Gwenyth’s eyebrows rose in amusement. It was a story line unlikely to be repeated in real life, but Candy could make it work if any writer could. She was that good.
“So I’m writing and writing and I’m really vibin’ on what I’ve got, okay. And then it happens.” Candy shuddered. She rubbed her arms as if warding off a chill. “I get to the scene, you know,thescene, and I draw a total blank.” She shook her head forlornly. “What am I going to do, Gwen? I’m out of fucking material.”
Gwenyth bit her lip. She wasn’t certain, but supposed Candy’s last statement had been made in the literal sense. If her best friend didn’t look quite so dejected, she would have laughed. Instead she nodded, then rolled her eyes slightly toward the back of her head while she contemplated Candy’s predicament. Gwenyth had read all of her best friend’s work, so she would know as well as anyone the kinds of sex that had been penned in them.
A moment later, it came to her. Gwenyth snapped her fingers and sat up straighter in her chair as the answer struck her. “I’ve got it!”
Candy’s eyes widened. “You do?”
“Uh huh.”
When it appeared as though she was going to have to drag the answer out of Gwenyth, Candy waved her hand through the air in agitation. “Well. Spit it out already.”
Gwenyth smiled, her dimples popping out. “Missionary!”
Candy stared at her blankly. Her gum cracked as she continued to chew. “Missionary?”
“Yes!” Gwenyth’s eyes sparkled a brilliant jade as she warmed to her topic. “The nun and the ex-convict can do it in the missionary position.” She dismissed any arguments with a fluttering of her hand. “Just think about it. Your heroes never bop their heroines for the first time in the missionary. This will be totally fresh!”
Candy blew out a bubble as she stared at Gwenyth unblinkingly. “You know,” she said after a drawn out minute, “that’s just crazy enough that it might work.”
Gwenyth nodded.
“God Gwen, you are like, the best.” Candy grinned sheepishly. “What would I do without you?”
Their burgers were placed in front of them, breaking the conversation’s momentum momentarily. After taking a huge bite of her mushroom and Swiss burger, Gwenyth answered Candy’s question as frankly as possible. “I’m not sure. But I hope you give up this business of trying to find a new calling when the calling you already have works really well for you.” She eyed her knowingly. “I’m afraid of what you’ll try out next.” Gwenyth frowned. “And I have no intention of allowing you to join the circus.”
Candy giggled. “You never know. I might look cute in one of those skimpy trapeze artist get-ups.”
Gwenyth narrowed her gaze at the familiar gleam in Candy’s eyes. It was a gleam she knew all too well. She shook her head slowly. Her smile was feral. “Forget it, Can. I’ve got enough on my plate without having to worry about you getting it on with Bozo.”
* * * * *
A week later, Gwenyth climbed out of bed, intending to throw on the first clean thing she could find in her dresser drawers. She needed to get over to the family house ASAP because she had tons of developing work to do. Her favorite Jones & Jones darkroom was still the one at the big house. The studio’s developing room was bigger and more modern, but the one at Willy and Verlene’s was cozy and familiar. Besides, she didn’t have any fancy work to do today. Just ordinary developing.
Gwenyth rifled through her empty dresser drawers with a grunt of disgust. Damn. She really needed to do some laundry. The only clean thing she could find was Sam’s #33 jersey and a pair of ratty old blue jeans cutoffs. She didn’t even have a bra to wear. Oh well, at least she still had a recently washed pair of “Kiss Me” underwear, uncomfortable and wedgie-prone though they might be.
Gwenyth climbed into the skintight cutoffs, then raised the jersey over her head to put on. She bit her lip, briefly debating over whether or not she should show up at Willy and Verlene’s wearing Sam’s old shirt.
Bah! She shook her head at her own ridiculousness. Sam’s original plan to arrive in Tampa a few days back had been altered by unforeseen problems with his contract renewal. He had to stay in Boston to clear that up before hopping on a plane to Florida. Harry had said he wouldn’t be here for another few days. It was safe to wear the shirt.
Decision made, Gwenyth quickly donned the old jersey, threw her hair up into her usual topknot, slipped into a pair of unlaced Keds, and made her way toward the door. She stopped in her tracks as she thought about the mountain of laundry waiting to be washed. Sighing, Gwenyth stomped into the bathroom and scooped up a huge pile of clothes. Making her way over to the washing machine, she threw the laundry in, added the necessary balls of soap and fabric softener, then slammed the lid home.
There.
Gwenyth picked up her keys and walked briskly to the front door of her apartment. She’d dry the damn things when she came back.
* * * * *
Sam was pissed.
The flight to Tampa was God awful bumpy, the food was dry and about as tasty as he imagined dog food would be, and worst of all, he had some “helpful” fan sitting next to him during the entire flight, pointing out what had gone wrong with his game last season. Yeah right. Like that five-foot-two, skinny-assed weasel had ever played ball. Like he had the first clue what it was like out there on the field. Sam was damn sick of free advice. Like Harry’s granddad Willy used to say to his doctor if he’d get on to him about watching his calorie intake, “when I want your advice, mister, I’ll beat it out of ya.” Sam smiled. He sure enough missed that old man there.
Which brought Sam to his next complaint. When he’d finally arrived in Tampa after surviving dismal weather, air traffic delays, yucky food, damned annoying conversations with a particular fan who shall remain unnamed because he couldn’t recall said name even if he tried, and a suicidal cab driver who got him from the airport to the Jones family’s estate in Hyde Park faster than his namesake traveled in the old TV showQuantum Leap, Sam at least thought he’d be greeted by smiling faces. Not so. Nobody was home. Jesus H Christ! What a damned day!
Of course, Sam reminded himself, nobody was expecting him to show up for another three days. Lee had thought it would take that long to talk the Crusaders into upping his salary by another three million. Goes to show how much his manager knows. Sons of bitches caved in after forty-eight hours of negotiating.
Sam threw his suitcases to the ground in order to pound louder on the front door. Surely someone had to be around. There was usually at least a cleaning lady trailing about. Irritated with himself for not calling Harry ahead of time, Sam raised his fists to the front door and hit it repeatedly with everything he had in him. Between weather, dumb fans, and insane taxi drivers, he was just pissed off enough to all but put a hole in the door.
