Lexie's First Time(9)
“How about we just start wherever you are, and I can take the previous part home to read and get up to speed?”
“But I haven't written anything down.”
“Not a word?”
He blinked, those blue eyes captivating me once more, sending a buzzing excitement down my
spine like a mouse on the run, ending up trapped between my legs. I could feel myself swelling for him, swelling in anticipation of pleasure, which was my own damn fault, for training myself to
associate the whole cabin with multiple orgasms.
He said, “It's basically all outlined and in my head. I can see it happening, like a movie.”
“Then you should write a screenplay.”
He got a grumpy look.
On the computer, I pulled open a new document and started creating a title page—something we'd
just covered in school before I'd graduated.
I asked David, “What's your full name?”
“That's part of the problem.” His face got even grumpier, frown lines on his forehead and his sexy lips protruding.
My spirits, which had been high, plummeted, flattened by how difficult this typing business was
proving to be. In the minute of silence that followed, I actually fantasized about cleaning. Scrubbing toilets would be less painful than bearing witness to this man's writer's block.
“David Smith Wittingham,” he said.
I typed the name on the page.
“But there's another David,” he said. “Not the exact same last name as me, but it's close enough to be confusing. He writes detective stories, too, so I have to come up with a whole new name.”
I moved the cursor and deleted David.
He grimaced. “Can't. My detective character's first name is Smith.”
“So?”
“People will think I'm an egotistical prick, with this super-smart, handsome, stud of a detective who bears my first name. Ever heard of the term authorial insert?”
I giggled. “Insert?”
He crossed his arms and rested his sexy, dimpled chin on one fist.
“We'll just run with it,” he said. “I'll think of something better later. Maybe Sven. Or Carter. Or Humphrey.”
I put in a hard page return and cleared my throat. “I'm going to start calling you Smith now, so you can see how that feels.”
His gaze wandered down from my eyes, past my chin, then to my breasts, my waist, and my crotch.
His nostrils flared, and I wondered if he was smelling me, taking in the scent of my hair gel and perfume.
I could smell him, faintly musky, or was it just my imagination? I wondered what his skin smelled like, or what he'd do if I just leaned over and put my lips on his neck.
His voice low and gravelly, a different tone from his speaking voice, he said, “It was a dark and stormy night.”
I typed the words.
He snorted. “Delete that, it's just a joke.”
I scratched my head in what I hoped was an adorable way. “Yeah, that sounded a little familiar.
Isn't that how all Snoopy's stories begin?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You're a Peanuts fan?”
“Of course. Nobody captures the pathos of being a child quite like Schultz.”
Smith uncrossed his arms and stood from his chair. “I want that. I want for people to say something beautiful like that about my work some day.”
I pointed to the blank page.
“Very well then.” He began to pace the room behind me, and in the low, serious voice again, he
gave me a new opening line. It was better than the dark and stormy night line, but not by much. The story began with someone banging on Detective Smith Dunham's door while he was pleasuring a lady who was also his client. She had really big breasts, and we spent a good paragraph describing them.
After a while, I got drawn into the story, and Smith (I had already stopped thinking of him as David or DSW) picked up speed. I felt like I was in a trance as the words flowed through me.
After two straight hours of typing, we stopped, and found I'd typed four thousand words.
Smith seemed shocked.
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
“Stephen King says he writes two thousand a day.”
“So… you're twice as good as Stephen King.”
Smith laughed, hard. “You're killing me, Lexie. I strive to be at least half as good as King.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, adopting the serious tone of one of my favorite teachers. “It's far better to aim high and fall short than aim low and succeed.”
Smith stopped laughing. “That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard. Lexie! Is that from a motivational poster or something?”
“Maybe.” Yes it was. It had been on a large poster in my homeroom throughout twelfth grade, and
I'd stared at the words and the soaring birds often.
He shook his head. “There's nothing wrong with lofty goals, or modest goals. So long as you live with hope and take chances, you succeed.” He threw his hands in the air and waved his arms over his head wildly. “Woohoo! Party time! I wrote the whole first chapter thanks to my new friend.”