Ink and Lies

by S. L. Jennings

  “What are you doing?”

  “Taking your bag.” She tries it again.

  “Kerrigan, you’re not holding my bag. Knock it off. I’m a big boy.”

  “Suit yourself,” she shrugs as we make our way outside where a car and driver await. “Ok, so strategy for tomorrow is just listening. Don’t tell them what you want—or what you don’t. Just listen. I’ll be there to chime in with anything non-negotiable. What are your hard limits?”

  I hadn’t thought about that. Moving was a big issue for me, but I know that’s unavoidable. I want to be portrayed as honestly as possible without giving anything away about my identity, so casting is important. And I don’t want them insisting on anything cliché or cheesy.

  However, none of this matters, because I’m not taking the job. No way. No how.

  “Nothing I can think of.”

  “Good! I’ll drop you at the hotel to relax. I’ve got errands and meetings for the next few hours.”

  Being a sought-after talent definitely has its perks, one of them being the accommodations. It’s not enough to be staying at the Beverly Wilshire, which has lodged everyone from Jay-Z to John Lennon. But the fact that the studio actually sprang for one of the specialty suites has me feeling like Pretty Woman.

  After calling down for room service, I take advantage of the quiet and open my manuscript, hoping to get some work done. But everything is falling flat. It’s a story about a woman torn between two loves—the one she was meant for and the one that was forced upon her. Why does she love them? Why has she put herself in a position that compromises her future…her sanity…her body?

  What’s her motivation?

  I’m sinking fast. The words are there, begging to be written, but it’s like trying to funnel a million jumbled thoughts through a pinhole with the hope that they’ll somehow make sense on the other side. I don’t get it. I just had them a few days ago. For once in forever, I didn’t cringe through every fucking line of dialogue. I didn’t feel like gouging my eyes out every time the heroine felt conflicted about who she needed, versus who she wanted. Why can’t I focus? Why does the thought of stringing together a bunch of meaningless sentences all in the name of romance physically repulse me?

  “Fuck it,” I growl after staring at the blinking cursor for more than an hour. I wish Bartleby was here to listen to me babble. I had to drop him off with the Colonel for a few days. The old man tried to play it cool, but I could tell he was happy to have the company.

  I change into some shorts, grab my shades and Moleskine, and head out to enjoy the balmy Southern California fall weather. The Beverly Wilshire pool is a lot smaller than I expect, but when you have beaches and privately owned pools in every backyard and terrace, it’s no big deal. Shit, it’s 40 damn degrees in Spokane right now. I may go into shock from all this Vitamin D.

  I swim laps, I laze in the sun, I drink frou frou tropical drinks, and eventually, I pull out my notebook to jot down some notes. But when I put pen to paper, I find that my head is not in my manuscript. I can’t even remember my character’s names or what they look like. My mind is captured by something—and someone—else entirely.

  The warmth reminded him of the time the AC died the spring of junior year, forcing her to shed the armor of oversized sweaters and knee high socks. They had finals approaching, and the library was transformed into a hot box of hormones, poor diets and bad decisions. She wore frayed denim cutoffs—not too high above her mid-thigh but short enough to make him take notice the way they rode up when she sat down.

  “I feel ridiculous,” she said, opening up the mammoth sized textbook containing the material they were to cover for the next six hours.

  “Why’s that?” he asked, pretending not to stare.

  She looked up from the study guide just as he was looking away, feigning indifference. “I look like a twelve-year-old on the first day of summer camp. All that’s missing is the braces and bad skin. Can we just go back to your dorm to study?”

  “It’s even hotter in there. Trust me.” His room had been deemed the official meet up point after things with her roommate had gone sour.

  “But I feel like people are staring at me. Oh my God, Jimmy Lepito looks like he wants to lick the sweat from my brow. You’d swear I was wearing a coconut shell bikini.” She wrapped her bare arms around her chest, shielding them from view. It was a good thing. She didn’t have on a bra under her sleeveless tee, and Jimmy Lepito wasn’t the only one that was looking.

  “He looks at everyone that way. I think he’s just stoned.”

  “Surprise, surprise.” She pulled a paperback novel from her bag and slid it over to him. The Color Purple by Alice Walker. It was required reading, and although they had read it ages ago, she didn’t mind revisiting their favorite passages. “Read it to me, please.”

  “But you can practically recite it verbatim.”

  “I know. But I like the way you read it. You relate every word as if you believe them. As if they were birthed from your very tongue. You have such a way with words. Even the words that aren’t yours.”

  “That’s all I have—all that I am. I’m just words.”

  Shadows dance across the page, and I look up to find that I’m not alone. A bikini-clad brunette stands over me, watching me with brazen fascination.

  “What are you writing?” she asks.

  I squint up at her, my Ray-Bans no match for the California sun. “A story.”

  “Oh really?” She takes the lounge chair beside me, as if my answer was an invitation. “What kind of story?”

  “The maddening kind of story that sneaks up on you when you have no time to write it.”

  She giggles at that, and I take a beat to let the sound move through me. She’s gorgeous. Not just Hollywood gorgeous, but sincerely attractive. Straight brown hair, flawless skin, and a body as long and languid as a desert palm.

  “Seems like quite the dilemma.”

  “It is. But it could be worse.”

  “And how’s that?”

  “Well, I could be out here, enjoying this beautiful weather and scenery alone.”

  She blushes, pressing her lips into a sly smile. “Yeah, that would be unfortunate.”

  “So I guess I should be thanking you for helping me out today.”

  “Maybe you should.” She chuckles again, and looks back to where her friends are gathering towels and flip-flops. “Look, I actually have to get going, but for some reason, I couldn’t leave without talking to you. I’m Michelle. If you’re staying here for a few days, you should call me…let me show you around. I’m a pretty good tour guide.”

  I’m intrigued by her candor, and I can’t say I’m mad at the proposition either. Not mad at all. “Nice of you to offer, Michelle. I might just take you up on that. I’m August,” I say, extending a hand.

  “August. I like that name,” she replies, running her delicate digits over my exposed palm. “I think I’ll like getting to know you too.”

  She gives me her number, which I quickly scribble down on a blank sheet in my notebook. Before she turns to rejoin her friends—who are now waiting for her with amused expectation—she says something that instantly turns my curiosity into interest.

  ““If a story is in you, it has to come out.””

  “Faulkner,” I nod, impressed.

  “Good luck with your writing, August. Hope to hear from you sooner than later.” Then she turns and struts away, leaving me with the pleasant view of her pert backside.

  A new story and a new friend. So far LA is shaping up to be pretty damn great.

  The meeting goes exactly how I expect it to: Kerrigan talking and me trying to feign interest. I hear what they’re saying, but I just can’t get over the fact that I’d be separated from my grandfather and Fiona. I couldn’t pay the Colonel to move out here, and Fi can’t just pick up her life and follow me out here. Not when she’s trying to share said life with someone else. Even the thought of asking her to goes against everything I’ve ever b
elieved in…everything I’ve ever told her.

  “I wouldn’t want you to devote your life to a lie.”

  Is that really what I’m reluctant about? Or am I afraid that she’ll see right through me?

  I fish out my cell, in need of the sound of her voice to ground me. I came out here to gain some perspective, but maybe that was already at home.

  “Please tell me you’re having a horrible time, and you can’t wait to come back.”

  “I’m having a horrible time, and I can’t wait to come back. Oh, and I got a tan.”

  “Jerk.”

  “And I’m currently strolling Rodeo Drive, resisting the urge to buy you something annoyingly gaudy and expensive after having the best Benedict in history while someone in a suit tried to throw money at me. Times are hard all around.”

  “I’ll say. I’ll create a hashtag for you. Social media should know of these harsh conditions.”

  “Finally, someone who feels my pain.”

  We share a laugh, something we haven’t done in almost a week. I’ve missed her. Even when I’m there, I miss her.

  “So how much money did they try to force upon you?”

  “Enough to buy you a lifetime supply of Pinot and spring rolls with extra dipping sauce.”

  She whistles her response.

  “But I’m not taking it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d have to relocate, at least for eight months out of the year. And if it’s picked up for another season…”

  “Oh,” she whispers.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, if that’s what you want to do…”

  “Leaving you and the Colonel is not what I want to do, Fi.”

  “I know that. But this is your life, Rhys. You can’t keep living it for others. Especially not for me.”

  I want to tell her that she’s wrong. That she is my life—her and my grandfather. I have no one else.

  “Let’s talk about this when I get back, ok? Tell me what’s going on there. Any anal-free plans this weekend?”

  “Oh, shut up. Actually I do have really exciting news. I got tickets to see Train at the Gorge!”

  “I thought that show was sold out weeks ago?” Fi had been kicking herself for missing out. Even I had scoured the web for seats that weren’t in the stoner section on the grass.

  “Well, Joshua just proved that he is the best boyfriend ever and somehow got me tickets! Floor seats, too! I can’t even tell you how stoked I am. I’m taking a half day and driving up tomorrow to make it in time for the show!”

  “That’s great, Fi. You’ll have a blast.” Ugh. Joshua. I’m happy for her but annoyed that it was him that made it happen. In an effort to play nice, I ask her, “Does he have any idea how much of a freak you are about them? I feel like I should properly warn him.”

  “Well, he’s not going, actually.” The disappointment is all too evident in her voice. “He has a medical seminar this weekend and has to fly to Portland. So unless I find someone to go with, I’ll be going stag.”

  “I don’t know about that, Fi. You shouldn’t be going out there alone.”

  The Gorge is a massive outdoor amphitheater near the Columbia River in Washington. Never heard of it? Probably because it is smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It’s a gorgeous venue, but it’s also breeding ground for modern day flower children and squatters. Meaning, Fiona and her rose-colored glasses definitely should not be going sans cohort.

  “Well, I don’t know anyone who would be willing to suffer through four hours of “Drops of Jupiter” and “Hey, Soul Sister.” Well…no one but you.”

  It’s true. I took her to see Snow Patrol two years ago, and I was probably the only one on earth who could tolerate her for at least three weeks afterward. I can’t even hear “Chasing Cars” without slipping into a musically induced coma.

  “Sorry, Fi. If I was there…”

  “I know you would. But it’s fine. You’re off being amazing and famous. I’ll figure something out. If all else fails, I’ll just resell them.”

  “No…no, we’ll figure something out.” I don’t miss the use of the word “we” as if we’re in that space right now. Especially with an entire state physically separating us.

  “Don’t overthink it,” she sighs, as if reading my mind.

  “I’m not. I won’t…” But I am. However, before I can even begin to pick it apart like a desert vulture, a familiar face pops into view. “Hey, Fi, let me call you back,” I find myself saying, deciding to trade confused frustration for fun and friendly.

  “Oh…ok.” She sounds hurt, but quickly tacks on that she has to get back to work anyway. This isn’t the time or place for me to question whether or not she’s being genuine. Not when I’m genuinely tired of questioning her.

  “Hey,” I smile after pressing End on my cell. “I’ve only been in LA for a day. I didn’t expect to have a stalker already.”

  “Well, I’m just taking a break from accosting other random dudes at hotel pools. A girl needs her caffeine, you know. The stalker life can be exhausting.” Michelle smiles back and brushes a lock of chestnut hair behind her ear. She’s wearing a white gauzy sundress and wedge sandals that remind me of cork. Minimal makeup. She’s stunning. But I think her svelte frame would look equally gorgeous in a burlap sack.

  “Headed to get coffee?”

  “Yeah. There’s a shop I like right on the corner. What are you up to? Plotting stories you shouldn’t write?”

  “Something like that,” I shrug.

  “Ah. Well, how about you walk with me and tell me all about it.”

  As we stroll side by side on a crowded Rodeo sidewalk, I’m flooded with the sights and sounds of this little slice of paradise. The people are beautiful, if not a little sad. The weather is amazing, yet blinding. The shops are grand and extravagant, but only for those that fit a certain social class. There’s a story here, embedded in the Palm-adorned cement under our feet. How many stars have walked these streets by day, only to crumble to them at night? How many have sold their souls in search of something to fill the void within their hearts?

  “Check out that lady,” I say, nodding towards a woman decked out in pink from head to toe, holding a tiny dog wearing a Prince-worthy ruffled shirt and suit. “What do you think she…” I stop in my tracks, remembering where I am and whom I’m with. This isn’t an afternoon stroll in Riverfront Park creating fabricated backstories for strangers. And this isn’t Fiona.

  “What was that?” Michelle asks, obvious confusion furrowed on her brow.

  “Oh, um…check out her dog. Do you think he actually enjoys wearing those outfits? He looks like he’s on his way to a canine production of Purple Rain.”

  “Oh, he does. He’s quite the celebrity too.”

  As we pass, I notice a few paparazzi snapping photos of the odd couple. While I’m awestruck that something so ridiculous could be newsworthy, Michelle hurriedly maneuvers through the crowd, as if it doesn’t bother her in the least. We’re at the coffee shop within the next few minutes and, as I expect, it’s outrageously elegant for a place that literally serves coffee and those little French cakes that look like tiny gifts. However, Michelle insists that they make a mean cup of Joe. And for someone who is widely versed in all things coffee, I’m interested in putting her theory to the test.

  “Not bad,” I say after my first sip of java. “But it’s no Thomas Hammer.”

  “Thomas Hammer? Is that some coffee lingo I don’t know about?” Michelle questions before sipping her iced caramel latte-something-or-other.

  “No. It’s a Spokane coffee roaster. Crazy good coffee, locally owned. I swear, they sponsored my entire senior year of college and most of my books.”

  “Oh, so you don’t just go around penning random tales? You’re a writer?”

  “I am,” I nod. “Either that, or I’m a psycho serial killer, and I was just documenting the daily patterns of my next victim when you met me.”

  “I’m hoping for w
riter. Murder has never been my thing—too messy. And I’ve always been attracted to writers.”

  We have that moment. You know, the moment when we both lock eyes and smile at each other before she blushes and looks away.

  “You’re from Washington?” she says, changing the subject as she tries to feign interest in her straw.

  “I am.”

  “So what brings you to LA?”

  “Business meeting.”

  “Oh. So you’re not actually hawking your books out of the trunk of your car?” She seems impressed. What is it that makes most people imagine some dirty granola-gritty beard and Jesus hair sleeping in coffee shops when they think of a writer?

  “Not really,” I chuckle.

  “Wow. What genre do you write?”

  I struggle between the idea of telling the truth or lying my way out of this like I do everything else. She doesn’t know me, or my story. And after this trip, I doubt I’ll ever see her again.

  So in an impulsive act of defiance and insanity that goes against all my better judgment, I give her just a small taste of honesty. “Romance. I write romance.”

  “I HAVE A DATE TOMORROW. An actual date,” I say over the phone while flipping through the channels. The Seahawks aren’t playing, but Thursday Night football is on.

  “A date, huh? With who?”

  “A nice girl I met here yesterday.”

  The Colonel grunts, and I can imagine him giving me one of those infamous looks of disbelief, one bushy brow cocked higher than the other. He’s not one for talking on the phone, but it’s seldom that I’m out of town. Also, it’s Meatball Thursday, and I’m sure he’d rather be talking to me than chatting with crazy old Helen.

  “She really is nice. We had coffee today too.”

  “Coffee and…”

  “That’s it. Just coffee. She works nights, so we just talked for a little while. Like I said, she’s a nice girl.”

  “What kind of nice girl works at night?”

  “The kind of nice girl that’s a DJ. I’m serious. She’s nice.”