“Whatever. She still gets more action than I do.”
Can’t argue with her there. I’d heard the stories, and she wasn’t exactly shy about her intentions with me. Shit, come to think of it, Helen is probably getting more action than me, which is saying something.
“So what happened?”
“Well, Fi. When two people are attracted to each other, they sometimes like to show it by stripping naked and getting into bed, and—”
“Oh my God! Spare me the disgusting details! I meant, what happened? How did you go from noshing on meatballs to making bacon within mere hours of meeting at an old folk’s home?”
I shrug. “We connected. She’s cool.”
“She’s cool? Cool?”
“Yeah. Smart. Funny. Easy on the eyes.”
“And that tells me nothing of how she ended up in your bed.” I can just imagine her shaking her head at me in disappointment. “Seriously, Rhys. If you sleep with every woman you’re attracted to, how will you ever really get to know them?”
“Uh, I thought I was. I got to know April pretty well earlier tonight. Inside out, if you will. So well, she just limped out of my apartment in search of cranberry juice.”
Fiona makes a retching sound. “Not in the biblical sense. I mean, really get to know her. We both know that once you do the deed, all hopes of an interpersonal connection are dashed.”
“Not true,” I scoff with mock indignity. Bartleby slinks under my chair and rubs his side against my legs, prompting me to pick him up. He’s been in hiding ever since April came over. He, too, is not amused by the women I bring home.
“August, it totally is. You might not love them or leave them, but you definitely have no interest in creating a meaningful relationship.”
“Oh, so I’m August now?”
“You know what I mean. I’m being serious. It’s like sex somehow friend-zones them. You keep them at arm’s length, placating them with late night hookups and pretty words in afterglow. You’re purposely sabotaging yourself by having sex with them.”
I blink once. Twice. “Um, you do realize that sex isn’t an act of sabotage, but is actually my main objective, right?”
“But is that your only objective?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely. I’m not looking for anything more than what I have with these ladies. I’m not in need of a permanent fixture. Besides, I have you.” On that note, Bartleby cosigns with a meow.
“Really? You really don’t want anything more permanent?” There’s a sense of loss in her voice.
“Really.”
“Not even when you’re old and gray?”
“Fi, I plan on being the second coming of Clooney.”
“But he eventually got married!”
“Well…sometimes the sequel is even better than the first.”
Two thousand words and five hours later, I finally climb into bed. I’m so exhausted that I don’t even bother to change the sheets. Just as well. The scent of April’s perspiration is my inspiration, and I fall asleep dreaming of long legs wrapped around me, blonde hair tickling my bare chest and echoed whispers of a voice I don’t know.
When I wake up from my mini coma, I know it’s well after noon. After a workout, I shower, trim the scruff from sasquatch to vagrant chic and do what I swore I wouldn’t do. I call my agent.
“Holy fuck. You actually got your head outta your ass and called.”
“Kerrigan, you sound shocked.”
“Shit yeah, I am,” she rasps, her voice harsh and gravely from years of smoking two packs a day. “You must be intrigued.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
I hear her exhale, and I can imagine putrid, glorious smoke billowing around the phone, sending phantom wisps through the receiver. Talking to her makes me miss smoking. I’m a weak bastard. “So you’re just calling to waste my time?”
“No. I want to know what they’re willing to do to protect my anonymity if I decide to hear them out.”
Kerrigan inhales, causing her voice to sound strained. “I’m glad you asked.” Exhale. “I’ve already had Legal draft an iron-clad NDA, and arranged for you to meet with one studio exec at a private location. And honestly, leaking your identity isn’t conducive to what they hope to achieve with the show. It’s a sitcom about a group of writers, the star being a romance writer. He’s handsome, cynical, self-indulgent, slightly whorish… he’s you.”
“Self-indulgent?” That stings.
“August, you’re a star, and they’ll know that as soon as they meet you. They won’t want to ruin their chances at making a shitload of money off your story. Without that element of mystery, you’re just like any other writer.”
Any other writer.
Any. Other. Writer.
As Hope Hughes, I’m special. I’m exotic, in a sense. People want to covet that. As August Rhys Calloway, I’m just like everyone else.
“Set it up. I’ll meet with their exec.”
“Great! I’ll get back to you soon.”
We hang up without formalities. I’ve learned to expect and appreciate Kerrigan’s brashness. She’s a helluva agent, and has brokered some incredible deals for me. I just don’t know if this is one of them. Books are one thing; there’s a sense of protection…a sense of obscurity. But television and movies is a different beast entirely. And I still haven’t even mentioned LA to Fiona.
Fiona.
I look up at my kitschy cat clock and realize that I need to get off my hide and get dressed. I could blow off dinner with some lame excuse about needing to write while I’m feeling the words again, but I’d played that card too many times already.
Honestly, any time a writer tells you they can’t make it to a social engagement because they have to write, 9 times out of 10, it’s bullshit. They just don’t want to be bothered with you. Or people in general. It’s nothing personal. See the thing is, when you spend sixteen-hour days conversing with fictional characters in your head, you tend to lose touch with reality. You almost forget what it’s like to actually connect with another human being. And a part of you learns not to miss it. At least that’s what you tell yourself at 3 am when you’re lying in bed alone, trying to fill the cold space beside you with imaginary warmth. Trying to convince yourself that loneliness is just part of the job description, and that you’ve fashioned your life exactly how you want it.
Table 15 is an intimately lit hot spot tucked away inside the even hipper Grand Hotel, which means it caters to an abundance of New Money, wanna-be New Money, the young-and-sexy, the pseudo young-and-sexy (but really the aging-and-ok), and people that generally like to pay top dollar for small portions of mediocre food. This also means that I try my damnedest to avoid it.
The moment I step into the dim space, I know that I’m not in Kansas anymore. Look, I’m no stranger to fine dining, and I can clean up pretty nicely when I want to. But considering the attire of the hostess, wait staff and most of the diners, I know that I am grossly underdressed. I feel like Katniss Everdeen on her first day in the Capital before Cina got ahold of her. Any minute now, Xzibit is going to jump out from behind the crushed velvet curtain and try to Pimp My Style. I may leave with an Xbox in my back pocket.
Apparently, I’m late (well, duh) and the hostess, eloquently named Misha, tells me that my party is expecting me. Shit. No chance of running now.
The first thing I notice on approach is a petite brunette in a tight black, one-shouldered dress that hugs every inch of her slight curves. She sits beside a proud-faced blonde man with the type of strong jaw that I’ve written entire chapters about, and blue eyes that are actually the color of ocean water. He’s tall, but not so tall that it’s skeevy of him to date short women, and he’s built, but not so built that he can’t reach around to wipe his own ass. His hair is model-ish long, not hippie-ish long, and his suit is obviously expensive without being ostentatious. He’s regally handsome.
He’s Darcy.
He’s Cullen.
He’s Grey.
He’s Fiona’s ideal Book Boyfriend.
“Rhys!” she smiles when Misha leads me to a chair across from where the beautiful couple is seated. They are. A beautiful couple, I mean. That’s new.
“Good evening,” I say dipping my head. Dipping my head? That’s new too. But being in the presence of these seemingly ethereal creatures is making me feel more out of place than usual. I mean, this girl sounds like my Fiona. And when I squint real hard and look past the smoky eye and precisely styled hair, she kinda looks like my Fiona. But beside this guy that appears more cover model than surgeon, the truth is made crystal fucking clear. She’s not my Fiona. She’s his. And that fact has made her happier than I’ve ever seen her. Happier than she’s ever been.
Fiona smiles like she’s a spokesperson for Crest White Strips. “Rhys—I mean, August—this is Joshua. The man I’ve been telling you about.”
We shake. He smiles. I nod again. Fuck.
“August, great to finally meet you. FiFi has told me so much about you.”
Pause right here.
Ok, the first revelation that slaps me across the fucking face is the accent. Joshua is Aussie. So, it’s not enough that he has the golden blonde hair with no signs of thinning, the stature, the broad shoulders, the goddamn dazzling smile. Oh no. He has an accent to boot! Just wait. I’m sure he’ll have some crazy ass stories about riding into the sunset on kangaroos or wrestling crocodiles with his bare hands.
The second thing that downright jolts me into a state of WTF-dom is the fact that he just called Fiona, FiFi. FiFi.
Fi is cool. Short, sweet and to the point without being obnoxious. FiFi makes me want to blow chunks. The fuck? Are we doing this? Are we really calling my best friend a nickname reserved for a prize-winning poodle?
I very literally bite my tongue to keep from saying something that’ll have Fi pissed at me for a week, and take my seat. “Has she now? Funny. I don’t recall her mentioning you.”
Taken aback, Joshua’s baby blues grow wide with embarrassment, and he looks to Fiona for explanation.
“He’s kidding,” she smiles to him encouragingly, before turning her gaze on me. “August, tell him you’re kidding.”
“I’m kidding.” I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Joshua laughs heartily as if I’ve just said something Kevin Hart worthy. “You’re good, mate! You had me going.”
I shrug a shoulder. “I try. Fi doesn’t let me out much, so I get my kicks where I can.”
“Oh stop. August has no problem stirring up trouble around town. You know, with him being brilliant and all. I’ve been telling Joshua all about Tears of Glass and how he needs to read it like yesterday.”
“Ah yeah. FiFi’s been raving about your book. Trouble is, I’m not much of a reader aside from the occasional magazine or newspaper.” Joshua smiles like he’s proud of that fact. As if the disclosure of his ignorance makes him all the more charming. And Fiona bathes in the glory of that smile like his mere presence is a blessing to mankind.
Barf.
“That’s unfortunate,” I mumble, reaching over to grab a glass of water to busy my mouth. What kind of self-respecting man doesn’t read? That’s like saying he doesn’t feel the need to eat or bathe either. Reading is nurturing of the mind…a cleansing of the soul. It opens our eyes to unseen beauty, and our hearts to the untouched pieces of ourselves that we’ve hidden away from the world. A man without words is a man who has no real awareness of anything or anyone outside of himself. And that worries me, especially when it comes to Fiona.
“A writer’s a respectable trade. I’ve always thought about writing a book one day, but I don’t think I could ever do it, so kudos to you. Hey, maybe you should write my life story. I certainly have some interesting tales to share,” he grins, completely serious. It’s taking everything in me not to laugh in his pretty face.
What is it about telling people you’re a writer that makes them think it’s an invitation to regurgitate their shit as if I really give two fucks? And what makes them think that their narcissism and delusion would be oh-so intriguing to the masses that it’s even worth the ink to write about? Seriously. Unless you’ve cured cancer, are deemed a war hero, or are a wrinkly old dude in a smoking jacket with a bunch of naked chicks wearing bunny ears living in your crib, I don’t give a fuck. That’s why there are diaries and shrinks. Use them.
“Joshua is on the shortlist of plastic surgeons nominated for an AAPS award,” Fiona boasts, seeing the perturbed look on my face. She knows more than anyone how much that pisses me off.
“Oh, darling. Don’t start that again,” Joshua retorts with mock modesty.
“No, really. He’s a brilliant surgeon. He may even guest star on that show Botched.”
“Botched?” I ask, as a server brings over the scotch neat I managed to order between awkward introductions. Managed is an understatement. I practically growled it out before I even made it to the table.
“You know that show, buddy? Those two Real Housewives doctors correct the surgical catastrophes caused by lesser professionals?” Joshua explains. “It’s a real winner of that entertainment channel. Apparently, they want to bring in a few guest doctors with certain specialties.”
I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t resist. “Oh? And what is your specialty?”
I expect him to say lopsided boobs, or crooked snouts, or even Kim K. ba-donka-donks. But what I don’t anticipate is him proudly answering with, “Buttholes.”
Say whaaaa?
The look of horrified confusion as I look from Fiona to Joshua then back to Fiona motivates him to clarify.
“Of course, we do your run-of-the-mill implants and Brazilian butt lifts. But what I’m really passionate about is Anal Rejuvenation. Bleaching, tightening, re-strengthening, as well as more dire anal needs such as reconstruction due to hemorrhoids and sexual trauma.”
Oh, this is good. This is just too damn good.
“Anal Rejuvenation? So you’re a butthole specialist? A master of assholes?”
“You could say that.”
“So let me get this straight—you’re pretty much elbow-deep in poop chutes all day?”
“More or less,” he nods, completely unaware that he is making my fucking life right now.
“And that’s a thing—anal rejuvenation? Like people pay you to spruce up their bungholes.”
“Oh, you’d be surprised. Of course, here in Spokane it’s still an underrated procedure. Huge in places like Beverly Hills, Manhattan and Las Vegas. But it’s beginning to catch on.”
“And how does one decide that they are in need of anal rejuvenation? And as a master at your craft, how do you determine what is a good looking chocolate starfish?”
Joshua leans forward, fitting his hands together in a way that makes me think that he’s letting me in on a secret joke. But the guy is dead serious about his mud shafts. He is not playing around when it comes to beautifying the world’s fart funnels, not even a little bit. “Oh, my friend. The rectum is a delicate flower that must be pruned, so to speak. It may grow in feces, but it is still a flower, just the same. With many years of training and experience, I’ve perfected the art of creating the ideal anus.”
I catch our server approaching out the corner of my eye, along with her stunned expression. She’s just about to make a run for it when Joshua looks up to flag her down.
“Ah yes, waitress. We’d like to order.” He doesn’t wait for response, just starts prattling off a bunch of random dishes without any say from the other two people at the table. “And a kale salad for the lady, dressing on the side, no seeds, light on the shaved parmesan. That’ll be all.”
I look down at the menu sitting before me. I haven’t been able to go over it yet, but I’m pretty sure kale salad would not be Fiona’s first choice. “Fi, they have those Korean Kalbi short ribs you love. You should get them.”
Fiona looks at me with apology in her eyes and opens her mouth to answer when Joshua leans over to kiss the side of her face. �
�Ah, Fiona and her meat. I’ve told her about the long lasting effects of fatty red meat on the colon, and ultimately the anus. She’ll have the kale salad tonight. Fiber is your friend, right, love?”
Fiona clears her throat and looks down, defeated, yet she smiles out of embarrassment. I mean we’re talking about her bowel movements, for fuck’s sake! Not to mention, Dr. Down Under just 1950’d her into submission like a petulant child. Shit, I’m embarrassed for her. And two seconds away from kicking Joshua’s perfectly bleached and tightened ass.
“No worries, Auggie. This place is known for their exquisite tapas. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering all their tastiest dishes so we could have a taste of everything. I hope you don’t mind. And of course, it’s my treat.”
I’m amazed I can even speak through the tightness in my jaw. “It’s August.”
“What?”
“My name. It’s August.”
“Oh. Sure it is, champ. Or would Rhys suit you better?”
“No, it would not. She calls me Rhys,” I say, tipping my head toward a red-faced Fiona. “Her and only her. You can call me August.”
We’ve somehow made it unscathed through half a dozen small plates when Fi excuses herself to the ladies room. That’s when I really get a good look at her. Her tight attire is unlike anything I’ve ever seen her wear, considering she prefers loose layers, long cardigans and boots. Her hair has been professionally styled, and I think she’s added a few golden blonde streaks to her brown mane. She’s different, yes, but she’s also absolutely stunning. And something within me has to tell her so.
“You look…lovely, Fiona,” I say on a breath of undefined emotion.
“That she is,” Joshua chimes in. “Love, turn around so I can get a better look at you.”
Her cheeks red, Fiona slowly pirouettes, careful not to stumble on her heels. I’ve never seen her dressed up like this. I’ve never really looked at her like this. And I damn sure have never been so aware of her body like this.
“Beautiful, love. But what happened to the red dress?”
Fiona stops mid-twirl and nervously plays with an errant curl. “Oh. I thought I’d wear this one tonight.”
Ink and Lies Page 6