“Lie. Put down on paper the most interesting lies
you can imagine…and then make them plausible.”
-Chris Bohjalian
The next day, after working for my brother, I sat at a corner table in the Black Bean Coffee Shop near the gym where I played volleyball with a hot cup of joe and fingers itching to tap the keyboard of my laptop. I had two hours to kill before my game, and I intended to use them wisely. But before I could write, I checked my emails. It still boggled me I ever did anything someone else might admire. So when I received emails or messages from readers telling me how much they loved my book, or how my work affected them, it was a high like no other. I wanted someone to pinch me, so I knew for certain it was true. I cherished my readers and in some way, that’s what had made the last couple of years so hard. I felt like I had let them down, especially with my last released book. It wasn’t my best, and they deserved better than that. But even with my misfortunes in life, I would still receive lovely words from readers, or find touching reviews on sales sites, and I knew I was damn lucky for that, too. Even in one of the darkest times of my life, not all was lost. And I desperately wanted to reward them for their faith in me with something beautiful. I had to give them this. Redeeming myself with a stellar book was my goal.
After responding to readers’ emails, I messaged with a few of my author friends. We had a signing coming up in a week, and though financially it was daunting for me to go, I was crazy excited to see them and our faithful readers. Aside from my best friends, these were the ladies that understood me the best. For all things bookish, of course. I’d die if any one of them knew about my personal life.
I chuckled as I responded to a group message from Lynn Evans, an author I admired greatly for her work, but also respected like hell on a personal level.
LE: When is everyone getting in? How much rum should I stock?
Oh yes. It was going to be a good time.
Me: I’ll bring the soda.
Closing out of the group chat, I sighed. I wanted to chat with everyone longer, but writing could not wait. I had to get this story out of me. What happened the night before between Wren and I was burned in my mind. I felt like I’d explode if I didn’t write it down.
My WIP, or work in progress, was starting off nicely, though I wasn’t writing in my usual pattern. Normally, I’d sit down and write a book from beginning to end. Some writers created a timeline to keep them on track, but that had never worked for me. I wrote day to day, and created the story as I went. That’s not to say I didn’t have an overall idea of what my story was going to be about, but even with an ending in mind, I found more often than not, my story changed as I wrote.
I’d named the hero in my story Alex and the heroine Katrina. Both characters were loosely inspired by Wren and me. I wondered if modeling a character after myself wasn’t a sign of desperation in my writing—an indication I was grasping for straws—but Katrina was like me in many ways, but also different. Both characters, no matter how inspired by real life people, would be embellished, therefore Katrina wasn’t entirely me. The same could be said for Alex, he wasn’t entirely Wren. I also argued with my inner critic that every book had parts of me in it; little pieces of myself tucked away within the story; parts of my heart laced within sentences. Keeping this in mind, I forged forward, happy that, regardless of my concerns, I was writing again. It felt good to have something to put down. That had to count for something.
This time around, I was writing in chunks. I wrote scenes to be placed somewhere later when my manuscript started coming together. This was new, and I wasn’t sure if I’d regret it later. What if I spent all this time creating these scenes, stressing myself to write them down, and later realized I couldn’t use them, or they just didn’t fit? But that was writing. How many thousands of words had I deleted in my other works? It was simply par for the course. After taking a few sips of my coffee, I pulled out my journal from my purse and opened it, reading over the notes I’d made. Then I let my mind lead my fingers across the keyboard and began trying to write about what Wren did to me in his car the night before, but from Alex and Katrina’s perspectives. Just the thought of it made my cheeks heat. After we’d gone to bed, and after we’d lost ourselves in each other and Wren had fallen asleep, I slipped out of his room and crept quietly downstairs where I’d left my purse. Using the light of my cell phone, I jotted down everything I could about our drive home.
The pad of his finger circled against the soft flesh of my inner thigh in a maddening but delicious tease.
The way my belly tightened in anticipation as he inched closer and closer to my core.
The rich smell of his leather seats, soft on the nostrils yet exciting.
The struggle to sit still, to wait for him to touch me where I desperately ached to be touched.
The look of determination on his face as he watched the road, mouth tight, the muscles tensing from his neck all the way down his right arm.
The cool glass beneath my hand.
The radio softly playing in the background.
I was lost in my scene, typing away, when I heard the chair across from me at my table screech against the floor. Popping my head up, I found a bright-eyed Brigham taking a seat, a cup of coffee in hand.
“Hello, friend.” He beamed a perfect grin, his eyes squinting slightly.
“Hey,” I squeaked out, surprised to see him. “What are you doing here?”
He snorted because it was a ridiculous question. Obviously, he was there for coffee. Shaking my head, I backpedaled. “Hi, Brigham,” I started over as I leaned back in my chair. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“See how we make such amazing friends,” he replied. “I like coffee,” he motioned to the cup in his hand before motioning back to me, “You like coffee.”
“Clearly it was fate that we met,” I jested.
“There’s no such thing as fate, Hannah.”
Tilting my head, I watched him a moment before responding. “Or luck…” I said, touching on something he’d said the night we met.
“Or destiny, chance, serendipity, happenstance. None of that shit,” he shot back.
I smirked. “So cynical, Brigham.”
“Smart,” he retorted as he leaned forward putting his forearms on the table. “What are you over here working on? You had your head buried in that computer and didn’t even check me out when I came in. I’m offended.”
I laughed. He was impossible. “Writing.”
He tilted his head. “Writing what? You got some kind of virtual diary on there where you jot down little notes about love and destiny?” He was mocking me. Jerk. But his teasing really didn’t faze me. And maybe because I actually didn’t care what Brigham thought of me, it didn’t bother me. Not even a little bit.
But teasing him was too much fun. He was the type of person that needed attention. So I glared at him pretending to be offended. “Actually, I write romance novels.”
And there it was…that flicker men got when I told them what I did. Romance meant something so different to men than to women. Women thought love and passion. Men wanted to know how vivid the sex scenes were.
“Seriously?” he inquired. His upper lip curled slightly as if pleased by this revelation.
“No, I’m lying to you,” I snared. “Yes, seriously.”
“You know,” he bobbed his head a few times, “I always thought someone should write a book about me.”
I pressed my lips together to fight the smile. What he’d said was pretty much what seventy percent of men said to me. They all thought they’d lived this impressive life that should be written into a masterpiece like they’re some kind of Rudy. Oddly enough, not one woman I’d ever met and informed them of what I did had said that to me.
“I’m not quite sure I could capture your true essence,” I teased him. “Nor do I have the time to try and make your sexual escapades sound romantic to my readers.”
He chuckled, his blue eyes twinkling. He enjoyed our banter. He liked firing me up. “I’ll have to look you up.”
Again…how many men had said that to me? I’d lost count. I’d give this one about a ten percent likeliness of that happening. “Can I read what you’ve got there?” He pointed to my laptop.
I glanced at my screen at the scene I’d written and debated. That wasn’t something I did usually, unless it was with Courtney. My best friend was one of the only people I ever let peek at my work before it was completed. The scene, though descriptive, was short so I couldn’t think of a reason not to let him. It didn’t give the storyline away, and Brigham didn’t strike me as someone that really cared anyway. “Sure,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure at all. If I thought about it too long, I’d change my mind. “It’s just a small scene.”
Spinning the computer around, he pulled it to him and used the mouse to adjust the page. I sipped my coffee as he read, watching him, as if any movement of his face might reveal his thoughts to me. When he was done, he smirked and nodded a few times. Turning the computer around, he pushed it back to me.
“So that’s what you write?” I couldn’t gauge what he thought about it. Maybe it surprised him I’d let him read such a vivid and erotic scene, or maybe it surprised him plain old me even wrote something like it to begin with.
I shrugged in answer, refusing to ask him what he thought. I would’ve liked to have known if he thought my writing was good.
“So I’m guessing this guy Alex is the usual perfect alpha male like in most of these lady sex books.”
“Lady sex books?” I raised one brow.
“You know what I mean.” He scratched at his chin. “The man that doesn’t exist. This guy that has plowed through women his entire life, looks good, has money, the whole package, that suddenly lays eyes on one woman and he changes for her.”
I grimaced. That was basically what I was writing about, damn it. Alex was just as Brigham had described, but even as cynical as I was about men, I hated how ridiculous he made it sound—as if a man like Alex, couldn’t exist. “What’s your point?”
He didn’t answer my question. He simply moved on to asking another. “Orgasm in a Beamer, eh?” he finally said. “Sounds like a gangsta-player move. I’ve tickled the shotgun on a few ladies myself.” Glancing up, I met his stare. Why did what he had just said bother me so much?
His brows lifted as soon as his gaze met mine. “Holy shit, Hannah,” he gasped. “This was you.” He pointed at my computer. “Your face expresses all sorts of being offended.”
My face flamed. Brigham may have been open about his own sexual wants and experiences, but I wasn’t willing to go there with him. The characters were Alex and Katrina. There was no reason for him to think otherwise. “It’s fiction,” I replied.
His mouth curved up. “Based on actual events.”
How did he know this? Was I that terrible at hiding my thoughts? Rolling my eyes, I closed my laptop and began busying myself with packing it up. We needed to be at the gym in twenty minutes. It would only take five to walk across the street, but I was desperate to get out of this topic of discussion. “No, Brigham,” I groaned.
“Who is he?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I informed him.
“Hannah,” he said my name sternly, causing me to glance at him. “It was good. I can tell it meant something to you.”
My mouth suddenly felt dry. It had been good. More than good. It had been amazing. And I’d held on to it, knowing I would write it so well, knowing it would make an amazing scene in my novel. But it had been more than that. It had meant something to me beyond its potential for a place in my book. Wren took me somewhere that night, and I didn’t mean literally. He gave me something I didn’t know I had been dying for—my own passion. He took me beyond my worries, beyond the voices of characters in my head, away from reason and overthinking. He took me outside of myself to my own spontaneous, reckless, and erotic scene. My stomach knotted with that thought.
“Boyfriend?”
Clearing my throat, I managed to chuckle, pretending his question was ridiculous. “No. I just made this up. It didn’t have anything to do with me. I’m just a good writer.”
Brigham eyed me suspiciously as if he didn’t believe me, but he didn’t push. “That’s good then.”
I frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Just means if you were dating the kind of guy we just talked about, a guy like me,” he pointed to himself, “I wouldn’t want you getting your hopes up.”
His words slammed into me, knocking the wind right out of me. Moving numbly, I followed behind him to the parking lot, wondering if I’d even be able to make it through the game tonight. He didn’t tell me anything I hadn’t already told myself. So then why did I feel so…hurt? Why did hearing him say what I’d already told myself a million times affect me this way? Because I had started to let my guard down. I’d started to believe again.
“What makes you think I would date this type of man?” I queried, my voice weak.
He smirked. “Because women are always trying to make a man into what they want. Rarely do they want him for what he really is. Add that to the fact no matter how pretty you are, how funny or smart or any other amazing quality you may have, you can’t keep a man that doesn’t want to be kept and… Well… It’s as simple as that.”
I kept walking, my heart breaking as I moved. I hadn’t liked hearing that either.
Somehow, I pushed it all down and made it through the game, though I wasn’t fully engaged. Afterward, while Brigham was occupied with our coach, whose name I now knew was Womboye, I almost managed to sneak out of the gym without having to have a goodbye chat with him, but I wasn’t quite so lucky.
“Hannah, wait up!” he shouted to me just as I reached the double doors that led outside.
“Shit,” I whispered to myself before plastering on a smile and spinning around to wait for him.
He jogged to me with that knee-weakening grin on his face, his gym bag hung on one shoulder, his forehead still glistening with the slightest sheen of sweat. He was wearing a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, which showcased his defined, muscular arms and upper body. Yes, Brigham was a looker. But even as I admired him, I couldn’t help thinking he’s no Wren. “You trying to sneak out without saying goodbye?”
“No,” I lied, shaking my head. “I just didn’t want to interrupt you and Womboye.”
“Come on, I’ll walk you out to your car.”
I followed him out, wondering if the way he seemed to move past certain things was intentional, or if maybe he had ADD. There had been several times I’d say something and he’d just skate right by it, as if he’d never even heard me.
When we got to my car, the passenger side door creaked loudly as I opened it to toss in my bag.
“This is what you drive?” It was dark out, and I couldn’t make out his expression well in the limited lighting, but by the tone of his voice I could tell he was judging me. “Writing must not be paying well, I see.”
The dim lighting also meant he couldn’t see me glare at him, but once again, he kept moving, not even giving his shitty statement a second thought. Hopping up on the hood of my car, he shimmied back, making himself comfortable.
“What are you doing?” My tone indicated every bit of my annoyance. I was tired and wanted to go home. Plus, as hard as I tried, Brigham’s words about men being players was still poking at me. I needed to go home and hide in my room so I could dissect it to death.
Digging in his bag, he mumbled, “Looking for…ah-ha,” he announced proudly. “There it is.” Pulling out a pint of Jack Daniels, he twisted the top off, the seal cracking indicating it was a new bottle. “Let’s have a little night cap, shall we?”
I looked around, noting there were only a few cars left in the lot, but I wasn’t sure if they had any kind of security cameras that might see us. “Brigham, this isn’t a good idea.”
“Hannah,” he groaned. “Sit down beside me and take a few sips. Be chill.”
Inhaling deeply, I looked away as I battled myself. I wanted to go home and hide. That’s what I wanted more than anything. I’d stayed for the game, even though I hadn’t wanted to. If I’d gone home and skipped the game, then he’d know he was right and that the characters were based off of real people. Still, I wasn’t sure hanging out with Brigham in a dark parking lot was the best idea for several reasons. But I also knew I was committed to fighting my own hindrances. If I went home, I’d be up all night, overthinking and worrying about things I really didn’t have any control over. Though I was used to it, and it was my go-to, I didn’t want to be that way anymore.
Awkwardly, I scooted up on the hood and took the bottle Brigham was holding out for me. I had no worry of finding myself in the same way last time I was drunk in a parking lot. Taking a long swig, I closed my eyes as the burn slid down, pooling warmth in my belly. Brigham took the bottle and leaned back on my windshield, resting one arm behind his head. Over my shoulder, I glanced back at him as he stared up at the sky.
“Did you bring the whiskey tonight knowing you’d share it with me?”
“Yep,” he answered simply.
“Really?”
He snorted. “Hannah. I saw you at the wedding, your drink dribbling down your face as you leered at the dance floor, and I knew there was no chance I’d ever sleep with you.”
I closed my eyes, humiliated as I remembered spilling my drink down myself. “Don’t remind me,” I groaned.
“Then that first night at our first game, one of the first things I told you was I had no desire to sleep with you, remember? We’re friends. And I like to take care of my hot-mess friends.”
I chuckled. He said the worst things sometimes. “I don’t know if I should feel lucky, or offended.”
Bringing his eyes to focus on me, the soft yellow lighting from the parking lot cascading over his face just right added a sharpness to the cuts of his face, showcasing his best feature—his eyes. He looked like a model; a man you’d see on some dark and sultry cologne ad. “You remind me of someone.”
“I do?”
“Someone that needed me, and I let them down.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “I don’t need you, Brigham.”
“Yeah, you do,” he argued softly before taking a swig then handing me the bottle. “You just don’t know it yet.”
I stared at him for a long moment, my eyes narrowed. Was he nuts or something? He couldn’t possibly be drunk already. “Who do I remind you of?”
Sitting up, he pushed my hand holding the bottle toward me, encouraging me to sip. “That’s a story for another night. Tonight, we drink.”
We slowed the drinking, took smaller sips, and lay on the hood of my car for hours that night, and Brigham shared a variety of stories with me that had my emotions all over the place. He told me about his travels and adventures. He spoke a lot about women…mostly bragging about the ladies he had conquered. He spoke about his family and his daughter. The thing that was so fascinating about him was how he tallied right and wrong in his life. He prided himself on being a good father and a hard worker, yet he proudly boasted about how he played women. He considered himself a Christian. Some things he told me made me smile, made me envy him. Others, those broke my heart. But I didn’t comment, and I didn’t judge. I realized in a way Brigham was using me. I was his confessional. For some reason, he had chosen me to purge his tales of life upon. He and I were nothing alike. Not really. But I let him speak freely because I knew what it was like to carry around so much. I did it every day. And talking to others about it was hard because they didn’t understand. I told myself that maybe, subconsciously, Brigham saw that in me and he felt safe.
On the drive home, I thought about what he’d said in the coffee shop, not just thought about it—turned it over and over in my head. I battled internally, one foot fully planted in the Brigham-Knows-All Camp, and my other planted with He’s Wrong Town. He didn’t know Wren and couldn’t have concluded so much about the character Alex from what he’d read. I reminded myself Brigham was also a proud playboy, with eccentric tastes when it came to women. This was most likely a projection on his part. But even with my stellar reasoning skills, I couldn’t deny he’d gotten to me. My thoughts rolled over to the story Duke had shared with me—monkey fisting he’d called it. Duke was a colorful storyteller, and the tale had stuck with me in the back of my mind, burrowing down and getting comfy until I pulled it back out and tried to apply it somewhere.
I’d researched it and found there were different versions of this method being used. Trappers would put bananas in bottles to capture monkeys. The monkey would reach its thin arm inside and grab the banana but wouldn’t be able to get it out. Instead of letting the banana go, it risked its own life trying to get it out. The monkey was hungry. It liked bananas. It saw this banana and went for it. But that banana wasn’t coming. The monkey could’ve let it go, saved its life, and searched for another banana. There are plenty of bananas out there. But it fought for this one. It, for some reason and against all logic, had to have this banana. The metaphor was so profound. In the end, I wanted love. I wanted to be with someone. And if I was being honest, I wanted Wren. But was Wren really that guy? Could he be that guy? Or was I the monkey refusing to let go of my banana?
My anxiety flared as I turned it over and over until finally I told myself, “Stop it, Hannah.” Gripping the steering wheel, I inhaled and exhaled slowly, easing the anxiety that was building inside of me. “Just relax and see what happens.”
The problem was, I never listened to myself.