And what business was it of his anyway?
His brush with fame made him vaguely nauseous. It was just weird. Jasper rolled over and stared out at the dusky gray-and-lavender sky, the snow still coming down, but slower and softer now. He didn’t think he could have any further contact with Robert. He was too small-town and small potatoes for the “bestselling author.”I’m not worthy! I’m not worthy!the comic voice shouted in his head. It wasn’t so much worthiness—or maybe it was—but what would he even say to someone who might as well have hailed from another planet?
Jasper was the poor son of a welder from a small town in southern Illinois. He grew up in a two-bedroom, one-bath house furnished with thrift-store junk. He had his GED and one year at a vocational school where he’d briefly, for a reason he could no longer fathom, studied to be a massage therapist. He was a clerk in a discount department store. He had an unremarkable past and no future to speak of.
The thought of even talking to a man like Robert Burroughs was now daunting beyond belief. The fact that he’d spent an afternoon with him made Jasper hold his stomach because of the giddy laughter that erupted out of him.
“I should have known,” he said softly, maybe to Lacy, maybe simply to the ceiling. Jasper realized that, over the years, he’d seen Michael Blake’s picture here and there, inEntertainment Weeklyor on one of those entertainment news programs Lacy always dissed him for watching.
But a writer wasn’t like an actor. People didn’t think about their appearance as much. Jasper tried to think of what J.K. Rowling looked like, or Nora Roberts, but he drew blanks in both cases.
Robert hadn’t even looked vaguely familiar to him.
Maybe it was the fact that, in person, he looked even better than any of the professional shots of him Jasper had discovered online. Or perhaps it was because no one expects to sit down to afternoon drinks with aNew York Timesbestselling author, whose work was famous around the world.
“Oh fuck, he must be richer than God!” Jasper chuckled. The notion wasn’t an enticing one—which surprised Jasper. It was terrifying and made him feel small. His thoughts went back to his and Lacy’s last night together, watching the miniseries about Andrew Cunanan, huddled side by side on the couch with their cosmos. Her words to him a little bit later, as they were heading out for the night, came back to him with crystal clarity.
“Old Andrew Cunanan had the right idea. He just had poor, if you’ll pardon the pun, execution.”
“Oh, you’re terrible, Muriel,” Jasper said, echoing Toni Collette in a favorite movie of theirs,Muriel’s Wedding.
“Seriously, though, you should see if you can’t find yourself a nice sugar daddy. Someone who will get you out of this shithole—”
“—and into the palace I deserve?”
“Exactly. Why not? Do it right and you can have all your dreams come true and never have to lift a finger. You’re good-looking enough, Jazz, and you know it.”
He didn’t know if he did know it, but the idea had also occurred to him watching the Cunanan movie. If Andrew hadn’t been such a fucked-up loon, maybe he’d be doing fine today, sipping a glass of expensive wine while watching the sun set from some fabulous mansion in the tropics or on the Riviera coast.
Jasper laughed out loud. The idea was absurd. But it almost seemed like providence. Had Lacy been thinking about her uncle when she suggested he find a sugar daddy? And if she was, why hadn’t she made any effort to introduce Jasper to him? Why not at least mention him, especially when Jasper was deep within the pages of one of his books.
The room had grown dark while he was lost in memory. He struggled out of his clothes and threw them on the floor, then fell asleep faster than he would have imagined possible.
During the night, he woke only once. And when he did, he swore he could feel her lying beside him.
It’s just the Chanel No. 5.
IN THEmorning, right on schedule as promised, the phone rang. Jasper leaned over the edge of the bed to fish his phone out of his pocket. He pressed the screen to answer and got the phone to his ear just in time.
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
Jasper glanced at the area code—760—and shrugged. Still, he was pretty sure who was calling.
“Robert?”
“At your service. And, sweetie, you can call me Rob, okay?”
Jasper sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes. He was tempted to ask, “And not Michael?” but somehow felt weird about that.
The sun streaming in through the mini blinds was super bright, probably on account of reflecting off last night’s snowfall. “Where are you, Rob?”
“I’m at O’Hare. I have to head back to California this morning. Work beckons.”
If Jasper hadn’t been half-awake, he thought he might have not been as forward with what he said next. But he simply couldn’t resist. “Why didn’t you tell me you were Michael Blake? I’m a huge fan.”
There was a moment of silence and then a chuckle. “How huge? Like, in inches?”
“Oh my God,” Jasper gasped. He sat up straighter, growing more alert by the second. “I am not talking dirty with Michael Blake.”
