Take Me To The Beach

by K. L. Grayson, Karina Halle, A. L. Jackson, Marni Mann, Monica Murphy, Devney Perry, Kristen Proby, Rachel Van Dyken

  “I wouldn’t mind that one bit,” I murmur to her, my eyes never leaving hers.

  Don’t you fucking see? Don’t you know what you’re doing to me?

  And then something comes across her eyes, a spark of enlightenment. But she doesn’t balk from it. She doesn’t move. Her eyes remain locked with mine. I’m wondering if my heart might just leap out from my chest. Land in her lap. At least then she’d see.

  Then Mr. Elbow Elbowson jabs me in my ribs.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles.

  And of course the moment is ruined.

  As many moments have been so far.

  If I was a betting man I’d wager that the gods have something against the two of us being together.

  Jane is completely smashed.

  She’s got her arm hooked around Naomi’s and is holding her champagne glass high in the air, as if she’s making an announcement or a toast, but she’s not saying anything. She’s just holding it. Her arm must be getting tired.

  My book launch party is in full swing, heading towards winding down. After Marina and I arrived at JFK, we took a cab to the Dream Hotel in midtown where the publishers are putting me up, just around the corner (in Manhattan terms) from their office. I thought they’d put me in something stuffy or corporate but I guess they thought a hipster Instagram poet deserves a hipster hotel.

  Marina already got herself a room there once she learned where I was staying and I completely buggered it all up by not asking her to share the room with me. I didn’t even have to phrase it in a complicated way, I could have just said “hey, to save money why not just stay with me in my room. I have two beds.” Even though I have a king, but we could have sorted that out after she committed herself.

  And, naturally, Jane and Naomi also decided to stay in the hotel too. I guess it’s a good thing that Marina isn’t sharing a room with them because I have a feeling if I try and steal her away later, they’ll put a stop to it. I’ve never really been sure if Naomi likes me or not, she’s so bloody prickly. And Jane, well I love her but she’s warned me many a time about “never laying a finger on Marina.”

  But as far as I can tell, Jane doesn’t suspect a thing between us. Not that there is anything to suspect, though I’m sure she wouldn’t appreciate our fake dating thing that eventually led to real making out that might eventually lead to…

  I try not to get carried away with that thought. I’ve bucked against it all night, tried desperately to stay in the moment instead of the what ifs.

  It’s been a hell of a night too, one I won’t soon forget. First I went to the publisher’s office, alone, and met with Abigail and the rest of the team. I have to admit, it was extremely fulfilling to be lead around those offices on the Avenue of Americas, seeing all the books of all the authors I admire on shelves, feel the energy of the rooms.

  After that (and after signing about a hundred ARC paperbacks they’ll give away as promotion), I headed back to the hotel for dinner with Marina, Jane and Naomi. Then we headed over to this art gallery for the launch.

  It’s all so surreal still. I’ve met some bloggers and readers as well as journalists and other people in the publishing industry, plus most of the team behind the book. People are constantly coming up to me, wanting a selfie, wanting to shake my hand, wanting to meet the man behind the words.

  And yet the most surreal part of the night is that Marina has been with me every step of the way, always by my side. I’m not sure if she’s noticed it or not but every time I introduced her I did so as “This is Marina,” and I would put my hand at the small of her back. I didn’t mention her being my friend.

  Naomi yawns and looks around her. “I hate to be a party pooper but this party is starting to poop.”

  “That was mad eloquent,” I tell her raising my champagne glass and finishing the rest.

  Jane finally lowers her arm. “Naomi is right,” she grumbles. “I’ve been trying to get another drink for fucking ever.”

  “That’s what you were doing?” I ask.

  “There’s a cool bar by the hotel,” Marina says, staring down at her phone and using Yelp as she always does to find the best of everything. “Right next door.” She looks to me and the effect is extra devastating. I’m not sure if it’s the amount of alcohol I’ve had or what but her lips are extra pouty and smooth, her lipstick having worn off long ago and leaving a faint pink stain behind.

  It makes me think about other parts of her, wet and pink.

  I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to move past it and failing. This isn’t the best place to get a raging hard-on.

  “Laz?” Jane says and I tear my eyes away from Marina over to her. “Is it rude if we go?”

  I let out a sigh of relief and shake my head. “I don’t think so. Most people are leaving now and everyone else left behind seems pretty goosed.”

  “Goosed,” Marina says with a snort. “I swear, you always have a new name for getting drunk.”

  “I have many names for it,” I tell her. “Because that’s what we Brits do best. Speaking of, you need another refill.”

  I’m about to reach over and grab her glass but Jane snatches it from her first. “I’ve got this,” she says and then grabs Marina and pulls her along with her.

  Now it’s just me and Naomi. Oh, and Brent, a graphic designer at the publishing house who hasn’t said a word the entire time we’ve been here, just standing beside us and staring at Naomi.

  Here comes the small talk.

  “So what do you think of the cover?” I ask Naomi, holding up a copy of my book and waving it at her. All of us have a copy to take home and even though it’s an advanced review copy and not the final printed version (which I am told will have embossed font), it felt amazing to hold it in my hands for the first time.

  But Naomi isn’t looking at the cover. She staring at me, totally unimpressed. Which is her go-to expression, I know.

  “What are you doing, Laz?”

  “What?” I glance at Brent, hoping to glean some information off him as to what I’m doing but he’s still staring at her with quiet intensity.

  “Don’t play dumb,” she says and points her copy of the book at me until the corner of the spine is jabbing me in the chest. “You know what you’re doing.”

  “I’m enjoying my book launch?”

  “You’re playing with her feelings.”

  “What?” I exclaim, a little too loud. Some people look over. Luckily not Jane and Marina who are at the bar and chatting to Abigail.

  “Don’t play games.”

  I show my palm to her in surrender. “Naomi, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not playing with anyone’s feelings, nor am I playing any games. Not yet, anyway, I did pack a deck of Cards Against Humanity for later.”

  She presses her lips together, eyes narrow. “I know the likes of you.”

  I flinch. “You do not,” I say sharply. “You don’t know a bloody thing about me.”

  “I’ve seen your type,” she says.

  “And I’ve seen yours.”

  Her eyes flare up like my words have invoked the bowels of Hell. Maybe they have. Both Brent and I take an instinctive step backward.

  “And what’s my type?” she asks, challenging me to slip up.

  But I won’t.

  “Someone who took a chance on love, who never deserved to get screwed over and who did get screwed over. Proving that sometimes even the best intentions and the purest hearts can get fucked over by love.”

  She blinks at me and I can tell she wants to say something but doesn’t have the words because I’ve hit the nail on the head.

  I go on. Pressing my luck, maybe. “And so now you think all guys are the devil.”

  “Not all guys,” she says quickly. “Just guys who play games. I’ve been through all that, pure heart and whatnot, and now I know what to look for.”

  “You’re talking about me and Marina, right?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

  “You know
we’re just friends, right?”

  “No,” she says. “You aren’t. She told me about your dating game.”

  “So?”

  “So. I told her it was a mistake.”

  “Why? We’re both bad at love. Why not fix it?”

  “Because she’s not bad at it. She just hasn’t found the right guy yet.”

  “And who would the right guy be?”

  “Are we talking about the blonde with the big rack?” Brent suddenly says.

  We both look at him, look at each other, ignore him.

  “The right guy,” Naomi continues, “is someone who knows what he has when he has her. Someone who doesn’t kick her to the curb when things get real.”

  “Okay. So what does any of this have to do with me?”

  “Because you’re her friend and you’re… taking advantage of her.”

  I shake my head, run my hand over my jaw, trying to not lose it on her because she couldn’t be more wrong if she tried. “Why don’t you ask Marina about all of this? I haven’t done a thing.”

  She looks over her shoulder at Marina who is now walking over with Jane. She steps closer and pokes the book into my chest again, leaning in close with hard eyes. “Marina is my best friend. She’s yours too. Leave it that way. Please. Because if you fucking hurt her, in anyway, I will cut your dick off.”

  “Whoa,” Brent says. “I am out of here.”

  “Yeah, whoa,” I say to her. “And what makes you think we’re more than friends?”

  She just shakes her head. “I’m not saying anything else. Just open your fucking eyes, will you, Laz?”

  “I got you a drink,” Marina says appearing at my side. She holds out a cold beer and I take it from her, trying to smile my gratitude, hoping my hand isn’t shaking. “I figured you were tired of champagne.”

  “Thank you,” I tell her before I gulp back the beer, knowing that Naomi is still watching me. If she wants me to open my eyes, I will.

  “Hey, don’t drink it all,” Jane says, thrusting her glass of champagne out toward me. “We have to do a proper toast. Here’s to Lazarus Scott for proving to every little hipster out there that they too can become Instagram famous if they just dream hard enough and use the right hashtags.”

  “Fuck off,” I tell her, laughing, and we all clink glasses, finishing the rest of our drinks right there.

  “Woooo!” Jane shouts, twirling around. “Let’s blow this popsicle stand.”

  “Amen,” grumbles Naomi.

  “I should go say goodbye to Abigail,” I tell Marina. Without thinking, I grab her hand and hold it tight. “Come with me.”

  She inhales sharply, nods and I lead her over to my editor who is sipping from a water bottle and talking to a man in a suit I don’t recognize.

  “Thank you so much for everything,” I tell Abigail. “Really. I couldn’t have dreamed of anything better.”

  “I’m so glad you liked it,” she says. “And that you could make it. I know it was last minute.” She looks to Marina. “Can I just say, you’re a very lucky woman.”

  Marina glances at me, wide-eyed, and I know she’s seconds from correcting her so I beat her to the punch.

  I squeeze her hand and say quickly, “I’m the lucky one here. If you’re looking for a book on beekeeping for the Instagram age, this is the gal for you.”

  “Oh really?” Abigail says and I can see the ideas sparking in her eyes. “You’re a beekeeper?”

  Marina nods, apparently speechless for once. I’m not sure if it’s because a New York editor is interested or that I’m pretending we’re together.

  “Here,” I say, letting go of her hand to fish out my wallet from my back pocket. I pull out one of Marina’s business cards, albeit with her old logo, and hand it to Abigail. “Look her up. You won’t be disappointed.”

  She takes it, looking it over. “Well isn’t this something?” she says. “A power couple on Instagram. The poet and the beekeeper.”

  We say our goodbyes and then start walking toward Naomi and Jane by the front doors.

  “I can’t believe you did that,” Marina says in a hush as I hold her hand and pull her toward them.

  “What, pimp you out or pretend I was your boyfriend?”

  “Both, actually.”

  I shoot her a cheeky smile. “Better bee-lieve it.”

  She rolls her eyes but at least it grounds her again.

  “God you guys are slow,” Jane says as we approach. Her eyes trail down to our hands entwined together. I can almost feel the pulse in Marina’s palm ticking against mine in preparation for whatever Jane is going to say.

  “Holding hands?” Jane notes, slurring her words a bit. She tries to raise a brow but ends up frowning instead.

  “It’s New York City, Jane,” I tell her. “You never know who might try and snatch me up on these mean streets.”

  They all start laughing and we head out into the night.

  I don’t let go of Marina’s hand. Not for a second.

  She’s not pulling away either. When we walk back to the hotel, the air thick with humidity we just don’t feel in LA, she’s right by me, leaning in, her shoulder against my arm.

  We don’t say anything. Everything is so electrically charged already, I don’t think words need to be said. “Open your eyes,” Naomi had said. But my eyes are open. Maybe not always, but they are now.

  I’m not ending this night alone.

  Marina

  Corrupt

  Laz is holding my hand.

  He’s been holding my hand for the last thirty minutes.

  I don’t know what’s going on.

  But I think my hand is sweating a bit too much for my liking and I want to pull it away and wipe it off. I’m just afraid that if I do, he won’t hold it again.

  It’s like I’m five years old again with my crush on Billy Drixol who lived down the street, when Billy held my hand for our entire walk to the playground. That was my first crush. That hand-holding meant the whole world to me.

  Now, it’s with Laz. Tall, lean, muscled, tatted, wonderfully talented Laz with the sexiest accent in the world. This man is holding my hand and it feels like the most natural thing, despite the fact that I’m burning hotter than the sun with every step we take.

  We’re not saying a word to each other. We’re not strangers to silence but this silence is different. It’s saying things that haven’t been said. I just don’t know what he’s saying to me.

  “You guys are so slooooow,” Jane yells at us from the street corner.

  It’s been so nice to see her and be with Naomi and let our hair down a bit but honestly, at the same time, I just want to keep walking past them and head to somewhere dark and quiet with Laz. I want to tell him all the things I wasn’t able to say when we slept together.

  That was two weeks ago. I was spooked. I was scared. And it was my own doing, feeling that vulnerable. In those two weeks I did what I could to stay away from him, to stay busy, to put both of us back into that friendship box. It seemed to work at the time. The less I saw Laz, the less I talked to him, the less I thought about him. And I managed to get a lot of work done for the business too.

  But the moment I saw him yesterday, all of that friendship shit was thrown out the window.

  This man is no longer just my friend. He’s no longer my Laz in that sense. He’s a man that I’m giving my heart over to, whether he knows it or not, whether I want to or not. There’s no reasoning, no deciding. It’s done.

  He’s a man who’s going to ruin me.

  And for once, I just want to be ruined.

  Ravaged.

  Claimed.

  My body has never belonged to anyone before but I want it to belong to him.

  In his hands, his capable hands, I trust.

  I want to feel him again, taste him again, hold him again. I want to see what he can do when we’re both free of restraints, free of the lines we’ve drawn up around each other but never dared to cross.

  I steal a gla
nce at him.

  He’s so unbelievably beautiful right now. His hair black as sin, shiny and thick. The dark sparkle in his eyes, the way he keeps chewing on that full bottom lip of his, lips I’d die to kiss again. Maybe it’s the lights of the city, the humidity in the air, but he has this glow about him, like he’s finally realizing his dreams are coming true. Because they are. They’re exploding into confetti right in front of us.

  I’ve watched him all night long, my heart bursting with pride as he finally held his book in his hands, the book that holds his heart and soul. Now that same book is in my hands, though I’m afraid to read it.

  “What?” he asks me as we round the corner, Jane farther down the street now with Naomi, talking to a bouncer.

  “I was wondering if you’ll sign my book later,” I tell him. “I’m your number one fan.”

  “I thought you said you don’t read my poetry much.”

  Oops. I forgot I told him that once.

  Here’s a confession: I haven’t read many of his poems.

  I have read some, here and there if I happen to catch it on Instagram. He has talent and I’m obviously impressed by how he’s able to convey life in such a way. But there’s something so intensely intimate about his poetry that makes me feel flushed and anxious, like I’m looking at something I shouldn’t. Which is really fucking weird since he literally has a million Instagram followers that read his every word. It can’t be that intimate if he’s baring all to so many.

  Which has me wondering, if he has no problems putting his thoughts and feelings down for the world to see, why does he keep so much of himself hidden, even from me?

  I smile. “I’m your number one fan. Not Lazarus Scott, Insta Poet. I’m a fan of you.”

  He stops and studies me for a moment. “You know there’s a difference.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Hey!” Jane yells. “Get your asses over here or we won’t be able to get in!” She starts waving frantically. Naomi is having a cigarette and smoking it like it’s second nature. Who knows when she started smoking or where it came from. She might have a New York persona.