Grayson: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 3

by Christopher Harlan

  A half hour passes and I finally get the kitchen in workable order so that it’s not gross to eat in. I’m probably wasting my time since we’ll only be here for a few days. But, still, I can’t live in a dirty house for any amount of time. When I’m done cleaning I’m all sweaty. It’s what happens when you really clean—it’s a workout. So I decide it’s a perfect time to take that shower. I hope they have towels here, otherwise I’ll be prancing around here naked.

  There’s a linen closet between Grayson’s bedroom and the one I’ll probably nest in for the week. It creeks when I open it, but luckily there are some old linens in there. I do a quick smell test to make sure there’s no mildew or anything, but they smell surprisingly odor free. I grab a few and head to the bathroom.

  When I’m done showering the room is full of steam. Taking a shower hasn’t felt this good in a long while, probably because I’ve been sitting in a car for a few days. When I’m out I run a towel through my hair and then wrap one around my body before stepping out of the bathroom into the hallway. I can’t help but notice that Grayson’s bedroom door is slightly ajar. Maybe I’m just observant, or maybe I made it a point to look.

  I take a step closer, so that I’m right outside his door. I can just barely see him in the light of the hallway. I don’t know why I do this—I’m standing there wrapped in a towel, half naked—but I gently put my fingers on the door and push it open, just a little bit. It doesn’t make any noise like the linen closet did, but it let’s me see him for the first time—really see him. All of him.

  The lights in his room are off, and the sun is almost set outside, leaving him there in mostly darkness. The only light is what’s coming in from the crack in the door, and the last lingering bit of sunlight. I’m standing in the doorway, beads of water still gently running down my leg and hitting the old floor beneath me, but I don’t care. Grayson is asleep, wearing nothing but a pair of boxer briefs. He’s lying on his back, his eyes glued shut, and his body lying on top of his covers.

  I don’t know what’s come over me—I know I should respect his privacy, but at the moment I don’t give a shit about that, all I care about is keeping my eyes glued to his hot, naked body. The towel is already loose around my body, and as I move my hip it loosens even more. I’ve always been good at visualization, and right now I’m letting my mind fulfill all of its deepest desires. I imagine myself walking over to the bed while he sleeps and reaching down to caress that massive bulge sticking up from his black boxer briefs. He wont’ wake up at first, but he’ll respond. His body will know what I’m doing as I caress him, brushing my fingers up and down over him, until he’s so rock hard that he’ll have to wake up.

  I close my eyes to picture it even more vividly. My heart jumps because I think he might be waking up, and I freeze in position. He’s not waking up, though, he’s only moving—just slightly, but I don’t move. When his body settles I close my eyes again, and my imagination gets back to work.

  As I imagine him opening his eyes to the feeling of his own hardness, my hand in real life comes off of his door, and reaches underneath my already loose towel. I left my finger, still moist from the shower, trace the side of my hip until it reaches my clit. When I touch it my whole body convulses, and I have to fight not to gasp. I close my eyes again, my finger moving gently over my wet pussy as my fantasy continues.

  In my mind he looks up at me, disorientated, yet aware at the same time. He doesn’t speak a word, he just lets me rub him, and he reaches out and puts his strong hand on my thigh. I pull off his underwear—the only piece of clothing that’s keeping his entire body from being mine—and I see the majesty of his huge erect cock sticking straight up to the sky. It’s beautiful, and the biggest one that I’ve ever seen in my life.

  His grip on my leg gets stronger, his fingers digging into my side, and he pulls me gently towards him with his outstretched fingers. I inch even closer, to the point that my leg hits the side of the bed. My towel drops off, fully, into a wet heap on the wooden floor, and I crawl onto the bed as he shifts himself over. I put all of my weight on my left knee as I hoist the right one over his hips, until I’m in a full straddle. He isn’t inside me just yet, but I feel his throbbing manhood moving on it’s own, hitting my ass and my inner thigh.

  I lean forward, draping my body over his, and I feel every muscle he’s spent countless hours honing press against the softness of my skin. We kiss—passionately—our tongues dancing as I start to move my hips up and down. He reaches between my legs to put himself inside of me, and I help guide him. I feel the strength of his cock as soon as the tip is in. He breaks through, and I feel every inch of him as I lower myself down, until all of him is buried inside of me. He feels so fucking good. I put my hands on his pecks as I ride him, moving my hips forward and backwards while I watch his eyes roll in ecstasy.

  I know he’s going to come any minute, and so am I. He’s hitting me in all the right places, and the excitement of the moment is overtaking both of our bodies. I keep going, calling out his name until. . .

  I open my eyes and I’m back in a old house in Arizona. Grayson’s still asleep, but I’m not done yet. My towel really did fall, and I pick the damp linen and head to my own room and close the door. I don’t know what I was thinking, but I’m still somehow caught in the moment. I reach between my legs and imagine me on top of him again—feeling his huge dick all the way up inside of me, straddling it and riding it until he shot his cum everywhere. I let my hands circle over my clit as I imagine it, faster and faster, until my whole body is convulsing like I’m being shocked. I keep my eyes closed, and my mind focused on Grayson as I come, and then I open my eyes, my body exhausted.

  I put on a tee shirt and nothing else, crawl up on top of my covers, and close my eyes. Dreams of Grayson only a few minutes away.

  Chapter 6

  Grayson

  That might be the most uncomfortable bed that I’ve ever slept on. I feel like a goddamn pretzel! I wake up to the sun glaring into my eyes through the little break in the curtains, and for a second I think I’m still in New York. It only takes about a second before the sights and smells of this place remind me exactly where I am. I sit up and stretch my arms. I hear Rowan’s up already, clanking around the kitchen, and my nose catches a whiff of something. I get out of bed and put on a pair of shorts and follow the smell like a character in a Looney Tunes episode.

  When I get into the kitchen I’m in heaven. The sound of bacon frying is one of my favorite sounds. It reminds me of being a kid on a Saturday morning, when I’d wake up to the sights and smells of my mom cooking breakfast for us. But it isn’t mom standing there in an apron when I turn the corner out of my room and look into the kitchen—it’s Rowan being all wifed up for me and making the breakfast of all breakfasts. The smell is so intense. It’s better than any diner or any restaurant I’ve ever been to in New York. The bacon frying in the pan with some sausage next to it, the smell of toast getting golden brown, and even. . .

  “Are those fuckin’ hash browns?”

  She turns around quickly and drops her tongs on the floor. “Shit, you scared the hell out of me.”

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, bending over to help her pick up the tongs. “But are those fucking hash browns?”

  “They are,” she says proudly. “I shredded the potatoes myself. I’m cooking them in some of the bacon fat that I rendered.”

  Who is this girl? Did I die and go to writer heaven? She’s hot, understanding, and she cooks breakfast for my dumb ass also in the middle of a shack? “Where did you get all of this? I thought the place had nothing.”

  “I’m an early riser. I always have been I was up at five so I decided to go for a long walk just to get my heart going. Before too long I found this little grocery store.” Right. Runyon’s Grocery. I forgot about that place. “Runyon’s, I think it’s called. Open early. I grabbed a few things and walked them back. I Googled how to make hash browns because I’ve never made them in my life.”

  “Colo
r me impressed.” I really am. I’m learning more about her every day. “You know, I’ve always wanted to be that guy who got up early and took a walk or a run, but I always bitch out and just end up sleeping in.”

  “Well stop being a bitch, then, and get up with me one of these mornings. If I can’t give you motivation then what can?” She’s joking, being flirty and coy, but it’s really attractive. But that bacon is looking even better right now. She takes it out of the pan, along with the sausage, and drops them all on a plate lined with paper towels. I wanna just shove her aside and shove all that food in my mouth, I’m fucking starving.

  “Yes, Ma’am, no being a bitch. Got it. I’ll get up with you the next time you do it.”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow it is, then. And where did you dig up the kitchen stuff?”

  “There’s a basement that has all sorts of things in it. I guess whoever lived here last packed all most of the kitchen appliances and utensils up and stored them downstairs. I went exploring after I got home and found a box labeled “Kitchen” — all this stuff was in there. Pots, pans, spatulas, the whole nine.”

  “That sounds like my uncle. Haven’t seen him in a while but he’s an eccentric one. I come from a family of eccentrics, actually. Anyway, I’m glad you did all that. This might be the best smelling breakfast ever. You should open a place.”

  “Yeah, my parents would love that! Putting my college degree to great use by making people pancakes. They’d never have it.”

  “Are they a little. . .”

  “Stuck up? Yes. Not stuck up, exactly, but they worked hard their whole life so I could go to college and do better than they did. They’re immigrants.”

  “Oh, I didn’t know,” I tell her. “From where?”

  “Ireland. My dad sounds like that stereotypical Irish guy in every movie. He sounds like he just. . .”

  “Got off the boat?”

  She laughs. “I was going to say the plane, actually, before I was so rudely interrupted.”

  “Sorry, my bad.”

  “So, yeah, he’s that guy. The overprotective, Irish-Catholic dad who sounds like he’s from the old country, and mom is a little more Americanized. She has an accent but it’s not as bad as dad’s. Dad’s old school.”

  “Got it. My family is the opposite. You’d have to go back about four generations to find someone who came from the old country—or countries—and they literally came on a boat. And my folks are artists. Mom’s a painter, dad’s a poet. Super hippy, free love kind of shit, but really cool people. They let me be who I was, and they never needed me to live up to their expectations in any way. All they asked was that I get a college degree so I could support myself, which I did. And then I promptly threw it in a desk drawer and started writing romance novels. Go figure.”

  “Speaking of that,” she says. “I know that it’s technically none of my business, just because I jumped in a car with you, but if you ever want to talk about it.”

  “About what?” I interrupt. “My failing writing career. The fact that I’m kind of a hack at this point, with a rank on Amazon that numbers in the tens of thousands? Not much to say about it except that this thing we started in college seems to be working out well for two-thirds of us. I might give the whole thing up.”

  “Grayson, no, you can’t.”

  “Can’t I? Why not? It’s obviously not working out. People just don’t want my books, it’s not like I’m letting anyone down if I cut my losses and give it up now.” She looks concerned as a I’m on my little rant. I know that I’m leaning a little towards the dramatic, and that I could definitely tone it down, but I’m still feeling sorry for myself. I was happier when we were talking about bacon and morning runs, but now that my mind is back on the reason I can to this house in the first place I’m starting to feel bummed out.

  “First of all, I’d miss your work. I love your books, and I’m not saying that to be a cheerleader. I genuinely love the stories you write. I’d be sad if you didn’t continue.”

  “Hell, you’d be the only one.”

  “Grayson, that’s just not true. I know you’re feeling bad about it, and I get it. I can’t imagine how much you put into this—not just you, but Mike and Colton also. Everyone who writes books, really. I can’t imagine.”

  She’s right about that. Most people literally couldn’t imagine the mental, physical, and economic input that goes into a book. Anyone who’s not an author takes it for granted, but I don’t blame them. None of us know what we don’t know. When I sit down to eat a nice meal at a restaurant I have a vague sense of what the chef put into making the food that’ll take me about twenty minutes—maybe less—to eat, but I really have no idea. Books work the same way. The only difference is that it’s not just labor, it’s a never ending creative process that sometimes becomes a drag. No one wants to say that out loud, but it’s true. If you want to write five to ten books in a calendar year, the creative train never stops, and sometimes it’s just not there.

  “Yeah. It’s a lot. But that’s not the problem. It’s always been a lot. That’s just part of the game. It’s the fact that I feel like I have better in me. I always expected something more of my career. I kind of assumed that the road to success would be like climbing a mountain. Each book would do a little better than the next, I’d gain a few more followers and subscribers each month, and eventually I’d reach the summit and plant my flag. But the road to the top isn’t like climbing a mountain at all. You can be at the top one book, then fall down to the bottom for the next, and the top is never in sight. It might not even exist.”

  She listens to me, just chewing her bacon and making really intense eye contact with me as I speak. It’s nice to have the kind of focused attention that she’s giving me. I know it’s a little artificial because we’re alone in a house, with no distractions, and nothing to do but talk like this. But, still, the kindness in her eyes takes the edge off of the situation.

  “Well,” she says, taking a moment to pause and finish chewing her food. “I don’t think that what you’re saying is unique to writing. With anything creative you’re going to get ups and downs—crazy ones if what you’re creating is worth anything at all. I don’t mean this to sound harsh, but I think you’re making one bad book into your whole career. You can’t do that.”

  “I didn’t think the book was that bad. That’s what’s killing me. Writing it made me feel so good, and I’m usually my own worst critic, but I really liked this one, I thought it was good.”

  “Oh, it’s great. That’s not the problem.”

  Her words take me by surprise. She said it so casually, and with such conviction that I almost missed it. “Wait, you read it? How?”

  She gets up from the table and walks over to her bag that’s sitting by the front door. She opens a pocket of pulls out a paperback copy of my book, holding it up for me to see. “I brought it with me. I was reading some this morning.”

  “How do you even have it?” I ask.

  “Pre-order. I pre-ordered on Amazon the second it was available, so I actually got it the day we left for this trip. I just had it on me. If my opinion means anything, I think it’s one of your best stories so far.”

  I can’t believe that she has my book with her. There’s zero bullshit in her words, but if what she’s saying is true, then it makes the shitty sales even more confusing to me. “Wow,” I say. “That’s really cool. I haven’t even seen the paperback copy in person, yet.”

  “Here.” She hands it to me and I look it over.

  “What? That’s crazy. You like it that much?”

  “Not like, Gray. I love it that much. Seriously couldn’t put it down.”

  I flip opens the cover and see all the front matter—my dedication page, the blurb, all that stuff. I flip through it quickly, the unique smell of pages turning wafting up into my nose. It’s cool to hold this in my hand for the first time. No matter what my sales are, seeing the physical manifestation of all your hard work is always a cool
thing.

  “Well, at least I have an audience of one. Now if only I could live off of the three dollar royalty I get for this I’d be set.”

  “Oh stop being a drama queen, Gray. You have a real audience. There are people who think you’re the best of the Wordsmiths. Not to put Knight and Colton down or anything, but I happen to agree with those people. I don’t care who climbs the ranks more or who sells more copies, you’re the best story teller of any of them. I mean it.”

  She does. I can tell that she really does, and I smile at her in a warm way. It’s a rarer compliment than you’d think. I’ve had lots of readers and fans tell me my books were ‘hot’, or ‘sexy’, or ‘intense’, or even ‘funny.” But I don’t think any of them has ever told me that I’m a great story teller. “I think that’s my favorite compliment. Maybe ever.”

  “It’s true, Gray, trust me. You just need to realize that and start believing it, like ASAP. Your storytelling is second to none.”

  I remember something that North said to us once during on of his romance tutoring sessions—those talks that happen when we’re all together where he shares his sage wisdom with us relative newbies. I’ll never forget what he said that night. When we were asking him how he ended up with a successful career in such a competitive business, he told us that he’d always been a good story teller. I’m not the best writer in the world, he said, but I’m a damn fine storyteller—always have been—and people love to be told great stories. I should have that tattooed on me. It makes such sense, but sometimes it’s easy to loose that point in all the minutiae of writing and publishing books. It’s not about perfect sentences beating perfect, it’s about unforgettable stories.

  “I can’t thank you enough for that. Or for being here with me. But you know what’s even greater than all of those things?

  “What?” She asks.

  “This killer fucking breakfast!”

  I make her laugh before inhaling the rest of the food like it was my last meal before the electric chair. I feel full and bloated when I’m done, but it’s worth every second of greasy regret. I take a deep breath when I’m done—more exhale than inhale—and then I stand up to let all that food start to work its way out of me. “I know that we established that I’m a bitch before,” I joke. “But even though I’m not an early riser how about we take a walk now? What do you say? Want me to show you all around this little old town?”