The fourth time Mrs. Berman called, her assistant decided that maybe she was for real and patched her through. It was bad news. Tragic news, really. Curtis had slipped and fallen in a bathroom in some godforsaken motel deep in the sand dunes of the Mojave and now he was dead. Dead as in no longer breathing, no longer speaking, and most importantly, no longer finishing the Roxy Sandoval autobiography that he’d contracted to do.
According to Curtis’s mother, slip-and-fall accidents in the bathroom account for over twenty thousand deaths a year. Almost fifty-five a day. Second only to automobile accidents. The Bermans were looking into litigation. Apparently the bathtub in the motel lacked nonslip daisies on the shower floor.
It was a tragedy. For sure. She’d have her assistant send flowers and then write up something nice and send it to Publishers Weekly, Publishers Marketplace, GalleyCat, and Shelf Awareness. It should be something glowing, albeit short. After all, they were contractually obligated not to mention his ghostwriting of Totally Reality. Other than that, what had he done? Maybe there wouldn’t be an obituary after all. Scratch the write-up. Maybe his parents could put something in their local paper.
Amy wondered how many people died like that, never really realizing their dreams, and then slipping in the bathroom. She made a mental note to buy some nonslip daisies for the tile floor in her shower.
Curtis’s mother wanted to know about all the money in Curtis’s bank account. Where did it come from? Even Curtis’s mom didn’t believe he’d been successful. Amy told her that he’d signed a contract to write a book and that they’d probably have to give the money back. She’d have to give her commission back, that was for sure, but maybe she could sell his novel now. A posthumous book by an undiscovered genius. Of course it would’ve been better if Curtis killed himself. Suicides are always so dramatic. People love them. You can be an interesting author of experimental fiction and then, once you kill yourself, you become a beloved genius. It gave Amy an idea. Curtis’s death was mysterious. In the desert. Who can say for sure what happened? Suicide? Murder? Mexican cartel? Mojave death cult? Anything’s possible. A posthumous book could turn that godforsaken motel into a literary tourist shrine.
Amy picked up the phone and dialed an editor she knew.
39
Tempe
Sepp fell back on the bed and heard the distinct slap of water. He looked up at the Ninja. “Dude. Are you fucking shitting me? A water bed? This is totally outrageous.”
Harriet swiveled in the passenger seat of the RV to face him. “What’s outrageous?”
“A water bed in an RV.”
Sepp smacked the bed and a sloshing sound filled the RV. “Come on, you won’t believe it.”
“I believe it.”
Sepp grinned at her. “You’ve never been on a water bed before, have you?”
Harriet looked at the Ninja, then back at Sepp. “I get seasick.”
Sepp winked. “I got the cure for that.”
Sepp pulled a couple of pillows under his head and lay back on the bed. He felt the RV turn left, the water in the bed slowly leaning one way, then rocking him back as the RV straightened. It felt good, like swinging softly in a hammock. He saw Harriet staring at him. She looked beautiful. “Try it, you’ll like it.”
Harriet hesitated. “I need to return the rental. I can’t just leave it here.”
She watched Sepp bobbing on the water bed. It looked inviting. She felt a pang in her crotch that urged her to join him. How many orgasms had she had in the last twenty-four hours? Six? Seven? Was there a limit? Now that they were clear of the body and the car and Sepp had rejoined his book tour she was feeling tired. It had been an exceptionally stressful all-nighter.
The Ninja looked at her. “I can call the rental company and get it taken care of. The producer will even cover the bill. No sweat. Just give me the key.”
Harriet handed him the key to the rental. The Ninja took it and said, “If you want to check your email there’s a new MacBook on the couch. The whole RV is wired for wi-fi.”
…
Sepp could see that Harriet was worried about something. He wondered if she was considering going back to California. People standing at the doorway of fame sometimes get cold feet. It happens. But you need to be strong, to have some faith and take the plunge. He didn’t want to see her throw this chance at fame out the window. She had told him it was her lifelong dream to be an author, to have a book on the shelves, and he wanted to make it happen for her. This is how he realized that he was in love with her.
Sepp pulled his T-shirt off, over his head.
“Come here, Harriet. Let’s talk.”
Harriet moved to the back of the RV and sat on the water bed. She landed harder then she meant to, causing a micro-tsunami to slosh against the other side of the bed, raising Sepp up and back down. Harriet looked slightly stricken—maybe she did get seasick—as the wave ricocheted around the bed.
“Whoa. Splashdown!”
Sepp saw a smile creep across Harriet’s face. He reached over and put his arms around her, pulling her close.
“How’re you feeling?”
Dr. Jan had taught him to ask this question. Women want their feelings to be taken seriously. That’s what Dr. Jan had told him and, wouldn’t you know it, they really do. Sometimes feelings are even more important than reality.
Harriet propped her head up on her arm. “What do you mean?”
“It looks like you’re worried about something.”
Harriet narrowed her eyes. “No shit I’m worried. Do you think getting away with what we did is easy? There’s so many loose ends to tie up and then you’ve got to think one step ahead of the law. It’s exhausting.”
Sepp nodded. “Oh. I thought you were worried about us?”
Harriet laughed. “Have you watched too many relationship shows? I’m not worried about us. There are bigger fish to fry.” Now there was a good idiom.
“Well. Just know that I love you and that I’m here for you.”
Sepp kissed her forehead and stroked her tangled hair.
Harriet sighed. “Thanks.”
Sepp pulled her in a little closer. He felt his penis start to swell, a nice healthy rush of blood to his cock, his brain alerting it that there might be some action here.
“The thing about being a celebrity is that people don’t really care what you did to become famous. Once you’re famous, you’re famous. You kill someone, you hide their body in the desert, they pretty much overlook all that.”
Sepp gave her a hug and rolled his body so that his crotch pressed against her thigh. He gave her a gentle, reassuring pelvic thrust. She pushed back, but he could tell that she wasn’t happy.
“But that’s not how it should be. Why should famous people get a free ride? Why not smart people? Why do Americans make fun of smart people? They don’t do that in other countries.”
Sepp let her vent her frustration. It was good to get it out.
“Take France, for example, or hell, Holland. Intellectuals are rewarded for being smart. People want to hear what they have to say. They’re the ones writing books and being interviewed on TV. Not hotel heiresses and random offspring of celebrities.”
He gently stroked her nipples through her shirt. He felt them contract and harden.
“It’s stupefying.”
Sepp nodded. “Americans like to have fun.”
He felt her body relax, as if giving up the fight temporarily, giving in to him. Sepp felt like his cock was about to explode. It was such a change from just a day ago when he couldn’t even get it up. Now, because of Harriet, he was all authentic and real and hard as a rock. Sepp wondered why. Did he have to be in love to get a boner? Was that what was wrong with him?
He watched as she closed her eyes and seemed to drift off for a moment. She put her face next to his and whispered, “I want to live in a meritocracy.”
Sepp kissed her face, tasting the salty sweet moisture of her skin, and gently slipped his hand under her pa
nties. She smiled at him. “You don’t know what that means, do you?”
The RV rocked as the Ninja climbed back on.
“All set. Let’s get the show on the road.”
…
The Ninja had only driven a few blocks when he heard a muffled moan coming from the back of the RV. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Sepp pull the curtain across the bed, giving them a cloak of privacy. He’d have to drive around for a while, circling a park or something. The Ninja stopped at a light and looked at his iPod. He didn’t really want to hear them having sex—the microphones embedded in the wall just above the bed would pick up everything he’d need for the edit—so he spun the dial until he found something appropriate. He jacked his headphones into the iPod and hit play. The Ninja wished he had some classical music; Ravel’s “Bolero” would be appropriate and also ironic. But he didn’t have it so he selected the next best thing. His ears soon began to ring with the chunk and glimmer of Bob Marley’s greatest hits.
Mounted in a compartment in the RV, braced by a metal alloy frame and floating on a platform of shock-absorbing rubber, a large hard drive spun in what’s called an embedded DVR or digital video recorder. This one was specially built for military use and could record for days. The drive was capturing the images recorded by the tiny lenses of the digital cameras discreetly mounted around the water bed. The camera captured color images during the day, but automatically switched to black and white in low-light situations. With infra-red sensors, it could film in almost total darkness.
The Ninja had a little monitor in the front seat and was able to watch the action. He was a stickler for quality and wanted to make sure the cameras had the best angle and were in focus. He had to give it up for Sepp. The dude somehow knew to position his body so that he never blocked Harriet’s breasts or face. Nobody wants to watch some dude’s back no matter how muscular or tan, and Sepp instinctively played to the camera, even a camera that he didn’t know was there.
As the RV idled at a red light the Ninja watched as Sepp worked his magic on Harriet. She began with a somewhat distracted look on her face, like she just wasn’t that into it. But as Sepp began to kiss her underarms, working his way around her body, running his tongue along her rib cage while his hands found her nipples and crushed them tenderly between his finger and thumb, as he nibbled on her inner thighs, slowly moving toward her pussy, her expression began to change. And when he finally brought his warm mouth to her clitoris, sucking gently and swirling his tongue around this swollen nub of nerve endings, her mouth dropped open and she gasped, arching her back in an iconic image of pleasure.
A car honked behind the RV and the Ninja saw that the light had changed. He gently pressed on the gas and moved forward, heading toward the bookstore and Sepp’s event.
…
The Ninja knew that Sepp was popular with the ladies, but he had no idea the extent and fervor of the female public’s obsession until he saw the line waiting outside the bookstore. He figured there were at least three hundred women breathlessly clutching copies of Sepp’s book, waiting for their chance to get close to him. Even though the women were all ages, all shapes and sizes, there was a striking uniformity to them. Perhaps it was an Arizona thing. Maybe they were all descendants of some kind of ancient, desert-dwelling tribe, marked by streaky blond hair, chunks of turquoise dangling from their necks and arms, and sun-blasted hides that had turned crinkly, like butterscotch pudding left too long in the fridge.
They were showing a lot of cleavage. Eager to impress the reality TV heartthrob, they dressed in their sluttiest clothes. The Ninja regretted not bringing an extra cameraman on this trip, someone to walk the line and get interviews with the fans. There were a lot of hotties in the line and nothing is better on TV than an excited woman and her breasts.
…
They entered the bookstore and were greeted by the manager, an intelligent-looking young woman who, if you asked the Ninja, was just a haircut and some makeup away from looking really good on TV.
“Mr. Gregory?”
“Call me Sepp. I know it’s a funny name but . . . I’m stuck with it.”
“Sepp. Can I ask you a favor?”
“Sure.”
The Ninja zoomed in tight on the manager’s face. He could see that she was slightly embarrassed, uncomfortable to be caught on camera scanning Sepp’s body with obvious animal desire. It was like watching a librarian slowly turn into a stripper. That kind of internal conflict was great for television.
“Some of our customers are asking if you might, well, I feel really uncool asking . . .”
Sepp smiled, as if to reassure her. The Ninja adjusted his angle, zoomed out to get them in a two-shot.
“You want me to lose the shirt?”
She nodded. “Would you mind? I’ll give you a Changing Hands Bookstore T-shirt in exchange.”
Sepp flashed a smile. “I’d love that.”
Harriet looked at the manager. “Can I get one, too?”
The manager smiled. “Sure.”
Sepp yanked his T-shirt over his head and the women in line burst into applause and began squealing like schoolgirls. The Ninja was amazed. He hadn’t seen a reaction like that since Celebrity Super Stunts when he’d filmed David Hasselhoff riding a zip line across Gendarmenmarkt in Berlin wearing only a Speedo.
The Ninja panned the camera to display the squealing mob of women, his lens greeted by a barrage of popping flashes from cell phones and digital cameras. It was like looking into a disco ball.
Damon was right. This show could be huge.
@fatalinfluence Crazy 24 hours. I could write a book about it.
Harriet sat in a coffee shop next to the bookstore catching up on her email, trying to decide what to write on her blog. She borrowed the MacBook from the RV and was happy to be back online after what seemed like a year. But what could she say about her mission now? She wasn’t going to humiliate Sepp or knock his book off the bestseller list. It was too easy. And it would hurt him. Not that she felt overly protective of him. All she really felt was a little twinge in her crotch whenever she thought of him. How was she going to blog about that? What would she say?
Traditionally we don’t discuss our carnal appetites, but we do have to confess a sweet tooth for one Sepp Gregory. Not only did he write a novel that is evocative, emotional, and profound, but from the narrative dazzle of the story to the liveliness of the sentences, he has produced an important work of fiction that is almost as delightful and satisfying as the length and hardness of his cock; which we have put in our mouth and enjoyed in a variety of positions. Perhaps you’ve seen photos of his turgid member online.
She hit delete. Her readers would think she’d lost her mind or been hacked. Maybe she had lost her mind. Was she caught in some kind of bizarre delusion? Had someone at the Playboy Mansion slipped her some kind of experimental drug? Or was she experiencing an erotic obsession? Or had she lost her mind but discovered her body? Was she Constance Chatterley and Sepp the earthy gamekeeper?
@fatalinfluence I feel like rereading D. H. Lawrence.
She considered writing a tweet about how she needed a shower, but now, after a lifetime of compulsive hygiene and fastidiousness—she’d begun using antibacterial soap way before it was popular—now she didn’t want to bathe. She enjoyed feeling like she’d spent an entire day wallowing in a sty of sex juice. She didn’t mind that her armpits were starting to stink and a ripe, gamy scent was wafting off her body like some kind of porn-set perfume. In fact, she liked it. But she wasn’t so sure about the people around her. Love stinks. Yeah, yeah. Wasn’t that a song she’d heard in high school?
Harriet looked around the coffee shop. There were people staring intently at their laptop screens, a few reading books and newspapers. Mostly they were alone, like her. She sipped her latte and wondered if any of them were in love. Would she be able to smell them if they were?
Sepp had told her that he loved her. She could count on one hand, and not use her thumb,
index, or pinky finger, how many men had said that to her. She wondered if Sepp only loved her for her body. That made her smile. That’d be a first.
She clicked through a couple of websites that she normally read, a few of her fellow lit bloggers, and then to Publishers Marketplace for publishing industry news. It was there that she saw a very brief mention of Curtis Berman’s accidental death and realized that she’d gotten away with it.
…
Like the professional he was, Sepp worked the line. He signed books, he posed for photos, he nodded his head and smiled as people told him how much they loved him, how they never missed his shows, how they adored his book. They felt his pain at loves labored over and lost, they shared the dream of falling for the perfect person and felt the stab of heartbreak when he realized that the person wasn’t so perfect after all. They laughed with him. They cried with him. He was an inspiration. He gave them hope.
Sepp found himself moved by these people. Everyone he’d met on the book tour, actually. The woolly-sweater women in Seattle who smelled like fresh rain, the fashionistas in San Francisco, the compassionate people who’d taken care of him when he had his breakdown in LA, the bookstore dude who’d given him the book about reality—they made him feel loved. And now, here in Tempe, he was hearing it again. He wasn’t a talentless reality star. He mattered. Maybe being a guilty pleasure was something he shouldn’t feel guilty about.
…
“Did you really hook up with Roxy Sandoval?”
Sepp was about to give his standard answer and prepared to receive a high five, but the voice behind the question sent an icy shiver through his body. He felt the hairs on his neck rise up like he was wearing a static-electric halo. He looked up and saw her in all her glory.
Raw: A Love Story Page 18