CHAPTER 11

I HAD A CRUSH on Eric. The realization popped up at the most inconvenient times, and mostly when I was reading erotica. He became the hero in all of the stories in my head, and it got to where I had imagined him naked so many times that I could barely look at him when we passed each other in the hallway at school.

Once, I was signing for a small box of paper clips from the supply closet as he was approaching. “Hi, Lettie,” he said in his usual, energetic tone.

“Hey,” I replied, trying to sound upbeat but noncommittal. Then I dashed away before he could ask me something personal, like how I was doing that day.

Eric was nice to me, but I wasn’t reading into anything. He spoke that way to everyone. The fact was that my heart could ill afford to become entangled with Eric Clayman. I was a hot mess of a person, still reeling from the James Incident, writing erotica at my kitchen table at night, or occasionally writing phrases on slips of paper if they came to me during the school day. Things like, He plunged into her, his thrusts as deep as his desire, or She lay caught up in the bedsheets long after they’d cooled from their passion, her heart still blazing with thoughts of him, stuff like that. I’d empty my pockets at night and smooth the strips of paper onto my table. Some I’d use. Many I wouldn’t. But it got to where I was always thinking of smut, and a fixation on erotica coupled with a crush on my boss was a recipe for disaster.

“I don’t know,” Mindy said one night when we were out getting cocktails at a local bar. “Sex with a boss could be very hot. That’s why so many erotic novels use that premise.”

“And if there’s anything I’ve learned about erotic novels, it’s that they’re realistic,” I said.

One and a half vanilla martinis in, and I’d revealed my forbidden desire to my best friend. God help me if I were ever captured and tortured, because it would only take a little vodka and the sight of the rack to loosen my lips. Taken in the best light, I may have been hoping she’d say something that would knock some sense into me. Like, Eric Clayman sits in his office all day and picks his nose, or, Him? He hates dogs! But she didn’t have anything dissuasive to say, and I think that I was only confiding my feelings because they were overwhelming to me and deep down, I wanted her blessing.

The bar at O’Malley’s was crowded, so we sat in the tavern. The place was atmospheric, and the dark wooden fixtures and furniture had been imported from an Irish pub. We took one of our favorite booths, right beneath a stained glass window featuring St. Patrick raising a staff to a snake.

“It’s the alpha-male fantasy,” Mindy said, her eyes gleaming. She’d manifested a coupon for a free appetizer, and her confidence was palpable. “Hot. Strong. In charge. Eric hits all three marks.”

“I feel weird classifying men as alpha and beta. Besides, he’s too nice to be alpha,” I said. “Alpha males are supposed to be all arrogant and controlling.”

Mindy rolled her eyes. “You’re talking about the damaged ones in books. The hottest men in the world are strong, sensitive types.”

I dragged a finger through a drop of water on the table and swirled it around. “I never understood the appeal of the angry alpha male. If I were to make a list of qualities that I want in a mate, it wouldn’t include stomping. Maybe a willingness to make dinner every now and then and a basic understanding of laundry.”

Mindy smirked. “I don’t know, Aletta. Those are some high standards.”

“I can’t afford to have high standards. I’m pushing thirty.”

A waiter came over to our table at that moment with hot spinach-artichoke dip and triangles of toasted pita. I unrolled my black cloth napkin, and my utensils clanked onto the table. “You’re supposed to be explaining why it’s wrong of me to lust after one of my superiors. Why it’s self-destructive and detrimental to my mental health.”

“It’s harmless to look. I’d be more worried if you were lusting after Brunhilda. That’s not healthy for anyone.”

“Hey, it’s Mindy!”

We both turned to see Chase Holloway and his broad shoulders approaching. He split from a group of guy friends to come to our table and give Mindy a kiss on the cheek. “I didn’t know you were coming here,” he said.

“Girls’ night out.” She smiled and batted her eyelashes coyly. “Let me guess: baseball?”

“New York versus Boston.” He looked casually handsome in a Red Sox sweatshirt and jeans. He pointed to the bar with his thumbs. “You’re welcome to join us—”

“Girls’ night,” Mindy said. “If we watch baseball, we’re only going to be talking about the players’ glutes.”

He grimaced and waved a hand. “Ugh. I should know better. Jackie glazes over every time I mention sports. All right, enjoy your drinks. We’ll catch up another time.” As if just noticing me, Chase added, “Good to see you, Lettie.”

“You too, Chase.”

We watched him walk away and then sat quietly for a few seconds with our drinks. “I haven’t seen him in a long time,” I said.

“Yeah.”

Mindy tucked her dark hair behind her ears and glanced over at the bar, where Chase and his friends were selecting their drinks off the list. For as long as I’d known her, Mindy had had a crush on Chase. She’d gone to high school with him, and they were good friends. At one point she’d told him about her feelings, and he’d let her down gently. She played it off like it was no big deal, like she’d been joking, but that was only Mindy’s pride. This was the first time I’d seen her stare at him like that, with the pain clear on her face.

“You look upset,” I said as I reached for a pita chip.

She glanced down at her lap and smoothed her napkin.

“He’s been seeing someone,” she said softly. “Jackie. They’re getting serious, and I— It’s not the way the story is supposed to end, you know? With the guy of my dreams marrying someone else.”

She waved a hand and shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. I want to talk about you and your boss problem.”

“Yes. Please explain to me why I can’t have a crush on Eric Clayman, and maybe my heart will listen.”

“You can admire him. I’ve admired him many times myself,” Mindy said with a lift of one shoulder. “As asses go, his is one of the finest.”

I felt a rush of guilt flood me as we talked about Eric’s backside, but it was all true. He was quite sculpted back there.

“However,” Mindy continued, “while it’s all fine and good for a woman to want to hump her boss in a book, it is definitely not okay in real life. For either of you.”

I took a bite of my pita chip and chewed thoughtfully. “Hump my boss. That’s a nice way to put it.”

“Jump his bones. Buck his bronco. Eat his salami. You can pick any euphemism you want.”

“Wow, those are a lot of great suggestions.” I scooped a spoonful of the dip and a thread of melted Parmesan trailed with it. From the smell, I could tell it was just the right amount of garlic. Heaven.

“The forbidden crush is like this dip,” Mindy explained as she helped herself to a scoop. “A guilty pleasure.”

“Oh my God, you’re such a teacher.”

“It’s not something you want to overindulge in,” she continued, undeterred. “Trust me on this.” Her gaze flew quickly back to Chase.

I knew it all. I hadn’t taken complete leave of my faculties; I’d merely packed them up into a little box and set them on a shelf.

“You’re the voice of reason, as usual. But it’s an academic exercise. We’re not even close to being an item. The whole thing is sort of embarrassing, actually,” I said. “How pathetic do I have to be to have a crush on the vice principal of my school? My love life is terrible. It’s a rebound crush, nothing else. It’s what happens when I drink.”

Mindy’s dark eyes softened, and I knew she understood. We were both in love with men we could never have.

We sat there and finished our drinks and our appetizer. From the way Mindy kept glancing at the bar and then looking down at the table, I got the sense she felt strange being around Chase. It was only a couple of blocks to my place, and when I suggested we head there to watch a home improvement reality show, she looked relieved.

The night was chilly and the moon was bright enough to light the path. I tucked my fists into the pockets of my jacket and shivered against a breeze. “So what do we do? We’re lusting after the forbidden spinach-artichoke dip. What’s the answer?”

She pouted her lips as she thought about it, and I could nearly see her heartache. She had a thing for Chase, and she had it really bad.

“I still think my first instinct was the right one. Have a love affair with a bad boy. Feel sexy and desirable and hot. And then flaunt it.” She shook her dark curls. “Too bad you’re not writing erotica anymore. Heidi spanked the desire out of you.”

I looked at her. “Heidi? Is that Miss Hunter’s first name?”

“Miss Hunter? Her name is Heidi Griswold.” Mindy laughed softly.

I licked my lips. They still tasted salty from the pita chips. Secretly, I was still writing erotica, but it was strictly for fun. It was a healthy outlet for my fantasies, nothing more. “No more erotica,” I said. “Can you imagine if Brunhilda found out I was publishing smut?”

“Or bonking her right-hand man.”

“Right. Or eating the administrative salami.” I kicked a pebble down the sidewalk. “Miss Hunter—Heidi—spanked me, and it was weird, and oddly therapeutic, if that makes sense? But then James called me and told me he’s getting married, and I sort of lost any self-esteem I’d recovered—”

Mindy stopped short and grabbed my arm. “Hold on. He did what now?”

“I didn’t tell you?” I rubbed at my forehead. “I don’t even remember who I tell things to anymore. Yeah, so he’s getting remarried. He’s engaged like, three months after we split.”

She whistled softly. “Good Lord. What a slap in the face.”

“So, yeah.” My shoulders sagged again. Something about saying painful things out loud made them seem more real. “When I was in college, I went on spring break and reinvented myself for the week as this cool girl. Someone who was disengaged and carefree, looking for a good time.”

We started walking again, and turned the corner down my street. “How did that feel?”

“Awesome. And artificial, but who cares? For that week, I experienced what it was like to be someone who slept with a guy and didn’t expect anything more. Maybe I should try that on again.”

“Be the bad girl.” Mindy lifted her handbag higher on her shoulder. “I’ve slept with a lot of guys. I don’t put it on billboards, but you and I are friends. You know how it is. Sometimes I hope it will turn into more. Like I’ll get lucky and find the man who makes me forget about Chase.”

I grinned. “The billionaire who has a soft spot for Chinese American teachers with purple hair.”

“I don’t think that’s asking too much, do you?” But she was smiling. “You know what? I know this bar downtown. It’s edgy and hip. They have a singles’ night coming up. You and I should go and just, you know. Window-shop.”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea.” I linked her arm with mine. “So we’ll look for my Mr. Wrong and your Mr. Right.”

Odin barked excitedly as we walked up the path to my front door. “He may jump on you. I apologize in advance.”

“It’s all right. I love Odin.” Mindy’s smile tightened. She gripped my arm tighter and lowered her voice. “Is it wrong to think I’ve already found my Mr. Right?”

My heart ached as she struck the same note I’d played so many times myself. God knew that after James left me, I’d wondered whether I even had a Mr. Right.

“No, it’s not wrong, hon.” I wrapped my arm around her shoulders. “But until he comes to his senses, your life is waiting. We’re open to possibilities, remember? Trusting the universe.”

“Oh, wait, I said that, didn’t I?” Her hand flew to her face. “Christ. Sometimes I’m so full of crap I can’t even stand to listen to myself.”

I WASN’T SUPPOSED to be writing erotica anymore, but two weeks later I was at my kitchen table, typing away—and not on lesson plans. Odin was sleeping with his head on my feet. Every now and then he’d get up to stretch, and then he’d plant himself right where he was.

“Is this what you do all day?” I said. “I always thought you were guarding the house.”

He gave his tail two heavy thumps and rolled over onto his back.

It was Columbus Day, so school was closed. I was working on a new writing project, the one about the girl who gets spanked in the hayloft. It had started off as another BDSM, like my first, but it was changing tone and becoming a book about star-crossed lovers. For some strange reason—no idea why—the idea of loving someone you shouldn’t held me captive.

She couldn’t forget about him. Even years later, his touch lingered on her skin, and the feel—

I paused midsentence. On the days that I wrote, I also binge-snacked. It was something about sitting at a table, so close to my cupboards. Snags in my writing meant snack time. I rose and headed for the fridge. I was poking through a selection of low-fat yogurts when my cell phone rang. My heart skipped when I saw that it was Marcy, my editor. “Hello, this is Lettie.” I tried to keep my voice level.

“You dirty little bitch.”

I pulled the phone from my ear and checked the caller ID again. “Hello? Who is this, please?”

Immediately, Marcy broke into peals of laughter. “Can you please tell me where you’ve been hiding all of these dirty thoughts? Whips and chains, and all I keep thinking about is Sweet Pea’s birthday party.”

I turned up the volume on my phone and started pacing the room, figuring my signal was bad. “Marcy? Did you just call me a name?”

“Yes, it’s me. Sorry. I didn’t mean to call you a dirty bitch. That wasn’t nice of me.” She giggled. “But I just finished your manuscript, and I love it. I want to buy it.”

My hands started shaking from a combination of excitement and absolute terror. “You’re going to buy my manuscript? Th-that’s great.”

“I’ll send the rest of the advance, and there are a few provisions in the contract we should talk about and agree to modify, considering we’re now publishing a novella instead of a children’s book.”

Marcy kept talking while I nodded numbly. I was going to get paid. My smut was going to be published. It was all sort of a thrill.

“So you liked it, then?” I asked meekly.

“Lettie, I loved it. I had my doubts,” she added, “but you pulled it off.”

Victory. “Hey, Marcy? Can you hold on a second?”

“Sure thing.”

I set the phone down calmly on a windowsill and broke into my full-on happy dance, which is a cross between running in place and having a seizure. Odin jumped up and started barking at me. “Shh! Down! Mommy’s fine!” I patted him and lifted the phone again, slightly out of breath, but trying to put on a professional voice. “I’m so pleased to hear that.”

“I’m delighted to work with you again. So listen: We should talk about branding. You wrote the Sweet Pea books as Aletta Osbourne. You may want to think about a pseudonym for erotica so your readers aren’t confused.”

A pseudonym. Of course. “That makes sense.”

“Something sexy. Have fun with it. Now, I have a few suggestions for revision. I’ll send them to you, but if you have a few minutes—”

My stomach dropped. Notes from my editor. On my smut. I swallowed and slumped onto my couch, my buzz definitely evaporating. “Yeah, I have a few minutes.”

“I love the character of Piers, the war-ravaged hero who’s addicted to anal sex but won’t give himself fully to Jasmine. But I had a few thoughts on character development. Oh, and before I forget: You use the words cock and prick a lot. Maybe you can come up with some other terms.”

I heard her words, but my brain was buzzing and my scorching face was buried against a throw pillow. “Uh-huh.”

“You can go classic here. Shaft. Dick. Manhood. Rod. I’ve always liked thrusting rod, but that’s a personal preference.”

I wanted to die. My head was so far down in the pillow that I was practically upside down. Somehow I’d forgotten that writing smut necessarily meant I’d be receiving edits on smut, and I was not psychologically equipped for that.

“Sure. Sounds good.”

“Just thoughts. Oh, and I despise the word moist, so I’m going to strike it from the manuscript and ask you to come up with something else. Same with panties. Can’t stand it. Makes me think of my childhood. Give her a lace thong instead.” There was a shuffle of papers and Marcy paused to clear her throat. “Now. When Piers returns from the war and becomes fixated on doggy-style, we don’t get a real explanation for that. Is it something to do with PTSD or what?”

Gosh, I didn’t have an answer. I’d written the whole thing in less than two weeks. But Marcy was waiting for an explanation, so I gave her one. “It has to do with his belief that life is transient, and he associates, um, intercourse with procreation, but he can’t risk becoming a father because he thinks he’ll screw up his kid because he saw his friends get killed and he has those, you know, nightmares.”

It was all nonsense. I may as well have said that Piers liked anal sex because he’d once been probed on an alien spacecraft. It made no sense. But Marcy only said, “All right, well, now that you explain it, I understand, but that’s not coming across in the manuscript. Take a look and see where you can clarify that.”

“Okay.”

“But overall, I think it’s fun and sexy and there are some real points made about war and the damage it does to our men and women in uniform. I’ll send you my corrections and the revised contract, and you can give me your pseudonym later.”

The burn on my face had started to subside, but only slightly. I righted myself on the couch and glanced at an old advertisement for hot cocoa that I’d framed and hung on the wall ages ago. Coco. That was kind of a cool name. And for a last name, I could modify my own a little. Os-something. Or something-bourne. Coco something-bourne. You know where my mind went, don’t you? Clayman. Coco Osman. Coco Osclay. Coco Claiborne.

“How about Coco Claiborne for my pen name?”

“Hmm. Coco Claiborne,” Marcy murmured. “I like it. So all right, I’ll include that in the contract. We’re going to call this Broken Arrow.”

“But I thought we could call it—”

“It’s part of a larger marketing scheme. So Broken Arrow, by Coco Claiborne. Great. I’ll get everything over to you soon, and listen: I’d love to have more. Like I said, the schedule’s open, so if you’re looking to make a name for yourself and earn a little extra money . . .”

I promised Marcy I’d think about it as we disconnected the call, but I didn’t have to think. Having a book accepted meant financial security. I was already working on another manuscript, and the prospect of another advance was all the incentive I needed to finish.