Mr. Write Page 2

  Just like always, thoughts of Liz ruin my day, and I realize I have no business wanting to know this girl’s name. I promised myself I was D. O. N. E. with love. Actually, I was done with feelings altogether. But this exotic sampling has my mouth watering, wanting a taste. I’ve avowed the only tastes I’ll be having are meals on the run. No wining and dining, which is exactly what I want to do with this mystery girl.

  I’m not looking for love. Been there, done that. All I’m looking for are single-serving friends who are uncomplicated and want what I want—to connect on a physical level—and nothing more, nothing less. Some girls just want to feel special while me, I just don’t want to feel. Hence, why my mind is drier than the Sahara Desert.

  I ignore the palpable tension bouncing between us because that crackle is what got me into trouble in the first place. I felt that undeniable pull when Elizabeth Sparrow walked into the Starbucks I was working at and changed my life forever from the first moment I laid eyes on her.

  My gaze drops to her glorious chest, and traveling back up, I see a small letter C hanging off the end of a delicate silver necklace. She’ll forever be known as C because this ends right here. Just as she opens her tempting mouth, I cut her off. “Merry Christmas.”

  Who the hell wishes someone a Merry Christmas? Especially someone who’d rather the twenty-fifth of December didn’t exist.

  She opens and closes her mouth, not hiding her surprise of my brush-off, seeing as seconds ago, I was clearly interested. I don’t wait around to hear her reply because I wouldn’t blame her if it consisted of the words “fuck” and “you.”

  As I turn to leave, the sugary smell of strawberries and cream catches on the air, punching me straight in the solar plexus. I need to leave. Now.

  I just did this girl a favor. Believe me, she doesn’t want to get messed up with the likes of me. Even though she’s sassy and bold, I sense a layer of purity and innocence lying just beneath the surface—a layer that I’d soon destroy with my apathy and arseholeness.

  “Sir, let me get that for you. We’re about to take off.” The unhelpful stewardess decides now is the time to do her job. I pass her the bag and make my way to my seat, ignoring the fact my fellow passenger is using my headrest as her pillow.

  The only way I will be able to get through this flight is to revert to my original plan of getting completely and utterly wasted. I suddenly feel like a Malibu Swirl. I know what this is. My sense of smell is secretly controlling my mind.

  Squeezing into the seat, I close my eyes and grind a fist to my temple. This is my karma for screwing daddy’s little girl. It’s also my karma for screwing a lot of daddy’s little girls around Seattle and its neighboring cities.

  I’m not a full-blown manwhore—well, not yet, anyway. But what’s the closing number that confirms you’re a man-slutosaurus? I have no doubt I’m marching toward the victory line, a fact that sickens me more than I care to admit.

  I need to forget I ever saw a girl named C because C can only lead to fuCking trouble.

  “I love you, J.E. Go write me a bestseller.”

  The signs were there. Cracks were starting to show. I was just too blinded by love to see them.

  I should have known something was off. It was an unusually chilly morning in Seattle, after all, and Liz was lazing about on a floatation ring like she was Queen Elizabeth herself.

  The sunlight drew out the gold in her hair, the hue giving her an imaginary halo, confirming she was an angel…of death as I was soon to discover on that fateful morning. She blew me a kiss goodbye, wishing me a good day at work.

  I hadn’t been able to find my groove at home as the words were slowly drying up. My mind was parched, and no cocktail could quench my thirst. Liz suggested finding a new environment to work in, so I made the Starbucks where I once worked at my hub.

  Being away from home helped me concentrate, but now I know it was being away from her that was the solution.

  I didn’t realize it then, but my house was no longer a home. Liz and I had slowly drifted apart because she couldn’t fall pregnant. Testing proved everything was in working order, but Liz was certain it was me. God forbid, anything was wrong with the perfect Elizabeth Sparrow.

  I jumped into my Mercedes, adamant that today was the day I wrote something I didn’t hate. I deleted more words than I wrote, making writing almost a chore. Liz was on my back to finish this novel because the sooner I started the next one, the more money we made. My advances were generous, and Liz loved the money. She lived like royalty, and I was happy to provide for her, to be her king.

  Just as I turned out of our street and cruised down the highway, I remembered I left my MUFC mug on the kitchen counter. We writers are superstitious creatures, and we must have a specific item or follow a certain routine to ensure we don’t disturb the “flow.” Whether it is wearing a particular pair of underwear, or no underwear at all, never ending a chapter on an odd-numbered page, writing drafts in pencil, steering clear of the number thirteen, or drinking out of a certain football mug, we all have our rituals to help us get into the zone.

  Seeing as I was slipping way, way out of the zone, I didn’t want to take any risks, so I turned my car back around. As I climbed the back steps, I heard a faint whimper—the unmistakable sound of Liz in the midst of pleasure. I paused, turning my ear to ensure I was actually hearing her breathy moans and it wasn’t my sex-starved mind conjuring up the sounds as we hadn’t had sex in over two months. Every time I tried to touch her, she said she had a migraine or felt unwell. She was desperate to have a baby, but she wasn’t exactly trying to remedy the situation.

  I envisioned her slipping her hand between her sculpted thighs and stroking herself, spreading her arousal as she slithered two fingers inside. Liz was a gluttonous lover. Her ravenous appetite for sex was every man’s wet dream. Too bad that dream was soon to become my nightmare.

  My body instantly became hard, desperate to feel that intimate connection with my wife once again. I charged up the stairs, a man on a mission, but as I rounded the corner, I choked on a sight that will be scorched into my brain forever. I believed the sounds were of Liz pleasuring herself, not someone else doing the job for her. I trusted her, so not in a million years did I ever think I’d walk in on some wanker fucking my wife six ways from Sunday.

  Both were too lost in their grunting to notice the intrusion, and honestly, I needed a minute to figure out what the hell to do. Sure, my characters had cheated plenty, but this wasn’t fiction. This was real life. It was my life.

  I silently and calmly walked into the kitchen, remaining unnoticed as I grabbed my mug and coolly poured myself a cup of coffee. As I watched my wife being shagged in our hot tub, I wondered if her face contorted in pleasure like it did now when we made love. I also wondered if he was a better fuck than I was. He was younger and probably knew some new move I was too old to become acquainted with. Was that why she cheated? Did I bore her?

  She looked to be enjoying herself, shouting that he fuck her harder, groaning as he palmed her fake tits—the tits I paid for. She was perfect to me without the surgical enhancements, but the more money we made, the more she became obsessed with her looks. Claiming she couldn’t have any flaws, she said the wife of a millionaire had to always look her best. She didn’t have any flaws. That was, until now.

  The fucking I could deal with, but when that sodding arsehole bent down and kissed her, and she kissed him back, I lost it. A kiss was most treasured, more intimate than shagging, and when I saw her kiss him like she meant it, like she enjoyed it, I finally snapped.

  I stormed out and hurled my mug across the yard. It smashed into a million pieces—just like my heart—inches from Liz’s face. She screamed, stunned at what had just happened. But when she saw me standing before her, fists clenched and ready to murder anyone who stood in my way of justice, she pulled the card no cheating spouse should.

  “I did this for us.”

  Her words hurt more than her actions.


  “Lo siento!” Eduardo exclaimed, detangling his body from my wife’s.

  His erect todger was like waving a red flag in front of an angry bull as he emerged from the hot tub, pleading for me to forgive him. He proved who had the bigger balls as he dropped to the floor, crying like a little girl when I head butted him and broke his nose.

  As my world, my entire life emerged from the water, her skin still pink from another man rutting into her, I was baptized—my eyes were opened to who this woman really was.

  She was my past.

  “Let me explain!” she entreated.

  But there was nothing to explain. I knew what I saw. I didn’t need a diagram.

  “I did this for us,” she said once again. That excuse didn’t stick the first time around, and quite frankly, she was just making things worse.

  I scoffed, turning my back, unable to look at her.

  “Jayden.”

  The moment her flesh touched mine, I pulled back, burned by her betrayal. “Do not touch me!”

  “I want a baby!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks.

  “And it appears anyone’s baby will do.”

  She had the gall to recoil and appear hurt. To add to insult, she proclaimed, “I think there’s something wrong with you.”

  “With me? You’re delusional. I wasn’t the one caught cheating with a boy just out of diapers!”

  I instantly felt like an arsehole when her lower lip trembled uncontrollably, and she choked on her strangled sobs. As much as I loathed her, she was still my wife. And she was still naked. I literally gave her the shirt from my back, and she thanked me by insulting me further.

  “I think you’re sterile.”

  Had her voice always been this irritating? “What?”

  “That’s the only explanation.”

  “No, that’s not the only explanation. How about you’re not as perfect as you believe yourself to be?”

  She blinked once, incredulous of my claims. “That’s impossible. Look at me.”

  And I did. For the first time ever, I looked at my wife, my beloved, and all I saw was a stranger. “I am looking at you, Elizabeth, and I don’t like what I see. You’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

  When she realized I was dead serious, she pleaded that she’d leave to give me time to think about my decision. When that didn’t work, she said I could have it all. The house, cars, money—all of it was mine. She just wanted a second chance. But what she didn’t realize was all that I ever wanted was her.

  I was the nice guy, but nice guys finished last with their dick in their hand. So I told the love of my life it wasn’t her, it was me. I finally realized what a shallow, self-centered bitch she was, and I never wanted to see her again.

  Whether it was because I smashed my lucky mug, or discovered my wife was screwing the pool boy, I deleted every single word I’d written, and I haven’t written a word since.

  My eyes pop open.

  It takes me a moment to find my bearings and realize I’m stuck in a different sort of hell. Looking down at my watch, I see I’ve been asleep for a measly forty-five minutes. The snoring giant beside me has no qualms invading my personal bubble. As she inches closer and closer to me, I have no doubt she’ll soon be drooling on my shoulder.

  I need to find another seat.

  Stepping out into the aisle, I allow my eyes a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. Most travelers are making use of the darkness by either happily sleeping or watching their TVs. Stretching overhead, I ignore the need to seek out C because I should not, will not look at her.

  I had good intentions for all of point two seconds before I subtly seek her out. It doesn’t take me long to find her. I’m drawn to her, and I don’t know why. The glow from the screen lights up her gentle face, highlighting the deep frown lines crinkling along her brow as she concentrates on the flickering TV in front of her.

  I begin to wonder what she does for a living, where she’s going, and if she’s happy. Ridiculous thoughts to be wondering about a mere stranger, but something about her leaves me curious.

  I become conscious that I’m staring when she lifts those eyes and knowingly meets my gaze. She doesn’t appear embarrassed or offended, just curious. So much is going on behind those mesmerizing hazel eyes. She intrigues me.

  Remembering who else intrigued me, I lower my gaze and quickly walk down the aisle, purposely looking straight ahead. By the time I reach the lavatory, I’m talking myself out of going back the way I came because what would I say? “Hi. My life is complete and utter shite. I’ll pay you one million dollars if you slip poison into my JD.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “Huh?” I very inarticulately reply. A female’s giggle fills the small space. Peering up, I see a pretty brunette before me.

  Her lip biting, hair flicking, and doe eyes all point to one thing—it’s a look I’ve become acquainted with. I’ve come to appreciate that women have just as ravenous an appetite for sex as men do. I’ve also learned that things have changed since I was last in the game. It’s completely acceptable to screw one’s brains out and not know their name. No one wants romance anymore—romance is dead.

  “You’re J.E. Sparrow, aren’t you?” That phrase is my pickup line. The funny thing is, I don’t have to use it. It works for me without me having to open my mouth.

  I run a hand through my mussed hair, smiling a “you got me” look.

  “I knew it!” she half whispers, half yells. “The girls owe me twenty bucks.” She looks down the aisle where two of her colleagues are staring, giggling, and masking their grins behind their palms.

  Returning her attention my way, she licks her red-stained lips. “A Whisper of a Kiss is my all-time favorite book. I’ve read it like ten times,” she confesses, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

  “It’s one of mine too.” Was one of mine, rather, as Liz was the muse for the heroine. Goes without saying, I now wish I’d killed her off.

  “I’ve always wondered,” she says, taking a step forward while I stand my ground. “What a whisper of a kiss felt like.” She boldly runs her fingernail along the collar of my shirt. “I don’t suppose you could show me?”

  This girl isn’t unattractive by any means, it’s just, is it always this easy? Before my recent long list of women, I only ever craved the touch and feel of one woman. And it was enough. I didn’t care that the only person I ever fantasized about was my wife because I had no interest in being with anyone but her. But after I exposed her affair, I felt pathetic. I was a bestselling romance author, and the only romance I’d ever had was with a home-wrecking tart.

  “I suppose I could,” I reply, returning to the here and now.

  My response seems to bring out her inner temptress because before I know it, she’s latched onto the collar of my shirt and pushed me inside the cramped, foul-smelling lavatory. The door clicks, revealing to fellow flyers that this stall is busy and will be for some time. There is hardly room for one person inside this lavatory, so I begin to feel claustrophobic when she leans toward me with a ravenous grin. “Your book gave me my first orgasm.”

  The back of my knees hit the toilet, and I fall backward, landing on the seat with a loud thud. With no place to hide, I sit tall, trying my best to appear confident and turned on, but I’m just not feeling it. Whether it’s my surroundings or the fact I’m about to join the mile-high club with a horny stewardess, everything below the belt is numb. I suddenly just want to get out of here because this scenario is definitely one I’m not proud of.

  I open my mouth but don’t know what to call her as she didn’t tell me her name. This hasn’t bothered me in the past, so why am I hit with a sudden case of guilt?

  “I touched myself while reading A Whisper of a Kiss. I used to imagine Franco was making love to me.”

  “Bloody hell.” I don’t hide my surprise at her attention to detail.

  When she rolls her glossy lip between her teeth, I know my unexpected coyness is seen as a personal ch
allenge. “I love your accent. It’s so sexy.” Her voice lowers on the last word, hinting things are about to get nasty. “Are you South African?”

  Thanks to me living half my life in the UK and the other half in the USA, I have adopted an accent which combines both nations’ unique way of speaking. On any given day, I can sound American or British. Or a variation in between.

  “I’m British actually, but…”

  “That’s even hotter,” she cuts me off, not interested in what I have to say.

  I need to leave…now.

  Sadly, all plans of fleeing are put on hold when the air hostess draws up her tight skirt, revealing an innocent, white cotton triangular cloth between the apex of her thighs. This is all an optical illusion as I know nothing chaste is behind what I’m seeing. The moment she straddles my waist, I gulp, cursing the fact I didn’t suck it up and stay seated.

  “I’ll be quick,” she purrs, reaching for the belt on my trousers.

  She can be as quick as she wants because this will be a one-man, or woman, show. Absolutely nothing is stirring within my pants. The fact I’m questioning my manhood has nothing to do with the overeager air hostess, but rather, I’m slightly disgusted that I’ve found myself in yet another predicament that has me hating myself more than I already do.

  “Love, look…” I try to reason with her, attempt to stop things before they get out of hand. The only thing in hand, however, is my dick...in the air hostess’s palm. I jolt upright, staggered by her forwardness. She grins as she begins to massage my pathetic excuse of a prick.

  No matter how hard she tries, I stay soft. This is beyond embarrassing, and I can just see the headlines now…Air stewardess mistakes J.E. Sparrow’s penis for a peanut.

  I shudder at the thought as this is exactly what Liz would want to read—that I’m losing my manhood because of her. With that as my driving force, an animalistic rage takes over me, and I grip the air hostess’s wrist, stopping her from searching for something that isn’t there. I’m a hairsbreadth away from her quivering lips, growling in bitterness over what I’ve become.