Luck, Laughter and Love Read online

  Harper stared at Naked Guy’s finger slipping in and out between admittedly sensual lips, and resisted the urge to moan. It’d been a long time.

  Naked Guy wiped his wet finger on his chest -- which didn’t do a thing to wilt Harper’s rising erection -- and flashed a strawberry-bright grin at Harper. “Name’s Rory. Pleasure to meet you. I’m your muse.”

  “My what, now?”

  “Your muse. The wellspring of your creative inspiration, the source of all things artsy and fartsy. I’m the part of your head that enables you to write, corporealized and here to give you some overtime help. Sure you don’t want any toast?”

  “No.” Harper’s brain had begun to process more than the mouthwatering visual of Rory’s body, and it was ringing a clamorous peal of alarm bells. “Wait. I have to have heard you wrong. Did you just say you’re my muse?”

  “Yep.” Rory cocked his head. “You’re a slow learner. Did you slip and bash your noggin in the shower, or are you still waking up?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Rory cocked his finger at Harper. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. That’s exactly why I’m here. I am the answer to your writer’s block prayers.”

  “No kidding.” Glassy-smooth calm washed through Harper’s head, soothing away his confusion. The simplest explanation had to be the most accurate: He’d gone and lost his ever-loving mind. And hallucinated up a naked sweets fiend with a body fit to make cologne ad models weep.

  Clearly, this called for outside assistance.

  “Would you excuse me for one second?”

  “It’s your house, pal, but unless you’re jerking off, hurry it up.”

  “What?”

  “Never rush a good handjob. Not all friction is your friend. Even so, I got a story idea I think we can do a lot with.”

  “A story idea,” Harper repeated to make sure he’d heard Rory correctly. “And that’s why you’re here.”

  “Yep.” Rory lathered a fresh slice of toast with jam, stuffed a triangle in his mouth and chewed, lapping dabs of artificial strawberry sweetness off the corner of his lips. “Told you. I’m your muse. I’m here to serve, so let’s get serving already.”

  “Right.” Harper hesitated. “Did I ask you to excuse me before? I forget.”

  Rory waved at him. “You’re excused, you’re excused, but hurry it up.” He plunked another slice of bread in the toaster. The last one. “Unless you are jerking off, in which case can I come watch?”

  The toaster caught fire. Harper made a tactical retreat.

  * * *

  Once safely out of sight of the kitchen, Harper rummaged through the toppling piles of past due bills, keys of unknown origin, and receipts, and found his phone in the last place he looked: the empty candy jar. Snatching up his outdated BlackBerry, he hit speed dial and prayed for a miracle.

  Lisa, general woman-of-all-work, his chief Personal Assistant, trusted associate from the old days, occasional cowriter, and ass-kicker without compare for In Outré, equally out of her depth, answered on the last possible ring before diversion to voice mail, her husky cigarette voice deepened to a growl this early in the morning. “Whoever you are, make it damn good, and be on your way with coffee and bagels before I hang up.”

  There was a God. “Lisa, did anyone slip me anything during yesterday’s story brainstorming session?”

  “You mean the one through which you sat like a fish out of water with your mouth hanging open and your eyes glazed over? If someone had popped you a tab, how would I have been able to tell?”

  “Cute.” Harper jigged his foot in an uneasy rhythm. “Lisa, what would you say if I told you there’s a naked man eating toast in my kitchen?”

  “Huh.” He caught the unmistakable sounds of early woman discovering fire, also known as Lisa lighting her first menthol slim 100 of the day. “I’d say it’s about time, and then I’d ask if he’s hot.”

  “He’s naked. In my kitchen. I have bigger things to worry about.” God would strike him down for these lies. Lisa still didn’t need to know about Harper’s reaction to the nude stranger’s, er, assets.

  Then again, tact wasn’t so much in Lisa’s daily lexicon. “Wait. You honest-to-God do have someone over?” Lisa laughed. “The plague of locusts is next up if Harper finally got some.”

  “Hey!”

  Lisa inhaled. “You’re cranky for the morning after. Something wrong? He one of those guys who looked a lot better under bar lighting, or was he a bad lay?”

  “No! And I didn’t lay him. Or bang him. Or whatever you want to use for a euphemism.”

  “Bang. I like that one. Raw. Make a note.” A metallic clink signaled the ignition of a second cigarette. “Huh. So you got banged instead. Crucial difference. Sorry. I never pictured you as a bottom. Live and learn.”

  “You’re not listening to me.” Harper peeked around the corner.

  Still in the kitchen, Rory ran his finger around the inside of the nearly empty jam jar, scraping up the last bits of sugary strawberry. His finger looked no less tempting when he sucked the digit again, and Harper was only human. He gave in to the urge to glance between Rory’s sprawled thighs, and at the… Good God. Harper coughed. Eight inches? Nine? Uncut. Thick. Erect. A silver barbell under the hood, glittering merrily at Harper.

  “Yeah,” Harper said, swallowing hard. “He’s hot.”

  And… gone. Pip! Out like a light, like he’d never been. Harper’s jaw dropped.

  “Great. What’s your problem, then?” Lisa rattled on, oblivious. “Point your heels toward Jesus and let him bang you again.”

  “I didn’t bang or get banged by him in the first place, Lisa. I didn’t bring home anyone or get brought home. He was here when I woke up, but I swear to you I spent the night alone, all night long, trying to come up with In Outré outlines that didn’t read like deranged See ‘n Says. I fell asleep with my face on the keyboard and lost everything when my computer burned out.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “You stupid ass. You didn’t make backups? We can’t write all of that again! What are we supposed to do -- wait. Jesus Christ, Harper, you’ve got a naked stranger in your kitchen eating breakfast? Why are you talking to me? Hang up and call 9-1-1!”

  Harper licked his lips and stared at the empty spot on his counter where his naked stranger had been seated moments ago. He paced his way to the spot and touched the faux-marble to find it cool, no traces of body heat.

  And yet the jam jar, licked clean, lay on its side. The naked man had left a message spelled out in toast crumbs. A simple message, as such things went, and one that fully convinced Harper he’d lost his mind.

  HY, HRPR!

  Looked like Harper’s muse couldn’t spell. Or possibly didn’t believe in vowels. At this point, Harper wouldn’t have trusted himself to say definitely one way or the other whether black was black or white was white.

  Harper waved his hand through the absence of Rory, who hadn’t walked away. Who had simply disappeared as if he was a trick of the light or a figment of Harper’s increasingly disturbed imagination.

  “Hi yourself,” he whispered. “Lisa, I --”

  “Morning, handsome,” Rory said in his ear. Like a Cheshire cat in reverse, Rory faded in from his voice to his firm, lean body draped over Harper’s back. “Miss me?”

  “Lisa? I’ll take care of calling whoever needs to be called.” Or maybe not. They’ll cart me off to a rubber room. I am so screwed. “Actually, you know what? Don’t worry about me, um, I don’t see him here now --” Not a complete lie, as Rory was behind him. “I bet I was dreaming, I’ll see you on the set this morning. Gotta go, bye.” Harper clicked the phone shut.

  He turned, dislodging Rory and retreating with his back to the kitchen island. Rory chortled and leaned nakedly on the refrigerator, crossing his legs at the ankle. He eyed Harper from top to bottom. No one, no matter how distracted they might otherwise be, could miss the frank appraisal and all-male appreciation in his gaze.

  “Anyone ever
tell you that you suck at dissembling?” Rory asked.

  Harper tried discreetly to feel behind himself for something he could use as a weapon. What did a guy need to win a one-man battle of wits against a figment of his imagination? Whiskey? Lots of whiskey?

  “Not that you’re going to find anything more threatening over there than yesterday’s junk mail, but you might as well know baseball bats and such don’t work too great on my kind. Physical assaults will just wear you out, and I’ll bounce right back,” Rory said casually. He examined his fingernails and chewed off a fragment of cuticle.

  Harper froze midreach. “Are you reading my mind?”

  “Pfft. I am your mind.” Rory made a face and waggled his hand. “Sort of. After multiple repetitions involving a crapload of patience on my part, you do finally accept that I’m your muse, right?”

  Harper licked his lips. He fully expected little cuckoo birds to start flying around his head at any second. “For the sake of argument, I’ll agree.”

  “That’ll do.” Rory gestured as he spoke, underlining and emphasizing and elaborating. He had slim, strong fingers, nimble and quick and sensual despite the ragged nails. “Most of me is just me, myself, and I. Same way as a vase is made of pottery, glaze, paint, that kind of thing. An empty vase, though, is just empty, you see what I’m saying? It waits to serve a purpose and gathers dust until someone shoves a few roses in there.”

  Bizarrely enough, Harper thought he understood. “So you, what…”

  “I exist in a way that matters only when an artist needs inspiration. When the creative block is strong enough to attract extra-normal attention, I get tapped and I come to life. When that artist’s masterpiece is completed, I cease to be. Simple. Well. Not that simple. There’s a whole union thing; I don’t pay attention to many of the bylaws, but you get the gist.”

  “Don’t muses generally stay locked up in people’s heads?”

  “That’s the working theory.”

  “Great. Stop eating all my food and get back in my head.”

  “It’s kinda painful once I’ve taken actual corporeal form, but if you want me to try --”

  Harper knew Rory was the type of guy -- muse -- whatever -- who was going to say something like he’d try, dick first, to see if that fit and if it did, they’d move on. Most likely to his balls.

  Rory waited, smirking.

  Harper glared.

  “You done denying my existence yet?”

  “No,” Harper snapped. “Not even close. This is impossible, and therefore you’re not real. You don’t exist. You’re chicken asiago.”

  “I’m what, now?”

  “Or maybe pad thai! I had a buffet lunch the day before yesterday. How should I know?” Harper grabbed his coat and flung the slithery leather weight over his arm. He flipped open his laptop case and began stuffing in memos, mail, his handheld recorder, and a blank spiral-bound notebook, ranting as he packed: “Want to know what I am? Late. That’s what I am. And I don’t have a single damn synopsis or breakdown or even an excuse, thanks to wasting what little time I did have on talking to a figment of my imagination.”

  “Jeez, calm down.” Rory crossed his arms, eyeing Harper with a mixture of wariness and amusement. “Breakdown, I don’t know about that… looks like you’re in the middle of one just fine on your own --”

  “Not a nervous breakdown --”

  “Synopsis, though, those I can do.” Rory looked around the kitchen, turning in circles. “You got a pencil anywhere?”

  “No.” Harper found his shoes under the breakfast table and stuffed his feet in, leaving the laces undone. “And you’re naked. In my kitchen.”

  “That’s what bothers you most? Jeez; you should have said. Methinks you’re too uptight. Nudity is very freeing, and I’m all about the free when I’ve got a body to roam around in.”

  Somehow, Harper didn’t doubt that. The muse’s -- the naked man’s -- Rory’s -- blatant sensuality couldn’t exactly escape his attention. Rory inspired him, all right, not with In Outré concepts, but with the notion of mapping out every last ridge of muscle and square inch of creamy pale skin with his tongue.

  Harper groaned and tried, unsuccessfully, to quash his rising libido. For one thing, he didn’t have time, and for another, he was going crazy and Rory did not, could not possibly exist. Schtupping a figment of his imagination was a step down from RealDolls or their blow-up plastic counterparts, and if he was going to go fuck himself he had a good working right hand to get the job done without benefit of hallucinations.

  “You’re thinking so hard I can almost see smoke rising from your ears,” Rory observed. “Just so you know, I’m doing you the courtesy of not reading your mind anymore. I get the feeling it freaks you out. See? I’m a good guy, and I can compromise. Now let’s get busy already.”

  Harper’s mind substituted many, many pleasant mental images for which “getting busy” would have made a great bit of innuendo. Stop it, Harper, he ordered. “Please get dressed.”

  “Sure, if clothes would make you feel better.” Rory snapped his fingers; a forest green Henley and a soft-washed pair of jeans appeared on him, clothing him with modest decency, yet they still left nothing to the imagination.

  Then again, with a muse, wasn’t that the whole point? To clarify your dreams and give them focus?

  “There,” said Rory, turning around in a slow faux runway model’s circle. “Poof. Happy now?”

  Harper couldn’t help but notice, even more so now that it was encased in soft, tight-fitting denim, that Rory had the kind of tight, rounded ass that could stop traffic or bring a horny man on a long dry streak to his knees to worship at the globes.

  “Nngh,” Harper said, displaying all the word savvy that earned him a living.

  “I could always take ‘em off again,” Rory offered.

  Harper had had a rough morning, and blamed what he did next on extreme stress: He grabbed his notebook case and hit the door running with no greater plan than to escape the complete collapse of his questionable sanity.

  Chapter Two

  No naked men following him? Harper bent to tie the trailing laces of his sneakers and swept the area surreptitiously.

  The coast looked clear, the brownstone edifice of his co-op comfortingly grungy. Good old familiar graffiti, misspelled, and no Rory in sight to critique the anatomical impossibilities of the graffiti’s suggestion or to waggle his eyebrows at Harper.

  Okay. Fantastic. No… muse… to be found. Outside, with the soothing ruckus of horns blatting and cheerfully shouted obscenities, the sun bright and the air ripe with ozone footprints and coffee and mustard, Harper could almost wonder if he’d imagined the whole thing.

  The Magic 8-Ball in Harper’s head told him: Uncertain. Ask again later.

  Harper checked the near-automatic work he’d done on his shoes and noticed he’d managed to toe his way, without looking, into one blue Converse and one yellow. Paired with a navy suit jacket and jeans. No tie. He’d forgotten to comb his hair.

  Could be worse. Maybe he’d look like a trendsetter, or at least a wannabe. Better than that “guy who dressed in the dark” or “nut job,” although that last might be accurate.

  Still hunkered over, Harper checked his hip pocket for the BlackBerry. Ha! Found it. He hit speed dial for Lisa as he stood, gathering his paraphernalia back under his arm.

  “Lisa here. Leave a message. I’ll get back to you. Or, you know, not.” Beep.

  “Lisa, hi. It’s Harper.” Harper did a subtle -- he hoped -- one-eighty scan. “April Fool’s, or something like that. It’s not April, I know, but why not share the joy all year round?” He coughed. “That is to say, sorry for freaking you out. Some jokes are probably best left uncracked. I’ll see you in the studios, and you can kick my ass there.”

  End call. Harper pushed aside a probing finger of guilt over his lie. Lisa worried. He shouldn’t have touched base with her in the first place, and as it seemed more and more likely out in the brightness of the
real world that he truly had hallucinated Rory, he felt guilty for freaking her out.

  Damage control, check. No naked guys -- Harper looked to the left, and then looked to the right -- 100 percent check. Late to work? Double check.

  Subway tokens in his pocket, where he thought he remembered leaving them. Aha! Triple check. The day might be looking up.

  One last check for random, naked strangers, finding none, and Harper made tracks for the nearest station, where the craziest thing he would run into was a bag lady who claimed to be immortal.

  Harper kind of looked forward to seeing her again. Her kind of crazy he could deal with.

  * * *

  The subway spit Harper back out three blocks from the television studios, the fresher city air a huge relief. Immortal Ida made refreshing company, but her hygiene on a crowded car left a lot to be desired in the way of soap.

  He checked his watch. Only half an hour late. He might escape with most of his hide intact. Did he have time for a coffee? He hadn’t actually drunk any of the pot Rory, um, his imagination had brewed for him, though of course his imagination couldn’t have fixed coffee, so… “Oh, forget it,” he mumbled.

  Downtown, caffeine vendors set up shop well before dawn. Good old reliables. Coffee like your grandma used to make, if she’d used roofing tar. Harper summoned up his best, least crazy smile and approached his usual. One of his favorite stands was open for business and not too crowded, manned by a goateed type with a perpetual suspicious twist of the lips.

  “Hi!” Harper tried to project friendliness. “Good morning. I’ll have the usual, thanks.”

  The goateed vendor squinted at him. Harper read the body language and could almost see the cartoon question mark over his head quickly replaced by words they’d have to spell with asterisks in newspapers.

  “Sorry. You must see a lot of people every day, huh? Seriously, you don’t recognize me?”

  The vendor scowled.

  “Okay.” Harper gave up. “A large coffee with extra cream, no sugar.”