Smut by Karina Halle
It’s nearly midnight when my eyes start to cross and my brain feels like rubbish. I’ve made my way through both Big Balls, a sports romance involving a well-hung tennis player name Rock Hardon and Begging for Seconds, about Chevy Silverado, a billionaire chef who teaches his new cook how a turkey baster should really be used. Surprisingly, it worked a lot better in the book than it did in Gigli.
Maybe it’s because I’m overly tired and my mind is trying to digest hours of explicit writing, but I’m feeling hopeful. If they can all do it, there’s no reason why I can’t. I mean, I actually know how to write, it’s just the matter of finding the time and motivation. And maybe digging up some of that romance and tenderness that these books all seem to call for. I can write the dirty fucking kink pretty well, I think, but the whole lovey-dovey aspect of it is way over my head. I’ve only been in love once and it ruined me, so I’m not sure my jaded point of view will be helpful.
But there’s always Amanda.
Yes, she’s also jaded and a bit of an emotional robot but she’s bound to be more sensitive than I am. I mean, I know she can at least write it. Her characterization of Susan and Bethany in The Heart Thief was honest and real and came from a soft place inside of her that I know doesn’t exist inside me. She may hide it behind her glasses and resting bitch face and tendency to whip insults at you like she’s shelling peas, but I know it’s there.
And, to be quite honest, I want to see her again.
She’s a bit much to take at times and I’m certain she still thinks I’m the world’s biggest wanker—literally and figuratively—but I was getting used to her company. Writing with her was fun. Fighting with her was even more so. Maybe even hot. And hot is exactly what we need to bring to the table in order to rake in the dough.
But will she go for it?
That’s a different matter entirely.
CHAPTER NINE
Amanda
Phenelope walked into the clearing, the early morning fog dusting the tops of the yellow and pink leaved Galadrial trees, making it appear as though she was walking through a candy-colored dream. She wanted to get a head start collecting the peacock crickets from their flowery nesting places before the sun rose too high in the lavender sky and the crew was on their way yet again.
Yet even though it was early and the land was still around her, she heard a rustling and the faint lap of water from the thicket. She drew her bow, the wings on her back poised to fly at any moment, and crept forward, silent as a dolemouse.
There, through the branches, she saw a figure that made her entire body grow still. It was Luthwen, wading into the water, completely nude.
It was a jaw-dropping sight. His sinewy muscles and tanned skin gleamed above the surface like raw honey, the planes of his taught back rising up from his firm buttocks. His hair seemed longer when wet, the color of copper, and clung to his shoulders as he surveyed the calm pond in front of him.
Phenelope swallowed hard, feeling a myriad of feelings course through her. She had never thought of Luthwen that way and never once entertained the idea of him liking her. After all, she was part bird and life was far too painful and serious to ever fall in love with someone else, let alone have physical relations. But now, observing him in secret, she found her nerves sparkled with need and the urge to strip herself naked to her feathers and join him in the water was nearly overwhelming.
But she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She’d learned her lesson before.
I stare at the words on my computer screen, reading them over and over again, trying to get back into the flow of things, trying to figure out where to go next. But I can’t. It’s the most curious and frustrating case of writer’s block ever.
Actually, the last time I’d written anything was when I fixed up the last few paragraphs of The Heart Thief before we handed it in the other day. Ever since then, mind has been stuck, slogging through mud. It’s not even that the weather is gorgeous and the summer is laid out ahead of me like a warm, pristine blanket and that I’m distracted by life. It’s not that at all. It’s that the will to finish the story as I had planned has whittled down to nothing.
When I was writing the novella with Blake, the words couldn’t come fast enough, even though the easiest parts seemed to come with Phenelope and Luthwen’s interaction. Just being in the habit of writing, of creating, spilled out into my other work. But now when I think about my next scenes and where I have to go after, it’s like I’m dragging my feet. I can only write with a gun to my head.
The worst part is, the only time I do feel like writing a bit more is when I entertain the thought of turning the novel into a romance, or at least upping the sexual and romantic nature of the book. But I’m fighting it because Phenelope should be fighting it. We both have to stay strong. Luthwen may be handsome and brawny and oozing with sex appeal but that doesn’t mean Phenelope should sacrifice the mission by sleeping with him.
“How is it going?” Ana asks.
I look up over my computer to see her standing in the doorway, smiling warily at me. She knows, oh she knows, that the worst thing to say to a struggling writer is “How is it going?” or “Get any writing done?” Bitch, if I’ve got writing done, you can fucking bet you’ll know about it.
But I don’t have the strength to get mad. I sigh, pushing myself back from the computer and rub my forehead, trying to loosen the tension. “It sucks,” I mumble. “I’m just staring at the screen and when I’m not staring at the screen I’m staring at the walls and when I’m not staring at the walls I’m having a nap.”
“Want to be my guinea pig again?” She waves a green lipstick at me. “I could use the help. I’m supposed to do space and fantasy makeup. You know, the nerd stuff you like.”
That does sound more interesting than normal and I know this time she’ll probably nail it since her day-to-day makeup usually borders on the side of 80’s futuristic prom queen, but I can’t be bothered doing anything. Even going for a run is a struggle. I fear my writer’s block is slowly leading to life block. And then what?
“How about you do it to yourself and I’ll watch,” I tell her.
“Sounds kinky,” she says.
“I’m pretty sure everything sounds kinky to you.” Actually, everything has been sounding kinky to me lately, hence the pervy peeping-Tom scene in my book.
Phenelope you are a pervert, I think to myself.
Still I get up and follow Ana out into the kitchen. I’ve totally resigned myself to the fact that makeup has permanently taken over the table. I’m often drinking my coffee around mascara tubes and color correctors. The other day I found cream eyeshadow in my protein shake.
Luckily this is Ana’s last couple of weeks of school, even though it means she’s trying to practice on me as much as she can. I had Rio over the other day and watched Ana transform her into a pretty convincing drag queen, though I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her intention.
Even though it’s only three in the afternoon, I go and get a bottle of local pinot gris out of the fridge. Fuckitall—a prescription for the daily blahs.
I’ve just poured us both a glass—thank god for day drinking roommates—when my phone rings.
Thinking it’s either my mother or a telemarketer, I fish it out of my pocket and glance at it.
It’s Blake.
I have to admit I’m surprised to see him calling.
Surprised, and, well…I’ll just ignore that little flip my heart did.
“Hey,” I say as I answer, sounding more chipper than I meant to.
Ana watches me with the slow raise of her scarily arched eyebrow.
“Hey, big red,” he says smoothly. “Catch you at a bad time?”
I stare down at the glass of wine. “Not really. Was about to get my day drink on.”
“What a coincidence, so was I.” There’s a lengthy pause and find myself sucking in my breath, not sure what he’s going to say next.
“Did you want to join me?” he asks.
“Last time you sampled my shrub you nearly spit it out on the waitress as she passed by.”
“You know my luck with waitresses.”
“And hostesses and classmates and most females. Yes, I do.”
But beneath all the casual banter, I know I have to say no to him. The fact that we’re both done working together and he still wants to hang out is nothing but bad news. I mean, what can we possibly offer each other anymore?
“Are you also saying yes to the pub?”
I can see Ana nodding anxiously at me.
“No,” I tell him and she groans loudly in disappointment. “I’m busy.”
“Washing your hair?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “And not hanging out with you.”
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”
“You’ve told me.”
“Did I tell you I like that?”
“You have.”
“And yet you keep doing it.”
I sigh even though I’m trying not to smile. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s a good idea. There’s no reason for us to hang out anymore.”
A pause comes between us. Am I being too harsh? Maybe.
I open my mouth to backtrack but he says, “But I have a reason.”
“And what is that?”
“A proposition.”
“Yeah, those never end well.”
“This might. It might end with us being rich.”
Now he has my attention. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me pick you up, I can be there in a half hour.”
“But what is this about? I’m not going unless I know. My roommate had a bad dust-up with a Nigerian drug lord last month and I’m not about to follow in her footsteps.”
“Tell him the chicken parmigiana was good,” she whispers, gesturing to the phone.
“I hate to burst your bubble, peach, but you know I’m not a Nigerian drug lord. But I do have a solution for that overactive imagination of yours.”
“If I come will you promise to never call me peach again?”
“No,” he says, “but that’s only because I’m nothing but honest.”
“I’m still not sure that’s true.”
“Trust me.”
“Not helping.”
“See you in thirty minutes.”
And he quickly hangs up before I can protest again.
“Is he coming here?” Ana asks excitedly. I’m not surprised to see her wine has been wolfed down.
“No, we’re going to Spinnakers again,” I tell her, quickly marching into my bedroom to find myself something suitable to wear. I know my Lululemon pants and “Bazinga!” tank top should suffice but I’m strangely compelled to make myself look better.
Ana follows me. “A date?” she asks with cautious optimism.
“No,” I tell her, adding a glare. “Not a date. I don’t date guys like Blake and he doesn’t date girls like me. We’ve been over this.”
“Not even if he’s your fuckboy?”
I pause rifling through my closet and give her a look. “Where did you learn the term fuckboy?”
“Your friend, Rio,” she says. “She talks a lot. I learned a lot.”
I turn away from her and whip off the tank, sliding on a mustard-colored flutter sleeve blouse that I know looks banging with my hair. Speaking of hair, I pull my elastic out and attempt to fluff it around my shoulders.
“It’s so pretty, wear it like that,” she says, coming up behind me and petting my head like I’m an exotic bird.
“On second thought, no,” I tell her. He knows what he said to me about my hair, he would know it was for him. I pull it back into a loose topknot, slip on white capris and rose gold slides and I’m almost ready to go.
Oh, this part is going to be awkward.
I slowly turn around to see Ana staring at me, hopeful as all hell.
“I could just give you a light makeup. A dusting.”
I manage a smile and nod. “Okay,” I tell her, hoping I don’t sound as scared as I feel. I mean, she’s come a long way. Just because she was totally pumped to make me look like Groot a few minutes ago doesn’t mean I’m going to walk out of here looking like I belong in a Marvel film.
I sit down at the kitchen table and she spends a good three minutes just staring at her makeup and then my face. Back and forth. I’ve never seen her look so determined before—I don’t think the “natural look” is even in her vocabulary.
Then she gets to work. I drink the wine.
She’s still finishing my face with blush when there’s a knock at the door and I’m having severe déjà vu from last time Blake came over. But luckily she kept her Krazy Glued eyelashes at bay and when she hands me the mirror, lo and behold I actually look pretty foxy. The peach eyeshadow and winged eyeliner really make my blue eyes pop and the blush blends naturally with my lightly freckled skin.
“Do you like it?” she asks, hands clasped by her chest and cringing already at my potential reply.
“I love it,” I tell her. And it’s not a lie.
I give her a quick, albeit awkward, hug—maybe the first hug I’ve ever given her—and I quickly grab my purse and head out the door.
Blake is waiting in the garden that takes up the whole backyard of the house, one that the landlords have been toiling over ever since the first shoots started sprouting in March. Though they say we have free use of the yard and the quaint iron table and chair set situated among the lilacs, Ana and I are often intruding on their gardening whenever we use it. Ah, the joys of not having your own place.
“What are you doing?” I ask him, shielding my eyes to the sun while I bring out my sunglasses.
He looks up from a well-groomed patch of bluebells and grins at me, those dimples deepening on his cheeks.
With a ray of golden sunshine hitting him just so, he looks good. Really good. I know it’s only been three days since I saw him last but I don’t know. Maybe something has changed in those last few days. I’m noticing muscles I’ve never noticed before (which I know have always been there), the way he holds himself, the glint in his eyes when he’s looking at me.
Fuck. Don’t pull a Phenelope. If she can’t have Luthwen, you definitely cannot have Blake.
“Honeybees,” he says, gesturing to the bluebells. “I’ve been watching them.”
“Okay. Why?”
He walks over to me, hands jammed in his pockets. “Because they’re fascinating. Ever learn up about them? Study them?”
Do I unleash more of my nerdishness or not? “When I was younger I knew a lot more. I’d read the National Geographics my dad had in the basement. There had to be a thousand copies. I read them all. I’m sure a few of them were about bees.”
“Impressive,” he comments, stopping a foot away from me. He cocks his head, studying me. “You look rather pretty today. Is that all for me?”
I roll my eyes and turn away before he can see me blushing. Fucking fair skin and overactive blood vessels. “You wish.”
“Perhaps,” he says with a quick grin as we stroll to the gate and he opens it for me.
“So why the bee fascination?” I ask him, walking side by side. I don’t know what it is but in the last couple of minutes it feels like the dynamic between us has changed. Maybe it’s because for once we aren’t bound by anything, we’re just together because we want to be.
No, I remind myself. It’s because he’s promised to woo you with something secretive and you want to find out what it is.
“My manuscript,” he says as we reach the car. “To build a believable alien race I had to study the colony structure and instincts of the honeybee. They’re bloody fascinating, actually. There’s a whole world around us that we don’t even get a glimpse of, all happening right under our noses.”
“I bet you wouldn’t say that about Fluffy,” I point out, getting in the passenger seat. I’m taken aback about ho
“Fluffy is a monster from the bowels of hell,” he says as he buckles himself in. “But believe me, he’s made his way into the novel. Just picture him a hundred times the size.”
Blake rarely mentioned his work-in-progress while we were together. I didn’t even know the genre. So to hear him talk about an alien race, I have to figure he’s writing sci-fi.
Beneath his strong, lean build, big hands, cocky smile and gorgeous head of hair, it turns out that Blake Crawford is a closet nerd. I know a month ago I would have gone running to Rio with this information but now I sit on it gleefully, knowing for all our differences, he’s an awful lot like me.
“So I’m guessing you’re writing science fiction,” I tell him. Mr. Mean roars to a start and we speed off down the streets, turning the heads of pedestrians as we go. I raise my chin, pretending I’m actually cool.
He leans in to look me over. “Sci-fi horror,” he says matter-of-factly, his face inches from mine.
I instinctively suck in my breath, even though I ate lunch ages ago and if anything I should smell like wine. I wait for him to go on.
“It’s called Blood Aurora,” he says eventually, turning his eyes back to the road. “And I feel like I’ve been writing it since I was a wee one.”
“How much have you written?”
“Maybe seventy per cent. Not a lot.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Are you kidding me? Not a lot? I’ve been struggling at the halfway point with my book for ages now and no matter what I do, I can’t move past it. I’m stuck. It’s driving me fucking crazy.”
“Then maybe it’s good that you agreed to come with me.”
“Why so I can drink my face off and forget that I have a book I need to finish?”
“Peach, I’d love to see you drink your face off. You’re cute when you’ve had a few.”
I shoot him daggers over that fucking Peach nickname. At this point I’d rather have Tits McGee.
He only smiles. “Sorry. Bad habit.”