Long Shot (9 page)

“And lose Meredith forever? Pass.”

Peter considers, and then nods. “Yeah, she’d probably never talk to you again. She doesn’t strike me as the kind who shares. I’m surprised she’s even going out with you to begin with.”

“Har har.”

“I’m telling you, dude. This project is probably not the best idea.”

I stretch in my chair, stiff from sitting and editing for so many hours. “That’s a bummer, because I was hoping to interview you about your experience working with her.”

“Oh.” Peter blinks a minute. “Well, hell yeah, bro. Free publicity, are you kidding me? Can you include some of the photos she took? I’ll pick them out for you, don’t worry. I mean, it’s hard to not get a good shot of my cock, because have you seen it? But I don’t trust you to not to pick a bad one if you’re jelly.”

“I’m not jelly. That isn’t a thing.”

“It’s a thing, Callas.” He points at me. “It’s a thing.”

I hold up my hands and roll my eyes. Peter is so full of himself. “It’s a thing but I swear you can pick your own representations of The Beast.”

“Great. Mind if I get a link to this project to pimp out? I can use it to promote my new porn business!”

I cock an eyebrow. “How do you expect my online journalism final project to promote your porn business?”

“You’re thinking too small, man.” Peter spreads his arms wide, as if he wants to me envision this whole ridiculous thing with him. “It goes viral, in a college campus sense. First off, we all know professors don’t actually grade shit, right? It’s all TAs. TAs are underpaid, horny motherfuckers who are looking for something to keep them from dying of boredom while grading the same old awful shit day in and day out. You see where I’m going with this, right?”

I just stare at him. I don’t. I don’t see where he’s going with this.

“Bro! One TA tells another TA who tells another TA all about this new, super sexy, up-and-coming pornstar, aka me. Word spreads like wildfire. They see my dick, see my abs, see how goddamn sexy I am, and they immediately want in.”

“My professor’s TA is a dude.”

“That’s fine. We’ll need dudes for the on-campus orgy I’ll be filming once word goes out about Peter Rodman. I’m going to be so famous. I should thank you, really.”

“Welp.” I scratch my chin and laugh. Peter is out of his damn mind, but hey, it’s worth a shot. If anyone can pull it off, he can. “There you go. No one can accuse you of being unambitious.”

“Damn skippy.”

I’m silent for a minute, weighing his career choices against mine.

“Is it worth it?” I ask. I’m honestly curious.

Peter perches on the edge of my bed and looks at me like I’m an idiot. “What, the sex?”

“No, man. All of it. The career, the porn, the club. We’re nothing more than our bodies. That doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Hell no!” Peter laughs briefly, still looking at me like I’m some sort of foreign object. “Dude, I get paid good money to have girls want to touch me. Remember high school? Remember what nerds we were?”

I wince, but only a little. We were pretty big nerds, that’s true. “Thanks for
that
trip down memory lane.”

“That’s what I’m saying, Rob. They pay me real money to fuck gorgeous girls. I don’t have to ask, beg, or pay for overpriced cocktails to get a hope and a prayer. People. Pay me. To get laid. They also pay me to let a pretty little assistant fluff me between takes. Can you believe that shit? I don’t have to ask! They send in the cute girls in low-cut shirts to drop to their knees on command and make love to the Rodman. Hell yes, it’s worth it.”

I think of what his life would be like if it were my own: different girls every day, cameras in my face, some disgusting dude in a sleazy beard telling me to grab a girl’s tit. I shudder. That’s not what I want my life to be like. It’s bad enough at the club. Fun on occasion, but frustrating when all people see is my heart-printed banana hammock. They don’t see
me
.

I want to be taken seriously as a journalist and a human being A human being with clothes on. Is that too much to ask? I don’t know how Peter is able to take so much of it in stride.

“What all are you doing for the project?” Peter changes the subject. “Please tell me it’s gonna be rad. You can’t use my name if it’s not rad.”

I roll my eyes at him. “You will take publicity anyway you can get it. Don’t pretend.”

My phone vibrates. It’s Meredith, asking what I’m up to. With a twinge of regret, I tell her I’m still busy. This will all be worth it, she’ll see.

“It’s going to have a photo gallery, some embedded links, a few videos. It’s going to be legit, man. This is the summation of the last years’ worth of study about engagement and click-through rates.”

“My dick has engagement and a click-through rate.”

“Go away.”

I turn back to the screen, where I’m midway through explaining how Meredith hit rock bottom the night she met me.

I am so getting an A.

I
really don’t know
how to feel about being blown off by a stripper. I mean boyfriend. That’s still weird. It may always be weird. The point is, he chased me. Now that he caught me, he’s just going to give up? No matter how much I hint at us getting together, he’s always busy. Something about a school project.

I know school is important to him, but we are a new couple. And my vibrator isn’t cutting it anymore after being introduced to Mr. Rob Callas, the Greek god of sex and orgasms. I require regular maintenance.

The bizarre thing is all this time apart has me thinking about him
more
. I can’t get his abs or his hips or his grin out of my head. I close my eyes, and I can see him grinding on stage a la Channing Tatum in
Magic Mike
. I can feel his phantom hips pressing into me. Sometimes, when I’m really desperate, which may or may not have been last night, I can feel phantom tongue strokes against my clit, and I end up having an orgasm.

No judgies. This is hard enough to deal with as it is.

On the upside, all this time apart has allowed me to squeeze in even more appointments and edit all the photos. Much to my dismay, I’ve become really good at editing photos of dicks. Perfecting the lighting, dealing with saturation, finding that perfect balance between hard and soft lines. It’s becoming easier with every session. I don’t know if I should be excited or disheartened.

I’m leaning towards disheartened, but my wallet screams
JOY TO THE WORLD!
I’m up to a few months’ worth of rent. A few more gigs, maybe a little more word of mouth, and I can officially stop living in my office. Um, Jane’s office.

I’m not ungrateful, I swear. But a girl needs her privacy. My nephew’s current new favorite game is Wake Up Aunt Meredith, and I’m terrified it’s just a matter of time before he pops in mid-peen shoot, and I’ll have scarred him for life. And possibly beyond.

Jane pops into my room with a bowl of popcorn and two beers. “I thought you could use a snack.”

On the other hand, maybe I can just live here forever and install a new lock on the door. I’d save a lot of money. “You’re the best sister ever.”

“I’m recording that and saving it. You never know when you’ll need a reminder.” She hands me a beer and throws some popcorn in her mouth. “How’s the job hunt going?”

“Slow, but fine. Working on a few more freelance options. ” I steal some popcorn for myself and minimize the Photoshop window. I, um, haven’t exactly gotten around to telling her exactly everything about everything. It’s fine, since this is temporary. I’m hoping one day soon I’ll be able to move full time into something a little more, you know, respectable. So in the meantime, in the interest of keeping my “studio” here, I just left a few details out when I told her I’ve been doing some headshots.

“Can I see?” Jane asks, mouth full of popcorn.

“What?” I point to my computer monitor. “You want to look at the works in progress?”

“Totally.” She leans closer to my monitor, clearly waiting for me to pull the screen up for her.

“Not before they’re ready,” I say. “I’m very protective about my works in progress.”

“I know, I know.” She waves me off and grabs for my mouse. I smack her hand away. “Come on! I’m dying to see some hot guys.”

“Go see Bobby.” She reaches again, this time I barely get to her in time.

The third time, I don’t get to her at all. Photoshop pops up, with the giant costumed penis I’ve been editing.

Jane falls out of her chair.

At first I think she’s sobbing, but as she slowly drags herself back up off the floor, I see she’s laughing so hard she can barely move.

“This is what you’re doing with your time, sis?” she gets out. I’m trying to maintain my composure, but it’s difficult when she keeps howling. “Does Mom know?”

“Jesus, no!” I close out the window again. “And she can never know.”

“You’re costuming penises, Meredith. It’s only a matter of time before someone tags you on Facebook.”

“I would die.” I really would. “Word of mouth is one thing, but having my face attached to that on the internet? Kill me. I’d rather go broke and live on the streets.”

“And yet here you are.”

“You always know how to make me feel so good.” I stick my tongue out at her. “I’m going to finish this set in a bit, and then I’ll show you a few of my favorite pictures. These are all a work in progress right now and aren’t ready. Go away. You are stressing me. I am stressed!”

Jane makes a face at me. “Calm down, calm down. Sheesh. You need to get laid.”

She’s not wrong, but I will never tell her that. “Leave me be! Artist at work! Leave the popcorn.”

Jane hands me the bowl and holds up her hands. “All right, all right. I’ll feed the starving artist. Don’t forget to show me the finished product later. I’m dying to see.”

“Promise.” I watch her leave before I pull my screen back up.

And then I stare at it. And stare at it. And stare at it some more. All I can hear, looping in my brain, is Jane telling me I need to get laid. God, she’s so right. I pull up Rob’s Captain photos and think about him for a little while. It’s time for him to row his ship into the shore. And throw away the oars.

I scrub my face with my hands and collapse back in my chair. I’m not asking him out. If he turns me down again, I’ll be humiliated. Plus, I hate begging a stripper to hang out with me. Maybe one day I’ll be less icky about it, but I’m already staring down the barrel of my own morality, so I don’t need one more thing to unravel this pathetic thing I call a life.

It takes me five minutes to compose the text message, and all it says is, “Man, do I need a wine.” Of course Bobby has a wine cellar, which I’m fairly certain Rob knows about, but I feel the semi-invitation works.

I just thought the word “semi”.

Now I’m imagining Rob’s penis again. I’ve turned into such a degenerate.

To distract myself, I go back to editing. I’m totally in the zone when his response comes in, the chime startling me out of my concentration.

Want to go grab a drink? I can pick you up in five.

Instant relief. If he rejected me—again—during my attempt to get him to ask me out for the fifty-seventh time (I should really be better at these messages by now after this past week), I would probably die of shame and be convinced he’s ghosting me.

But tonight’s going to be great. We’ll have a little wine, a little food, and then we can have a lot of sexing. Thank hell. I really have been a raging jerk the past week or two. Turns out I don’t deal with pressure as well as I always thought I did. And I haven’t had even a hint of fooling around since that ill-fated picnic.

The horror of that day fills me with shame even now.

Getting laid is going to fix this right up, I can already tell. Just the prospect alone has me whistling along to Tiger Army. I make a mental note to make a playlist for Rob. He has the taste in music of a fourteen year old girl.

It’s almost as embarrassing as his job.

I throw on a cute sundress and sandals, the one that makes my ass and boobs look amazing. It feels unbelievably weird trying to seduce my own boyfriend, but I’m hinging on desperate after this past week. If only he were less gorgeous naked, I’d be more reasonable.

Actually, I find him devastatingly handsome dressed, too, which is part of this whole problem.

Rob is true to his word, appearing at the front door in exactly five minutes. He’s dressed in well-fitting jeans and a tight, dark-blue t-shirt and all I want to do is lick him. As weird as I still am about the whole thing, seeing him brings a rush of relief to me. I didn’t know how much I was missing his company, not just his manly parts, until he smiles at me.

“You look… wow.” He smiles again and I feel myself blush. “You look even better than I remember.”

I can’t help the stupid grin on my face but try to play it cool. “You look pretty good yourself. Miles better than the guys I’ve had parading through my bedroom lately.”

At this, something briefly betrays the grin on his face, something in his eyes. Almost like he’s… jealous? Well. He’s the one who’s been blowing me off. So. “Hopefully I can give you a better time tonight than they have.”

You better, sir. “I guess we’ll have to see.”

He opens my car door and shuts it behind me, like the perfect gentleman he really is. Once he gets in the car, he leans into the back seat and produces a tiny bouquet of flowers. “I’ve missed you. Try not to kill them too fast.”

This makes me laugh. He’s clearly noticed how many of the houseplants in Jane’s spare room have withered under my watch. “Thanks, I think?”

“It’s a symbol that time is fleeting, but we should still stop and admire the beauty in life.”

“By killing it and plucking it out of the ground?” I tease.

“Next time, I’m just going to bring wine.”

“You learn fast.” I smell the flowers and sigh. “These are beautiful, though. Thank you. I wish I had something to give you.”

“Maybe we can arrange that later.” His voice is dangerous and the space between my legs goes instantly damp and my heart races, and I feel like I’m a teenage girl again, falling for her first crush. He makes me feel… indescribable. It’s dangerous. I’ve missed it so much.

He reaches for my hand and we spend the rest of the drive lightly bantering about nothing in particular, our hands entwined. Like everything is normal. Like our careers are nothing. Like we could do this forever.

I find myself staring at him, memorizing the way the sunlight frames his face and how the stubble on his chin gives him a rugged, carefree appeal. I want to photograph that face, I realize. Not just his wang. Right this instant.

But I can’t just announce that. So I swallow down my burgeoning feelings and instead stare out the window at the surrounding traffic. After just a few moments, I can feel him watching me like I watched him, and I wonder if he, too, is memorizing my outline, or if he’s just fantasizing about me sitting on his face?

Cause I could totally be cool with that. I have to squeeze my legs together to calm down. I am a hot mess.

He pulls into Buzzard Beach, a place I seldom frequent. And by seldom frequent, I mean I try to keep it to once a week. The Buzzard is home of the stiff cheap drinks, a punk rock DJ, and the type of people I love to photograph—hip, pierced, tattooed, awesome.

The type of people who probably wouldn’t care at all about dating a stripper.

Luckily, no one I know appears to be here tonight, so my secret is still safe.

We find a high top near the back, away from the immediate blast of the speakers and the general population. Crowds of bikers and girls with exotic hair colors and tattoos swarm around, seeing and being seen between cheap whiskeys.

“I never did that because I didn’t want it to affect a job.” I nod over to them. “Guess it isn’t a problem, now, huh? Wanna go get tattoos?”

“You’re pretty much the boss now.” Rob twirls a strand of my hair in his fingers and leans in close, so I can smell his cologne. It invades my senses and makes my skin explode in goosebumps. We haven’t been this close in a week, and it’s intoxicating. “Why don’t we?”

“Too chicken. Needles freak me out.”

“You? You aren’t scared of anything, even when you probably ought to be. I’m referring to Peter.” I laugh.

“He does scare me, a little.”

“Really, though, you’re perfect the way you are. If you want to go get some ink, though, I’ll hold your hand.”

I blush. “Perfect. Yeah, right.”

“You are!” He runs a finger down the side of my cheek. “You’re absolutely gorgeous, Mere. Anything that you put on your body automatically looks better than just about the entire population. They can only wish they were as sexy as you.”

A server comes around, and Rob orders us two Jamesons, because he knows the way to my heart.

Did I just… never mind. He ordered it because he’s attentive and kind and pays attention to the things I like and the things I don’t. Even the flowers, a small group of lilacs, were my favorite. How he ever knew that, I don’t know. Lucky, maybe? Probably.

I feel like a giddy little girl next to him as we talk about everything under the sun and catch up over what’s gone on the last week. To his credit, he is exceptionally apologetic for being MIA.

“This project is a huge chunk of my grade.” He explains, running his hand through his hair, while I stare, slightly mesmerized. “I hated not seeing you, but if I bomb this, I have to take the class over, and my graduation date gets pushed back. I’m trying to get out of there immediately.”

I breath a huge sigh of relief, as quietly as possible, at this. I would give anything for him to graduate right now, so we can be together unashamed, and I wouldn’t have these random flare-ups of terror about his job. Being with him, it’s so easy to forget what he does, until I remember, because I’m obsessive like that.

I shove the thoughts out of my mind and try to focus on the present. “The bright side is I got most all of my editing done.”

“I’m so disappointed I’m missing this!” He leans in closer. “It sounds hilarious. None of them are as good as mine, right?”

“Obviously.” I scrunch up my nose and grin. “Honestly, it’s a bit too much dick for my taste.”

“Never such a thing,” Rob teases me back, and I find it hard to focus on anything else besides his bright eyes, wide smile, and devilish aura. “Especially when it’s mine.”

“That’s obviously been the problem, then. Too much of
not
your dick.”

“We should remedy that. Soon.”

Goosebumps pebble my arms again. “We probably should.”

“Are you any good at pool?” He asks, suddenly derailing the conversation, for which I am grateful, because I was getting all hot and bothered, which was super embarrassing in public. “You strike me as one of those silent pool sharks, who feigns cluelessness and then kicks ass once money is on the table.”

I laugh. “Terrible. I’m horrible at pool, darts, baseball, football, basketball, cards, skee ball—”

“Who can be terrible at skee ball?”

“Me. Name it, I’m awful at it.”

“I should teach you.” He’s got that mischievous look in his eye again. “Then we can go out and run the tables. No one would ever expect you’d kick ass.”