Guys and Godmothers

by Candice Gilmer

  He opened the envelope. Read what was inside.

  Tears welled. It was a sympathy card. For Steve.

  “You… I… Thank you.”

  She smiled, and a tear crept down her cheek. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  By evening, Greta’s tummy rumbled and her back ached. More specifically, the corset she wore was killing her. She’d never realized how much she slouched until she wore the corset, holding her in a fairly upright position for the day.

  The last hour, all she could think about was going to her hotel and soaking in a tub. She wished she would have followed Denise’s lead and stripped out of the corset after lunch. Denise kept in the spirit by stealing her brother’s goggles and using them like a headband to hold back her dark hair.

  Greta envied her much more relaxed attitude for the afternoon.

  When she wasn’t watching Bruce, that was.

  Bruce had spent a decent amount of the day with her—at least as best he could, anyway. He was obligated to take photos of people and the events all day long. He’d come by, rest, sit with her, visit a little, then he’d be off for more shots of different things and events.

  When he would get comfortable with her and Denise, up would come the lady in charge, and she’d drag him off to take more pictures of something else.

  Even against Greta’s initial wishes, he’d talked her and Denise into posing for a few shots. She was certain he’d snuck a few shots of her when she wasn’t looking too, but he denied it.

  Denied it with that grin of his.

  Greta couldn’t get over it.

  Talking to him on Skype was completely different than being in the room with him. Bruce wore a kind of charisma people gravitated toward. Women fawned over him. Men chatted with him, everyone grinning and laughing, and he never seemed to irritate anyone.

  Greta picked up her business cards and card holder and tucked them into the box of stock books she’d brought. They were finally done.

  The convention’s finale would begin in an hour, and Angela had told them they would have to pack up, because the seating had been sold for the show.

  She had a wonderful time, aside from running and hiding in a train, of course, but otherwise the con was a lot of fun. The costumes were amazing. People, for the most part, were very friendly, and she managed to sell about ten books.

  All money for the moving-out fund.

  Though if she was honest, she had to sell seven to pay for the expenses of coming, but still, a profit was a profit.

  Greta stretched her arms and rocked her head from side-to-side to loosen her tight neck. She had her area completely picked up when she saw a young woman with brown curly hair and a very tight corset—designed to look like a blue TARDIS—giving her the meanest look as she sashayed by their seating area, twirling her matching blue parasol.

  Immediately, Greta put her hand on her mask, wondering if it had slipped.

  Did she see the scars?

  A panic welled inside, and she squeezed the acrylic display stand where she kept her biography, trying to calm down.

  It was nothing. It was nothing.

  She didn’t see them.

  The mask hadn’t moved…

  It was nothing.

  Bruce appeared, coming from the same direction the gal had come from, and he looked, well, tired. He plopped in the chair next to her and slouched.

  “Sleepy brother?” Denise said.

  “Yes and no,” Bruce replied. He touched Greta’s arm.

  She forced herself not to jerk from the contact. Every time Bruce had touched her today—a little bump here, a pat on the arm there—it sent this electricity through her, the kind she hadn’t felt in, well, she couldn’t remember how long.

  “By the way, if anyone asks,” Bruce said, “you’re my girlfriend.”

  Her mouth fell open. “Uh…”

  Denise smirked from the other side. “How many today?”

  Greta turned. “Uh, excuse me?”

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with the women in the world, for thinking this lug is cute, but they do. And some tend to be ambitious about it, don’t they Bruce?” Denise grinned.

  “Some days.”

  “I noticed a couple giving Lisa here the evil-eye,” Denise said.

  “There was more than one?” Greta asked.

  “Yep,” Denise replied. “You really need to be more aware of your surroundings, girl.”

  “I guess. I saw one a bit ago.”

  “Girl with a parasol?” Bruce asked.

  Greta nodded.

  He watched the crowd. “She approached me, and I told her you were my girlfriend.” He leaned into Greta. “I’m going to whisper in your ear.” He leaned closer, his arm coming around her shoulder. “Now whatever you do, don’t jerk away.”

  Greta couldn’t do anything but nod again, like an idiot bobble-head doll. The world started to lose focus as his breath caressed her cheek and went over her neck. She tilted her head to the side, and Bruce got closer, nuzzling her throat.

  And he kissed her.

  Just below the jaw, on the right side. It was soft, quick.

  And wet.

  And any circuit breakers she had left in her body were tripped. Greta wasn’t sure if she could stand at the moment.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God…

  What am I doing?

  Bruce said something against her skin, but she wasn’t sure what he muttered—the vibrations of his lips had pretty much destroyed any logic left in her brain.

  He pulled away, though he kept his hand on her shoulder a little longer than necessary. She turned her head to meet his gaze. His green eyes had gotten darker, eyelids heavy, and his lips looked redder.

  “That was interesting,” he whispered.

  “Uh…”

  A hint of a smile spread over his face. “I need to pack my cameras and stuff. Then we’ll get out of here.”

  Left without any words, she merely nodded. She’d mostly packed everything…

  When did I do that?

  Absently, she wondered if Bruce used some kind of pheromone enhancer, because she couldn’t explain why all her thoughts had pretty much dissolved into mush.

  Pheromone enhancer? That might be cool in a story…

  The last few promotional items lay strewn on the table, and Denise reached over and grabbed them. “Here, let’s go put these over by the door.”

  Denise didn’t give Greta much of a choice as she hauled her toward the door. A collection of freebies lay on the entrance table—flyers, pens, all sorts of promotional swag, left there for anyone who wanted to grab it. Greta had noticed it earlier, but didn’t think about putting any bookmarks on it.

  Though the hairs on her neck stood up, because she wasn’t sure Denise’s motivations were about promotion.

  Denise turned to look at her, brow furrowed and a stern, Mommy-esque expression. “I’m going to say this one time. Hurt my brother, I’ll hurt you.”

  Greta’s jaw fell open. “Uh… uh…”

  Then Denise grinned. “I’m kidding. Well, I’m not, but I am. I do love my brother, but you seem like a good person. You’re not the type of gal he usually goes for.”

  Panic hit Greta again, and her stomach roiled. Even with the mask, could she see the scars? She tugged at the neck of her top, making sure her shoulder scars were covered, and forced a smile on her face. “Is that good or bad?”

  “Good. Most of the women he’s dated, I could usually predict, down to the date, how long they’d last. You, though, I get a different vibe off you.”

  “I hope that’s a good thing.”

  “It is. I will tell you one thing, though. Bruce doesn’t do commitment well.”

  “Is he… does he fool around?” Greta asked, glancing toward a couple of
girls who approached Bruce while they were away.

  Denise shook her head. “No, no. He’s… He’s very independent. Like me. We both do our own thing, and sometimes, we tend to, uh, forget to be part of a couple.”

  A feeling of warmth built inside her, replacing the panic she’d felt.

  If she didn’t know better, she’d think Denise was giving this possible-almost-relationship her blessing.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I must be out of my mind, Greta thought to herself as she followed Bruce into his condo. Evidently, that was what she’d been nodding like a loony to when he’d been whispering to her neck. He’d invited her over. When they’d gotten to her car—yes, he carried all her stuff for her (or pulled it on a dolly for her, anyway)—he’d started telling her directions, and how she could follow him to his car.

  When she realized what he was going on about, she’d tried to put the kibosh on it, but his big-eyed face worked much better in person than online.

  And now, here she was. It wasn’t terribly far from the venue, but if she hadn’t followed him, she might not have realized the unassuming red brick building housed condos. He led her through the foyer, and they took the stairs up a flight to his place.

  Bruce chattered as they went up, and she tried to keep a happy face. But it was hard. Not because of Bruce, but because of her own worry and trepidation.

  “Please excuse the mess. I’m pretty sure my dishes are in the sink, and there might be a sock or two on the floor.”

  Greta raised her eyebrow. “Need a maid, do you?”

  “Sometimes. I didn’t expect to have company tonight, so I didn’t clean up before I left.” He unlocked the deadbolts with loud thumps before opening the door.

  “I think I can take that as a compliment.” Her hands shook as she followed him inside.

  Bruce’s place—a square of brick and windows—looked like something out of a movie. The huge, brick-faced walls created a wide open space, allowed for lots of light, if the sun was high in the sky, anyway.

  The perfect place for the arteeest to work. However, no canvases and paint filled the huge open space.

  A kitchen and living area smooshed together dominated the front, with a television roughly the size of a piece of fine art hung on the wall. Near the rear, where all the windows shined bright orange from the setting sun, were racks holding multiple backdrops, and shelves and shelves of props—all colors and everything she could imagine. In one corner was an obvious office area—a large worktable, desk and some filing cabinets.

  It was very neat and orderly. Not a wayward sock in sight. Very male.

  Well, except for…

  “Are those… feather boas?” she asked, crossing to his workspace.

  “Yep. You’d be amazed how much I use them.” Bruce had his phone out, and fiddled with it. “Okay, pizza’s ordered. Should be here in about a half an hour.”

  “Good,” Greta said. “I’m starving, aren’t you?”

  “Oh yeah.” He made her jump, because he’d crossed to her side of the room in a blink—or so it felt. “Those cons wear me out.”

  “Me too. Having to smile all the time, it’s a lot of work.” She glanced over her shoulder at Bruce. He tucked a few little pieces back inside their respective places.

  “I know,” he replied.

  “You said you do that all the time. Don’t you get exhausted?”

  “I do. I did. It’s hard to keep up a front,” Bruce said.

  “I imagine it is.” She scanned his apartment, realizing she was missing something. “Wait a minute. Where are your books?”

  “Oh, in here.” Bruce took her hand. He led her into a side door she hadn’t seen when she first came in.

  Bruce let go of her hand as they crossed the threshold, darted for the unmade bed, and did the “guy-smooth-and-cover” bed-making thing.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Again, I wasn’t expecting company.”

  “You’re a guy. Wouldn’t expect you to make your bed.”

  “My mother would have kicked my butt if she knew I let someone in my room with my bed unmade.”

  “Your mother sounds very old school.”

  “She is. Even raised me with manners and everything. I can be quite charming when I have to be.”

  Greta smirked, and took in the rest of the rather large room. “This is the biggest bedroom I’ve ever seen.”

  “Benefit of having a giant concrete room. I can pretty much make up the plans as I go.”

  “You designed this?” Greta asked.

  “My dad owned the building. That’s his thing, real estate, and he gave me this corner section—said I could do whatever to it.”

  “Are all the condos this big?” Greta asked.

  Bruce shook his head. “This is actually two.”

  Greta wandered through the space, looking at the pictures on the wall—portraits of family, one of Denise at a campout and others of an older couple. “This your parents?”

  “My mom and husband, uh, number two.”

  “How much has your mom been married?”

  “A lot. So has my dad. Practically need a cheat sheet to keep them all straight.”

  Greta raised her eyebrow. “That’s not very nice…”

  “True, though.”

  Greta leaned closer to the picture of Denise in her bikini at the campsite, and a big smile. The light shined on her—a beautiful picture—except for the huge red blemishes on her face. Not normal acne, either, but the big, volcano zits. Immediately Greta’s heart went out to her.

  Poor dear having to deal with that. “Denise looks cute here.” She realized Bruce watched her, and took a step away.

  “She hates that picture. That’s why it’s in here, and not out there. I still love it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because the way the light came through, how it shined on her eyes right—the smile on her face, so carefree and happy. She didn’t look like she had a care in the world, even though it’s probably the only picture of her up close where she doesn’t have a ton of makeup on.”

  “Has she always had acne problems?”

  Bruce nodded. “She was on some meds for a lot of years, and the big side effect was acne.”

  “I think I would not take the medicine,” Greta muttered.

  “She tried. Couldn’t live without it.”

  “What did she have?”

  “Bipolar.”

  Greta blinked. “I would have never guessed.”

  Bruce shrugged. “She’s got a grip on it now. She has her moments, but they’re not nearly as bad as they were about ten years ago.”

  “That’s good.” Greta scanned the room. “There aren’t any books in here, Bruce.”

  “Because they’re in here.” He led her to another room on the other side of the bedroom.

  And when Greta walked in, she couldn’t help staring. The walls were lined with bookshelves, all of them filled. “Wow…” she said in awe.

  “I know, right?” he grinned. “You should feel special. I don’t show anyone this room.”

  She walked through, touching the books, her fingers grazing the spines. “Why not?”

  “Most of the people I know wouldn’t appreciate it.” He walked across the room, and dropped into the leather loveseat situated in the middle.

  “Then you’re hanging out with the wrong people,” Greta said. “And you might want to invest in an ebook reader. You’re running out of room.”

  “I know. I have apps on my tablet I use.”

  “Ahh.” Greta walked around, and saw a bunch of books from Clandestine Publishing. “Wow, that’s a lot of romance novels there, Bruce. Do you need to tell me something?”

  He laughed. “Gotta support, you know?” He stood up. “By the way, do you want to sign yours?”

  “Oh, uh,
yeah, sure.” Greta said.

  Bruce handed her a pen. From where he’d produced it, she wasn’t sure. She took a seat on the love seat as he brought…

  “My god, do you have everything?” Every book she’d written lay on the couch. A strange sense of both appreciation and general weirdness hummed through her.

  “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I? I did most of these covers.” He walked to the bookshelf. “That’s all this shelf is, books I’ve done the covers for.” He started whispering to himself. “There’s ninety-one here.”

  “That is a lot of cover work.” She signed another one. “That’s very nice of you to buy a copy.”

  He turned back. “I didn’t when I first started, except my sister’s books. Then a couple of them sounded interesting—sci-fi stuff, you know? So I started, and I’ve gotten into the habit of buying them as they come out.”

  “So you’ve read all of them?”

  “I like the speculative fiction—scifi, steampunk, paranormal. So those I’ve all read, and some of the suspense.”

  She shook her head. “You’re not who I imagined reading my books.”

  “Who do you imagine reading your books?”

  “Girls.”

  He laughed.

  A buzz made her jump. “What was that?”

  “The pizza’s here.” He strolled out of the room. She could hear him talking over the intercom as she finished signing everything. She scrawled her pen name on the title page of every book, some she wrote a little funny. Something for him.

  As she stacked the books on the couch, she looked over the little reading room of his. It amazed her he had this little nook in his place. That he would even bother with getting a copy of every cover he’d done, to support.

  Bruce was setting the table—rather the coffee table—putting out two plates as he balanced the pizza box with another smaller box.

  “Do you want a soda or beer with your pizza?” he asked.

  “Soda is fine,” Greta replied. He grabbed a bottle of Pepsi and brought it to her— himself, a beer.

  She took a seat, leaving about a body space between her and Bruce. He scooted a little closer, and Greta was about to slide away when she realized he intended to open the pizza box lid.