I came out of the pro shop wearing a foam finger and a baseball cap in addition to my new jersey.
“Is it too much?” I said. “Wearing it all at once?”
Max shook his head and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s perfect. Just like you.”
Our courtside seats were unreal. I had never been this close before. I could hear every squeak of the sneakers on the wood and every pant from the players as they hustled the ball down the court. Max bought me a hot dog, a beer and an ice cream. He held my hand, kissed my cheek and behaved like the most perfect guy I’d ever met.
The Nuggets eeked out a 3-point win in the final seconds, tying the series at a game a pace. The crowd went nuts on the final shot. With chaos all around, people giving each other five and hugging and having more fun than people were meant to have, I jumped into Max’s arms screaming with joy. He held me in the air, his hands tight around me and lowered me slowly to the floor, still anchoring my body to his. When my feet hit the floor, he took off my hat and put his hand in my hair at the nape of my neck.
That was the scene for our first real kiss. Our first kiss with heat and passion. Fifty-thousand screaming fans all around us, but we might as well have been all alone. I felt myself melt into him, kissing him in ways that weren’t suitable for public. I was lost in him, in this moment, in the excitement and surprise of it all.
“We should probably take this elsewhere,” he said as a guy behind us whooped at our public display.
“Uh huh.” That was all I could manage. I was pretty sure I’d do anything he told me at this point.
We made it back to the car and pulled into the long line waiting to exit the stadium. My hand found its way to his thigh, rubbing up and down, trying not to go too high. He looked at me, smirking, and put his free hand on my thigh, mimicking my motions.
“We’ll never make it out of the parking lot,” he said quietly as we inched forward a few feet.
“Max, what is this?” I asked, suddenly wanting some guidance, some idea of what was going on between us.
“We are meant to be, Holly. We always were.” He squeezed my thigh lightly as he spoke, his hands burning through the denim of my jeans. “We should get a room tonight.”
He said it so casually, like what was happening between us wasn’t a big deal at all.
“That sounds good,” I said, surprising myself at my willingness to take this, whatever this was, to the next level. I had never been impulsive in relationships in the past, and I had never just gone for what I wanted. I was tired of being good, patient, and alone. I wanted to stay with Max. Even if what we had never survived outside the confines of our strange road trip, I wanted the experience. I wanted him.
He took me to the Marriott. We walked hand in hand into the lobby and got a room, just one, for one night. The attendant handed Max the key card and he grabbed our bags and headed to the elevator. I was suddenly struck by what was going on. I wasn’t unsure, just surprised by how quickly this had progressed. I wasn’t drunk, but I felt lightheaded and queasy, in the best possible way. I was seated atop the hill on the roller coaster, about to take the plunge.
“You okay?” Max asked looking back at me from the elevator bank.
“Yeah, I’m good.”
Chapter 18
Turns out our ‘room’ was the luxury suite on the top floor of the hotel, with an extra-large bedroom, a living area, a Jacuzzi, and an office.
Not that I saw any of that at first. For Max and me, it was straight to the king-sized bed, where he was amazing.
And strangely familiar.
I tried not to read too much into it at first, but everything he did in the bedroom reminded me of someone else. Of someone….fictional.
First, there was his declaration during foreplay.
“I want to make love to you. I want to be inside you now.”
He said that to me while we were frantically kissing and pulling off our clothes. Not a terribly strange thing to say considering the circumstances, but I’m pretty certain Christoph used the exact same words the first time he had sex with Annabelle.
Second, there was an awful lot of biting. Earlobes, lips, nipples—Max’s teeth found their way to every loose piece of skin, and when he bit, he bit hard, just like Christoph.
Third, there was the frenetic routine. Kissing, biting, moaning, he’s in, he’s out, his face is between my legs, he’s up again, he’s on top of me—this too was like Christoph, who was a master at teasing out the orgasm, staying in one position just long enough to hint at what was coming, then moving along and engaging a whole new group of nerve endings.
What was happening? Had Max read the book? Did he know I was a fan?
Not that it was a good time to ask. Max had me on my back, then on my front, then upside down. We did it on the bed, on the table, up against the wall, and on the floor. And although he never brought out the magical volcanic explosion of ecstasy that Christoph got from Annabelle, I have to say, for someone confined by the rules of the real world, Max was pretty good. Good enough to make me forget how strange it was that he made love just like my favorite fictional character.
That is, until we were finished, and he said, “Oh my sweet darling. Where shall I take you next?”
I sat up in bed. “Max,” I said, “have you been reading His Golden Shackles?”
His face was blank of any expression. “I’m sorry, what?” he said.
“The book, His Golden Shackles. After the main characters have sex the first time, that’s exactly what Christoph says to Annabelle. ‘Where shall I take you next?’ You even said it with a hint of a Hungarian accent.”
The blank look on his face remained for half a second, then he smiled.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” he said.
“Max, please tell me you didn’t read His Golden Shackles on my Kindle,” I said, feeling my heart beat faster with fear. Before Vivian disappeared, she and Max had been together in the same house with my Kindle. If Max had read it, and now he was behaving like this…
“Holly, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Besides, this isn’t the time for talking anyway. Lie back with me.”
He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me down to the bed. The smell of him, the smell of sex on both of us—it took me away. Even as my mind wanted to continue thinking about how strange it was that Max was doing his best impersonation of Christoph Green, my body wanted to sleep. I felt all soft and smooshy. I was so deeply relaxed after that monster orgasm I couldn’t think clearly. I mean…I was actually beginning to think that Max had gotten into my Kindle and somehow the magic inside was responsible for what was happening between us. What a ridiculous thought. That’s the sort of nonsense you think when you’re tired. I just needed to rest. Yeah, that’s it. Rest.
I nuzzled my body up against Max, and fell asleep.
Chapter 19
I dreamed that I was in my classroom, giving a lecture to adult versions of my former students.
I paced in front of them, waiting for the class to quiet down, then I went to the board and wrote Literary Archetypes in big letters.
“Someone give me an example of a literary archetype please,” I said.
“The hero,” said Sam Romero, who was a cute little gay kid when I taught him two years ago. In my dream, he had grown into a cute little gay man with a bushy beard.
“The tragic hero,” added Penny Lawson. Penny had been in the first 12th grade English class I ever taught. Last I heard she was a mother of three now. God I’m old.
“Yes, yes, very good,” I said. “Give me more.”
The class started belting them out.
“The warrior.”
“The prince.”
“The damsel in distress.”
“The fair maiden.”
“Romeo and Juliet.”
That last one came from Tom Baker. I looked at him and nodded.
“Yes, Romeo and Juliet turned the ill-fated lovers into an archetype no doubt,” I said.
“Gandalf is a case of a character based on an archetype,” I said. “The archetype in this case is Merlin. From the archetype of Merlin, the mentoring wizard with a long white beard, we get both Gandalf and Dumbledore.”
Nods and murmurs of agreement pass among the class.
Feeling like the class was sufficiently warmed up, I turned back to the board and wrote three names.
Bella, Jacob, and Edward.
“What do you think?” I said, pointing back at the names. “Three paragons of the paranormal. Could they be archetypes?”
Silence as they pondered my question.
“They embody some classic archetypes,” said Penny. “Jacob is the warrior. Edward is the hero, or maybe the anti-hero. I don’t know.”
“Yes, but I think they are much more than that,” I said. “Or at least, they have become much more than that. Students, I propose to you now that Bella, Edward, and Jacob have become so much a part of contemporary literary culture that they are archetypes of their own. Let me ask you something. Have any of you ever written fan fiction?”
Samantha Greer raised her hand.
“Any of you downloaded a paranormal romance from Amazon in the past two years?” I asked.
Now most of the hands in the class went up. Honestly, if this were reality, none of the guys, save Sam Romero, would have raised their hands, but it was my dream, and in my dream, the guys like a steamy werewolf novel as much as the girls.
“What about something from the erotica section?” I said.
Giggles from the classroom. They were grown-ups now, but not so grown-up they would admit to reading porn.
“Don’t lie. I know you’ve done it,” I continued. “You bought a Kindle, completely unaware that Amazon is in the porn business just like everyone else on the Internet. You thought you were gonna find some cool books about vampires but you ended up reading about magic Ben Wa balls.”
The phrase gave me a little tickle in my loins as I remembered a special spanking session with Christoph.
“Relax, I’m not up here to judge you,” I said. “I’m here to make you think. Are there any archetypes that have made their way into your erotica?”
A beat, then Penny answered, “Bella, Jacob, and Edward.”
“Precisely,” I said. “Bella, Jacob and Edward are everywhere. Most of the erotica authors cut their teeth in dirty fan fiction. They played around with Draco and Harry slash when they were teens, and got serious in their twenties with Bella, Jacob, and Edward. The big three from Twilight loomed so large in the minds of today’s crop of erotica writers that they show up in the stories without the authors even realizing it. Just look around in the stories you’re reading. Is there a beautiful young man whose past is so foreign to the girl as to be exotic? Is there a plain, unassuming girl who begins the story as a fish out of water? Is there a gorgeous best friend who only wants what’s best for the girl, who openly loves her even as she chooses someone else?”
“I don’t know, is there?” came a voice from the back row. It was a familiar voice, but it wasn’t one of my students. I looked up to see Taylor Lautner in all his beauty, standing in the back. He was wearing pants but no shirt.
Yum.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“I’m playing my role,” Taylor said. “I am the Jacob archetype in your story.”
A loud thud from the other side of the classroom. A shirtless Taylor Lautner was too much for Jessica Stratton and she passed out on her desk.
“My story?” I said. “What story is that?”
“We all play a story,” said Taylor. “And right now, your story needs a Jacob.”
“Does it now?” I said.
Taylor walked to the front of the room.
And then he turned into a wolf and imprinted on my baby. Just kidding. He actually stood right in front of me and said, “Yes, your story needs a Jacob, and it needs him right now.”
Don’t tell, but Taylor Lautner’s breath smells a little bit like dogfood.
“Fine then,” I said. “What does my Jacob character do?”
“Let’s ask them,” Taylor said, turning to the class. “What does Jacob do?”
“He loves the girl even though he can’t have her,” said Sam Romero.
“It’s more than love,” Penny Lawson interjected. “Jacob protects the girl. He looks out for her. He fights for her. He even protects her from herself.”
“He tells her what she needs to hear,” said Tom Baker.
Taylor brought his hands together, signifying that he’d heard enough and was now going to tell us the answer.
“He tells the Bella character the truth,” Taylor said, his voice carrying a weight and finality to it. “That is the central facet of the Jacob archetype. Bella is so confused in her new world that she requires a truth-teller to help her sort it out. That truth-teller is Jacob.”
He turned and looked at me. “Holly,” he said, “I’m here to tell you the truth.”
Taylor snapped his fingers and the classroom disappeared. Now we were standing in the luxury suite in the Marriott of downtown Denver. Max and I were asleep in the bed. No…wait. Max was waking up. He was getting out of bed.
“Where’s he going?” I said.
“Let’s wait here and see what happens,” Taylor said.
We watched as Max gingerly stepped out of bed, careful not to wake me. Ever so quietly, he went to the front door and walked out.
“Well this stinks, is he walking out on me?” I said.
“You don’t know what he’s doing, so neither do I, but you can hear him even as you sleep,” said Taylor.
“Oh, I get it. This is really happening out there and I can hear it, so it’s entering my dream,” I said, remembering many a dream on a Monday morning about a giant alarm clock that wouldn’t shut up.
“Shhh….here he comes,” Taylor said.
The door opened and Max returned.
“Open your eyes, Holly. Have a look at what he’s brought back inside.”
And then I was back in the bed, my right eye cracking open as I lay there. For just the briefest of instants, I got a view of Max sneaking through the room. He had something in his right hand. Something small and rectangular.
Something small, flat, and rectangular with a sticker of a blue holly flower on the back.
I closed my eyes and was back in the dream, standing over the bed with Taylor Lautner.
“That’s my Kindle!” I said. “He has my Kindle!”
“So much truth you needed to know,” Taylor said. “Now you know that your Kindle is fine, that Vivian didn’t destroy it after all, and that Max has been lying to you.”
“But what’s he doing with it?” I said.
“Looks like he’s carrying it into the office,” said Taylor.
We watched as Max walked past the bed and went into the office of the hotel suite. He opened the cabinet and pressed four buttons on the hotel safe. It popped open and he put the Kindle inside.
I followed him into the office and tried to get a better look. I watched as he closed the safe. I tried to get a view of the numbers he was typing in to lock the door, but Max’s body was in the way.
A mirror hung on the wall behind the safe. I had been so intent on watching Max I hadn’t noticed my reflection in the mirror, but as he stood up, I caught a glimpse of it.
It wasn’t me. I was looking at a woman who looked an awful lot like Kristen Stewart.
I was Annabelle Stone.
Then Max stepped into view, and in the mirror he wasn’t Max at all. He was Christoph.
“Taylor, what’s happening?” I said.
But Taylor was gone. And even though he’d been oblivious to my presence until now, this time Max seemed to hear me. He turned to look at me, and in Christoph’s voice he said, “Annabelle, it’s me.”
That’s when I woke up. I was in the bed. Max was next to me. He was fast asleep.
“Jus
t a dream,” I whispered. “Just a dream.”
This is reality, I thought. Come back to the real world, Holly.
The real world had a hard time coming. Where did it begin? Where did the fantasy world end? Forty-eight hours ago I was in Albuquerque, itching to go see Vivian and take my Kindle back. Now I was in bed with Max Brody? How had this happened?
Durango. We went to Durango and Vivian was nowhere to be found and we were hitting it off and he was so, so different than I remembered from high school. He was confident to the point of arrogance. He was forceful. He had lots of money to spend.
That last part was the hardest to wrap my head around in the middle of the night. Whitewater rafting, the NBA Finals, a suite at the Marriott—how had Max done all of this? Why had he done this? What just happened, and how had I allowed it all to go down so quickly? The more my mind cleared of sleep, the more absurd this all seemed, so much so that I wondered if I hadn’t returned to reality at all.
Moving slowly, I crawled out of bed. Max stirred but he didn’t wake. I went to the office and slid open the cabinet. A small metal breadbox with a numeric keypad on the front—the safe was exactly as it appeared in my dream. How could that be? I had never seen this safe before. Was it possible I had been sleepwalking? Surely the vision in my dream…
Brushing the thought aside, I squatted down in front of the safe. It was locked shut. A sticker on the door explained how it worked. The safe should have been open. The only time it was closed was when a hotel guest programmed in a new 4-digit code and locked it.
I stood up and looked around. The office was exactly the same as it appeared in my dream, right down to the mirror hanging on the cabinet door. The memory of what I had seen in that mirror was so vivid as to give me a shiver, and I turned around, half-expecting to see Christoph Green in the room with me.
Christoph Green. The name was charged with so much memory and emotion I could hardly handle it. There were the memories of being with Christoph, of the magic he worked on me in his Den of Decadence, and there were the memories of being Christoph. I spent only moments inside his character, but that was all I needed to get a complete download of his horrible, tragic life.
Holly and Her Naughty eReader Page 13