#1 Muse ~ T. Gephart Page 8

  And not because I didn’t want to.

  If I thought that sordid dance between the sheets would remain without consequences, I’d probably arrive on his doorstep naked.

  Okay, maybe not naked because I didn’t really want to catch a public indecency charge, but strip the minute I walked in.

  But I knew better.

  While he might have joked he wanted me to put him to bed, there had been zero indication he had wanted me to join him. We’d already established he had a reputation for being a flirt, but he wasn’t a manwhore. At least he didn’t seem to be, so if he was screwing his way through L.A. like an 80’s hairband, he was keeping that shit on the down low. And last time I checked, sex was still a two-person activity. I wasn’t in the habit of begging or accepting sympathy sex—I still had some pride left.

  Also, I still had grand notions of being successful in an industry he was currently kicking ass in. Pretty sure it wouldn’t go well for me if it were revealed I was writing fan fiction and crushing on him like a teenager in heat. Didn’t need the additional insult of people thinking I’d used him to climb the Hollywood ladder as well. I’d be laughed out of every job interview before I’d even get a chance to get in the door.

  No, I would not throw away my dreams and wishes for a chance of a one-night stand. Because that would probably be all I would get with him anyway. One night before he found out I wasn’t one of those beautiful people who’d seemed to be his friends. No, I was normal—fine, not totally normal—with a tendency to be neurotic. I got moody when I was on my period, cried at every sad movie no matter how many times I saw it, and when I wrote I got sucked into a world and needed to be alone. I didn’t want to shatter the fantasy, either for him or myself.

  “Look, I don’t know why I’m going over there. But sex isn’t it. If I’m lucky, he won’t have read my story, I’ll make up some bullshit on what it’s about, and then convince him that last night’s encounter was a coincidence. That I’m a travelling Mother Teresa, tossing out good deeds and building myself a stairway to heaven.”

  Luke lifted his wine, took a sip before lowering it to the table and spearing me with a sharp look. “Claire Becker, you are a fucking badass and one of the most talented people I know. If he reads your story and thinks anything other than that, then he is a dick. And not a nice dick either. A small, flaccid, ugly dick that no one wants.”

  “With genital warts.” Scully raised her glass—filled with ginger ale instead of wine—adding with a smile.

  I laughed, shaking my head as I responded. “Ewww, thanks for that image. Now I’m definitely not going to sleep with him.”

  And with my second affirmation that I wouldn’t be having sex with Nick, Luke clapped his hands, giving me a round of applause.

  “Awesome, now that we got that settled, let’s finish dinner.”

  Trying to read when your mind won’t focus was almost impossible, especially when what you are reading is bad.

  I was trying not to be ungrateful, counting my blessing that my new job gave me the opportunity to pay my bills for another month. But the screenplay was terrible. Worse than that, it was fucking horrendous.

  The storyline was boring.

  The characters predictable.

  And the writing . . . I’d read more interesting menus.

  I wondered if that’s what studios had thought when they’d read my earlier submissions, wanting to gouge their eyes out so it could all stop.

  Putting down the screenplay, I pulled out my phone and flicked to my notes. I hadn’t had a chance to read back what I’d written and wondered if my latest effort was more of the same.

  Please God, let it be good I whispered under my breath as my eyes floated over the words. Or at least don’t let it be total shit.

  The air escaped from my lips as I started, following the opening directions and then to the dialogue, my heart racing as I slowly continued.

  It wasn’t shit.

  In fact, it was so far from shit I was beginning to question whether I had been the one who had written it. Whether I’d been possessed—hey, crazy shit happened all the time—and controlled somehow.

  Deciding that trying to focus on the small screen was giving me a headache, I transferred the notes to a Word document on my laptop. There I continued to read, making notes for myself as I went, each line encouraging me further.

  OH.

  MY.

  GOD.

  It was good.

  It was really good.

  I was really good.

  Months of self-doubt and internal torment, believing I was destined to become another washed-up never was, bubbled up inside of me and I started to cry. I couldn’t help it, sobbing on my bed like a moron as I tried to continue reading through the tears. And I felt the weight that had been sitting on my chest lift.

  I took a breath, and then another, letting myself go as I fell backward onto the mattress, a laugh escaping from my lips. Whatever block had been there before was gone, and I was giddy with relief.

  And with the pressure easing came a renewed sense of excited purpose as I sat back up on my bed again and started typing. My fingers didn’t stop, flowing over the keyboard as the words poured out of me.

  I was back, baby.

  It was almost midnight before I’d stopped, my laptop propped up on a pillow while I sat on my bed. My preferred writing position wasn’t textbook, but it was how I’d written every single piece of Nick fiction. It felt less structured that way, and less like work. Which reminded me . . .

  Work.

  That thing I needed to do in order to get paid so I could continue to eat.

  While it had been exciting to play in my own sandbox like I used to do, I still had a responsibility to finish reading a script that some other person wrote.

  Groaning, I packed my laptop away and pulled out the pages. I’d hoped that in the hours the script had been sitting ignored on my bedside table it might have gained some personality, or possibility even a plot. Either would do.

  In an effort to further procrastinate—I’d rather jab pins in my eyes than continue—I grabbed my phone and started social media hopping. Flicking between my profiles and scanning my feeds for anything interesting.

  One of the girls I’d gone to high school had recently been proposed to. She held her obviously manicured hand in front of her face to strategically show the ring but had tried to make the shot look candid. Because I know the first thing I thought about when I laughed was to daintily drape my fingers across my perfectly winged eye.

  And yes, I knew I was being bitchy, but not because I was jealous. I was happy for her if that’s what she desired; excited she had found a man she wanted to do the whole death-do-us-part thing with. It was the pretentious selfie I had the problem with. If I ever posed like that, I hoped one of my friends would beat the sense back into me. Hell, I’d probably beat myself.

  I was still laughing at the thought when I went back to my private messages. No guesses as to which ones I was looking at. Maybe that was my version of a pretentious selfie, pretending I didn’t give a shit as I reread every word and tried to decipher tone based on word choice.

  He was definitely flirty.

  And charming.

  And sexy.

  And playful.

  Super hot as well.

  Okay, so maybe I hadn’t gotten that from word choices and more from his profile pic, but I figured it was only fair since he’d inspected mine that I repay the same courtesy.

  What the hell?

  At some point between me purging my soul like a mad scientist, and analyzing his command of the alphabet, I had missed that NickLars had started to follow me. And it would be totally rude not to follow him back. In fact, I was pretty sure proper etiquette demanded that I follow him back, and who was I to argue?

  Also, since we were “following” each other, it wouldn’t hurt to take a little look around his photos. To see if he staged his food shots, or posted exaggerated gym pics—all important stuff
I should know.

  Unlike my Instagram that had the grand total of ten photos—most of which were years old—his was bursting with material. Literally hundreds of photos—him with friends, him with his brothers, him looking so freaking delicious it made doves cry. And while the account wasn’t something I hadn’t occasionally checked out before—not like I stalked him, merely a causal peruse—this time around I felt like I had permission. Like our reconnection/friendship had given me the green light to go through his published moments with a magnifying glass. And it should be known that I was going to take full advantage of my newfound freedom.

  It didn’t take too long before I was countless clicks deep and about “three years” in when my finger accidentally clicked the heart at the bottom of the screen.

  Shiiiiiiiiiit.

  Realistically, who didn’t see that happening, it was basically the faux pas of every girl who had stalked a guy; a rite of passage I had yet to experience. And there it was, the cute little red heart underneath a photo of him holding an ice cream. Oh, and he was shirtless. In case there were any delusions, the focal point of the photo was the dessert in his hand.

  “Shit,” I cursed out loud wondering what my options were.

  The way I saw it was I had three choices.

  One: Unlike it and hope he hadn’t been alerted to the original like and thus drawing more attention to it.

  Two: Ignore it, bury my head in the sand and assume he must get so many notifications a day my harmless little heart would have gotten lost in the noise.

  Three: Go ahead and like every single picture before and after, so my insanity plea will stand up in court.

  Gah, all three kind of sucked.

  Hungry? ;-)

  The message flashed on my screen before I had decided which path I was going to take. Well, I guess that ruled out option number one. He’d obviously seen it.

  There was no going back.

  Yes actually, looks delicious.

  The message loaded with so much innuendo I’d have blushed if I had any decency. But it was late, I was tired, and my judgment was clouded. Or at least that was what I told myself as I waited for his response.

  On that, we agree.

  What the hell did that mean? Did he misread my sexy Insta talk and assume I was talking about the ice cream? Maybe I hadn’t been as obvious as I thought so I decided to try again, if only to see if I was capable.

  Like an experiment.

  I held my breath, typing out the words.

  I wasn’t talking about the ice cream.

  Neither was I.

  Like the phone was on fire, it dropped out of my hand and onto the bed. Whatever game I thought I was playing, he was a thousand times better. And I needed to know exactly what I was dealing with before I went over to his house.

  Without fully thinking it through—because why the hell should I start now—I sent him another message. Only this time around, there had been no words, only numbers—mine. Ironic considering he’d asked for it and I hadn’t given it to him initially, but again, arguing logic seemed pretty redundant in the early hours of the morning.

  He didn’t even bother waiting, upping the ante as my phone lit with an incoming call.

  “Hello,” I answered casually, despite my heart racing.

  “Up late?” I could hear the grin in his voice.

  “Working.” The one word my reply.

  “You know,” he took a breath, “I did offer to help you with work. What I said earlier, about my abilities. It wasn’t just talk.”

  I shook my head.

  A few hours ago, I’d decided I was going to play it cool. Apparently, playing cool also meant ending up on the phone with him. Oh, and this wasn’t going to disintegrate into phone sex. I did have some self-respect left. “You know, since we were both awake and on the phone. I could go through the story now and save us both the time.”

  “Really?” He sounded surprised. “That’s why you gave me your number, so you could cancel?”

  My teeth played with my bottom lip as I rephrased it a million times in my head before I said it. “It’s probably for the best.”

  God, I hated this.

  I should have just gone with phone sex.

  There was a pause, and for a second I thought he’d hung up. Not like he needed to keep having the conversation, especially when it probably wasn’t turning out like he’d expected.

  “Can you do me a favor, Claire?”

  His words were slow, measured and calm.

  “Huh?”

  I pulled the phone away from my ear, wondering if I’d blacked out and missed part of the conversation. Or maybe this was where he asked me to do him a solid and not store his number.

  “I said can you do me a favor?” he repeated and gave no more information than the first time he’d said it.

  I shrugged, now curious as to what he was possibly going to ask for. “Sure, of course.”

  “Delete my number.”

  I FUCKING KNEW IT.

  And still, part of me was disappointed. Ignoring the other part that dictated that it was what I had been expecting and what would make sense.

  “I wasn’t intending on keeping it,” I lied, swallowing the hurt and trying to laugh.

  “Good, now hang up, delete it, and I’ll see you later tonight.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He was talking in code, spitting out words for me to try to work out, like I was Robert Langdon and knew Di Vinci’s secrets.

  “If you are thinking of canceling, forget it.” His usually flirty banter was gone, and in its place was all business. “And since you won’t have my number, you can’t. So I guess I’ll see you tonight. I’ll be sober and you’ll tell me about this story. Seven sharp.”

  He didn’t give me a chance to respond, ending the call before I’d even had a chance to say goodbye. And I couldn’t work out if it was sexy as hell or if it made me mad.

  A little of both.

  Which was why I immediately called back.

  “I thought I told you to delete it.” He laughed, not bothering with the hello.

  “I’m not deleting it, so there,” I huffed defiantly into the phone. “And I’ll see you tonight because I want to see you tonight.”

  “Good.”

  “Fine.”

  This time it was me who hung up, tossing the phone onto my comforter and smirking at it.

  No one will tell me what to do.

  I showed him.

  I was really bad at this game.

  THE HEDGE THAT HAD TORMENTED me the night before welcomed me like an old friend as I pulled up to the curb. It had just turned seven, and I had been nervous all day long.

  There was no way to know how this meeting would go, but I wasn’t going to sit holed-up in my bedroom, and not see how it played out. Getting out of my car, I moved to his stairs, climbing them deliberately with slow steady steps. Unlike the other night, there was no need to be stealthy. Not that I had done such a good job of it the first time, but still, I felt my confidence strengthen with each stride, walking right up to the front door ready to press the buzzer like a badass.

  I was under no assumption that it was a date. Or that whatever the insanity was, would extend beyond the night. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to make an effort either. I’d borrowed one of Scully’s designer outfits, a fitted black T-shirt dress she hadn’t been able to squeeze into in months. It wasn’t overly fancy, but paired with a pair of strappy heeled sandals it looked stunning. It also worked with my curves to give me a nice silhouette, playing on what nature had given me without making me look trashy.

  My finger reached out with authority, pressing the buzzer as I waited for him to answer while my heart beat wildly in my chest.

  It didn’t take long, the door swinging open and Nick Larsson filling the gap. His eyes lingered over my body, moving down and then up before settling on my face. “Claire.” My name sounding sexier every time he said it. “Please come in.” He outstretched his
arm, motioning to the hall inside his house.

  I wasn’t the only one who had made an effort.

  He was wearing a pair of jeans that had no right to look that good, and a black button-down shirt that had been casually left unbuttoned at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves.

  “Thank you.” I smiled, grazing past him as he stepped to the side, my heels echoing off the wooden floor. “And so nice to see you on your feet this time. I’m so glad you followed my directions.”

  He laughed, following behind me to his living room. “Following directions is why they pay me the big bucks. But the other night wasn’t the usual me, I was just letting off some steam.”

  “Really?” His response had me curious as I turned around, almost slamming into his chest. Close call. Not that it would have been bad to bury my face between his pectoral muscles, it actually sounded really nice. But I was intending to keep it professional, and I was pretty sure that crossed the line.

  His grin widened as he glanced down at me. “You sound surprised? You expected a different answer?”

  “No, I mean. I didn’t really question, you know? I saw you and . . .” I stopped.

  What was I saying, that I thought he was an alcoholic? No, of course I didn’t. We’d all been there, had a little too much fun and needed someone to make sure we didn’t puke in our hair. Some of us more times than we’d like to admit. Not sure why I would have expected more from him.

  “Well, you didn’t vomit on me, that was really considerate,” I added, not helping the situation at all.

  Awesome, could I be any more offensive?

  His eyebrow rose, studying me as neither one of us moved, his expression completely unreadable. “Anything else I did or didn’t do, I should know about?”

  Wow.

  There was I, stuck between a rock and a hard place.

  Both of which had been his erection when he’d pulled me down on him on the couch.

  And if that wasn’t enough, the reminder of the rock-hard place was right beside me. Its black supple leather surface innocently standing near the coffee table, not at all looking complicit in what had happened last night.