#1 Muse Read online

  #1 Muse

  Published by T Gephart at Smashwords

  Copyright 2018 T Gephart

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  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Cover by:

  Hang Le

  Editing by:

  Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing Services

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting

  Contents

  #1 MUSE

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Books by this Author

  To Mini—Dear friend, awesome travel partner, with the most radiant heart.

  Our trip was nothing sort of magical, it was exactly what I needed.

  THE END.

  Those words sent a shiver down my spine every time I wrote them. Usually they were preceded by FADE OUT, but every once in a while, those last two little words were just for me.

  Writing fan fic was never going to win me an Academy Award. It wasn’t going to earn me the respect of my peers or give me the recognition I craved in the industry I loved. It didn’t even pay the bills. But when I opened up that blank document—without the limitations of a script—it was like hitting a reset button.

  It was my dirty little secret.

  My guilty pleasure.

  Just for me.

  Don’t get me wrong, I loved writing screenplays. I loved the feeling of molding an idea and playing God with all the characters. Controlling their destiny with the ultimate goal of seeing it play out on a screen, but that wasn’t as easy as it sounded. The pressure sometimes made it worse. Which was why my “private” writing felt soooooo good. Zero pressure, and I still got to play God.

  And if I thought there was any chance I could parlay my pages of nonsense into anything remotely resembling a book, I’d have hit the publish button months ago. Lord knows I could use the money. But a novelist, I was not.

  My characters weren’t mainstream enough, and my storylines often ridiculous—who cared, not like anyone else was going to read them. But more to the point, most, if not all of them, were literary daydreams that allowed me to fantasize about the hottest guy on earth.

  Nick Larsson.

  The man was so hot it was absurd. He was tall—six-foot-something delicious—with a body better suited to an athlete than an actor. Even his hair was hot; a rebellious mess of just-fucked-tresses that looked like a perfect mix of I-don’t-care and I’m-on-the-cover-of-GQ. And those eyes—luminous pools of warm wood brown that had the power to make you forget your first name.

  I chuckled, feeling my skin heat at just the thought of him. He didn’t even seem to know how hot he was, striding through life like he hadn’t appropriated more than his share of sexiness from the rest of the male population.

  I’d had the pleasure—and really, there was no better word—of meeting Nick when I was a writer’s assistant five years ago. He’d played a bartender on an episode of the series I was working on and never had “what can I get you to drink” ever sounded as good as it did coming out of his mouth.

  Of course, I introduced myself, smiling slightly inappropriately while trying to think of a good way to ask him out. Suggesting a drink seemed cheesy, and I was attempting to think of something witty and clever to say when he was whisked off by the director. I was gutted by the loss of opportunity, scouring the call sheets to see if he was going to make a reappearance. And thankfully, I was given a second chance, Hot Barman bringing sexy back, two episodes later.

  I’d spent the morning following one of those ridiculous YouTube makeup tutorials that used fifty different types of beauty products just to make you look fresh faced and natural. Quick, flawless routine—my ass. Tamed my long hair into a cute messy bun that had taken me almost an hour to perfect and thrown on a dress and heels that were bound to get a raised eyebrow when I waltzed into work.

  There wasn’t a chance in hell I was walking away this time without at least a number, a date—the ultimate objective. Of course, that was before I found out the studio had cancelled the series overnight. So not only was I not going to see Nick reprise his sexy—despite not being integral to the script—role, I was also out of a job. Oh, and the phone number and date were probably not going to happen either.

  Fast forward to the present day where I had moved from shitty writing gig to shitty writing gig—nothing noteworthy or monumental—treading water and needing to write copy ads to make ends meet while Nick Larsson’s career had exploded.

  Heading up an all-star cast in their second season in an Emmy award-winning series, he was the next hot thing. I had yet to go a full twenty-four hours where I didn’t see his astoundingly handsome face staring at me—that billboard on West Hollywood made sure of that.

  So even if our paths were to cross again—either through the intersection of mutual projects or at a social function around town—I was almost positive he wouldn’t know who I was, have any recollection of meeting me, and have almost zero interest in “hanging out.”

  No, he was lost to the beautiful people, gripped by the clutches of fame and success, and nestled at the bosom of the “it” crowd. Conversely, I was the weirdo with my face pressed against the glass, staring at him and writing him into fictional scenarios like I was a medieval conquering queen requesting his talent at her majesty’s pleasure. I wasn’t much into historical, but putting the man in a sexy-ass coat of armor sounded hot as hell. My fantasies weren’t genre specific; paranormal, historical—I was an equal opportunity creator.

  But there weren’t any vampires, kings, or warriors in tonight’s installment. Instead I had kept it close to reality, blurring the lines enough, so it seemed believable he’d end up with a girlfriend that happened to be me.

  Blaire, the female protagonist—* uh-hum * me—was a smart twenty-six-year-old with amazing brown hair and stunning hazel eyes that changed color with the light. There had been no need to embellish; I had a head of hair that could earn me a shampoo endorsement if I only applied myself and eyes that I counted as my best physical feature. I liked that they morphed like a chameleon, reflecting rich golds, greens and browns depending on mood or how the sun’s rays were refracted by my iris.

  Blaire * uh-hum me * had graduated from USC with an impressive GPA and a heart full of hopes and dreams. Unlike me, she was plucked from ob
scurity and hired to write meaty scripts for Hollywood heavyweights who gave her complete creative control and even asked her opinion on casting. What can I say? I was writing fiction after all.

  Also, unlike me, Blaire was a stunning five-foot-nine, with legs that went on for an eternity and perfect breasts that pressed against her blouse like two ripe melons. Not the porno, inflated balloon kind that looked like beach balls had been stuck to her chest, but the nice kind that filled up a large man’s hand and made his dick stand at attention when she wore a bathing suit.

  Yes, it was shallow, that poor Blaire—or was it me?—wanted a man to admire her for more than just her intellect and creative talent, but wasn’t feminism about wanting whatever the hell you wanted and not having to feel bad about it? In my version of events—which currently were the only ones that counted—it was, so Blaire could have perky tits, be breathtakingly beautiful and be smart.

  I didn’t mind being five-foot-six, my legs not as impressive as Blaire’s. Although there wasn’t a woman in her right mind that’d scoff and decline a few extra inches if offered. Not just in height, I’ll have you know. And while my breasts only achieved melon-sized greatness when aided by a well-fitted bra, my curves were well portioned in an old-school bombshell kind of way. Sure, I could diet, work out six hours a day, and become a size zero, but I valued joy, happiness and cookie dough over a skinny ass.

  Besides, my ass wasn’t so bad, it cushioned the blow whenever I landed on it, which was more often than I would have liked. I was being ironic of course, the landing on my ass more metaphorical than literal, which was why I had eaten a pint of New York Super Fudge Chunk ice cream straight from the tub as I typed the final words on Nick and Blaire’s adventures.

  I didn’t even bother changing his name, liking the way my fingers felt every time I typed it. N I C K, the letters on the screen enough to give me goosebumps.

  “Hey, are you done? I need something to read.” Scully walked in, her hand rubbing her swollen pregnant belly.

  Scully—her parents were massive X-Files fans, enough said—was one of my best friends/roommates. A sassy twenty-five-year-old who worked in the wardrobe department with one of the major networks despite being seven months pregnant. Baby Daddy had bailed after the second month, citing the need to go find himself before he became a dad and told Scully she’d have to raise the baby on her own. He was not only an asshole, but incredibly misinformed if he thought one of my BFFs was going to be doing ANYTHING alone when she had Luke and I.

  Luke—my other best friend/roommate—was Nick-Larsson-level hot. He could throw on a pair of jeans or a suit and make you want to write letters of thanks to the designer. But being handsome wasn’t the half of it. He could not only successfully pick the perfect fantasy football team every year based on stats, but also had a freakish ability to do all kinds of “stuff.” Be it unclog a drain, build an impressive investment portfolio, or know what kind of motor oil I needed for my Toyota, it was all in his wheelhouse.

  And when he wasn’t playing Superman, impressing us all with his male prowess of smarts and looks, he was a talented Production Buyer, getting to spend studio money for films on things I could only dream of. He had an incredible eye and an acute sense of detail, and when mixed with his charming personality and a devastating smile, it made him irresistible. And if it weren’t for the small detail that he preferred men to women, Scully and I probably would have battled to the death for him.

  So rather than some crazy sister-wife arrangement, we instead were fierce friends who shared space and adoration. It meant we could afford a decent three-bedroom house in Los Angeles, and we’d take care of each other in the event one of us fell on the skids. Case in point, the screenwriter who was writing fan fiction instead of a script.

  “I’m not sure if I’m honored or embarrassed you want to read the sordid tales of Nick and Blaire. I feel like it should be weird or something.” I hit print on the document and white sheets of my nonsense started spitting out on the printer tray.

  “Please, you have no shame. Don’t pretend like you care now.” She tapped her foot impatiently, like that would somehow make the pages print faster.

  “It’s unedited, and rough, and . . .” I bit my lip as my voice trailed off. Not really sure what else I wanted to say. “And different to the last one.”

  “Different how?” Scully raised an eyebrow, her hand circling her belly stopping mid-stroke.

  My feet hit the floor as I stood and stretched, my body tight from sitting at my keyboard for so long. “Like there is an actual storyline, not just a vehicle for me to have sexy time with fictional Nick.”

  “You mean for Blaire to have sexy time.” Scully grinned, pretending like there was still some mystery as to who Blaire really was.

  “Yes, Blaire.” I shook my head, finding it slightly ridiculous to be talking about myself in the abstract. “I just needed to write something good this time—funny, clever, emotional—if for no reason other than to prove that I’m not a shitty storyteller.”

  My self-esteem had taken a battering. And while my “private” writing gave me a much-needed mental vacation from the reality that I had yet to sell a script, I wanted to prove to myself—because no one outside our apartment was going to read it—that I could still craft a decent tale.

  Scully pulled me into a hug, her belly hindering the effort. “Stop being so hard on yourself. You know you’re a great writer and an amazing storyteller. Why else would I be sitting beside your printer waiting for an unedited manuscript? And I’m not trying to inflate your ego, but lately, this has been some of your best stuff. Not sure if it’s because of the subject matter or that he inspires you, but I swear I can’t put it down.”

  “New Blaire and Nick?” Luke stopped in the open doorway, a towel slung around his waist. “Print me off a copy too.”

  “Do not use it as jerk off material.” I narrowed my eyes as I added another copy to the printer’s list of jobs, knowing the appreciation for Nick’s fine form was one that was shared by Luke. Not that I blamed him, he wasn’t the kind of man easily ignored.

  Luke laughed, rubbing his hand down his muscular chest seductively. “I can’t help it if I feel inspired. Scully is right though, this is some of your best stuff.”

  I probably should have been offended. That the best writing I’d churned out recently was fantasy-induced scenarios that would probably never happen. But they were right. Nick inspired me, excited me, and lit a fire in me I hadn’t experienced in a while.

  He was . . .

  My. Muse.

  The human incarnation of my creativity, making my fingers fly across the keyboard with an ease I hadn’t ever experienced. Words poured out of me effortlessly, filling page after page that had previously sat empty.

  I wasn’t sure if it was the way he looked, his on-screen persona, or the fake reality I’d built in my head, but he unlocked a part of my brain that allowed magic to happen.

  And it wasn’t only restricted to my “creative” writing, I felt myself improving professionally as well. My dialogues weren’t as stale, my directions more precise, my scripts overall sharper than they had been before. So if nothing else, me “musing” him wasn’t a bad thing, right?

  No, of course not.

  Some people went into the desert, chanting naked, while eating peyote. I, on the other hand, conjured up fantasies—without the aid of hallucinogens—about a guy I barely knew.

  “Best stuff or not, I don’t want to know.” I waved my hand in Luke’s direction. “Read, enjoy and then banish it to the box with the others.” I patted a plastic storage tub that housed my previous Nick-themed-efforts. “Meanwhile, I’m going to watch the man on television for what is probably an inappropriate amount of time. And while doing that, I can decide which shitty writing job I can pick up for the next month so I can cover my share of the rent.”

  It had to count for something that I was still writing, right? And no matter how unimportant the job was, at least I hadn’t giv
en up. I hadn’t tossed it in and become a waitress just yet. Trust me, it would have definitely been easier, especially in a city that was pretty much paved with broken dreams.

  “You know, we can cover you.” Luke turned serious, the smile dropping from his lips.

  Scully shifted uncomfortably, and if the silence wasn’t enough to tip me off they’d discussed this before, the awkward sideways glances they shared did.

  I didn’t like it.

  Not one little bit.

  “You guys, you know I love you, but I don’t need your help. And I know you would cover me if things got desperate, but I’m an adult and I can pay my way like both of you.”

  I hadn’t even told my parents I’d hit the skids, preferring to syphon what was left of my savings than admit I couldn’t cut it in my chosen career. It helped they lived out of state, my dad, mom, brother and sister moving to Colorado years ago when my dad got transferred for work.

  “We know that, but both of us have steady jobs right now, and if the situation was reversed, you would help either of us, wouldn’t you?” Scully’s hand reached out, gripping my arm. “Besides, I’m probably going to need the two of you to help me out when this baby is born.” Her eyes dipped down to her belly.

  “She’s right, you know. And all we are offering to do is toss some cash at the situation to give you some breathing room. Scully here is brining a whole human into the mix. I figure floating you for a month or two is nowhere near as big an imposition.”

  Scully rubbed her belly, her smile returning as she—like Luke—tried to lighten the mood. “He’s full of shit, he can’t wait until this baby is born so he can finally have a legitimate excuse to watch kids movies and not look like a deviant.”

  “I like fucking animation, it’s an art form,” Luke fired back defiantly. “But yet a single guy walks in there and suddenly you’re a pedophile. Everyone is so fucking judgmental.”

  “In any case, I’m good. I know my big break is just around the corner. One of my scripts is bound to sell.” I summoned all the enthusiasm, trying hard to convince everyone in the room—including myself—that my low point was ending soon.