Page 44 of Going Viral for Christmas
So, why do I feel like a fucking mess?
Oh, I know why? Because I just finished a three-act play calledKeeping My Shit Together in Front of Ava Bell.And I deserve a fucking Tony for it too. Maybe even an Oscar.
For the last few hours, I’ve been in performance mode—smirking for every reader, nodding at every question a panelist asks me to make it appear as though I’m actively listening, and delivering charm to hundreds of people in pre-approved doses while internally trying not to replay every second of thismorning’s gym confrontation, which has been damn near impossible. To my surprise, I was given the director’s cut. It’s been on repeat in my head all damn day.
Ava Bell. AvaFuckingBell.
Snark and guarded glimpses, along with way too much vulnerability hidden under sarcasm—they’re all a challenge I can’t stop rising to meet.
I saw her three times today. Backstage, I tripped over a cable and nearly face-planted into her heels. Another time, at her signing table, a reader approached me. I grabbed a pink glitter gel pen instead of a Sharpie and started signing, staring awkwardly at Ava the whole time. And in the hotel café. I swerved to avoid her, nailed the sharp corner of the pastry table, and got decked right in the balls.
Every encounter with her was a battlefield.
We played our parts—smiles sharp, voices pitched—but underneath? Total carnage. Rigid shoulders, molars grinding, avoiding eye contact as if it were radioactive. The crowd probably bought it. We didn’t.
I’ve got maybe two hours to breathe before the Camille and Renata Variety Hour, aka hell in couture.
Tossing my leather jacket across the back of the couch, I run a hand through my hair and collapse onto the edge of the bed as though gravity’s finally had enough of my shit.
My phone dings. I remove it from my pants pocket. Lena.Fuck my life.
So… no reply?
That’s how you’re playing this?
Rolling my eyes, I flip it face down. Not right now. Or ever.
After toeing off my boots, I scrub a hand across my scruffy jaw, where Ava’s eyes lingered earlier. I think she likes it. It was barely a second. But I saw it. Felt it. I’m not imagining that.
Am I?
I drive her crazy. I’m pretty sure she wants to throw her phone at my head, but maybe also ride my cock. I’m not opposed to either.
This tension I generate with women isn’t new. The sultry smiles. The heated silences. The stares that say,just once.
I’ve always known how to leverage lust. How to bend it. Manipulate it. Let it get me what I want, whether it's the deal, the gig, the attention, or the cleanest exit possible.
Ava’s different.
I want her heart.
That’s corny. And yet, true.
I’m about one thousand percent sure Ava is attracted to me. Based on what I witnessed in the locker room this morning, I could argue that point in a court of law and win. With exhibits. Possibly a PowerPoint.
But it’s more than that. It’s in the way she looks at me when she doesn’t realize she is. There’s a hint of curiosity in her eyes. The real trick won’t be seducing her.
It’ll beearningher.
If I play this right—if I stop being the version of me that leans on the swagger and charm, and start being the man who listens, who shows up, who’s there for her…
I can turn that heat into something deeper than surface level. I’ll be the man she can’t walk away from just because the lights went off and the keywords died.
I don’t want to be Ava Bell’s fantasy.
I want to be her reality.
One arm flops across my face. The sheets smell clean, clinical, unlike everything else I’ve felt today. Ever since sunrise, my body’s been wound tight. The only release I’ve had was lifting weights. I was raging during those reps.
