Smut: A Standalone Romantic Comedy Read online

  “Do you really need to ask?”

  “Right. Sex. Do you even need a plot for that?”

  “Actually,” I tell her, happy to prove her wrong. “There are plenty of erotic novels that have a plot. Last Tango in Paris. The Claiming of Sleeping Beauty. Delta of Venus.”

  “The last was fifteen short stories,” Amanda points out. “Should I wonder why you know all this stuff? Your father peddling smut at your shop?”

  “My father has an abhorrence toward anything remotely sexual in literature. He doesn’t even stock Lolita.”

  “That’s a shame,” she says. “Good use of the word abhorrence by the way. If I knew better, I’d say you were trying to impress me.”

  What a peculiar girl. There’s a tone of playfulness in her voice that I’ve never heard before. Maybe I am impressing her. About bloody time.

  “So you want to hear the plot or not?” I ask.

  “On second thought, not,” she says, and she’s back to being made of stone, cold and immovable. “I like betrayal though. Let’s do that. You know, if we have to.”

  Little does she realize how easily sex works its way into the subject. But she’ll find out soon enough.

  We spend the next hour going over characters and hashing out the skeleton of the plot, as well as figuring out who is going to write what. Even though it was my idea, and even though Amanda said she didn’t care if I did all the work, I can see the prissy control freak starting to come out and take over. It’s tempting to let her to make things easier, but at the same time I want to battle her for everything she’s got.

  “So,” she says, pausing as we exit the library just before it closes. “Treebeard, eh?”

  “What about her?” I ask.

  “A Lord of the Rings reference,” she says, looking off across the dim lights of the parking lot. Night has settled in. “You do a pretty good job of keeping your inner nerd a secret.”

  I grin at her, throwing my head back. “I’m not keeping anything a secret. It’s hard for girls to focus on anything else except my good looks and big dick.”

  Her eyes roll to the heavens, lips curled like she’s about to spit something out of her mouth. “Pig,” she mutters, turning away. “I’ll see you later.”

  I’m tempted to yell “prude” after her but I know that’s a total playground maneuver, so I just watch her climb into her Mini Cooper, another rich girl accessory. While she speeds out of the parking lot, I can’t help but feel a strange tremor of excitement run through me. Not about working with her—definitely not about that. But this project, this idea which just a few hours ago was dormant in my head, is now a living breathing egg ready to hatch. I haven’t felt that creativity, that drive, for a long time. Maybe it’s the right thing to get my work-in-progress back on track.

  Too bad I still have to deal with Amanda during this whole process.

  And it’s too bad that when I’m jerking off in bed later that night, the image that pops into my head is her wet ruby lips around my cock. I come so hard at that, it takes me a few moments to catch my breath, the room spinning.

  Looks like the next month is going to be hell after all.

  5

  Amanda

  “So how did it go last night?” Ana asks me the next morning as I settle down at the kitchen table with my coffee and a protein shake. No sign of turnip pancakes to be found, though this morning I think she’s been practicing her contouring because her face is looking mighty Kardashian with a bit of 90’s RuPaul thrown in there.

  When I came in last night after the library, Ana was still out and I was absolutely zonked, even though the minute my head hit the pillow my brain started churning over and over the meeting with Blake.

  “It wasn’t as bad as I thought,” I tell her before taking a timid sip of the scalding hot liquid.

  And that’s true. I mean, it kind of started out that way. There was no way I was going to let him forget the email he sent, even if I had to eat crow for a moment over that morning. Then there was the fact that he so clearly knew he’d been a total jackass to me in the past and yet pretended like it had slipped his mind.

  Ana raises one eyebrow, a trooper fighting the Botox on her forehead. “You want to have sex with him now?”

  I spit my coffee right out across the table and start coughing, my face growing red, tears welling. Ana calmly hands me a roll of paper towel.

  “You can admit it, I won’t tell,” she says.

  I shake my head furiously, tearing off the paper towel and wiping coffee off the table and my chin. “No!” I finally get out. “That’s the last thing I want.”

  “But the first thing you need,” Ana sits down beside me, palming her mug. Now her nails are white with flamingos painted on them. I have to wonder when she has the time to get them done and if she ever pokes a classmate’s eye out. I know she’s come dangerously close to me and that was before she was wearing the gel talons.

  I give her my deadliest glare but it doesn’t do anything to her. At least with Blake I saw him flinch a few times and I was using it on him a lot. “No one is having sex. He’s still a pig. Maybe even worse than before.” I pause and in some ways wish I had nothing more to say. “But he’s not as stupid as he seems. At least, he’s good at ideas and plotting. And realistic characters. We’ll see if he can actually write.”

  “I thought you’ve heard his stuff in class, no?”

  “I wasn’t paying attention,” I tell her truthfully. “I assumed it would be crap and turned off my ears.”

  “See that’s why I had to leave my husband,” Ana says joyfully. “I couldn’t turn off my ears to his blah blah blah.” She makes a talking motion with her hand. “And I couldn’t turn off my ears to his ooooh, oooh, OOOOH!” And she’s now making loud, high-pitched orgasm sounds that only an animal could hear. She gives me a wry look when she’s done. “You know, because he was screwing our neighbor.”

  I’ve heard the story a million times before. It explains so much about Ana, yet I know if I were in her shoes, I’d have trouble mustering half the joy and energy that she has.

  “Anyway,” I tell her, “I don’t think it will be the end of the world. If I can just focus on the story and not him, then we’ll be okay.”

  “Because you want to have sex with him.”

  “Drop it,” I warn her, getting out of my chair. “Just because a guy is good-looking doesn’t mean that he’s my type.”

  “Who is your type, then?”

  That makes me pause. Alan’s face flashes into my head. Memories of us in California, staying at romantic vineyard hotels, us laughing, drunk as hell, going swimming past pool hours. It’s funny how every memory of us laughing and having fun and doing something exciting – dare I say sexual – are the ones that pop up the most, the ones I hold on to. And yet they only represent five per cent of the relationship. Even Disneyland was completely for me, he always went along willingly, having a fraction of the fun. That time I suggested having sex backstage of It’s a Small World, like Ross Gellar did? Not only did he not get the Friends reference, but he flat-out turned me down.

  Then a new memory bursts into frame, the one of Blake last night in the library, taking off his jacket, the way his biceps popped beneath his t-shirt, how his forearms seemed so massive, almost rough, in the library’s austere environment. Like he knew how take charge of something, anything….me.

  Nope, I tell myself adamantly. Nope, nope, not that.

  Never that.

  “Well?” Ana prods.

  “Tom Hiddleston,” I tell her. “He’s my type.”

  “Who? Is he your classmate?”

  I laugh. “I wish. He’s a British actor. Loki, from Thor and The Avengers.”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, Amanda, you really are a nerd.” She pronounces the word like she’s proud to know what it means.

  I shrug, learning long ago not to let that label bother me and making a mental note to never let her read my Harry Potter fanfic, nor my Benedict Cumberbatch
erotica (in which, naturally, all the stories star me). “Then I’m a nerd who will know what she likes, wants, needs when she sees it. The moment I find someone like Tom Hiddleston, I’ll let you know.”

  “And if you don’t?”

  “Then I give you permission to hook me up to one of your dating sites.”

  At that she starts tapping her fingers together at a rapid rate, her smile stretching across her face, making her cheekbones pop out and her eyes nearly disappear. “Oooooh, I can’t wait!”

  Yikes. Is it too early to add whisky to my coffee?

  I don’t hear from Blake that day, which is what we agreed upon. We’d both work on our first chapters by ourselves and then make plans to read them over and discuss. But when the rest of the day turns into the next day and the next and then suddenly it’s Sunday and I still haven’t heard from him, I’m getting worried.

  I hate to pester him. No, I hate to even talk to him, but I don’t think I have a choice. Our class is tomorrow and the last thing I want is to go in there unprepared. Besides, I’ve written – and rewritten – my first chapter (which is technically chapter two, since his POV starts it off) a hundred times already and am itching for some feedback of any sort, even if it’s from him.

  So, while Ana sets out her makeup on the kitchen table and is about to attack my face with some new techniques she’s learned, I send Blake an email (obviously we’re not at the texting stage yet).

  Hey Blake,

  I have my chapter done and wondering when you want to get together to discuss. If it’s easier, I’ve attached it here. Just wanted to touch base on the project and see where it’s all fitting together, before class.

  Amanda.

  There. Short but not curt. Just enough for him to get the message.

  Ana has just finished sponging on primer that feels like wet cement to my face when my phone rings. We both jump and stare at it while an unknown number with our area code flashes across the screen. I glance at her, brows raised. That couldn’t be Blake, could it?

  I turn away from her to answer. “Hello?” I ask gingerly, prepared to hang up if it’s a telemarketer.

  “Hello peach,” Blake’s British accent comes storming through. “Catch you at a bad time?”

  Ana is already smiling like an idiot. I bet she can hear him through the speaker.

  “Um, not really,” I tell him, “though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me peach.”

  “You don’t think it’s fitting? I can always go back to Big Red.”

  “I think Amanda is fitting,” I say crisply. “Why are you calling?”

  “You mean why aren’t I emailing you back or texting like a normal person?”

  “Stop answering questions with questions.”

  He chuckles warmly, although I can hear his insincerity coming through. “Why email and text when I can call you direct and make a plan? Sorry…didn’t mean to make that a question too.”

  Well I can’t exactly argue with that. Must be his British genes coming through, doing things the proper way, even though Blake is anything but.

  I turn away from Ana even more. “Did you read what I sent you?” I ask, trying to sound as blasé as possible over his potential opinion.

  “No. Not yet. Wanted to wait. What are you doing right now?”

  “She’s getting a makeover!” Ana yells over my shoulder.

  I push her away, trying to shush her while Blake asks, “Who on earth is that?”

  “My roommate,” I tell him. “And she’s about to put a shit ton of makeup on me for beauty school practice.”

  “Is that a metric shit ton?”

  Lord help me, I’m almost smiling. “Yes, a metric shit ton.”

  “And when do you think this will all be over?”

  “An hour,” Ana shouts before she goes back to rifling through her stuff. She holds up a brush like a serial killer wields a knife, and just as manic.

  “Make that an hour and a half,” I say to him. “It’s going to take at least a half an hour to scrub it all off.”

  “All right, well give me your address and I’ll come pick you up.”

  “And go where? The library is closed.”

  “But my apartment isn’t.”

  I’m not sure how I feel about that. “How about a café?”

  “How about a bar?”

  “Caffeine is better than alcohol.”

  “That’s not what Hemmingway said.”

  “Hemmingway shot his own head off,” I remind him. “And I believe his quote was write drunk, edit sober. We’re plotting and reading, practically editing.”

  “You’re no fun, anyone ever tell you that?”

  Ouch. That stings more than it should. In fact, I’m more pissed off by the fact that it hurt than the fact that he said it.

  “I’m plenty of fun,” I tell him, trying to sound flippant. “I just prefer a more intelligent way of expressing it.”

  “Of course, of course,” Blake says, his tone bored now. “Just tell me your address and I’ll come to you in an hour and a half. Figure it all out from there.”

  I give it to him and hang up the phone, pushing it away from me across the table.

  “That was weird,” I comment, staring at my cell.

  “Mmmmm,” Ana muses, wiping the brush across the back of her hand. “Weird but a good sign.”

  I sigh and stare up at her. “Don’t tell me it has to do with sex.”

  “It’s a good sign that he cares enough about your little project.” She steps back and her eyes volley between my primer-spackled face and her platoon of makeup spread out over the table. “Though perhaps we’ll put off my class practice for another day. Tonight, I’m going to make you look so beautiful you’re not going to want to wash it off.”

  “Please, don’t,” I implore her. “I have no one to impress. Just do whatever crazy thing you were going to do. I’m your guinea pig. Go nuts.”

  But from the voracious gleam in her eyes, I wish I hadn’t said that.

  I’m not really sure what she attacks me with. After she removes my glasses, it’s all kind of a blur of pointed, colorful instruments jabbing me in the face.

  When she spills heavy duty eyelash glue all over the desk and then cries out what I have to assume are Estonian swear words, there’s a knock at the door.

  “What the hell time is it?” I say, fumbling for my phone but knocking it off the table. It’s already dark outside but time couldn’t have gone by that quickly.

  “Oh, it’s him, it’s him,” she says in a giggling hush. “He’s here.”

  “Ana, go answer the door,” I wave at her, trying to get up. “Stall him.”

  “But you look so beautiful sweet one,” she’s coos. I can barely see the devilish smile come across her face. “But if you insist.”

  Oh god no. There’s no way I can let her talk to him alone.

  “No wait, I’m on it!” I cry out, pushing her out of the way and running to the door. I fling it open and hope that whatever she did to my face looks somewhat decent.

  Blake is standing there, laptop sleeve in one hand, cardboard coffee cup in the other. He seems somehow taller and manlier standing on my stoop with the dark of night behind him, a grey cargo jacket atop jeans and grey Vans. There’s a peculiar twist to his dark brow and he seems surprised by my ambush but he’s not looking at me any stranger than normal.

  “Good evening,” he says in an overly formal voice. “Is this where the brilliant author Amanda Newland resides?”

  “Very funny,” I tell him. “You’re early.”

  “Actually I’m not,” he says. He raises his coffee, gesturing to my face. “But I can see you’re ready to go. Your roommate did a nice job, by the way. Very subtle. Suits you.”

  I watch him carefully. He at least looks sincere. “Okay, give me a second.”

  I hear him say “Sure,” as I close the door on his face and run back inside. I scoop up my phone and grab my purse hanging from the back of the chair.

&
nbsp; “You’re really not going to invite him in?” Ana asks, hedging toward the door.

  “No,” I tell her adamantly. “There’s no reason to and he’s not meeting you. You’ll be telling him how hot he is or how badly I want to have sex with him within a second.”

  “So you do want to hump like chickens.”

  My disgust turns to confusion. “What? Chickens?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  Then I head for the bathroom because there’s no way I’m leaving the house without seeing what she’s done to me.

  I flick on the light and a gasp escapes my lips. It really should have been a scream.

  She’s done the Kardashian contouring that almost looks passable when I’m looking straight on but the moment I turn my head, you can see the thick stripes of brown and white marking up my cheeks, my nose, my chin. I look like Lichtenstein pop art. It doesn’t help that my lips have bright red matte lipstick shellacked on them, my cheeks look like they were splattered with coral sparkles and my eyes…my eyes make me look fucking crazy. My brows appear to have been whited out with concealer and then drawn on again in thick auburn arches and she’s attached two false eyelashes to my lids. None of them match, not the brows and not the lashes, one of which seems to be climbing half-up my lid, making my eyes appear to be looking in two different directions.

  “You like?” she asks, appearing in the mirror behind me. There is so much hope and worry in her overly-lined eyes that I don’t dare break her heart or confidence.

  “It’s beautiful,” I lie, flashing her a smile that makes my lips crack. “Thank you.”

  She beams at me and lets out a sigh of relief and I know that I can’t take an ounce of it off my face until I’m out of the house.

  Speaking of, somehow Blake was able to look at my face earlier and show zero shock or revulsion. I’m not sure if I should be worried that he’s that good of a liar or impressed that he was able to hold back a millions barbs. Then again he did compliment me, which I now realize was layered with a metric shit ton of sarcasm.