Smut by Karina Halle
Blake was right about Spinnakers not being too busy. We manage to snag a seat on the upstairs patio, both of us getting the Scottish ale from the brew pub, and I sit back, watching him curiously, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Before it does though, I take a moment to drink in the scene and just…
Pretend.
It’s what I’m good at.
I’m looking at Blake sitting across from me, paying attention to every little thing about him, the hairs on his sinewy arms catching the light, the way his thin shirt clings to his broad shoulders and ropey biceps, the thick slope of his neck leading up to the sharp jawline, the way his lips twist to his left, as if he’s about to tell you a secret he shouldn’t, his eyes that glitter with a million untold jokes. I feel like I’m sitting across from someone who is one hundred per cent alive and ready to take on the world. For all his faults – and he has many – there’s something almost enigmatic about him, something that makes you want to learn more. Something that makes you want to learn from him.
I finally, finally, understand why all those girls were throwing themselves at him. Because they believe he can make them better, just by being around them.
And so for this second I can pretend that I am here on a date with Blake, that we aren’t both here because of some other opportunity, and that what we share is genuine and true.
It’s all a lie. And it’s so sad that I’m even pretending. But at least I’m not thinking about Alan. At least I’m for once not thinking it was all a mistake. At least I’m hopeful for the future because I know now that there is more for me – guys or otherwise. Especially everything otherwise.
After we get our beers, he raises his pint to me and looks me dead in the eye in such a way that reaches deep inside, disrupting something dormant.
“Here’s to The Heart Thief,” he says, even though we toasted over it the day we finished. “And to new endeavours. To the future.”
I purse my lips for a beat before clinking my glass against his, the thick white foam spilling over the edge. “Cheers.”
“Seven years bad sex,” Blake says before taking a sip.
“What?” I say, trying to wipe up the side of my glass with a napkin. “I looked you in the eye.”
“No, it’s seven years bad sex if you spill,” he explains. “But don’t worry, I can always bring you out of it.”
As always, super inappropriate. God, I hope I’m not starting to like it. Regardless, I take a swig of beer, staring at him unamused. “So, what is this new endeavour you’re proposing? We write short stories for a living?”
I’m completely joking but he tilts his head and displays his palms, like I’m totally right.
“What are you saying?” I prompt him.
“I had an idea a few days ago,” he says, clearing his throat and putting on his extra-serious face which involves a furrowed brow and piercing stare, like he should be roaming the moors yelling for Catherine. “I did a lot of research before I wanted to talk to you about it. Painful research. I think I may have spared you some of it. But I think we can make this work. I know we can. I just need you on board.”
“Blake, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He licks his lips for a moment. “Okay. Okay, but listen to me before you make a snap judgement. Hear me out, hear all of it. Got it?”
The movie Friends with Benefits is flashing through my mind. He’s not suggesting we have some sort of fuckboy/fuckgirl arrangement between us, is he?
I don’t even let myself think about it.
“Okay…”
“We work well together. Writing with you has not only been inspiring to my own work but it’s actually been a lot of fun. Who would have thought, right? Me, life of the party and you, girl who sits in the corner and makes snarky comments about people.”
“Blake,” I warn him, making the signal for him to hurry up.
“Anyway, you can’t deny we write well together. And that somehow we work well together too.”
“Most of the time.”
“Most of the time,” he concedes. “But what if I told you there was a way for the both of us to keep writing and make a hell of a lot of money.”
“I hate to break it to you, but The Heart Thief was a project. No one is going to pay for a novella about an affair, especially not one that so reeks of Creative Writing class. I know enough about the market to know that.”
He sits back in his chair, trying to move his face out of the ray of sun shooting through the patio. “Tell me what else you know about the market then.”
I exhale noisily and start flipping my coaster around. “Oh boy. Okay, well I’ve been subscribing to Writer’s Digest for a few years, I read Publisher’s Weekly. I know what sells and what doesn’t.”
“And what do you know about the indie market?”
I’m surprised to hear him bring that up. I wouldn’t think it would be on his radar, especially running a bookstore and all. “The indie market is all cheap romance and erotica.”
“Below you,” he says, more of a statement than a question.
“It just doesn’t interest me,” I tell him, trying not to sound like a snob. “I know what I want to write and unfortunately high fantasy doesn’t do well in self-publishing, so I have my sights on getting an agent and a publishing deal one day.”
“But what if you could make more money than that publishing deal and you could make it today?” he presses his finger into the table for emphasis. “What if you and I write together? Under a pen name.”
Though my first instinct is to just say no, I have to ask. “What would we write?”
“Erotic romance,” he says without missing a beat.
I stare at him askew, not sure I heard him right. “Um…”
“Listen,” he says. “The writers who are doing it are making a ton of money.”
“They’re also sell-outs.”
“So? Maybe they have bills to pay, mouths to feed. You think it’s so bad to want to make money? Greed is good, Amanda. Greed is good.”
“That phrase doesn’t really work with a British accent.”
“And we wouldn’t be selling out, per se. We can write well but we’re both beginners, really. It would be good practice, a way to get a foot in the door. We write what sells, what the masses want, need, crave, and then when we have their attention, then we can publish what we really want.”
“Right,” I say caustically. “Like the Fifty Shades readers are going to purchase my fantasy afterward.”
“They might. Let’s say three per cent pick it up out of curiosity, or maybe there are open-minded readers who like a bit of smut to get off to, a fun way to pass the time, while they also read memoirs and history books and fantasy and who else knows what. You don’t know. People have different tastes and like a range of different things and having those three per cent because of our smut is better than having zero, don’t you think?”
He has a point but he doesn’t need to know that. “You really think a publisher will want my book after I’ve written erotica? There’s a stigma, in case you haven’t noticed. Just ask your dad.”
His eyes shoot to the ceiling. “Believe me, I know about the stigma. That’s why we write under a pen name. Hell, look at everyone in the Top 100 on Amazon and I bet every dirty book is either ghostwritten, written by a duo or maybe even an established author looking to game the system. No one is who their names says they are. There are no rules here, we can do whatever we want. Put out a book a month, split the profits. By end of the year, we’ll be rolling in it.”
“But what’s in it for me?” I tell him.
He gives me a puzzled look. “Well. The money I just mentioned.” He pauses, nods slowly. “Right. You don’t need the money.”
“It’s not that I don’t,” I tell him quickly. “But I’m still in school and I have a student loan and my parents to support me until I graduate. I need money…I just don’t need it badly enough to write erotica with you.”
&n
“It is a horrible idea,” I tell him, letting a laugh slip. “Look, Blake…I agree that we work well together but I just don’t think this is the logical next step.”
“But don’t you want success?” he says, his voice lower as he leans in across the table. “Don’t you want to prove to people that writing can make money? Don’t you want to feel like you’ve proved them all wrong?”
I rub my lips together, unable to look away from his eyes that won’t stop piercing into me. “Not by writing erotica,” I say softly. “I want that on my own terms.”
His eyes briefly drop to my mouth. “And this will be on your own terms and everything you’ve ever wanted will be that much easier to get. Just…tell me you’ll consider it.”
I break away from his stare and busy myself with a drink. I hate that there is some part of me that is considering it and for all the wrong reasons. It’s considering it partly because if I don’t say yes to this, I won’t have excuse to see him all the time, or even see him at all. I don’t want to be with Blake but I at least want to be around him.
“Let’s just try it,” he goes on. “One book. Same length as The Heart Thief. We’ll come up with a pen name, a cover and we’ll write the fuck out of it. The premise needs to be ridiculous but the writing doesn’t have to be. It’s practice.”
“For a career in the adult entertainment industry?” I say, my eyes focused on his hands as they grip his beer.
“For both our writing careers. We have nothing to lose right now. Nothing at all. And I’ll front the money for the cover designer, for the editor, for the formatter, for Facebook ads.”
Holy hell. He really has done his research.
He continues. “Honestly, we just need to write the dirtiest, sexiest short story ever and I promise you if you want to quit after that we can, but I bet you won’t want to.”
“You’re awfully confident,” I muse.
He flashes me that grin. “Of course I am. Because I’m right. Do this with me.”
I fold my arms across my chest and sit up straighter. “Why do you want me to do this with you? You could do it yourself and not split the profits. It sounds like you already know exactly what you need to do.”
The waitress comes by at that moment and asks if we want more drinks. Blake orders more for us before I can say anything.
“It’s on me,” he tells me.
“Not necessary,” I remind him. “Now, tell me. Why me?”
He chews on his lip, his eyes lazily raking over me and I would give anything to know exactly what he’s thinking, what he sees.
“You can keep a secret,” he says after what seems like forever. “You’re ambitious. You’re talented. And, well, I need your heart.”
I blink at him, trying to process it all. “You need…my heart.”
“You can’t have the sex without the love.”
I burst out laughing. “Oh man, what planet are you from and what have you done with the real Blake Crawford?”
“I’m not saying it’s true in real life but I’ve done my research and when it comes to romance novels, it’s needed. No matter how dirty or nasty it gets, if it’s a stepbrother screwing his stepsister,” I wrinkle my nose at that, “or a teacher finger banging his student during class, there has to be love or it doesn’t work. If you don’t deliver the happily ever after it doesn’t matter how many holes she gets filled or how many orgasms she has.”
“And you’re saying you need me to write the romantic cheesy shit?”
“Fuck knows I can’t do it.”
“Well I can’t do it either!”
“Have you tried?”
“No,” I tell him, my mind briefly flitting to thoughts of Luthwen and Phenelope. “And like I said, I have no interest in it.”
“So fake interest,” he says as the waitress brings our drinks. He gives her a quick wink and she smiles slyly at him and it does something vile inside me. Is he hitting on her in front of me?
And, jeez, when did I think that was a problem?
His eyes dart over to me and he frowns. “Something wrong?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, other than your proposition. You of all people should know how hard it is to write something you actually care about. I can’t imagine how painful it would be to write about something you don’t like.”
“Funny,” he muses to himself, looking away. “Thought you would have been up for a challenge.”
“Writing with you was a challenge,” I point out.
“Until it wasn’t.”
I inhale deeply, holding my breath in my lungs, trying to get some clarity. I don’t want to commit this idea that’s really nothing more than a harebrained scheme but at the same time…
“You don’t have to say anything right now,” he says. He brings out his phone and taps something out. My phone immediately beeps.
I frown and bring it out of my purse. He just sent me an email. “What’s this?”
“I made you an official proposal. A business plan. About time I put those classes to use.”
Jeez. He really is serious. In fact, even with the hopeful gleam in his eyes, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so serious before, even when he was grappling with plot problems in The Heart Thief.
“I can’t believe you made a business plan about writing smut,” I tell him, putting my phone away and planning to look it over later.
He shrugs, squinting at the sun that has shifted again. “I’m serious about making money and potentially changing my life for good. What can I say?” Now he’s shielding his eyes with his hand.
“Here,” I tell him, bringing my cat eye glasses out of my purse. “It’s prescription but they’ll at least help with the sun.”
He grins his thanks and as he takes them from me, for a split second, our fingers brush together. But unlike the few times it’s happened before, I can swear it’s deliberate. His finger practically strokes mine and his eyes pin me down and fire travels up my arm, right into the thick of me.
I really should stop drinking around him. And, really, my reaction means I shouldn’t write with him either.
He slips my sunglasses on and his mouth drops open. “Bloody hell woman, are you blind as a bat?”
“No,” I say defensively, even though the sight of him in my glasses is pretty ridiculous. “I’m near-sighted and only by a little bit.” He doesn’t have to know how much. “That means—”
“I know what near-sighted means,” he says. He takes the glasses off, blinking hard as he slides them back on the table. “I think I might be cross-eyed now.”
“I’m sure you’ll survive.”
“You’re going to have to write most of the book then.”
I sigh. “Just…let me read over the proposal and I’ll let you know.”
“It would be better if you read it now.”
“Why?”
He wags his brows. “Because I’m a lot more persuasive in person.”
He’s right, which is exactly why I need to be away from him to make a sound decision. Writing self-published erotica with Blake can only lead to one thing and I’m too afraid to find out what it is.
Blake is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. The drinks are getting to my head, making it easier to just give in but I have to stay strong.
“I’ll let you know tomorrow,” I tell him firmly.
“You promise you’ll read the whole thing and keep an open mind?”
“I promise.”
“Okay…” he puts his hands behind his head, showing off his wide chest, the thickness of his bicep and of course I’m staring at him like I’ve never seen a man before. He knows what he’s doing. What an asshole.
“Get a good look?” he asks smugly, all damn dimples.
“Whatever,” I dismiss him, averting my eyes and keeping them locked to my beer. Seems like I do a lot of staring at my drink when I’m around him.
“What should our pen name be??
I shake my head. “You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”
“I refuse to accept that you might turn me down.”
“And I refuse to accept that no woman has before.”
“Oh, I’ve been turned down before.”
“By who?”
His lips quirk. “You,” he says pointedly.
I stare at him for a moment, my mind racing. “When did you proposition me?”
“I don’t have to proposition you to know how you’d react.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, raising my brow haughtily. “And how would I react?”
“You’d kick me in the balls. You told me that once.”
He sounds so sincere I have to laugh. “I was just letting you know I could defend myself in case you wanted to take advantage of me.”
“Amanda,” he says, his eyes soft. “I doubt anyone could take advantage of you.”
“Too smart?”
“That and scary.”
“I’ll take both of those as compliments.”
“Did I mention you’re insanely talented and I need you desperately?”
A thrill runs through me at that thought and I don’t even bother to ignore it this time.
“Seymour Butts,” I say.
He stares at me blankly as I sip my beer. Eventually he spits out, “What?”
“Seymour Butts,” I repeat, straight-faced. “Our pen name.”
“Simpsons reference,” he says with a knowing nod. “Well-played.” He leans in, eyes dancing. “Does this mean you’re accepting?”
“It just means I want to hear all our pen name options before I even think about it. How about…”
“Amanda Hugandkiss,” he fills in.
I grin at him. “How did you know I was going to say that?”
“I think I know you pretty well, Miss Hugandkiss. What about Big Red?”
I roll my eyes. “No.”
“Red but spelled read, like I read a book.”
“Then people will call us Big Read.”
He shrugs. “So picky. Okay what about Patty Peaches?”
I burst out laughing. “You are terrible at this.” I tap my fingers on the table, thinking. “Susie Dicksuck?”
Now he’s laughing, head back, eyes shut. “That’s brilliant! Please, please can we be Susie Dicksuck?”