Page 31 of Script
I woke up a week later,my head fuzzy, and not from a night out at some exclusive club or from staying up too late with a new hook-up. I’d not even thought about anyone other than Finn since… well… since that day he’d followed me from the barn. Talk about something even scarier than testicular torsion. Being so zoned in on one lover was terrifying. And annoying, as I’d been pretty good at avoiding entanglements of any romantic nature for all of my adult life.
Now, here I was, lying in bed, my head filled with cotton batting as I battled to figure out how to balance being with Finn more, while keeping an emotional distance from him. I’d grown addicted to his presence in my life in a short amount of time. Our nights filled with Netflix and calling for Korean takeout home delivery—we both had a mad passion for sesame beef—had flipped some sort of domesticity button in my brain. Something my brother had told me would happen one day. Which sucked because now I’d have to admit that Lyle was right about something. Hopefully, not to his face though. Just to myself, which was possibly as bad.
So now, it seemed like I woke up, and the first thing I thought about was Finn. Like right now. My head was filling with dreamy little snippets from last night’s movie. Some old Ryan Reynolds flick where he worked in a restaurant, which had some killer funny bits, and Ryan himself, which was enough to hold my attention on most occasions. Seems not even Mr. Reynolds could keep my gaze, hands, or mouth, off Finn Kerrigan. After mutual blow jobs, you would think I’d be filled up on Finn. Nope. Point in case--me lying here thinking of Finn.
Also, someone was hammering on the sliding door of my bedroom in a steady two-handed beat that made me want to open the glass door and boot the asshole off the patio.
“Hey, I can see you in there lying in bed!” Rottie called as he pounded out the drumbeat from what I assumed was one of his loud as fuck metal songs. Probably from a new album or video. Rottie appearing on my patio was nothing new. Fences meant nothing to him. He was a brazen-as-hell wild man who thought nothing of scaling canyon walls as well as security fences, andseemed to think everyone needed a Rottie Blade in their house. “Come on, Chavkin, roll out. I have a neighborly issue to discuss with you!”
I moved to my side, squinting at the tall, lanky rocker with long white and black hair pulled into a top knot. That was a new look. He stood on my patio in a green kilt that hung off his lean hips, his tattooed chest bared, wearing yellow hiking boots and a grin. The bastard was stupid hot. And stupid annoying.
I held up a middle finger, then, in slow increments, I kicked the covers aside and plodded to the patio. I did have things to do today, thank Christ, like spend time with my charity. Call home. Start reading over a script for a local food delivery service endorsement ad that I had to shoot. Which sucked because I was not an actor in the least, and my last commercial had been the subject of memes --where my face had been replaced by a famous wooden puppet-- for months.
I stared through the glass at Rottie, taking note of the grappling hook snugged tight on the railing. I pointed to it, and he shrugged innocently, a sweet-as-corn-syrup smile on his handsome face.
With a sigh, I unlocked the door and slid it open. A rush of warm dry air hit me.
“What the actual hell, Blade?” I snapped as he stepped into the air-conditioned coolness of my bedroom, then threw himself to my bed, his kilt flying up to show me and the world what he had been born with, and it was pretty substantial, not going to lie. “No, please, come on in and make yourself at home. Would you like me to fetch you a cool drink? You must be parched having scaled not only the canyon, but my fence.”
He chortled, folded his inked hands on his sweaty chest, and rolled those famed green eyes to me. Those eyes had been on the cover of his last chart-topping album,Smiling Skulls of Mandalayby his band, Pink Mail Schism, and people around the world had rushed out to apply eyeliner just like Rottie Blade did.
“I detect a note of sarcasm in your offer, Cameron.”
I closed the door with some attitude, then stalked over to my dresser to find some underwear. There was no need to be shy around Rottie. We’d hooked up once when he’d first got the place next door. Which was why I’d not blinked at the sight of his junk. The man was a tornado in bed, but not at all my kind of lover after the deed was done. Not that I knew what my kind of lover after the deed was done was. Lover meant something long-term, right?
“Nice cakes,” he called as I hoisted a pair of blue briefs over my ass.
“Thanks. Skating works wonders.” I turned to face him. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to let you know that my camel, Scheherazade, got loose and was last seen heading your direction, so I thought I’d come see if you’d seen her.”
“You lost your camel?”
“Yep.” He sat up, his kilt sliding down to cover his balls, and stared out of the window with utter dejection. “I had some friends over last night for a go-kart race -- sorry I didn’t invite you, but you still don’t have a kart -- and some chick that my drummer is banging…” He chuckled at his own joke.
“Right, drummer, banging. I get it. Go on.” I needed him to speed things up so I could shower and wash Finn out of my thoughts.
“Right, so this chick got a little hyper from all the Skittles and wandered into the camel and zebra enclosure.” Of course. The zebras. I’d heard their brays a few times when the wind was blowing correctly. But I’d never heard a camel. Did camels make noise? “She got scared when Sherry -- that’s what I call Scheherazade for short -- got upset by a stranger stumbling up to her, and spit in her hair. The girl freaked out and ran out of the pen leaving the gate open. We rounded up the zebras and Barry the bison, but Sherry is still at large. Have you seen her?”
“Your camel?”
“Yes, my camel. Are you slow-minded since that crushing loss to Boston?”
“No, fuck off. I have other shit on my mind; and no, I have not seen or heard your camel.” I made a motion to the patio door. A short, but curt wave of my hand indicating he could leave now.
“Oh, okay, it’s romance-related right? You got the look.” I blinked at the rock star who was now tapping out and humming “U Got the Look” on his bare thighs. “Prince was a god.”
“Yeah, he was,” I concurred because he had been.
“So, what’s his or her name?”
“Nope, no, not discussing my sex life with you.” I waved at the door again. With more gusto, Rottie sighed with added drama, then sprang to his yellow hiking boots. “I’ll keep an eye out for your camel. Now if you would, please take your mountain-climbing gear and go back home.”
“Fine, but if you keep all that emotional baggage locked up inside, your skull will explode from the sheer power of love and guts.” His green eyes flared. “Damn that’s a good line. If you see Sherry, just offer her some apple wafer cookies, and lead her home, will you? Thanks, you’re a peachy man.”
He kissed me on the mouth, then left, tossing a leg over the railing, exposing his junk once more, before disappearing down the rope. I waited, then stepped out, glanced down, and saw him staring up at me.
“Toss down my hook!” he bellowed.
