“Please, follow me to the Gattinara,” the same waiter from our last visit flashes us a smile and then, turning on his heels, leads the way to Del Posto’s private room. Abby enjoyed it so much the last time we were here, that it seemed the obvious choice for us to come back and have dinner with CJ and Cheryl.
Sure, I had to call in another favor, but that only got me the reservation this time. I’m paying for this out of my pocket, and I know that splurging on a dinner isn’t exactly the wisest financial decision for me right now. But what the hell, I know that coming here will make Abby happy, and that’s enough. No, I’m not turning into a fucking pansy—can’t a guy do something nice without being judged?
Besides, dinner seems like a perfect way to unwind; it’s been a week since Abby spent the night at my place and, fuck, what a week. Between the writing and all the sex, I barely have enough time to breathe.
And yes, I’m not being fucking facetious. There is a lot of fucking.
And a lot of fucking writing.
Come to think of it, being just a model is definitely easy—all I have to do is stand there, shirtless, and let others do the work. Most of the time.
Writing is a whole new ballgame, though. When you stare at an empty white page, all it does is stare back at you. No wonder most of the writing legends were raging fucking alcoholics.
Abby is a natural, though. She faces her laptop with a kind of steely-eyed determination, and all it takes is a deep breath for her to start banging at the keyboard. And I think that, part of it, is because of the sex we’ve been having. I don’t mean to brag, but it’s making a better writer out of her.
She had a lot of preconceived notions about sex and romance but, slowly, all that is being replaced with a new and much more improved world view. I mean, fuck, I wasn’t going to put down my name on a book cover if the writing wasn’t top notch, right? Besides, although the words don’t come as easily for me, I think we make a killer team. Especially because we always end up fucking whenever we finish a chapter, which means we’re always in a hurry to finish a chapter.
“So, how’s the book coming along?” CJ asks us both, but I notice her looking at me from the corner of her eyes. I think she’s still impressed by the fact that I haven’t fucked this up yet… But I can tell that she’s waiting for the whole thing to blow up. Yeah, so much for trusting me.
Can’t fucking blame her though. A part of me is waiting to fuck this up myself.
“It’s going great, CJ,” I say, looking at her and pouring some red wine into her glass. Drink up, my dear agent, I’m not a lost cause.
“Yeah?” Cheryl asks me, and I flash her a smile and pour some red wine into her glass as well.
“Yeah,” Abby says, reaching for my hand under the table and giving it a squeeze. “The first draft is almost ready. And, I don’t mean to brag but… I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.”
“It is,” I agree, leaning back against my chair as two waiters make their way to our table and start piling up a variety of dishes in front of us. I order one more bottle of red wine—the first one is already empty—and then turn my attention back to Cheryl and CJ. “I know that the two of you are worried about this book, but I think that what we have is pretty good.”
“Well, as long as you know that both of your careers are at stake…” CJ says, exchanging a glance with Cheryl. Great.
“Thanks for being the ray of sunshine, babe,” Abby says, sticking her tongue out at her PA.
Underneath the table she takes my hand in hers.
I think that they’re finally starting to realize that this collaboration might turn into a win for everyone involved. And thank God for that; the last thing I want is to go back to some seedy gym on the outskirts of fucking Queens.
Still, I know that deep down both the PA’s are fucking worried. They don’t know how to act around Abby and I, partly because we don’t make a secret out of what’s going on between us—whatever it is. Both Cheryl and CJ know that Abby spends most nights at my place and, even though we always use the “late night writing” excuse, it’s pretty clear to everyone involved what’s going on. But while our PA’s think our personal relationship puts the working one at risk, I know that it’s exactly the opposite: our personal relationship is what’s fueling our writing. And when I say ‘fuel’, I mean that when we finally ship this thing out, the book will be so scorching hot readers will need to wear protective gloves when handling it. We pulled no fucking punches in this one; every word is brimming with raw sexual energy.
“To our careers, then,” I say out loud, raising my glass. The girls all do the same, and that initial awkwardness fades away like it was never there in the first place.
“To our careers,” Abby repeats, and I notice Cheryl looking at her with a satisfied look on her face. No wonder—Abby has changed a lot since we met, and Cheryl has already realized that. No more man hating, and a new outlook on sex. If you wanna use an expensive fucking word to describe what this collaboration is doing to her, I’d use ‘catharsis’. Yeah, I might look like the reincarnation of Apollo himself, but I also have a brain and know how to use it, even though I mostly use it to think of Abby’s naked body, and all of the deliciously wicked things I want to do to her.
To be honest, writing is as tough as chewing nails; it seems that I can’t even write a paltry one hundred words without being distracted by the smooth curve of her hips. Maybe that’s why we fuck away most of our productive hours. It’s a wonder our first draft is almost done.
“By the way, I’ve booked a session with Mistress Strokes for you,” CJ tells me, devouring the sweet potatoes on her plate. She might be skinny, but she eats almost as much as I do. The wonders of metabolism, I guess.
“The photographer, right? When?”
“Next week,” she says, and then turns to Abby. “I think you should go with him, Abby. Since we’re going the self-publishing route, I think it’d be nice to have your input on all aspects of this production.”
“Makes sense,” she replies, looking at me with that irresistible smile of hers. Fuck, thank God Cheryl and CJ are here with us, or else I think I’d just get up grabbing Abby and bending her over the table.
“Well, I’m glad we’re all getting along,” CJ continues, but I notice a slight hesitation in her voice. No matter how great things are going, I guess she still can’t fucking shake off the feeling that everything’s going to implode sooner or later. I can’t really blame her, though; I’ve been wrecking every single connection in the publishing industry, and she has a hard time believing that trend is going to change. It’s my job to prove her wrong, and I’ll do it, trust me. “It’s going to take a few more weeks, but I figure we’ll be ready for launch in no time.”
I look at her, letting her words sink in. I’m actually publishing a book; can you believe this shit? I never asked for it; I was happy enough with my job, which was to get people to press Buy, but I’m actually glad I had the chance to do this. Writing is more enjoyable than I assumed it’d be and, more important than that, it was what made Abby and I cross paths.
The only drawback to all this? In a few weeks we’re going to be done with the novel, and then… Well, fuck me if I know, but I’m not looking forward to the moment when we go our separate ways.
Abby