kiss him goodbye and push him out my door. “I have at least forty pages to read today and make notes.”

  He grinned, his hand traveling seductively down my body. “Ah yes, the mysterious script you’re reading you can’t tell me anything about. You know, I could always torture the information out of you?” His head dipped, lowered his mouth to my nipple and he sucked. His teeth grazed against my firm peak sending my body into overdrive with a flood of arousal.

  Oooooh.

  He.

  Was.

  Good.

  “I’ll never tell. Never,” I moaned, trying to concentrate on anything else other than what his mouth was doing.

  “Fine, your call,” he chuckled against my skin, “torture it is.”

  Five more minutes of his delicious mouth on my body and I’d tell him the name of the script, as well as the synopsis and character notes. Not only would I volunteer the information, but enjoyed my interrogation and begged for more.

  “How well do you know Audrey Rydell?” I asked suddenly, the question leaping out of my mouth before I had a chance to stop it.

  I hadn’t meant to mention her name, the fact that it had been her script I’d been trying to keep a secret made my mind wander as to their still unknown connection.

  “Audrey?” He lifted his head, huffing out a breath of frustration, no longer interested in my torture. “She’s married, don’t believe everything you read.”

  Ooooooh that wasn’t a response I was expecting.

  “I hadn’t read anything.” Okay, that was a lie; obviously I had read her work. Maybe, I’d misread the situation and talk about work wasn’t only off limits for me but for him too. Guess that was fair, too bad it made me feel like shit. Like I’d imposed where I wasn’t wanted, pulling myself away from him as I felt him cool toward me.

  He shook his head, not allowing me to go. “Shit, I’m sorry, Claire. I didn’t mean it like that, I’m just sick of the questions. Everyone assumes we’re having an affair, but she’s a talented writer and we’re looking for a project to work on together. That’s it.”

  “Nick, you don’t need to explain. I mean, we don’t even really know each other that well.” We’d seen each other a few times and slept together, hardly constituted a relationship. He certainly didn’t owe me anything, even if I did want to know.

  “No, I don’t need to explain but I want to.” He kissed my shoulder, holding me against his body. “It’s just work. She has some awesome ideas and I’m excited to see what she comes up with for us. She’s easy to be around.”

  That he was talking about her in the professional sense didn’t help. God, how pathetic was I that I wished he’d said all of that about me? Because deep down I guess I’d hoped that we’d have the chance to work together too. Having him embody the words I had written.

  “You’re not saying anything.” Nick lifted my chin, studying me closely. “Why?”

  And even though he was probably more than capable of fooling me with his brilliant acting ability, I could tell his confusion wasn’t for show. He genuinely didn’t know. How could he? Not like he could peer inside my mind and know what I wanted.

  “I just hope I get the opportunity to work with you too someday,” I answered wistfully, knowing it probably made me sound like a loser. “Or anyone,” I added with a laugh, my effort to sound less pathetic failing miserably. “Anyway, I’m sure you guys will find something awesome to work on. Maybe sooner than you think.”

  The script I was reading didn’t immediately point to Nick as a lead, but I didn’t doubt he was capable if given a chance.

  “Oh really?” His interest seemed piqued. “What do you know?”

  I bit my lip, trying to sound playful. “You might have to go back to torturing me.”

  A sly smile edged across his face. “Just remember, Claire. You asked for it.”

  It was by far the most productive I’d been in months, if not years. I was not only working on my own screenplay—ecstatic at what I was producing—but I had won even greater favor with Marconi. I had binge read my last job, sending him a glowing report on how much I loved Audrey’s script. My notes had apparently pleased him, sending over another script via courier and asking me for feedback.

  And Nick, well, he was an unexpected surprise.

  “What’s your family like?” he asked, pouring wine into a glass as he checked on dinner.

  I hadn’t really planned on spending every night with him, intending to play it cool as I tried to figure “us” out. But being with him just felt so good and I hated to deny myself. Besides, he was almost impossible to say no to.

  “Great.” I smiled, the thought of them always making me warm inside. “I had a great childhood, two parents who loved each other and two siblings who thought I was amazing. They moved when I was in college, and after I graduated, I just decided to stay here.”

  “Yeah, must have been hard though. As much as my brothers piss me off, I’m glad they’re around. Not that I’d tell them that.” He laughed.

  It was weird talking about his family like they were just a normal family. I mean, I guess they were just a normal family, but it was still sort of surreal.

  “It’s hard sometimes, but we talk on the phone and I go back and see them. Plus, I have Luke and Scully, trust me, they more than make up for it.”

  He grinned. “Yeah, I like your friends.”

  “Oh really?” I wrapped my arms around him, pulling on the dishtowel he had slung over his shoulder. “Should I call them? Invite them to dinner?”

  His hands dropped to my waist, tugging me closer to his body. “Nope, I want you all to myself.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m selfish,” he said with no apology, his grin widening.

  What did that even mean?

  “Well, you might not always feel like that,” I leaned in and whispered. “Sometimes—not a lot but—I have a tendency to be a little crazy.”

  He threw his head back and laughed. “I was kind of counting on it. I like your kind of crazy. It keeps me on my toes.”

  “That’s a good thing?” I wished I didn’t need to ask, assuming that everything he said were flowery complements, but there was only so much delusion I was willing to entertain.

  “Hell yes, it is. You’re real, and so freaking refreshing I honestly can’t wait to hear what comes out of your mouth next. As much as I like your friends, I like you better.”

  “Because I’m the right kind of crazy.” I used the dishtowel I still had in my hands and flung it at his arm.

  “Yeah, you are. So let’s make a deal, I’ll feed you and while we eat, we can discover more about each other.”

  My heartbeat accelerated, the thought alone making me giddy.

  He was sooooooo nice.

  Not just to look at, but genuinely nice with a good heart. And boy did I want to “discover” more.

  I wanted to know it all.

  “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

  I think it was easier when he was just the hot dude I’d met five years ago, or the famous hot dude I lusted over. And yet . . . there wasn’t a chance I was walking away.

  “SO, I NEED TO TELL you something.”

  That was never how you wanted a conversation with your boyfriend to start, especially if it wasn’t you who was the one saying it.

  “O-kay.” I lowered myself onto his couch as I tried not to panic. It had been a place of such fond
memories, surely it wouldn’t let me down now. Especially not when we had two of the most outstanding weeks ever.

  I’ll admit that I was tentatively waiting for the other shoe to drop, knowing that things had been going too well and yet, I couldn’t stop myself from enjoying it.

  And of course, Nick was amazing—all the things you could want in a boyfriend multiplied by a million. And then there was the added bonus that he got along with my friends and they loved him. I hadn’t had a chance to meet his yet, but that was because I had to work, and when we had free time, we were sort of busy a lot.

  What? Like I was going to turn down sex with Nick Larsson.

  His hand reached out to mine, locking our fingers in a gesture that would have otherwise had me excited. “Remember the night you came over and we were supposed to go over that script Scully had given to Dave?”

  “You mean the night I came over and we ended up making out like a pair of animals in heat, that night?” I asked, the memory of it forever burned in my brain. It was our first official date, something I wasn’t likely to forget. Like ever.

  “Yes, and after you left . . .”

  Oh God, he was going to admit he called someone else for a booty call not realizing we were going to be permanent. I knew I should have pressed him the next day when he’d admitted to being tired, damn me for being so loved up that I decided to trust him.

  “Look, whatever it is, I just need to know the truth. Please don’t lie to me.” It was tempting to say it was in the past and I didn’t want to know, live in happy oblivion and ignore it. But now it was out in the open I would obsess about it. The thoughts would eat me alive as I imagined whatever he’d done as the worst-case scenario.

  “After you left, I picked up the script and read it. I had only been meaning to flick through because I was curious, but once I got reading, I wanted to finish.”

  Oh thank you, God.

  As far as indiscretions went, this was by far the best.

  I wasn’t even surprised, assuming he’d eventually pick it up to see what it was about anyway. So, no, the shock hadn’t sent me reeling into a panic that I couldn’t comprehend, because honestly, I was amused he’d waited at all.

  Who was going to have a document—regardless of what’s written on it—in their possession penned by the person they were swapping bodily fluids with and not read it? I wouldn’t have even needed the last caveat; just in my possession would have been enough. I’d have flipped through the pages of that bad boy so fast anyone would have thought I was a speed-reading prodigy.

  In any case, even though I had theoretically buried my head in the sand, it was something I knew would have eventually been dealt with.

  “It’s not a script, it was . . .” fantasy musings about you of which I have at least ten others tucked in a plastic tub like the dead body that had been my career at the time. Yeah, probably best if I didn’t say that.

  “ . . . It’s a story, something I was tinkering with and hoping to use in future ideas.”

  The sweet spot for any script was one hundred and twenty pages. At approximately one page per minute, anything longer than that was given serious side eye unless you wrote the next Schindler’s List. My tales of Nick and Blaire didn’t need to adhere to the standard because it well . . . it wasn’t a script.

  He took a breath, seeming to measure his words. “Can we discuss it?”

  Something else you didn’t want to hear unless it was coming out of your own mouth. Discuss what? Whether or not I was going to seek an insanity plea during the proceedings for the stalking charge he was going to level at me? Or if I’d be willing to sign an NDA as his parting gift as he sailed out the door? Or maybe he wanted to discuss the misrepresentation of the “Blaire” character, disappointed that I didn’t have her stellar attributes, namely her perfect body and “together” life? I wasn’t sure he could argue false advertising since he wasn’t my target audience but who was I to judge?

  I groaned, closing my eyes as I buried my head in the crook of my arm. “Can we go back five minutes to when I could pretend you didn’t read it? There really isn’t anything to talk about. It was a rough first draft, that at best had been self-edited, and at worst had so many typos and grammatical errors it was debatable it was even English.”

  I had a process, and my hands and brain worked at two different speeds, which sometimes got me into trouble. Go ahead, cast whatever dirty aspersions you want, they were probably valid too.

  “You think I was worried that there was a comma out of place?” Nick laughed, tugging my arm down. “Claire, I picked it up because I was curious, but I read it because it was good. It was really good. It was funny and entertaining and had a really great storyline.”

  Okay, so that was all positive stuff but I was sensing a but; there was always a but. And he hadn’t even mentioned the most obvious issue; that I had basically written a fairytale that included him and me. And all before we were dating because that wasn’t at all weird.

  “Just say it.” I shook my head, thinking of how fondly I would remember our time together. It had been more than I’d expected, so there could be no disappointment.

  He looked at me confused, tilting his head to the side. “Say what?”

  “Gah, you’re going to make me do it? Come on, Nick, you’re supposed to be a gentleman. Go ahead and tell me how freaking creepy it is that I wrote about you.”

  I left off the “and me” part because A. it was assumed and B. well it sounded worse with the addition. And while there wasn’t a lot I could say that would make it any better than it was, I was sticking to the age-old defense that dictated that you never admitted more than you had to. Yes, no—brief and concise—that would be what would set me free.

  Failing to admit the obvious even though I had plainly spelled it out for him, his brow knitted in confusion like he couldn’t see what my problem was. “Ummm, you know that screenwriters write screenplays with actors in mind a lot, right? Tarantino, Woody Allen, Kurt Sutter—do you want me to keep going?”

  I scoffed, “Well, Tarantino and Woody Allen—”

  “Okay, yeah. Those two were bad examples.” He laughed knowing if he was trying to point out how “normal” it was, those two weren’t great pieces of supporting evidence. “But Sutter is solid, and what about Francis Ford Coppola?”

  “You’re comparing me to the guys who created ‘Sons of Anarchy’ and ‘The Godfather’? I’m not sure if you are trying to make me feel better or join me on the crazy train.”

  Maybe I was just really good in bed. My vagina had magical powers that had Svengali’d him so that he was willing to lie to my face. While it was far-fetched, it was easier to digest than being compared to Francis Ford Coppola.

  Jesus.

  A good self-esteem was one thing, out and out delusion was something completely different.

  He grabbed my face in his hands, holding me still as he looked into my eyes. “Claire, I’m just saying screenwriters do it all the time. I’m honored you wrote it for me.”

  Oh. Wait. A. Freaking. Minute.

  He thought I wrote it for him.

  As in, he inspired the character, which technically was true.

  As in, I wrote a story, envisaging him as the lead and tailored my “screenplay” for him.

  Well if that wasn’t the very definition of what I’d done, then I didn’t know what was. The reasons behind it didn’t matter, and he hadn’t even asked what those reasons were. Who cared? No one did. No one asked Francis Ford Coppola, I bet. Who knows, maybe Frankie boy had been trying to score a date too.

  “You don’t think it’s weird?” I asked again, reinforcing that I thought it was and giving him the opportunity to rethink his life choices.

  He brought his lips to mine, kissing me hard as his thumb skated against my jaw. “I’m fucking flattered beyond measure.”

  I was going to cry.

  There was a scenario I hadn’t even bothered to hope for because it was too fantastical to even dream. My
fan fic had not only been misconstrued as a serious story, but the man who was the object of the fantasy believed that in fact, he was merely the inspiration for the character. And not only that, but he liked both his representation, and the story as a whole. I couldn’t have even written a script that convincing, and that was supposed to be my job.

  Oh God, I hoped I didn’t die suddenly in my sleep or something. It would be so cruel to have escaped what could have been one of the most catastrophic events both professionally and personally, only to get hit by a bus or something like that.

  “Wow, I’m just . . . Wow.” I was honestly speechless, unsure of whether I should be thanking him or be embarrassed. “That’s really great.”

  His lips spread into a grin. “I’m glad you feel that way, because I sort of gave it to my agent.”

  “What the actual fuck?”

  I had meant to think it, continue with my internal pondering as I had been safely in my own head, but it had wheezed out of me all the same.

  Not that I could be mad at my mouth, because seriously, what the actual fuck? How could my fortune have turned so quickly on a dime? All that awesome stuff we’d been celebrating was now circling down the toilet as I watched on, unable to do anything but wave it goodbye.

  My lungs burned as I tried to suck in air. “You gave it to your agent?”

  I think getting hit by a bus would have hurt less. It definitely would have left less mess and be easier to explain.

  “Claire, isn’t that the point of writing it? For it to be turned into a movie?” His brow furrowed, looking at me like it was freaking obvious.

  Oh my God he was serious.

  My chest constricted in what was probably an anxiety attack with my heart beating so fast I was guaranteed to blow out a rib or two. “Your agent is Jeremy Levin.”

  It wasn’t a question because I knew exactly who his agent was, and he was a huge asshole. Granted the words agents and assholes were kind of synonymous, it was not helping my cause that the particular agent asshole combo in question was the very man who I’d queried a year ago. Not only had he turned me down—rejections something I was used to—but he had told me he’d prayed for blindness so he’d never have to read shit like mine again.