#1 Muse ~ T. Gephart Page 7

  “Look, it’s done. He thinks I was visiting a friend, saw him, and helped. Let him live the fantasy that I’m the citizen of the year for an afternoon. In the meantime, his brother will probably go home and read the story Scully gave him by accident, and one or both of them will file a restraining order. All good.”

  While my future sounded bleak, it was by far the most excitement I’d had in the last few weeks. Not only was my body humming like I’d jammed wires underneath my fingernails, but I had written more last night on a “workable” script than I’d had in months. One of those reasons was probably why I was smiling so wide, and I wasn’t going to try to extrapolate which.

  My roommates looked at each other, a silent dialogue passing between them as they stared at me. They probably wondered if somewhere between last night and the morning if I’d had a mental break, snapping into full-blown psychosis.

  Luke moved closer, narrowing his eyes as he lifted his phone and shone the light from the flash into my face. “Pupils reactionary, she isn’t high.”

  I shoved the light out of my face. “Of course I’m not high, you think in between helping Nick into his bedroom and being discovered in his living room I had time to score some weed?”

  “Well, it was a long night, and you did say you didn’t sleep,” Scully offered like it would be reasonable.

  Well, realistically, it might be reasonable. But in this instance, the high I’d received wasn’t synthetic. “I did something better than get high. I wrote last night,” I declared proudly.

  “You wrote sexy times while he was asleep in the other room. Babe, I’m impressed.” Scully beamed, her pride shining through.

  Luke joined in, his own smile wide. “I like this deviant side of you. Good girls finish last you know.”

  I raised my hands in protest, wondering if it said more about me or them that they’d assume my writing would involve sexy time. “I was writing a screenplay, not fan fiction.”

  “Like something you’d actually shop?” Luke’s smirk dropped, his face turning serious.

  My head bobbed. “Yes, and I don’t know if the sleep deprivation has made me delirious or I’m just delusional, but I think it’s good.”

  It could have easily been a huge pile of shit, a bunch of words that made no sense or had no artistry, put on the page just to make a word count. Hell, it certainly wouldn’t be the first time.

  But last night felt different, like I had a renewed sense of . . . inspiration.

  “Awwww, you got your groove back,” Scully cooed. “I should have given him a copy of your story months ago.”

  I barked out a laugh. “You didn’t give Nick anything. And I could have done without the embarrassment and pending banishment from Hollywood. I still have to work out how I’m going to spin that.”

  The feel-good mood didn’t negate that I still had all that shit to deal with.

  The Larssons were like showbiz royalty. The eldest brother Eric was a god, an A-lister who could pick up Academy Award winning roles like he was going down to the corner store for a gallon of milk. Dave and Nick, only a few steps below, but not by much.

  The closest I could get to the kind of names and numbers they probably had on speed dial was stalking profiles on IMDb. Just a few whispers in the right ears and I would be a pariah. Dirty, laying in a gutter somewhere on Hollywood Boulevard in tattered clothes and a bad haircut like a poor man’s version of Les Misérables. “I dreamed a dream . . .”

  “Well, there’s still the option of Jane from Palm Springs,” Scully offered, not being helpful.

  Luke shook his head. “She doesn’t look like a Jane.”

  “Well, while you two try and find me a better pseudonym, I’m going to shower. We can have a crisis meeting later.”

  If I stuck around any longer, they would have tried to argue the need for more details, wanting to pump me for information so they could dissect it. Which was why I left them to ponder while I found sanctuary in the bathroom. And for a few moments, I was able to lose myself in the steam and spray.

  I could pretend that the excitement in my belly was because of my work and not from seeing Nick. That the goosebumps on my skin weren’t from imagining his touch. And that I wasn’t hoping to see him again.

  Instead I convinced myself that if I did see him it was only for the greater good of my art, purely for inspiration because that would make sense. Wasn’t there a whole movement of Renaissance painters who coveted curvy women? Well, this was no different.

  As I toweled myself dry, I replayed the memory of his delicious naked body in my head. Seeing his spectacular ass accidentally was a highlight and one I was keeping privately tucked away.

  I should have felt terrible, invading his privacy like that.

  But I didn’t.

  He was stunning.

  Like someone had reached inside of my brain, picked all my examples of the perfect man and molded them into a living breathing one. Too bad the banging on the bathroom door rudely interrupted my ponderings on whether Nick was in fact a gift.

  “Hey Jane, lover boy Larsson is hitting up your IG,” Luke called through the door.

  Social media wasn’t something I was great at, Instagram, my typical fail. I preferred Twitter where I didn’t have to take pictures of everything, leaving quirky antidotes instead of deciding which filter made my plate of fries look more delicious.

  My eyes widened, quickly wrapping a towel around myself as I yanked open the door. “I thought everyone agreed I wasn’t Jane. And I haven’t been on Instagram for months.”

  Luke shook my phone in his hand. “Well you might want to tell him that.”

  “What are you even doing going through my phone?” I grabbed it, the screen unlocked and the app open.

  He shrugged like it was no big deal. “It buzzed, I was curious.”

  “Well get uncurious.” I held the phone against my chest.

  Luke laughed. “Careful, you don’t hit the camera and post an InstaStory of your tits.”

  “Thanks for the tip, ass.” I dropped my hand, putting my breasts safely out of danger from accidental flashing.

  With the towel wrapped around my body and my phone clutched in my hand, I power walked from the bathroom to the privacy of my bedroom. I closed the door, my damp back pressing against the wood as I heard Luke’s laugh trail off.

  He had the decency to give me my space, knowing full well I’d probably tell both he and Scully everything later, anyway. But in the meantime I was alone with a virtual Nick Larsson, standing almost naked in my room as I swiped my hand across the phone screen.

  I’d assumed he’d eventually find me. If he’d missed my personal introduction when I gave him both my first and last name, it had conveniently been written on my story Scully had given to Dave. Figured it was only a matter of time before I’d get a call. Maybe an email.

  Instead, he sifted through the web, possibly messaging a bunch of random Claires before he’d gotten to me. Knowing my last name wouldn’t have helped, preferring to use the nickname my dad had given me when I was three.

  ClaireBear.

  That he’d gone to so much effort to track me down excited me. That was until I took a closer look at my account and realized my lameness and dumbasary seemed to be more responsible for his discovery than his impressive detective skills.

  There I was, smiling widely on the set of Crash, the image I had chosen as my profile picture. And not that anyone else would have known, but in my hand I held the script from the episode where he’d played the bartender.

  I thought I was being cute, posting the photo from the day we’d met, saving it for prosperity so we could joke about it with our grandchildren. Seemed like a really good idea at the time, now not so much. I’d pretty much Hansel and Gretel’d him, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs right to my door. Who needed to give the man a phone number when past Claire had illuminated the path like a landing strip.

  The little red circle warned me of three private messages.

  T
hree.

  Because one, hey, I found you, wouldn’t be enough; the man needed more.

  Lord, what the hell did he say?

  My finger hovered, opening up the bubble to our private chat. I hitched up my towel conscious I was mostly naked. “What am I doing?” I laughed to myself. “It’s not like he can freaking see me through the phone.” And to prove the point of how ridiculous I was being, I let the towel drop and sat on my bed, naked.

  Nice profile pic. ;-) You forgot to mention that when we first met you had been blond. No wonder I couldn’t remember you. Honest opinion, you look better as a brunette.

  Okay, so maybe shucking the towel wasn’t such a good idea. The words on the screen made my skin tingle like he was looking at me as he made his assessment. Still, I wasn’t going to cover myself with my hands like a prude. And he was only saying my hair looked better dark. It’s not like he said, hey you’re hot, let’s make out. And still, that he said anything at all made me excited.

  The second message was a photo, and it took me about two seconds to work out it was his front door.

  Having trouble with my key, know where I can find someone who’s handy with a lock.

  The third message was another photo, the contents not in any way ambiguous as I stared at a stack of papers that was very obviously a copy of my story.

  You should know that I fought to the death for this. Okay, so not to the death—Dave is still breathing—but I did get a hangnail when I stole it out of his backseat. Looks like some interesting reading. Tell your friend thanks.

  Great.

  Just fucking great.

  The ghost of Christmas past had decided to show up and taunt me.

  And rather than ignore his messages—which would have been the smart thing to do—I decided to respond, trying not to swoon at how adorable and funny he was. Like the heart eye emoji exploded on my screen.

  I was in big trouble.

  Heeeeeeey, you found me! Surely you don’t have the time to read all of that? Why don’t I continue to save you and just tell you what happens?

  It was a long shot, hoping he was only kidding about reading it. He must have dozens of scripts that needed his attention. Why would he read an unedited and unsolicited manuscript from someone he didn’t even know? I wasn’t even sure if he’d worked out I was the author yet, possibly using it as a conversation piece. And in any case, providing him carefully curated CliffNotes were a better option. At least then I could control the narrative.

  I think my heart only beat twice before his reply flashed across the screen.

  Sounds good, I like this plan. You free tonight? 7 work for you?

  Terror and excitement jostled for position. He wasn’t supposed to ask me out. Was he asking me? Teasing me? Luring me in for a trap when a blanket was tossed over my head like a hostage and I was shoved in a basement?

  No.

  He was curious and wanted the opportunity to judge while sober.

  I bit my lip as I typed back, unable to help myself.

  Sorry, plans. I have to travel the city looking for men who are passed out on their doorsteps and save them from themselves.

  Fine, I’ll be drunk and on my doorstep by 7.

  Did the man type three thousand words a minute, how the hell was he able to respond so quickly? Barely a beat passed between when I’d hit send and when his new message popped up.

  I tried to stop the stupid grin from spreading across my lips as my fingers hit the letters in response.

  That wasn’t supposed to be an encouragement.

  This time there was a slight pause, and for a minute I thought he’d given up.

  It was an invitation. You didn’t seem to need one before, but I thought we might try something different this time around. :-P

  God help me, if I thought I was grinning like an idiot before, there was no help for me now. I was almost tempted to say yes and lose myself in the fantasy. The one where he’d laugh off I’d been a love-sick fool who not only dreamt about him but put it all out there on a page as well.

  I shook my head, reminding myself this was no fantasy.

  Seriously I can’t. I need to work. I’m reading scripts.

  Part of me hated myself, angry I was denying whatever brief encounter we could’ve had. Sure, it was better this way, but I couldn’t help but feel the disappointment. Ironically, disappointment was something I’d been dealing a lot with lately.

  Yes, we already established that. You’re reading one to ME. Do you want me to do the man parts? I’m good with man parts. ;-)

  I laughed out loud, adding cocky to his list of qualities.

  Sure, that wasn’t a loaded sentence.

  You really think “load” was a wise word choice. :-o

  This man was going to be the death of me. If not literally, then definitely my career. I was contemplating playing hooky, tossing aside a script I needed to have read ASAP and go see how good he was with his man parts. But getting fired wasn’t the only danger, there was still his impressive network I hadn’t forgotten about. And yet . . .

  If I agree to come tomorrow, will you let me get back to work?

  I’m going to be a gentleman and let that one slide. But you should re read your last statement. Tomorrow sounds good, should I be drunk inside the house or outside. Which would make you feel more empowered?

  Funny, charming, cocky, freaking adorable—all of which were not helping! Which was why I should stop.

  I would stop.

  Eventually.

  Most men would think that a woman saving them would be emasculating.

  I’m not most men.

  OH.

  MY.

  GOD.

  If I hadn’t been aroused before, I sure as shit was after that statement. That towel I had tossed to the floor because I wasn’t going to be a prude was swiftly picked up and wrapped around my body as I felt my skin flush. How could he do that? Turn me on like a light switch, and he wasn’t even in front of me. Worse, his words weren’t even spoken, they were just letters on a screen, and yet it was like he had leaned forward and whispered them seductively in my ear.

  I thought about last night. How he’d touched me. How he’d moved his hands over my body and then pulled me down on top of him. How his lips had pressed against my skin.

  And yes, he probably didn’t remember any of it . . . but I did.

  Be sober this time around.

  Will you still put me to bed if I am?

  I was going to spontaneously combust.

  Burst into flames from a flirty text.

  It wasn’t even a freaking text; the man was sending me flirty instant messages via my underused Instagram account.

  Well, that did make a better story to tell our grandkids.

  Oh, for fuck’s sake, I needed to stop.

  Sure, and then I’ll rob you right after. You are way too trusting.

  There, humor. Because it was the best redirection I knew and there was no way I was going to answer that question seriously without a resounding hell yes!

  If you wanted to rob me, you would have done it last night. See you tomorrow night. You know where I live.

  My fingers fumbled a quick okay, see you, and then I tossed the phone aside. It was too dangerous to continue, not trusting myself, my mouth or my hands.

  As I stood up and walked to my wardrobe, common sense kicked in. He was a known flirt who had a wicked sense of humor, it wasn’t like those messages meant what I thought they’d meant. He was playing around, being funny, because that was what he usually did and talking to me was no different or special than doing his laundry. In fact, he was probably doing his laundry while he was talking to me, that was how unaffected he was. Meanwhile, I was the one getting all hot and bothered over a few “cheeky” messages like I had never sexted before.

  I was ridiculous.

  And with that in mind, I pulled on some clean clothes and resolved to push any thoughts of Nick out of my head for the rest of the day. In fact, I was going to take a n
ap.

  Wouldn’t think of him at all.

  Not even a little.

  Okay, maybe only a bit.

  A tiny, little, bit.

  Fine.

  I would be thinking of him.

  “HE KISSED YOU? WHY DIDN’T you mention this before? It should have been the first thing to come out of your mouth the minute you walked in the door. I thought we were friends.” Scully narrowed her eyes, folding her arms across her chest like she was genuinely offended.

  Luke joined in but with less venom and irritation, adding with a laugh, “No, the first thing she should have told us was he touched her ass.”

  “He didn’t kiss me or touch my ass,” I corrected them, wondering how dinner had turned into my cross-examination. “He was drunk, remember? He fell and pulled me down with him, there was nothing sexual about it.” At least not on his part, on mine . . . well, that would just stay my dirty little secret.

  Scully shoved a spoonful of mashed potatoes into her mouth, swallowing before continuing. “Still should have mentioned it.”

  As promised, after a solid few hours sleep, I had told Scully and Luke the whole thing. Not only the touchy feely slow dance before he lost consciousness but also how I ended up staying the night.

  “So tomorrow’s a date?” Luke asked, pouring me another glass of wine. I’ll admit, the first glass had made the storytelling a little easier.

  I shrugged, not really sure myself what it was. “He invited me to his house. Maybe he just wants to thank me more adequately.”

  “With his penis.” Scully pointed her fork at me and laughed.

  Luke pointed his fork at her belly. “Just wear protection or his penis won’t be adequately forgotten nine months later.”

  “He’s right,” Scully nodded, “They tell you they’ll pull out, but they never do.”

  “Guys! I’m only going to his house, I am not sleeping with him.” I tossed my head back and laughed.

  While I had no problem with sex for sex sake—this was a woman’s world and we could do whatever or whomever the fuck we wanted—I was not going to sleep with Nick Larsson.