Mister O

by Lauren Blakely

  “No, I mean it,” she says, insistent, as I return to her arm.

  “I don’t know, Harper. That sounds like the definition of hell. I’d rather die.” I begin to sketch the tail. “What about you? What would you do if you didn’t know magic?”

  I look up briefly. She screws up her lips. “The same,” she says with a nod, and I love that we don’t have to explain more about why we feel this way. We’re in sync when it comes to the fire in the belly that drives us both.

  “How did you know you wanted to be a magician?” I ask while I add in messy bursts of hair on the cat’s belly as she answers.

  “I just knew, from the time I got a Christmas gift with a magic set in it when I was five. I learned every trick in every book I could get my hands on from the library and bookstore,” she says, and I move to the cat’s face. “I made my mom and dad take me to every magic show I learned about. I studied acting and public speaking in college so I could be comfortable on stage. I honestly can’t imagine not doing magic tricks. Which sounds silly, because it’s one of the weirdest professions to have. I can’t tell you how many people say, ‘You’re really a magician?’”

  “No one believes you do magic for a living?” I ask as I draw whiskers.

  “Anyone I meet for the first time doubts it. I constantly have to prove it, and like I told you before, people are always asking me to show them tricks. Like Jason,” she says, almost as an afterthought.

  I stop for a second. I’d nearly forgot she’d gone on a date, and that I’m supposed to help her analyze it or something. This is the first it’s come up. “Did you show him a card trick?”

  “Yes. And he wanted to know how it was done, but of course I couldn’t tell him.”

  “Because of the code? Code 563 in the Magician’s Handbook of Secrecy, I believe,” I tease, remembering what she said at the bookstore.

  She laughs and shifts the slightest bit in her chair, her knees now touching mine. “Yes. That code. I mean, there’s not an official code, but it’s an unspoken rule.” She adopts a serious voice, like that of a teacher. “The secret of a trick or illusion should never be revealed, unless to a student of magic who also takes this same oath.” Her voice becomes normal again, though still earnest. “You just can’t do it. It’s completely frowned upon in the magic community. It goes against the whole point of what we do, which is to make people suspend disbelief.”

  I add up all the times she’s ever told me how she’d pulled off a trick. The number is officially zero. I let this roll around a bit longer—keeping secrets is who she is. But she keeps them because she has to, not because she’s a sneaky person.

  “That’s part of it, too,” I say absently as I work on a very surly cat’s mouth.

  “Part of what?”

  “The trade-off. When you said your job was a trade-off. It limits your ability to meet people, but on top of that, you also have to constantly keep up a mask.”

  “Some days it’s all an illusion,” she says in a quiet voice, with a soft sigh. She snaps out of it in a nanosecond. “What are you afraid of?”

  I look up. “Not needles.”

  “What then? Spiders? Open spaces? That the Blackwing pencil company will go out of business?”

  I point my finger at her, and wink. “That one.”

  “For real, Nick,” she presses, using that voice of hers that is vulnerable, free of snark, and just works its way into me. That voice says she wants to know me more.

  I stop drawing, and focus on her, laying bare my deepest fear. “That it will all fall to pieces—the job, the show, the success. I’ve been really lucky. Most cartoonists barely make a living, and I’ve landed an awesome gig. The stars all aligned. But success can be so fleeting. It could all go away tomorrow in the blink of an eye.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I have to believe that. It keeps me on my toes. Keeps me focused on doing the best show I can. That’s why I just roll with Gino’s bullshit. Because I want all this to continue,” I say, tapping the drawing on her arm. “I want to keep doing this for as long as I possibly can.”

  “You love it,” she says, and it’s such a simple statement, and an obvious one, and yet it resonates inside me.

  “I love it more than showers. And I really fucking love showers,” I say, completely serious. In this moment, I don’t mean shower as a euphemism. I mean it for the complete and utter awesomeness of turning the water on high after a good, hard workout, or shortly after you wake up, or following a long, sweaty afternoon in bed with the woman of your dreams.

  She cracks up. “That’s amazing. I really love showers, too.”

  Lest I loll around in the shower zone too long, I school my thoughts, return to the design, and force myself to be her tutor. “How was it? Your date.”

  “It was fine. He was nice, and we talked.”

  “What did you talk about? As your coach, it’s important for me to know these details,” I say.

  “Bowling. College. Work.”

  “Sounds like what we just talked about. Minus the bowling.”

  “No,” she says, her tone firm. “We talk about stuff that’s deeper, don’t you think?”

  I meet her eyes, try to read her expression. But this is a woman who’s had to perfect the art of not revealing. I can’t tell what she’s thinking, feeling, or wanting, and it’s starting to drive me crazy because her words seem weightier than usual. “Do we?”

  She doesn’t look away. Her blue eyes stay fixed on me, and she answers simply. “Yes. Didn’t we just do that?”

  And she’s right. We did. I nod. “Do you like him?”

  “He asked me to go out next week. For dinner.”

  My muscles tighten, and I grip her arm harder. “What did you say?”

  “I said yes. Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say? You told me to try with him, coach. So I can learn how to date and not be a complete buffoon.”

  I laugh at her choice of words. “I’d hardly call you a buffoon.”

  She squares her shoulders, taking a beat. “What were your dates like with the romance novelist? Can you tell me so I know I’m not totally flailing around?”

  I shake my head. “We’re not talking about me right now, Princess Not-a-Buffoon. We’re talking about you. Are you starting to like him? You didn’t answer the question, and it would help me prep you for your dinner if I knew the answer,” I ask again.

  She quirks her lips, considering. “I don’t get that crazy fluttery feeling in my chest when I look at him or talk to him. I suppose I probably should if I like him?” She makes it a question, her gaze locking on mine.

  My own crazy, fluttering chest gives me the answer. “It’s not a bad start.” Then, because apparently I’m a glutton for punishment, I press on. “Do you feel that way when you’re with Simon?”

  Her eyes widen, and she shrugs.

  “That’s not an answer,” I say gruffly. Evidently, I really like abuse.

  “I haven’t spent any more time with him. You gave me orders not to see him,” she says, tossing the ball back in my court. “Though, I did talk to him on the phone earlier this week.”

  My pen stops. A bolt of red-hot jealousy slams into me. I’m so damn glad I’m looking down, because I don’t want her to see my face, or that it drives me crazy that she’s into him. “Yeah?” I ask, in my best cool and casual tone as I return to the blue lines on her skin. “How was that?”

  “Fine. We just talked about Hayden’s party in a couple weeks.”

  “And you were able to speak?”

  “Ha ha ha. Yes, I retained the power of oral communication,” she says, and I groan at the innuendo she served up. “Besides, the phone is easy for me. Especially texting.”

  “Good to know,” I say, as I finish the ink on her arm.

  I move my palm a few inches up her skin, raising her forearm to show her my work. As my fingers skim across her flesh, I swear for a second that her breath catches. The smallest sound floats to my ears, almo
st like a little gasp, and it sounds fantastic. It trips me back in time to our kiss. To the faint murmur that escaped her lips when I brushed them with mine. I want to press the button on her that controls that noise, that turns it up, that makes it music in my ears. Our eyes meet, and I’m not awash in crazy, dirty thoughts. I’m thinking about how pretty she is, how much more I want to know her, and how I don’t want this time with her to end. I can listen to her talk about cartoons and dreams, work and passion—all these deeper things, and all the simpler things, too—for as long as she wants to share them with me.

  Talking to her is so easy. So enjoyable. It’s like breathing. My heart pounds as I try to memorize the expression in her eyes, the tiny spark dancing across all that sapphire blue, that makes me believe she has to feel the same way.

  Her lips part the slightest bit, and that small shift is the very detail I’d draw in the picture of a girl who was starting to like a guy.

  My pulse races as she holds my gaze captive. There are no fans egging us on. There’s no trick we’re trying to pull off. We might be surrounded by people, but this is a coffee shop full of white noise. Right now, it’s only Harper and me, and her shoulders dip forward, as if there’s a magnetic pull between us.

  She leans into me, swaying closer, like she’s keen to finish what we started on the street. If she is, I want it all, but it has to come from her so I know this isn’t just another illusion. Every inch, every bend, every second until our lips meet has to start with her. I need to know whether this is all in my mind, or if this crackling electricity between us truly is as two-way as I want it to be.

  A cup clangs from somewhere behind the counter, and the sound of it hitting the floor breaks the spell. I straighten, she flinches, and we both look away. When I dare to return my focus to her, she’s staring down at her arm, so there’s no chance I can find an answer. It slips through my fingers like smoke.

  “I love it,” she says in a soft voice. “How long will it last?”

  “’Til you shower.”

  “But I love showers.”

  “It won’t last long then. So unless you plan on letting yourself get pretty dirty tonight, it’ll be gone tomorrow.”

  “Now who’s the one saying ridiculously filthy things?”

  I smirk. “Touché.”

  “Can I ask you a serious question?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think Jason is going to want to, you know”—she raises her eyebrows and croons like Marvin Gaye—“get it on?”

  “Maybe. Second date protocol suggests he might try to kiss you,” I say, trying to stay focused on the question and not my own reaction to it, which is that Jason is a lucky fucking bastard. “First date is to see if you actually want a second date. So you passed that test. Second date is to see if there’s any real chemistry, and so you graduate to dinner and probably a test kiss. And third date is . . .” I let my voice fade, and she raises an eyebrow.

  She whispers, all conspiratorial, “Wait. Don’t tell me. Let me guess. Third date is for . . .” She slows, licks her lips, then inches the slightest bit closer so it’s like she’s imprinting her words on the air as she holds my gaze captive and purrs, “Hot, dirty sex.”

  All the blood rushes to my dick.

  There’s no space between us for other people. Her words are between her and me. My brain stops working, lust spins wildly through me, and I say the first thing that comes to mind. “No,” I say, taking my time, too, because this is my territory. I know dirty words and deeds inside and out, and if Harper wants to go toe-to-toe, I’m in it to heat her up. “It’s for hot, dirty sex that lasts all night long.”

  Now she’s caught off-guard. She blinks, swallows, and exhales hard.

  I’m tense, wishing she’d start speaking in tongues like she did with Simon. Something to give me the confirmation that she’s into me, too. Instead, she bites her lip, then says, “I bet that’s the best kind to have.”

  “It absolutely is, princess.” Her eyes darken when I say that last word, my voice sliding into the tone I’d use with her in bed.

  Dirty. Rough. Hungry.

  That’s the problem.

  If I keep lingering in this zone, I’ll be participating in way more one-man shows than are good for my ego.

  And I really need to get her out of my head, especially since I’m seeing her brother tomorrow.

  11

  “Bond. James Bond.”

  Spencer adjusts his cuffs, then eyes himself approvingly. He glances over at me as I finish off my bow tie.

  “Can’t help myself,” he adds. “It’s a requirement. You can’t wear a tux and not say it. Because I do look like Bond.”

  I laugh and shake my head. “You and every guy in the world thinks that about himself.”

  We’re at the tuxedo shop the next day for the last fitting for his wedding, making sure the measurements are right. The petite black-haired woman, who runs the shop that’s open even on a Sunday, fiddles with the lapels on my jacket and says, “You look good. You’re all set.”

  I tip my head to Spencer as I begin to undo the bow tie. “Got anything that’ll improve his situation? A paper bag, maybe?”

  She smiles then turns to the groom to work on final adjustments. I change back into my own clothes, and when I rejoin them, Spencer tilts his head toward me and sniffs the air. “Why do you smell like my sister’s laundry detergent?”

  It’s like a car slamming on the brakes. Everything in my head screeches, and I’m caught red-fucking-handed. My brain sputters, and tons of excuses scurry toward my tongue. Then I tell myself to chill. Tons of people use the same soap, and just because she gave me detergent doesn’t mean I’m wearing a billboard that says I want to bang your sister.

  I just feel like I am. As if every little thing—even the most innocuous—reveals my hand. I’ve got to get my shit together especially since I have a dinner with Spencer, Charlotte, and Harper in a few days.

  I slide on a poker face. “What are you talking about?” I ask, giving him a look as if he’s the crazy one.

  He leans closer, arches an eyebrow, and sniffs again. “Hmm.”

  “Dude,” I say, stepping away. That one word conveys everything: this is a no-fly zone. But inside, I panic because how good is this guy’s nose that he can tell I’m using the same laundry detergent as his sister?

  “Also, nice cat,” Spencer tosses out.

  My pulse pounds in my neck. “What cat?”

  “On Harper’s arm,” he adds. “She was with Charlotte this morning, picking up the bridesmaid dresses.”

  Oh. Right.

  The evidence in ink. On Harper’s arm.

  Note to self: Find out why the hell Harper didn’t shower today.

  “Yeah? Charlotte liked my Bucky the cat?”

  Spencer cracks up. “Absolutely. If the TV business doesn’t work out, you should start aping other cartoonist’s work for a living.”

  I roll my eyes.

  His expression shifts to serious. “What’s the deal though? Harper told Charlotte you were hanging out more. That you had coffee yesterday, and she gave you detergent since she spilled something on you?”

  “Hot chocolate. Everywhere. Like it was a new design,” I say quickly, since that’s the truth. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with us getting a drink now and then. And then, like a frying pan to Woody Woodpecker’s head, it hits me why Harper told Charlotte the simple truth. The fact that we’re hanging out isn’t something Harper has to hide.

  I’m the one with the big secret—that I’m completely fucking tempted by my best friend’s sister in every way.

  Unrequited lust sucks balls. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

  The tux lady pats Spencer’s shoulder. “You’re all set now,” she says to him.

  He thanks her then eyes me in the mirror. “You’re just hanging out with her, right?”

  My chest pinches even as I answer honestly with a nonchalant, “Yeah.”

  “Good.” He soun
ds relieved, and part of me wants to ask why the hell I’m not good enough for her. He claps me on the back. “Because Charlotte wants you to meet her sister at the wedding. Natalie’s single, and a babe.”

  “Oh,” I say, surprised, because that was not the answer I’d expected at all. I try to play it cool. “I never pegged you as a matchmaker.”

  He shakes his head. “Not my idea. My bride’s. And what she wants, I want.”

  “Sure. Happy to meet her.” Maybe Natalie and I will hit it off, and she’ll get my mind off the one person I need to stop thinking about.

  “Wedding hookups are awesome, right?”

  “They’re the best,” I say.

  “And if there were anything more than hanging out going on with you and my sister, you know what I’d do to you.”

  I run a hand through my hair. “You do realize neither I, nor my hair, are the least bit afraid of you. You’re like the definition of not scary, right?”

  Spencer laughs. “I can be terrifying. Just ask my sister.”

  But I don’t really want to talk to Harper about her brother. When I take out my phone later that day to text her, I find she’s already sent me a note.

  12

  I must have missed her text when it came through earlier.

  Princess: Hey. Charlotte knows you smell like springtime, and it’s my doing. She saw my Bucky tattoo. I could have passed it off as my initiation to a new badass feline aficionado gang, but instead I fessed up. But I didn’t let on that you’re like my love doctor or something. And that you’re writing me prescriptions for the good stuff.

  I laugh at her ability to poke fun at herself. As I kick back on my couch, I respond.

  That’s not the important issue. What I want to know is—have you now given up showers in protest of something?

  Her reply arrives quickly.

  Princess: So . . . don’t laugh. But I really liked the drawing, so I didn’t wash my left forearm this morning. Picture that. I had my arm poking out the shower door so I wouldn’t erase it.