Ink and Lies Read online

  Ink & Lies

  Copyright ©2016 S.L. Jennings

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Cover: Hang Le

  Artwork: Ashley Sparks

  Editor: Tracey Buckalew

  Proofreader: Kara Hildebrand

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Winter

  YOU KNOW THAT PIVOTAL MOMENT in every love story, when the hero or heroine makes an imperative move that leaves the other with a life-altering choice? Whether it be a pronouncement of love (I’ve been in love with you my entire life, and I don’t care that you’re my stepbrother) or a salacious secret (I’m pregnant and the baby isn’t yours) or a shocking decision (I’ve decided to embrace what I am. I’m transitioning into a unicorn, and I’m pregnant…by my stepbrother), we can always count on this familiar occurrence.

  I’ve always deemed them cliché yet necessary in the romance genre. A good plot twist is as vital to a story as its characters. Without it, the hero and heroine would have no reason to change, to evolve. They’d have no reason to step out on faith and madness and take hold of their destiny. Take hold of their story.

  I once lived for the perfect plot twist.

  I just never expected to actually live it.

  I look down at my boarding pass for the eightieth time in the last fifteen minutes. Gate 3B, Seat 2A. GEG to LAX. Final boarding in…now.

  Sixteen hours ago, I succumbed to the insanity of feeling, and made my crucial confession. I began that almighty trek up a story’s climactic mountain. And every hour, every minute since, I’ve waited for her to make her choice.

  To make me her choice.

  The attendant glares at me from over her intercom receiver and announces that the gate for flight D5611 will be closing in sixty seconds. She’s saying it for only me, because I’m the only one here. Waiting. Crumbling.

  I take one last look down the corridor that leads to security. I just knew that she’d show up, racing through the airport, screaming for someone to stop the plane. That was how I’d imagined my story…our story. The greatest cliché of all, and I still couldn’t breathe it into fruition. I still couldn’t get her to read between the lines scrawled on my heart.

  I guess the most epic romances are still tucked away within the pages of her favorite novels, safely swathed in inked lies and faded paper promises. Forever fictional. Just like love.

  Fall

  YOU WANT TO KNOW THE secret to writing the most epic shit of my career?

  Simple. Don't try to write the most epic shit of my career.

  Trying is nothing but an endless murky abyss of self-doubt and loathing, where I choke on every flowery fucking word and puke up purple prose like it’s last night's whiskey. Then I bang my head on the desk and pour another shot to keep my fingers from gouging my eyes out.

  Drink, delete, repeat.

  I used to try. Now I just lie.

  Yup. Lying is much easier. Lying landed me on every best seller's list I had ever dreamed about. I wrote shit that women wanted to read and pretty much lived off their fantasies and unsatisfied sex lives.

  Ah yes. Life was sweet in the land of liars.

  Then the bubble burst.

  They thought it was Hope Hughes bringing their book boyfriends to life. Certainly not August Rhys Calloway (That’s me, by the way.) And once upon a time, I had this insane idea to become a writer. Not much I could do about it either. Once the words choose you, you’re doomed. So that’s what I set out to be—the next great American literary.

  Just so you know, I tanked. Like Titanic tanked. My ass still has frostbite from that damn iceberg.

  Biting it in such a big way really discouraged me for some time, but somewhere between delirium and desperation, I decided to turn my epic fail into an epic win.

  I wrote a romance novel.

  Now, I know what you’re thinking… how can a straight, cynical, slightly arrogant guy capture the all-consuming romance that each woman craves? Easy. He listens.

  He listens to all the complaints from past failed relationships. He conjures up terrifying memories of three-hour-long phone calls and eight-page letters. And he enlists the help of his hopeless romantic best friend and her train wreck of a love life. After that, he slaps a very feminine pen name on the cover—along with some busty dame enraptured in the boulder-like arms of Fabio Jr.—And voila! You’ve got yourself a romance novel.

  Of course, there’s much more to it. But to be honest, I BS’d my way through 85% of that book. Ok, 90%…93%. But I’d like to think it was that 7% of pure August gold that helped it climb the charts of every bestseller’s list that matters. Not the hot monkey sex I had properly regurgitated throughout.

  Being Hope Hughes, romance novelist, was much more profitable and ego-indulging than being August Rhys Calloway, struggling writer. So I ran with it—all the way to a sweet book deal with a top publishing house and a massive following.

  Who knew?

  Three novels later, Hope is still here, but so is August. Less than a year ago, it was revealed that Hope was, in fact, male. Somehow, it only made the Hope brand more popular, both professionally and personally. A man was capturing these poetic words of passion and longing? A man finally got it? Hope was hotter than ever. But creatively? August was dunzo.

  The mojo has left the building. The words—the very same that had so incessantly pursued me—have now abandoned me. So yes, I’m still here, but the words are gone.

  My favorite waitress at my favorite bistro approaches my favorite table, asking me if I’d like to order a drink while I wait. I set down my worn Moleskine and look up at her to answer, just in time to catch my best friend bustling in, a tiny tornado of chestnut hair and smeared mascara.

  “Few more minutes,” I tell her while giving Fiona the stink eye. She flops into the seat across from me, apologizing profusely.

  “Sorry, I’m late, Rhys,” she huffs, picking up her menu. S
he doesn’t call me August. She hasn’t since the day we met back in college, nearly ten years ago. She said August was an uptight, pretentious tool that took himself way too seriously. Rhys was her cool, casual friend that would suffer through every chick flick on Netflix and split Hawaiian pizza with her because no one else would dare sully a pie with pineapple. He was the guy who would recite famed love stories from her most beloved writers, and dry her tears with the pads of his ink-stained thumbs. He was the one that was there to smother broken promises and shattered hearts with sarcasm and whiskey weekends followed by innocent spooning underneath her favorite old quilt.

  She doesn’t meet my gaze. I slowly pull down the vinyl binder with the tip of my finger. “Um, nice of you to join me, dear. Rough night?”

  She diverts her smoky raccoon eyes and tries to casually smooth her rooster-like locks into something less telling. That’s when I take in the rest of her. Wrinkled, white, silk blouse. Tight, black mini that’s more suitable for the queens over at Irv’s drag show, and platform pumps that’ll have her limping with blisters for a week.

  I raise a knowing brow. “Why, Miss Fiona Shaw, did you just walk-of-shame your ass in here smelling like stale sex and some random’s cheap cologne?”

  “Shhh!” She waves me away and retreats behind this week’s Fresh Sheet. “Keep your voice down. And not some random’s cheap cologne. It happens to be Joshua’s, and it’s definitely not cheap.”

  “Ah. The elusive Joshua.” I sit back in my seat and steeple my fingers in front of me with all the flair of an evil genius plotting world domination. “And when am I going to meet this mystery man? It’s been what…three months now? I’m nearly convinced that Joshua might very well be a six-foot tall Sinthetic doll you’ve got stashed under your bed.”

  “Sinthetic doll? What the what?” She sets down the menu just as our server approaches. We order the first of many libations that will be consumed this morning. I order a much-needed Bloody Mary, while she prefers OJ and bubbly. In her words, it makes her feel extra fancy.

  “Sinthetics. Super realistic sex dolls with customizable features. You can choose everything from nipple size to cock wrinkles. Supposed to be like the real thing.” Before her expression morphs into one of shock and horror, I tack on, “Book research.”

  “Oh, really? So does that mean you have pages for me?”

  That takes the wind out of my puffed-up sails. I shake my head, earning looks of both concern and longing from across the table. Fiona’s been my only beta reader for years, and is one of only four people who actually know that I’m Hope. So seeing the disappointment on her face is just a reflection of what’s been eating away at me.

  I haven’t written anything worth reading in weeks. Months, if I’m being completely honest. It’s like, the very second it was revealed that Hope was a dude, the words went poof. Which doesn’t bode well for me and my approaching deadline. My publisher thought it best to continue with the Hope Hughes pen name, considering that it’s already an established brand, and no one really knows that I’m the man behind the pen. But as time dwindles away, so does my confidence that I’ll actually produce something good. Hell, I’d settle for readable at this point.

  Fiona picks up her menu and peruses the selections—the same selections she could probably recite verbatim without missing a beat. We’ve been coming to this bistro for Sunday brunch every week since we discovered it, which was pretty much the minute it opened for business. It shares a building and a bathroom with our favorite bookstore—a mom and pop op that features indie and local authors, as well as the acclaimed greats. I remember dreaming of the day my name would grace the worn oak shelves of Auntie’s Bookstore. I’d drag Fiona along as we’d scour the place for hidden gems and time-honored treasures. We’d sit side-by-side cross-legged in back aisles, while I’d recite my favorite passages from tales that moved me, inspired me, created the man I am today. Each story was engrained in my DNA, and the ink was my immortal lifeblood. The words were my flesh and the pages my bones. I was birthed within those dusty aisles on the walk-worn carpet, the bright-eyed offspring of Dickens, Fitzgerald, Wilde, Hemingway, Faulkner, Lee and Márquez. I was born to be extraordinary. Born to be a writer.

  Fiona preferred the stories of Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, along with the more recent contemporary romance offerings. She’s always been hopelessly romantic, which is probably why I’ve had better luck with questionable leftover sushi than she’s had with relationships in the past few years. So when I say hopelessly, I kinda mean unfortunately…pathetically. Romance, love, marriage…it’s all fine and dandy between the whimsy pages of beloved novels. But that’s the only place it makes sense. In the real world with real interpersonal relationships, love is a grand, elaborate lie, manipulated by retailers to sell cards, flowers, albums, movies, and of course, books. I should know.

  “I think I’ll have the kale hash today,” she muses.

  I roll my eyes. “No you won’t. You’ll have the brioche French toast with extra syrup and a side of bacon, like you do every week. You may think you want something new and different…the quiche, the crepe, the croque monsieur…but you’ll always go with what you know.”

  “Nope. Kale hash for me. Joshua says that kale is a superfood, and I should be both drinking and eating it daily.”

  “Oh, God. Here we go again with Joshua.” I roll my eyes at the displeasure of having his name on my tongue. Fuck Joshua. And fuck kale. “So I guess it’s safe to assume he is responsible for you traipsing down Main in last night’s thong like a hooker on furlough.”

  She tries to hide her sly smile, but coupled with the rosy apples of her cheeks, the jig is up. She can’t play coy when the evidence is snagged in her bush of bed head.

  “Fine. If you must know, last night was the first time I stayed over at Joshua’s apartment.”

  “Oh? First time? You’ve been hitting that for months, Fi.”

  “Well, you know how he doesn’t like to have overnight guests just in case he gets called in the middle of the night…”

  “Called in the middle night?”

  “Yes. He is a doctor after all.”

  “He’s a plastic surgeon. What? Will he get called in for an emergency vaginal rejuvenation?”

  She huffs out an aggravated breath. “He’s a doctor, August.” Her voice takes on that Mom tone that tells me to chill out, and she even calls me by my first name. I’ve struck a nerve.

  I snort and let the subject drop. It’s a cop out. Pure, potent horseshit. But I don’t tell her that. I never try to hurt her feelings. Fiona, or Fi as I’ve called her since college, is my best friend, my safe haven from all the unwanted Hope press and self-inflicted chaos. I love her in the way that a boy loves the dog he grew up with. Not that she’s a dog in any sense of the word. Fi is delicate and undeniably feminine, which means her heart is too soft and fragile for this world. It’s also probably why we became fast friends. She fulfilled my innate male urge to protect a weaker being—not that she was weak. But when it came to frat boy bros drunk off ego and beer piss, she didn’t stand a chance. So I started looking out for the mousey girl in oversized sweaters and Doc Martens. Plus she always had a different book in her hands, which instantly intrigued me.

  “What you reading this week, Fi?”

  “Pride and Prejudice.”

  “Again?”

  “Again.”

  Anyone that loyal and dedicated to her literary love was pretty fucking perfect in my book. And to me, Fiona was every heroine in every book that I ever cherished.

  “I’m sorry. Tell me about last night, Fi. Please. I want to hear it.” I couldn’t stand when she was mad at me. The rest of the world could compose sonnets about beating me to death with my own books and critics could wipe their ass with my pages, but the only person whose opinion really matters is and always has been Fiona Shaw.

  Warmth and exuberance restored, she excitedly recounts the night before. Our terse words are instantly forgotten without a smidg
e of grudge. “He invited me over for dinner, said he wanted to cook for me. But since he didn’t get home until late, dinner wouldn’t be ready until 10.”

  Ten? Ok, that’s approaching booty call hours. But I didn’t dare mention it. “Dinner, eh? And what did he prepare for you?”

  “Well…actually. He didn’t have everything he needed, so he asked me to pick up something on my way over.”

  So the bastard couldn’t even provide her with a decent meal. She fed him. I take a swig of my Bloody Mary to avoid saying something and signal for another. “Go on.”

  “After dinner, he suggested we watch a movie—some thriller about these guys who have a penthouse that they use as an eff pad, and someone gets murdered.”

  I chuckle inwardly. Fi still can’t even say the word “fuck.” It’s adorable. And I have to admit that I love that she isn’t sullied by the harshness of slick-tongued millennials and obscenity-soaked media.

  Her face flames with warm remembrance. “You really want me to keep going?”

  I take a beat to consider her words before sliding my notebook in front of me and flipping to the first available blank page. If she’s sharing, I might as well take notes. All in the name of research. And since I have an uncanny ability to see the story—live the story as if it’s being played out right in front of me—this could very well be some prime inspiration. With Fi’s blessing, of course.

  “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

  “Ok… here goes…

  “My eyelids are heavy, but I’m trying to fight the enemy of sleep. I rest my head on his shoulder and exhale softly when I feel his arm wrap around me, swathing me in his heat. His fingers trace little patterns against my skin, first coasting up and down, then small spirals. The calming movements lull me into a shallow dreamland. My eyes are closed, my breath heavy, yet I can hear the muffled sounds of the television. There’s talking, shouting. Then moaning. Raspy, tortured moaning. It’s distant at first, but then it becomes louder, more frenzied. They’re so close, I can hear the lust behind every mewl and whimper. I can taste the sweetness of pleasure on my own lips. I can feel the passion pooling in my own panties as phantom friction elicits an inferno of burning desire…”