Smut: A Standalone Romantic Comedy Page 9

  I quickly grab my laptop bag and head for the door, ignoring Ana’s gleeful noises. Blake is still standing where I left him and I quickly shut the door behind me.

  “So I guess we’re going somewhere,” he says before taking a slow sip of his coffee. “I’m afraid I’ve surpassed my caffeine allotment for the day, so it’ll either be a bar or my place.”

  I give him a pointed look – which has to look extra emphasized thanks to my runaway eyelashes – and push past him into the night, walking down the gravel path that goes through the backyard and up the side to where we have our own gate.

  I can hear him following me, shoes crunching on the gravel, his presence at my back. Something about it all makes a nervous shiver run through me, as if I’m realizing that I’m alone with him for the first time. I’m not sure what it means, but since I know my face looks hastily put together, the feeling doesn’t last long.

  “So,” he says, clearing his throat as we head up the driveway. “How long has your roommate been studying makeup for?”

  I glance at him briefly over my shoulder. “Don’t even say it,” I warn.

  “What?” he asks innocently.

  I roll my eyes and we stop by a black muscle car parked in front of the house. “This your car?” I ask him.

  He nods, the streetlights illuminating a tiny smile on his lips. “This is Mr. Mean.”

  Judging by the car’s round headlights and shark-like nose, the name suits the car. “A Camaro?”

  “1972 Challenger,” he corrects, going around to his side and smacking the roof with his palm. “Used to be my uncle’s and when I moved here I snapped it up for a song. Eats gas like a motherfucker though but it’s brilliant fun to drive. You don’t get rides like this back in England.”

  He does seem like the type to drive an obnoxious car like this, vintage and all. Yet another reason why the girls must flock to him. Luckily I could give a rat’s ass about cars.

  I open the passenger door and eye the pile of textbooks on the seat, as well as an assortment of random stuff such as a large plastic sword that a knight would use, a baseball cap, a kit you’d get from a Halloween store with prosthetic elf ears, a half-full growler of beer, various fast-food containers and a small white cardboard box that seems to be emitting a chirping sound.

  “Sorry,” he mumbles and I stand there and wait as he quickly puts everything in the back seat. I don’t even bother looking back there.

  “So many questions,” I comment as I step in and buckle myself, very aware of how close we are to each other. There’s not a lot of room up here, at least that’s what it feels like.

  He leans in close, too close, and nods at my eyebrows. “You’re not the only one.” He squints at me and I try not to breathe in his smell. Too late. His scent is herbal and fresh, like sage and sea salt and for some reason it makes me happy, like it’s conjuring up hot summer days by the sea, full of freedom and youth.

  “Are you sure you want to go to a café like that?” he adds.

  Ugh, he’s right. I can’t go out in public like this. I twist away from him in my seat, push my glasses to the top of my head and try to rip off the eyelashes. Only they won’t come off. Good lord I hope Ana didn’t use Krazy Glue. My eyelids are being stretched uncomfortably.

  “Are you all right?” Blake asks and I’m so aware of him next to me and the fact that it looks like I’m trying to remove my eyeball.

  “This fucking eyelash glue is like cement,” I grumble, trying to not sound panicked.

  “Guess I’ll be taking you to my place,” he says, starting the car. It responds with a roar and he waits till I’m done trying to fight with my eyes before he peels out onto the street. “I have to feed Fluffy anyway.”

  The Raconteurs “Broken Boy Soldier” starts playing but it’s not loud enough to hide the silence between us as we head into downtown Victoria. I actually have no idea where Blake lives and this isn’t making things easier. I want him to turn the car around and take me back home but I’m the one who sent the email and he’s just doing exactly what I asked.

  I think back to what he said last. “Who is Fluffy?” I ask.

  “You don’t want to know,” he says gravely.

  “Your cat?”

  He tilts his head at me. “Why did you assume I have a cat and not a dog?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shrugging one shoulder. “You seem soulless.”

  He laughs softly. “Yeah, I suppose that might be true. Cats are wankers, too.” He smiles at me and against better judgement, I’m smiling too. His smile is infectious.

  Then again, so was the plague.

  I quickly turn my face to the window and see that we’re heading down toward the harbor, the lights of the bay sparkling in the night. We pass by various pubs and oyster bars filled with warm light and laughing people and something inside me pinches, a strange bout of loneliness that hits me sometimes.

  “Not too late to grab a pint,” Blake says, as if he knows what I’m thinking, though he couldn’t, not quite.

  I point to my face and don’t say a word.

  His lips press together, suppressing a smile. “Fair enough,” he says. “But this is British Columbia after all. No one would bat an eye. Except for you.”

  “Ha,” I say dryly. “Where do you live anyway?” As we leave the downtown core, we hook a right along the water, heading toward the ferries that go to Washington State. “Don’t tell me you’re in a houseboat.”

  “I’m not telling you anything, darling,” he says with a smirk and a minute later he’s parking on the street next to an apartment building that seems all glass, reflecting the harbor lights and the houseboat colony beneath. “Not quite a houseboat but I get seasick, so it works out.”

  We get out. It’s a fairly new building and he takes me to his third floor apartment, my pulse beating against my wrist, my nerves coming into play again. Is it possible that I haven’t been around a guy in so long that my body is freaking out over Blake against my will? I mean, sure his smile is charming…a little less shit-eating than I’d always thought…but he ain’t Tom Hiddleston.

  Though he does have one hell of a nice body, I can’t help but think as we pause outside his door.

  As if he hears my thoughts, he glances at me. I hope my cheeks aren’t going red but then I remember the makeup and my cheeks are like two splotches of paint anyway. “You seem nervous.”

  “I have something in my eye,” I answer deadpan.

  “Well, don’t worry, I’m not about to take advantage of a fair maiden such as yourself,” he says, opening the door and gesturing for me to go inside.

  “Believe me, if you even tried you wouldn’t get very far,” I warn him, gingerly stepping inside.

  “Death by boring literature, got it.”

  I pause, shooting him a nasty look just as he flicks on the lights. The apartment is even prettier on the inside, all hardwood floors and stone grey walls, leather couches and a balcony that overlooks the harbor.

  “This is sweet,” I tell him in awe as I walk into the living room and look around. “Don’t mind me asking, but how do you afford this?”

  He grins at me as he shuts the door and hangs up his coat. “Would you believe me if I said I was Bruce Wayne?”

  “The rich playboy part of it, yes.”

  His lips twist grimly for a second. “Definitely not rich. Just the playboy part, if you want to call it that. Oh and the incognito crime fighter after dark. Just another reason why you shouldn’t be nervous around me.” He walks over to the fridge in the kitchen, which, even though it’s comprised of marble counters and stainless steel appliances, looks like it belongs to a college student. Dishes are piled in the sink even though there’s a dishwasher and crumbs line the counter beside empty beer bottles and discarded cereal boxes.

  “Fancy a beer?” he asks, opening the fridge.

  I shake my head.

  “Not a drinker,” he surmises, bringing the beer out and shutting the door with his foot.<
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  “Actually, I do have the occasional glass of wine but it’s not exactly appropriate for what we’re about to do.”

  And by occasional glass, I mean occasional bottle.

  He bites his lip through a grin as he smacks the beer cap off the bottle, using the edge of the counter as leverage. “I haven’t heard that one before.”

  I sigh, exasperated, and ignore him. “Where should we work?”

  He motions to the leather couch with a nod. From the strange way he’s eying me, to the vibe in the room, I’m getting the feeling that this is part of his whole seduction routine. I wonder if that’s all that it takes. Bring the girls here, give them a drink, sit on the couch and pretend to watch Netflix. Next thing they know, they’re getting screwed on the rug.

  And probably liking it, I think to myself. I’m pretty sure that any girl that steps into this place knows exactly what she’s getting into, even if she’ll probably never see him again.

  I take a seat on the armchair across from him, to make a point that I’m not like the rest of them and I’m here only because I have to be.

  If he’s insulted, he doesn’t show it. He brings out his laptop while taking a lengthy swig of his beer. “It’s my stepmother’s,” he says.

  I glance at him, confused. “What?”

  “The apartment. When I decided to move here and finish my degree at U-Vic, my stepmother was able to rent the apartment for me. I basically pay for it by working at the bookstore.”

  “Ah.” I look around. It all makes sense. “So you have a stepmother. When did your parents split up?”

  “Oh ages ago,” he says, leaning back on the couch and pulling one foot up across his leg. “I was born here but they split up when I was six or so. My mum and I moved back to England and she remarried. So did my dad.”

  “Only child?”

  He nods. “I have a stepbrother though, here, Kevin. He’s nine. My mother and Jenson, that’s her husband now, they don’t have any. What about you?”

  Even though my curiosity is eager to learn more about him, I’m not about to share an ounce of myself. “I have a sister, my parents are still together.”

  Even though they should have divorced ages ago.

  Even though they both take out their unhappiness and failed expectations on me.

  But Blake doesn’t prod or question me about them any further. He probably just doesn’t care.

  With both our laptops out, I decide to take control of the evening. It’s the only way we’ll be able to get through this and stay on task. There’s something very distracting about sitting across from Blake in his living room and it has little to do with the way his eyes occasionally catch mine, the look of his broad shoulders beneath his thin olive-green shirt, the veins that rope around his forearms as he opens his computer.

  “How about we read each other what we wrote?” I tell him, even though the idea of reading my work out loud to him makes me cringe. “That way we have a chance to really hear it and fix any errors.”

  He tilts his brow, looking at me uncertainly. “Are you sure? I mean, mine is total rubbish.” He pauses. “But you’d know that, of course.”

  I raise my palm as a peace offering. “Going forward, this is a no judgement zone.”

  I can tell he doesn’t believe that. Hell, I wouldn’t believe it. It’s hard as hell to turn off that side of me. Before he can protest, I tell him I’m going first and then plunge into it.

  The other day we had worked out the characters while sticking to the main premise. Because the story has a slight twist, I’m writing the “other woman” for most of the book, only switching over to the wife at the end. We’re doing it out of order but I’m too stubborn to correct it. In my chapter, the woman, Susan, is caught up in the “butterfly stage” of the affair, totally immersed in her attraction to the protagonist and giving very little regard to the fact that she’s doing something wrong. In other words, the bitch is completely selfish but only has love to blame.

  It’s weird to read your stuff aloud, but it helps. I have to stop and start a few times because I keep coming across mangled sentences and skipped words. Actually there’s a fair bit of them, even though I’ve gone through it so many times already. It’s enough to make me feel like an idiot.

  But Blake doesn’t do anything but listen and I can’t help but keep glancing up at his face as I read. He’s frowning, like he’s really listening to my every word but I can’t tell if he likes what he’s hearing or if he thinks it sucks.

  I know one thing though—by the time I’m done, I totally think it sucks. All those feelings of entitlement, of feeling that my writing is better than most people’s has been stripped away from me and Blake hasn’t even had to say a word.

  I rub my lips together before I let out a hopeful, “So?”

  “It works,” he says, then clears his throat. “Granted it was daft for you to go first when I have the prologue. I think we have some work to do to make sure the chapters match because what you’re writing off of doesn’t quite fit with what I wrote, but anyway.”

  And with that Blake launches into the prologue.

  I have to admit, he’s won me over with the opening lines, “I’m a liar and a thief. A thief of a heart that shouldn’t belong to me. A thief of a heart that was easily taken. But I am one man, with two hearts, and none of them are my own.”

  His character—our character—Forrest is far more interesting and charismatic than I could have predicted. Somehow Blake writes him in such a way that he’s almost forgiven for what he’s doing—seeking out an affair with Susan. It’s not perfect—some of the sentence structure is run on or doesn’t flow and he has a load of skipped words and tense changes. But somehow I find myself ignoring all that, letting myself be swept away by his story.

  When he’s done he puts his laptop on the coffee table and steeples his fingers together, elbows resting on his knees. “That bad, huh?” he says with a wince, not meeting my eyes.

  “What? No. Sorry.” I sit up straighter. “That was really good.”

  He lifts his head alertly. “I’m sorry. Did you just…compliment me?”

  I roll my eyes and wave him off with my hand. “Oh, come on. It’s true. That was an excellent start.”

  “Go on…”

  He wants an ego boost and while I certainly don’t think he needs it in the package department, maybe he’s insecure about his writing. I take a deep breath. “Well, Forrest was a lot more complex than I expected. You fleshed him out in just a few pages, without even interacting with Susan. The way you added in how his palms get sweaty when he thinks about her, what he’s about to do, shows us that he knows the consequences of it all, without telling us he knows.”

  “And there was nothing you had an issue with?”

  I purse my lips, thinking. “He might be thinking about sex too much. If you do a search for the word cock, I’d bet it comes up more than five times.”

  He leans forward, hitting a few keys on his laptop. “Four times,” he says, rather triumphantly.

  “Okay, well, it detracts from the story. Just a bit.” I raise my finger as he opens his mouth to speak. “And no,” I add quickly, “I don’t have a problem with too much cock.”

  “I’m getting predictable,” he laments with a smile.

  Actually, your writing has proved otherwise, I think. But of course I don’t tell him that.

  “I’m bone dry,” he says, waving the beer bottle at me before getting to his feet. “You sure you don’t want one?”

  I’m prepared to say no again, to set an example, even though I’m parched and a beer is sounding really good but he goes on, “I’m just saying, you look like you could use one.”

  My hackles raise. “What does that mean?”

  “Have you forgotten about all that crap on your face?”

  Shit, my makeup. Now that he mentions it, I can practically feel it seeping into my pores, trying to build a permanent bacterial colony.

  “Can I use your washroom?�
� I ask him.

  “Do you think I’m going to say no?”

  “Just tell me where it is.”

  He points down the hall. “Second door on your left.”

  I’m surprised the apartment is big enough for a “second door on the left” and when I step into the hall, I’m even more surprised to see four doors.

  I know bathrooms are perfect for snooping but I manage to control every curious fiber in my body and just stick to going pee. I’m pretty sure if I opened his medicine cabinet I’d only find condoms and maybe herpes medication anyway.

  It’s when I’m washing my hands and contemplating putting his basil scented soap on my face, that I hear a loud thump from the other side of the wall, followed by a loud shriek.

  I open the door and look over to the see the door next to me ajar and light spilling out into the hall. I peer my head around the corner. Blake is inside the room, standing beside a giant, and seemingly empty, aquarium.

  “You okay?” I ask him, slowly coming inside.

  Panic contorts his face as he quickly glances over at me. “Yes. Kind of. Fluffy just scared the ever loving shit out of me.”

  I stop a few feet away and peer at the glass, now seeing a few rocks, small logs, sand and a tree stump, as well as a shallow dish of water inside. “Uh, Fluffy? Your cat?”

  Please say it’s still a cat.

  “If Fluffy was a cat, my life would be so much easier and I wouldn’t have to change my knickers every time I come in here.”

  I keep walking over to him, slowly, though he raises his palm out to stop me. “You don’t have a deathly fear of spiders do you?” he asks.

  “Spiders?!” I exclaim and then I’m looking at the glass again and now, now I can clearly see a furry brown tarantula bigger than my hand working its way across the sand. It’s like bear, if it had eight legs, a million eyes and could fly across the room at you.

  “Oh hell no!” I yell and I’m spinning on a dime, running straight of the room, down the hall and to his fucking door, my back plastered against it, one hand on the knob. The apartment is so austere and bright, it’s hard to imagine I just saw that fucking thing in one of the rooms.