Selfie

by Leslie Johnson

  “Of course right now.”

  The miserable old bat. “I actually have plans tonight. It’s my birthday, you see, and my roommates are buying me dinner.” I attempted an apologetic smile. “But I’ll work on your manuscript this whole weekend. Promise.”

  My boss let out another annoyed sigh. “Fine. Just make sure it’s done by Monday morning.” And without saying goodbye, she picked up her expensive satchel and sashayed out of the small office, her heels clicking on the tiled floor.

  I loathed the woman. And my stupid job.

  After graduating with a degree in English Literature from UCLA, I’d gotten a job assisting Helen Archer, a well-known romance writer. The title “personal assistant,” of course, was being kind. I was more like a slave, at my boss’s beck and call 24/7. If she ran out of wine in the middle of the night, I was the one who had to jump out of bed, zip over to the nearest liquor store in my pajamas, and get her that damnable bottle of wine. If she didn’t like the new chai latte from her usual coffeehouse, I was the one who had to go down and buy her a different latte. I cleaned the small office, managed her appointments, beta-read her drafts, and basically kept her writing life in order. All because two years ago, she’d promised to give my first novel to her literary agent.

  Well, two years had passed, but my first novel was currently buried under a pile of other more ambitious drafts. And I was stuck playing nanny to this spoiled woman who thought she was God’s gift to the world of romance fiction.

  Honestly, I would laugh if I wasn’t so miserable. But at least she paid me well enough. So that was one silver lining in this wretched life of mine.

  My cell phone buzzed angrily on the desk, and I glanced down at the screen. It was my roommate Stacy. With a sigh, I picked it up, wincing as loud music and revelry filled my ear.

  “I know, I know, I’m late. But my boss just left.” I let out a tortured groan. “And I have to spend the whole weekend going through her stupid manuscript again. I’m so screwed.”

  “Which is exactly why you need to get down here right now,” Stacy shouted over the noise. “Lorenzo just arrived, and he went to the bar to order us some drinks. So get your ass here pronto.” And she hung up on me.

  Stacy and Lorenzo were my roommates. Stacy was an aspiring actress who’d gotten a few minor roles in independent projects. Her latest role required her to play the ditzy blonde who would flash her boobs, have noisy, rampant sex in the moonlit woods, and then get gruesomely killed by a pack of werewolves. It would be her biggest role by far. She couldn’t wait. Neither could I, since I was such an aficionado of horror films.

  And then there was Lorenzo, a professional cuddler. Apparently, he was very good at it, or so I was told. He could hug anyone – man or woman – for hours and not get a full-blown erection digging into his client’s back. They seemed to appreciate that.

  A failed writer, a D-list actress, and a bum who gave expensive hugs. Shit, we were a bunch of losers. We were only able to get away with it for the simple reason that we lived in L.A.

  By the time I entered the flashy nightclub on Hollywood Boulevard, weaved through the crowd of sweaty party-goers, and plonked down beside my roommates, it was almost 8 p.m. They had already downed several shots by the looks of it.

  “Here’s your dinner.” Stacy handed me a paper bag, which contained a partially squashed turkey sandwich. “You’re welcome. And happy birthday.”

  Next, Lorenzo wrapped a pink feather boa around my neck, almost strangling me with it. “Happy birthday, sweet cheeks. If you want, I can give you a free cuddle tonight. And you can tell me all your worries and thoughts . . . and more. Much more.”

  Hint, hint, his eyes seemed to be saying, which I pointedly ignored. I knew Lorenzo had a small crush on me, but he’d also had a crush on Stacy way before I came onto the scene. From what I was told, they’d hooked up a few times before Stacy ended it. But Lorenzo hadn’t minded; if anything, he’d just fluttered to the next willing pussy like a carefree butterfly.

  Well, said carefree butterfly wasn’t going to land on my pussy. But I really wanted to get laid tonight. I hadn’t had sex in over three months.

  Stacy and Lorenzo glided over to the dance floor as I sat on the stool and devoured my turkey sandwich. I was chewing and shimmying to the music at the same time, wiping the sauce off my chin with the feather boa. The sandwich was good, really good. And it wasn’t such a bad dinner to have on a Friday night. I’d had a lot worse.

  Minutes later, I downed two shots (okay, maybe five) and then joined my crazy roommates on the dance floor. We hollered and danced and shook our arses with abandon. We were young, passionate, and living in the city of angels, where anything was possible. Life wasn’t perfect, but the potential was there. I closed my eyes and let myself drift away, swaying my body to the pounding music.

  Before I could stop myself, an image of Hunter’s gorgeous face surfaced in my mind. The way his green eyes filled with an almost pained expression as he came inside me, the way he squeezed my breasts as he sucked hungrily at my nipples. I danced faster, trying to shake the memories away, but it was no use. Thoughts of Hunter Cox consumed me.

  I groaned aloud in sexual frustration. Damn you, you selfish bastard. I hate you. And I still miss you so much it aches everywhere.

  A pair of warm hands grabbed my hips, causing my eyes to pop open in surprise.

  “Hey, pretty girl. Are you dancing alone?”

  I whirled around and stared into a pair of smiley brown eyes. The guy looked really young and cute in a geeky sort of way. He could be a genius entrepreneur of an IT startup.

  Or he could be a budding serial killer, hunting for easy bait.

  That didn’t deter me from drunkenly throwing my arms around his scrawny neck. “Not anymore.” I slurred, pressing my body against his. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit. I grabbed his lapels and leaned in, breathing in his cologne. He smelled nice, and I told him so.

  That seemed to bolster his courage. “Wanna go out and have some fun?”

  His open eagerness made me pause. Something about the heightened blush on his cheeks felt off, but my brain was fuzzy and I couldn’t think straight. But I had enough sense to ask a very important question.

  “How old are you?” I demanded.

  His blush deepened. “Almost eighteen.”

  “What!” I sobered up instantly.

  “I’m in college.” He hurried to explain. “Don’t worry; I’ll be eighteen next month.”

  I grabbed his lapels again, pulling him closer. “Sneaky monkey. How did you even get into the club?”

  “I . . . I used my older brother’s ID card,” he muttered sheepishly. “I just wanted to meet someone and get laid.”

  You and me both, mate.

  “Well, that someone isn’t me. Go find yourself a sorority girl on campus or something.”

  His expression turned sour at once. “You make it sound so easy. But girls nowadays have such unrealistic standards. They all want someone like Hunter Cox, never mind the fact that he wouldn’t even give them the time of day –”

  I yanked on his arm and led him to a quieter spot, where the music wasn’t so loud. “What did you just say?” I breathed.

  “Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” he said, all defensive. “He wouldn’t give those immature girls the time of day –”

  “No, the name, damn it! The guy’s name.”

  “Hunter Cox?” The young man scrunched up his face, making him appear even younger. “You don’t know him? He’s like an Instagram star. Even my mom follows him.” His face turned slightly green. “I once caught her playing with her breasts while staring at his shirtless uploads. I really didn’t need to see that.”

  I pulled a twenty out of my purse and pressed it into his hand. “Go back to your dorm, college boy, and try not to get older women thrown in jail.” I eyed my friends, who were now dancing with other strangers. “Come to think of it, I might do the same.”

  “Shall I accompany you?�
�� he asked, brightening with anticipation.

  Rolling my eyes, I pushed his back until we had exited the noisy club and were standing outside on the sidewalk.

  “Don’t make me regret giving you that hard-earned twenty. Now shoo.” After making sure he left safely, I hailed down my own cab and left the party scene. I sent Stacy a brief text message to say I was leaving early and then inhaled deeply, readying myself.

  Once my fingers stopped shaking, I googled Hunter’s name on my cell phone.

  The pictures. Shit, there were so many. He was shirtless in many of them, but some were close-ups of his beautiful face, taken at different angles.

  The guy was absolute perfection. His youthful look was mostly gone, replaced by a strong, manly sexiness that made my insides quiver. He’d always been so deliciously sexy, but this . . . this was different.

  Now it’s not just the women at the local uni hangout ogling you. The whole world is ogling you.

  I found that I didn’t like that at all. Not one bit.

  Troubled, I closed my eyes and leaned back into the seat. I’d satisfied my curiosity, but it had to end here. I wasn’t going to google him again. I would continue with my life as if nothing were amiss and focus on my writing goals –

  Oh, who was I fooling? I bolted up, my frenzied fingers flying across the phone screen until I found his Instagram page.

  Twelve million followers. Hunter Cox had twelve million followers!

  I quickly scanned the short bio beneath his moniker and almost fainted.

  Hunter Cox, Aussie expatriate. Graduated with a BA (Honours) in Government. Model and actor currently residing in Los Angeles, California.

  Hunter had been living in my backyard this whole time! I couldn’t believe it. I clicked on his photos, read the gushing comments from his crazy followers, and instantly felt jealousy tear through me. My jealousy turned to pain when one of the photos showed him cuddling next to a beautiful woman in bed. Another photo revealed his favorite jogging spot, and I leaned in, trying to get a closer look. The place felt strangely familiar.

  Then it hit me. It was Westward Park, a thirty-minute car drive from where I lived. The street across from the park boasted a variety of restaurants serving delicious Asian cuisines, a fact known to me because my boss had sent me there numerous times to buy her a carton of noodles whenever she got sick of Caesar salad and chicken soup.

  I stared out the window, feeling a mix of emotions as I wrapped the feather boa tighter around me. Five years ago, I had ordered myself to forget Hunter Cox, to only remember that I’d given my virginity to “some cute guy.” It had worked for a while; I’d gone out with several decent men who were satisfactory in bed. But for one reason or another, those relationships had all fizzled out over time.

  Is it your curse, Hunter? Am I doomed to never find anyone I can love as much as I loved you?

  By the time I reached home and paid the cab fare to my tired driver, I’d made up my mind.

  I was going to go to Westward Park the next day to come face to face with Hunter Cox.

  Chapter 8

  It was six in the morning when I slid my boss’s manuscript into my satchel and stepped out of the three-bedroom apartment. Stacy and Lorenzo had stumbled home around 3 a.m., stupidly drunk out of their minds. They’d crashed on the sofa, limbs sprawled in all directions, their gaping mouths reeking of stale alcohol. They were so far gone that they didn’t even stir three hours later when I stomped past them and let myself out.

  It was early Saturday morning, but the weather was already shaping up to be a warm one. I drove with the window down, excited and profoundly nervous all at once. Would Hunter be there, jogging down the park’s neat, designated paths? Or would he come much later, when the blue skies turned dusky and there were fewer people around?

  No matter what time, I would be there, working on this stupid manuscript until my eyeballs bled from sheer torment.

  When I arrived at Westward Park, I quickly made my way toward a bench and buckled down to work. Pulling out the stack of papers, I made a mental note to glance up every time male puffing sounds reached my ears. Joggers always passed through this area before reaching the narrower, bifurcated paths a few yards away. So they were in plain sight to me as I was to them.

  What is this snide comment about having respect for the French!!! I was surprised to see Helen Archer had scrawled this on the fifth page of her manuscript in purple ink. I respect them. Just fix this and move on!!!

  “Maybe if you’d clarified that the French people celebrated Bastille Day instead of Bestial Day, I wouldn’t have left that comment,” I muttered aloud. Truth was, I had known what she’d meant, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself from making fun of her a little.

  To think that she was a well-known romance writer. It was a good thing her plots were halfway decent because, frankly, her writing was atrocious.

  “Ah, here’s another zinger.” On the tenth page, she’d written the following gem.

  “Oh, my lord!” she squealed in wonton delight as the handsome aristocrat released a guttural, animalistic roar and tore off her petticoat. Grunting with demonic passion, he pierced through her maidenhead with his hot, throbbing man sausage, invoking the names of all the deities known to mankind . . .

  The malapropisms and ludicrous metaphors were so laughable that I hadn’t been able to resist leaving another comment. “Yes, I agree that wontons are delightfully delicious, but I can’t say the same for man sausages since I’m not a cannibal. P.S. Shall I order Chinese dumplings for lunch?”

  Obviously, she hadn’t appreciated my “snide” comment, judging by the angry slashes of purple ink and numerous exclamation points that soon followed.

  This was how I spent my entire Saturday at Westward Park. And Sunday. A week later, the same routine, all over again. And Hunter Cox was nowhere to be seen.

  A part of me wanted to give up. What was the point of this? Even worse, I was alarmed by how stalkerish I was becoming. The first thing I did upon waking was to check his Instagram page for updates. Before going to bed, I checked his page for more updates, and feverishly read the comments below his photos like a jealous lover. I hated that I cared so much.

  A fat rain droplet fell from the grayish sky and splattered on the first page of Helen Archer’s latest contemporary romance draft. I took this as a sign that enough was enough. After tossing the manuscript into my satchel, I ran toward my car just as a sudden downpour fell on my head. I let out a breathless scream and hurried into the dry, safe interior of my secondhand Volkswagen, my hair and clothes already starting to cling to my cheeks and body.

  “Bloody hell,” I muttered fervently, grabbing some tissues from the backseat and wiping my face and neck dry. It was pouring outside. I could have been home, snuggled under a blanket with a steaming cup of cocoa and watching Dawn of the Dead. But, noooo. Like a lovelorn fool, I had chosen to go outside in shitty weather instead. I let out a heartfelt expletive and pulled my wet T-shirt from my chest.

  There was a hard rap on my side of the window.

  Gasping, I bolted up and peered at the blurry stranger standing just outside my car. Who was this? And why was he walking around by his lonesome in the pouring rain?

  A serial killer, that’s who, my inner voice whispered in warning. He sees you as the perfect, isolated victim. And all this rain will wash the evidence away.

  The stranger impatiently rapped his knuckles on the window again.

  I grabbed my car key, making sure to hold out the pointy end. If he tried anything, I would stab his eye with it. Or leave a long, bloody scar down his cheek.

  Taking a deep breath, I rolled down my window.

  Turned out the stranger before me was not such a stranger, after all. The first thing I noticed was his green eyes, and then the all too-familiar smirk. His thick, light-brown hair (a dark bronze when wet, I belatedly realized) was plastered over his head. He looked so amazing I wanted to cry.

  “Is that you, geek?” he asked,
but all I could do was gawk at him like I’d been struck by lightning. When I didn’t reply, his smile grew even wider.

  “It’s me, your sexual Greek god.”

  “Are you going to let me in? It’s pouring out here.”

  I finally found my voice. “Yeah, the doors are unlocked.” I croaked. “Get in.”

  Hunter jogged to the other side and slipped into the passenger seat, his soaked, hulking body suddenly filling up the cramped space inside. He slammed the door shut and swiveled around.

  “What are you doing here?” I blurted out before he could say another word.

  What are you doing jogging in the rain?

  What are you doing in L.A. of all places?

  What are you doing by barging into my personal world again?

  He stared at me, his gaze softening as it wandered over my face, my wet hair, my wet clothes. I found my breath hitching.

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.” He murmured at last, his eyes still on me. “But since you asked first . . . I like to go jogging when it rains. There aren’t many people around the park, and I like the privacy.”

  Five years ago, he’d told me that he and his mates played rugby even on rainy weekends. Some things never changed.

  We sat in our seats, falling silent as our gazes locked and did the speaking for us. More than anything, I wanted to reach over and touch him. His handsome boyishness had all but disappeared, replaced by a sexy manliness that sent my heart racing toward the precipice. The online pictures didn’t do him justice at all. I could already feel my panties growing wet, although it was hard to say whether it was from my soaked jeans or the desire pooling between my legs.

  Outside, heavy rain drummed against the windows.

  “Does the air conditioner work?” Hunter asked, shifting uncomfortably.

  When I shook my head no, he yanked off his wet T-shirt and hung it over his side of the window.

  “Take your clothes off,” he said quietly. “Unless you want to catch a cold.”

  His serious tone left no room for argument. Wordlessly, I obeyed and pulled my T-shirt over my head, relieved that I had chosen to wear my lacy bra and panties today.