58 - Meaningless

What was I supposed to fucking say to that?

"What about the little thing where somebody bought you for me?"

She shrugged. "It wasn't you, and if it works out for both of us, why complain?"

I was trying to decide what to do next, but she interrupted me first.

"Now, don't go back to... ahem... 'writing'." She had a smile at my expense again. It was cute; I always loved girls who could tease.

"We're going to spend the day doing something else, then tomorrow morning I am going to help you write."

"Help me write?"

"Don't get impatient. Now what do you have to do around here that hasn't yet suffered the wrath of your golf clubs?"

*****

We spent the day playing a game of monopoly. The world's longest, most fucking boring-est, game. Of course, I actually enjoyed it. I didn't think of my son of a bitch of a novel even once.

When I went to bed that evening, I saw Claire in her room sitting on the bed. She was reading my last novel.

Chapter 6

I got up the next morning and took a shower. It was weird, I actually felt like a real person again. When I went down the stairs, Claire was making breakfast again. As soon as I saw her, I think my heart stopped.

She was wearing a pair of boxer shorts, or pajama shorts or whatever the hell you call them, and a tank top with her legs and feet bare. While making breakfast, Claire was dancing to some music that she had gotten onto the stereo. I might have been something by the Monkees, but either way, it was leading to a lot of hip shaking and shimmying. She looked so happy, and she moved so sinuously, it was just... There are no words.

I mean, a better author might have words, but I think we had already established that I was a shitty author. Maybe James Joyce could have described it, or Jack London, or some other author of one of the fucking classics.

Either way, she was sexy.

After I regained my breath, I joined her in the kitchen. Claire kept happily dancing and cooking for a few minutes until the food was ready.

While we ate, I sort of stared at her, wondering... I don't know what I was wondering, I was just staring.

She smiled at me. "Sleep well?"

"You know, I think so."

"Good. Me too."

"So, when can you leave?" Dammit! You know what I said about talking to pretty girls. Watching her dance had driven out my few remaining brain cells.

"I mean... I don't want you to leave, unless you want to... or whatever... I just..."

I continued to ramble, "So, when is it safe for you so that you can, you know, get away from me?"

"Are you asking me to leave?"

"Fuck, no! I was just... OK, I'll tell you the truth. My brain doesn't work around pretty girls. I think it shuts off and my butt tells my mouth what to say. It's terrible."

"Well, we'll have to fix that."

I gave her a quizzical look. You know, the one that your dog gives you when he's wondering why you're the one rolling around on the floor instead of him?

She stepped in to end that look. "I'm going to help you write your novel. You're going to need to be able to talk around me."

"It's OK, I'll get a blindfold. I actually haven't tried sense deprivation yet as a strategy yet."

She giggled.

*****

After we finished breakfast, the two of us repaired to the study. OK, I don't have a study but we did go to the torture chamber where I keep my damn computer. Claire insisted on sitting at the computer while I sat in the other chair.

The first thing she did was delete the 'The'. Six fucking weeks of work gone down the drain.

"OK." She was looking at me. "Tell me about you novel."

"It's tough to describe."

"That's OK, I assume that it will probably be a year or two before it's safe for me to leave. I have time."

I rubbed my neck. "OK... fuck... it's just this story about this guy... you know, an ordinary bastard like the rest of us. But he gets these feelings... You know that feeling you get where the hairs stand up on the back of your neck and you just know something terrible is about to happen?"

She nodded.

"Well this guy... he gets them... you know, those fucking feelings... like all the time. And bad stuff almost never happens, but he always feels like it's going to. And so... he just loses his mind."

Claire was actually the first person that I described 'The Stranger Danger' to. She just looked at me.

I looked back at her, waiting for a response.

"So... is it a terrible idea, or what?"

Her response was to walk over to my chair, straddle my lap, and give me a mind-blowing kiss. When she was done, and we were both catching our breaths, she finally spoke.

"Vinny, I read your first novel last night. I barely slept."

She rested her forehead against mine. Those bright green eyes were right there in front of me.

"I was sort of heart-broken to see the shape such a genius was in. You may be self-loathing, but I've read that book and it was... enthralling."

She kissed me again.

"Your next one is going to be better."

Then she slipped off my lap. It was devastating.

"Now give me words."

Give her goddamn words? What did she think I was trying to do for the last...

Oh, wait, that's...

I started speaking. "'The first memory John had was of an attack. He was standing behind his father, watching him cut down the family Christmas tree...'"

After that, the dam broke. I gave her six thousand words before we stopped. A lot of it was rough, but there was a start, and some of it was good... really good.

Epilogue

I found her in my arms again. We kissed for a while, before she pulled me to the bedroom.

When we arrived in my room, Claire pushed me down on to the bed. Standing above me, she started to strip.

She was more breathtaking than I had even imagined. Her tits were large, with only a slight sag, topped by very pink nipples. Without a doubt, she had one of the most graceful hourglass figures that I have ever seen. A smooth belly, with only a slight swell, led down to a blond bush. As far as my lust addled mind could tell, her skin was totally fucking flawless.

Claire approached me slowly. "Now, mister genius author, I am going to use one of your favorite words. Please 'fuck' your Christmas present!"

*****

I personally find this hard to believe, but my publishers assure me that 'The Stranger Danger' will be enough to keep me in wine and roses for a long time to come. I don't know about that, but I do know that the media leaves me alone. Apparently my bad habit from the six weeks alone never really left. I dropped 'fuck' fourteen times on the Good Morning America set before they physically removed me from the premises. After that, respectable outlets have avoided me. It's been great.

When I told my publishers that I wanted Claire to receive a percentage as the official Muse of the book, they refused.

I still don't know if I can ever write another fucking novel, I don't think I'd survive another experience like that.

OK, I hope you might have enjoyed it! I will admit that very little about this story makes sense to me, but it's sort of what appeared on the computer screen so...

Be Kind, Please Rewind.