The Absolutely True Story of Us (2 page)

There was slight pause before his response.

M: At this moment, I find I don't really care.

And then, I made the decision that sealed my fate.

Black pencil skirt. No panties.

There was another pause before he responded, and I didn't want to think about why. Except I did. I really, really did.

M: I don't believe you. Keep going.

So that's how it started, with me and M.

I'll never know what would've happened between us if I hadn't brought up the topic of sex in our first real exchange. Maybe nothing. Or maybe it was an inevitability. The conversation could have died out there, but it didn't. Instead, we embarked on a torrid, virtual affair that consumes way too much of my time and energy.

Back to the present day. I still haven't answered his last text, the one about wanting to rip my panties off with his teeth. The last thing I want is to go all jelly-legged with lust while my ex-boyfriend is unpacking in the next room, and I know that's the effect M has on me.

My phone buzzes again.

M: Take them off.

My breath catches in my throat. It's insane,
obscene
, that this guy can have such an effect on me. We've never even met. He has no idea what I look like, beyond a small headshot on my website.

If I'm being honest, that last bit might be my favorite part.

I can't.

M: Yes you can.

I'm not alone.

M: So excuse yourself.

How can I explain this situation to M? There's no way I'm telling him the truth. He'd tell the whole world, and everything would come crashing down.

More importantly, why do I feel like I have to? I always have the option of just telling him to fuck off, and he wouldn't be able to do a damn thing about it. But I won't.

Because with M, I'm not just Felicity Warden, frumpy failure with a big ass who only stumbled into success by telling a whopper of a lie. With M, I can be anybody.

There's a tapping at the door.
 

"What?" I demand, yanking it open.

"Uh." Dean clears his throat. "If your parents are coming over here, shouldn't my stuff be in your room?"

"They're not going to be snooping," I insist.

"You want to take that risk?" he asks. "Look, I'll sleep on the sofa, obviously - but we should at least make it
look
like we're living together."

He has a point. I hate it when he has a point.

My phone buzzes again, and I want to throw it against the wall.
 

"Sorry," says Dean. "I don't mean to interrupt your vigorous texting schedule, but I figured I should hang up my shirts in here."

I stalk past him and lock myself in the bathroom, pulling out my phone as soon as it's safe.

M: Well?

I'm serious. I can't. I'm wearing jeans anyway.

M: Don't care. Do it. When you feel the seam of the denim pressing into your bare pussy, you'll think about me.

Somehow, in that moment, the sensible corner of my brain kicks in. However brief, it's enough for me to quickly type:

Sorry. I have to go.

I lock my phone and shove it back into my pocket, breathing hard.
 

How did I end up like this?

Six Months Ago

It all starts with five little words.

Based on a true story.

I'm at the dollar theater with my friend Jack, splitting the bag of popcorn I smuggled in, thanks to my cavernous oversized purse. I feel kind of bad. I know these places barely make any money as it is, and I'm only making things worse by refusing to buy their shrink-wrapped cookies with the pink frosting. But I haven't sold an article in ages, and Jack is just as broke as I am. He's been job-hunting for three years now. At this point, filling out applications pretty much
is
his full-time job.

Me, I'm still holding onto the great American dream: self-employment. Owning a business. Being an entrepreneur. Working from home. Bathrobes. Fuzzy slippers. Mail order groceries. Tequila at nine A.M. I won so many writing awards in college I could wallpaper my living room with them, so why the hell can't I make my living as a writer?

That question stopped being rhetorical some time ago.

"Hey, stop being greedy." Jack tries to swat my hand out of the way, nearly overturning the bag in the process.

I squeal at him, saving it just in time. "For God's sake. You're like the dog in that fable who drops the bone in the water when he sees his reflection.
You
stop being greedy, or neither one of us gets any popcorn." He's rolling his eyes, but I decide to ignore that. "Besides, I brought it."

"
Besides, I brought it
," Jack echoes, in an obnoxious falsetto. "That's you. That's what you sound like right now."

By all rights, I should hate Jack. I met him in a dive bar shortly after Dean left, during one of my brave attempts to "put myself out there." The sexual chemistry was nil, but we fell hard for each other as friends and have been completely inseparable since. He's a gorgeous player with a killer smile, but my libido remains stubbornly disinterested. Thankfully, the feeling's mutual - which is slightly less surprising on his side.

Well, he might be a player, but he's no Dean. He doesn't get involved with women who have romantic commitments, and he never breaks hearts on purpose. So he's got that going for him. I wouldn't be able to stand his company if he was that kind of scumbag.

"Look.
Based on a true story
." Jack points at the screen. "I can't wait until this comes out on Redbox and we can do a drinking game."

"We could've done one now," I observe. "Want me to go hit the liquor store across the street? It's not like they're searching bags here."

"It's eleven-thirty in the morning," he observes, raising his eyebrow at me. "Have some morals, Warden."

"Neither of us have jobs,
Harrison
." I laugh at him. Thankfully, we're the only ones in the theater, so we get to enjoy ourselves. "There's nothing immoral about day-drinking when you have no responsibilities."

"Yeah, but there is something immoral about me carting your drunk ass home. Never again, I swear. Didn't even get a blowjob out of it." He winks at me.

"You want one?" I flick a piece of popcorn at his lap.

"Ask me again in ten years, if we're both still single." Suddenly, he sits up straighter. "Shit, I just thought of the best plot for a romantic-comedy-porno ever."

"Oh, great, I hear that's a super lucrative genre right now." I roll my eyes at him. "Okay, so...which part of this is based on a true story?"

"That part," he says, pointing at the lead actor taking a drink. "One of the family members probably drank soda at some point, right?"

Snickering, I lean back in my seat. "Okay, but seriously. It has to be something more than that."

"No, it doesn't." He turns to look at me. "Wait, are you serious? You actually think they have to back up their claims when they say that? Nobody asks."

I guess I've never thought about it before. "So, you can just make up any bullshit you want and claim it's true? And nobody can sue you?"

"I mean, as long as it's not about anyone in particular, sure." Jack shrugs. "Who cares? Who's gonna find out?"

The seed of an idea is germinating in my mind. I can't even focus on the movie when shit starts to go crazy, because I'm still thinking about what Jack said.
 

Last year, I did try my hand at writing a romance novel. It's the most lucrative genre in fiction, and I guess I wanted to prove a point to myself. I managed to get some good reviews and make enough to cover the editing costs, but it became very clear that it wasn't going to be my new career. I just didn't get it. Clearly, I didn't understand what the market wanted. I swore I'd never do it again, but now I'm starting to reconsider.

Rom-com porno
sounds
ridiculous, but in this post Fifty Shades world, I know steamy romance is hugely popular. And "based on a true story" as a hook? I could do a lot worse.

It's been a while since I tried to write fiction. Before the last novel, it had been even longer. My parents always gently discouraged me from it, saying it was impossible to make a career out of it. Unless I was lucky enough to become the next Stephen King or James Patterson, there were a lot more practical ways to spend my time.

A plot is starting to unwind itself in my mind, and not even the jump scares can shake me out of it. I can already see the movie trailer set to Carolina Liar's "Show Me What I'm Looking For." It's beautiful, sexy, inspiring. I'll hit every bestseller list, win every award.

"Psst." Jack snaps his fingers in my face. "Where'd you wander off to?"

"I got an idea," I tell him, slowly, still staring at the screen but not really seeing it. "An idea for a book."

***

Back at home, I nibble on the edge of my fingernail. Am I really going to do this? It's so easy: just five little words. A lie, but a harmless one. I'm not even pretending to be an addict or a trauma survivor or anything like that, and besides, people lie like this all the time. Like the people who made that movie. They don't expect me to believe some family was really terrorized by a demon that was attached to a haunted doll, do they? It's artistic license. It's an acceptable falsehood.

Nobody will ever know.

I've already got a perfectly serviceable pen name, with one sad, languishing book I never bothered to un-publish. So why not? What's stopping me?

I crack my knuckles, and then I start to type.

The book begins to form before my eyes. I call it
Mergers & Acquisitions
, because I'm being terribly clever. Boy meets girl, boy and girl are competing for the same job, claws out, sex - and eventually love - ensues. It's pretty standard stuff, but the hook gives it more depth. More character.

Fake character. But character all the same.

As I write, I let pieces of my personality seep into the main character-slash-author. I am Lana DeVane, and Lana is me. The hero, Damien, is everything I know the reading public wants. Dominant, demanding, arrogant. Sexy and loyal as hell. Smart and sarcastic and successful. By the end, I'm practically in love with him. Too bad guys like that don't seem to exist. Particularly the "loyal" part.

Anyway, readers love it. Just as I thought, they love him even more than I do. Sometimes my predictions actually come true.

Of course, I didn't predict that within two months of publishing the book, I'd have the opportunity to be interviewed for an online news segment about successful romance author-entrepreneurs. One I couldn't pass up. I don't use my real name, but I have no choice but to use my real face.

And they want to meet the guy.

Well, it's only natural.
 

Jack is the first person I ask, of course. He laughs in my face and tells me he's not getting mixed up in my drama. Sometimes that guy is just too damn smart.

That only leaves one option, really.
 

Dean.

Ugh.

We're still on civil terms, more or less, in spite of everything. And he'll probably feel obligated enough to say yes. We've got a history. We can fake the chemistry easily enough.

Harmless, right?

Of course, I also don't predict that one of my sisters will stumble across the video and discover my secret identity. And that my whole family is going to read the damn book and completely lose their minds, wanting to get to know this amazing, romantic specimen of a man.
 

They've met Dean at a few holiday get-togethers, but they always seemed to have trouble remembering his name. As a middle child among six siblings, it's easy to overlook me. And I've never really minded it - at least, that's what I tell myself.

The interview was a cakewalk. I booked us a few author appearances and book signings for next year, making sure he could get the time off work. Pfft. No big deal. We'll just keep playing this game until people forget about my book, or I publish a new one, whichever comes sooner. Putting on a show for the reading public is easy.

Putting on a show for my family? Well. That's a horse of a different color.

***

Six months after that fateful day in the theater, I'm suppressing the urge to kick myself. Hard.

Under the table, because otherwise my parents might notice.

My dad is one of those guys who always looks like a doctor. It doesn't matter what he's wearing, you can't help but picture him in a white coat and a stethoscope. My mom slightly less so, but that's mostly because of the celebratory nose stud she got after my baby sister was born. They're actually both doctors; my dad specializes in internal medicine, and my mom specializes in podiatry. They both specialize in a total inability to seem interested in my life.

"It's so nice to see you again," my mom says to Dean for the third time. "Now, I'm sorry, you'll have to remind me - what line of work did you say you're in?"

"Murders and executions, mostly," I mutter under my breath. But apparently my mother hasn't started losing her hearing yet.
 

"What's that, honey?" she asks mildly, poking at her plain steamed fillet of fish.
 

I shake my head, immediately regretting it. "Nothing, Mom. Just a joke."

"I want to know the joke!" She takes a sip of her wine.