“Can we not talk about this now?” I really needed to watch some videos of cute kitties, get a deep tissue massage, and do some breathing exercises or some other extremely soothing activity.
We were still standing by the front door. David got closer, his eyes soft and fixed on mine.
“Do you want to pretend the last hour didn’t happen?” Perhaps he also needed to take a yoga class or do some journaling or whatever he did to unwind. “We were just inside the elevator. You haven’t showered in two days.”
“Three days,” I corrected.
“Who’s counting?”
“I am,” I said. “But please continue.”
“I was thorough enough to check not only that you smell great,” he said, his breath warm on my neck, “but you also taste great. I’ll have to sample you again though.” He kissed my clavicle and then bit my earlobe.
“And we’ve just made it home,” I said, joining in the fantasy.
“We have,” he smiled, still working on my neck. “And not only are we on speaking terms for the first time in two years, we’ve also not had sex in a room where you could actually see anything in as many years. So I’m particularly into the idea of getting myself reacquainted with your body.”
Even in my constant state of horniness, I would have always said that I am not one to have sex—or even feel mildly lusty—in any circumstance where stress plays such a big factor. As it turns out, I was wrong and didn’t know myself well enough.
Also, David had a point. After months where the two of us hadn’t been uttering anything more than guttural monosyllables during our encounters together, it was nice to have a conversation while feeling sexy and getting to undress one another.
He also was right about the bit of fucking in plain daylight. It’s nice to not only be able to see your partner’s face for a chance, but his entire body.
It looked like the shower and sleep would have to wait—for now. But I was ready to embrace all of David’s thoroughness.
39
There are more important things in life than your next byline, especially if you ask your lover to start writing a script together.
“Forget about the Pulitzer, Scribe. We’re gonna get an Emmy!” I told David after I woke up from the most pleasant and restorative of siestas. I may have been almost killed twice that Saturday, but it was not going to be the day I also became a writer deserted by her agent.
“Huh?” he asked, confused and still battling sleep. “Can we still get a Pulitzer as well?”
I suspect he was still too sleepy to have heard my mention of the Emmy that Fred Appleton’s story was going to get us, because who cared about the Pulitzer. But that tale really had everything: a deranged villain, a victim no one was going to mourn, a true crime angle, a Hollywood backdrop, and a couple of sexy writers pining for each other and managing to solve the case.
I checked the time and realized it was almost 3 p.m. I texted Beatrice right away.
I guess the NYC Misconducts offer is off now Fred has been arrested but I have the perfect pitch for you.
The woman was ruthless and replied immediately.
Beatrice
Clock is ticking. Drop by the Shrine Auditorium before 5 p.m. You can catch me at the red carpet and tell me all about it.
“Feel like writing something else with me?” I asked David. He was still lying in bed. I was sitting up. He turned to me, propped his face over his flexed arm, and gave me the most sultry of smiles.
“Are we going to almost get killed again?”
“No, but we’re going to write precisely about that,” I said. “There’s a prestige TV movie in this mess we’ve found ourselves in these last few days, and I think we’re the perfect people to write about it.”
“Sounds good.” I have to reiterate here that his smile could be described as smoldering. “But can I think about it?”
“Of course you can. But I really can’t. And I’m gonna need a dress!” There was no way I was going to drop by an awards red carpet wearing ratty jeans and a stained top.
So I left David naked in bed, put some clothes on—probably the aforementioned ratty jeans and stained top—took the elevator down, and went straight to the Acne Studios store that resides at street level on the Eastern Columbia.
To the untrained pedestrian walking by, it could look as if the Downtown location of the Swedish-based minimalist brand was closed. I knew better.
