His solemn expression worried me. H,e seemed to have had fun with her. My friend wasn’t a relationship doer. He did quickies in the teacher’s lounge at the university. Cliché. This one time, I visited for lunch after getting back from a tour, and I caught him and a student bumping uglies. They forgot to shut the blinds fully. An eyeful of Conor’s ass scarred me for life.
“Why is it so bad to fool around and have fun without thinking of a future? I want simplicity and sex…lots of sex.” He rubbed his eyes, dragging his palms across them in exasperation.
“I get it.”
Once upon a time, I was the same way. Hell, if Rebel hadn’t torpedo her way into my life, I’d be in the same boat. Metaphorically, of course. We are physically in the same boat now.
“I don’t think you do,” Conor objected. “You’ve always pined for pussy, and I just don’t.”
That was true. I pined after women—woman, singular, only Rebel. She was absolutely the only woman who ruffled my feathers and made me weak with emotions I couldn’t control.
“Relationships aren’t for me, man,” he continued. “Stace is a nice piece of ass, but she is in no way the one.”
I glowered at him. Stace always had nice things to say about Conor, and here he stood, talking shit about the woman.
“You need to get off your high fucking horse, and stop leading her on,” I bit back, wondering how my friend could be so heartless.
Conor needed to stop his games and tell her. If he didn’t, I sure as hell would.
“Well, it’s over now. Drop it.” He glared at me, and I could see the pain he tried hiding from me.
Instead of continuing the conversation, I took to the box and ripped the tape off the top. It was lined with tissue paper and confetti. Pushing threw I found a card, swimming trunks, and a shirt that said “My girlfriend is a smoking hot writer.” I chuckled. The envelope had my name in a girlie script. Opening it, a “Welcome to the Writer-Cruise-Palooza” flyer was nestled inside. It listed the itinerary. One particular entry was highlighted, and a note was attached to that as well.
* * *
Coen,
Here’s your grand gesture. Don’t fuck it up.
- Stace
The highlighted contest was a short-story entry. If you won, you received a free cover package, editing, formatting, and proofreading. The genre, contemporary, sucked. It could be romance as a subgenre but not the entire plotline. We did have a lot of angst though. So, it’d work.
I by no means claimed to be a writer, but this was exactly what I searched for, a grand gesture to win my woman back. I’d write our story with Cara and Bo, her RomCom characters. That way she’d realize the meaning.
After sitting on the craptastic mattress, I wrote down all the things I wanted in the short story. My heart raced as my hands moved across the paper, writing each excruciating and painful moment of our lives together. If she didn’t know the entirety of my love for her, then maybe it wasn’t meant to be.
Shaking off the thought, I poured my heart out, praying it didn’t sound cheesy as fuck. Damn their opinions. She’d be mine, and I’d prove it.
Rebel
I walked out to the coordinators' station. The four ladies smiled as I approached.
“Rebel,” they squeaked in greeting.
The smile taking over my face had to be as large as life. I'd missed my people, the ones who supported me, drove me to be better, and helped make my career from nothing.
“Ladies!” I screeched back, getting hugs, kisses, and shit-eating grins in return.
They swarmed me with questions of my next release, how the projects are going, and if I’d be joining the read-aloud-a-thon. Telling them I wouldn’t miss it, I set up for the signing later in the week. The theme for the event tonight was swim-with-words. Apparently, beach attire was necessary, but I’d probably wear a sundress and flip flops.
Stace followed me to my author table, “Babes, I have the best gift and swag item for our table!” She jumped up and down, dancing like a buffoon.
“Calm the fuck down,” I joked, trying to use my most deadpanned voice. It failed, and I laughed.
She pulled out see-through lollipops, book-themed suckers that had little buff dude sprinkles inside the center. They looked silly but cute as hell too. The packaging had cover models from my books on the outside and a little tag tied to it read “Hunky-man lollipop.” The idea was absolutely hilarious.
Stacy wasn’t signing at this event, only being my assistant. “Did you make yourself some too?” I asked.
“Of fucking course, I did.” She beamed, probably proud of herself and the gag gift.
After I unwrapped the silly thing, my tongue darted out hesitantly, I feared I’d hate it. “Hunk-man” didn’t seem like an accurate flavor for a sucker. Did it taste like dick? I chortled and lightly licked the tip. I liked the sucker. Get your head out of the gutter. I tried deciphering the taste while attempting to stop my belly-busting laughter.
Hunk-man flavor wasn’t too shabby, almost like papaya, guava, and something else I couldn’t pinpoint. I moaned in satisfaction while slurping up the flavor.
“You can’t lick it like that, babes,” Stace murmured, looking around and making sure no one was watching. She appeared bewildered at my sucking skills. It wasn’t like I was doing something dirty.
“They say you lick it and it’s yours. How about getting to the center of a hunky-man lollipop? Do I get a prize? Like a real-life fuckboy?” I wiggled my eyebrows in suggestion.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that and walk away.” Her voice was full of amusement and distaste, and she really did turn away.
“At least it tastes good,” I retorted. I grabbed the wrapper and read aloud. “Lickable and tasty man lollies will make your wildest fantasies come true with only a few licks. The orgasmic flavor will explode in your mouth with each flick of your tongue.”
Stace gasped and whirled back around, her face mirroring discomfort while I couldn’t keep a straight face. “Well, that was fucking awkward.” She rolled her eyes.
“No, babes. It’s lickable,” I joked.
After setting up for the event, I headed back to the room to change for tonight’s festivities. Stace left before me because she had to set up for the night’s activities as a volunteer. I’d be drinking and mingling, mostly the drinking part.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said to my reflection in the mirror.
Unfortunately, the joy and excitement I carried before the trip had vanished. Thoughts of Coen and what could have been haunted my every thought. I imagined his lips, the way he made me feel beautiful and secure in my body, but most of all, how he gave me life in such a short amount of time.
A single tear escaped my eye. Luckily, I didn’t have my full face on or it’d have smeared. After applying the lightest amount of eyeshadow and eyeliner, I dared myself to stop moping and have fun.
“Screw it. Go have fun and be a badass bitch,” I challenged myself. A giggle slipped through. Stacy texted, letting me know she’d see me there. My gut told me Stace was planning something other than her volunteer work, but I shut that intuition down. Nothing would ruin this for me.