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And Then?

Adventures of the Billionaire, the Dancer, and her Boyfriend

By [Bad] Ideas for Writers (& Life)Published 2 years ago 4 min read
2
And then...?

Her: Can I bring something up?

Me: Just not about my work.

Her: It’s my work.

We are in bed and I turn to her. What happened?

Our bed is small and there are too many pillows (feather free).

Not that anything happened.

But…

I am drawing her out.

But a new guy, kind of a regular, but new — to me — he made me sit with him.

Did he touch you?

Of course he touched me. I sat on his lap.

Didn’t ask, don’t tell.

You did ask.

So what then?

He asked me questions. About what my real dreams are. That kind of shit. Bought me a Cuban drink with a lime.

Alcohol?

They made it with soda instead.

And then?

And then I told him I was you.

This gets my attention.

You said, I’m Hank. You’re Hank.

He knows my name is Claire.

You told him your real name?

He thinks I’m writing a novel.

But I’m not even writing a novel.

You are so.

It’s not officially started.

Well, Russell thinks I’m writing a novel and he has offered to pay to read it.

He can buy it. When it’s done.

Hank, he’s offering to pay me more than the cost of a book. He wants me to share my writing with him as I go. Like a chapter a week. Or whatever.

Except you aren’t writing anything at all.

Look…

And she pulls her purse onto the bed and fishes out an envelope. Then she slips out 20 hundred dollar bills.

He paid me two thousand to see the first chapter.

Is he a publisher?

He said he is visiting for a year to take care of a home in Beverly Park, said it belongs to the richest man in Lebanon.

He’s paying you to fuck him in that home.

She gets mad at this and tells me she can handle him. I tell her this is what he wants, and she needs to be smart about it. She wants to know if I’ll help her or not.

Me: You want me to write a novel that feels like it was written by you so you can feed it to him a chapter at a time for thousands of dollars while he keeps his dick in his pants?

Claire: A way for us to make some money.

I got up and went to the window and looked out at the tree. The part of Los Angeles we live in has views with tree. Not trees. With one tree. We’re down the hill from the hills of Beverly. Way down.

Me: Does he want to own it?

No.

How long should it be?

Until he stops paying.

About what?

Whatever your mood to write.

It can’t be my real book.

No.

Then she added: Write your book, don’t stop. Do this on the side. Like a job. We need the money.

Should I meet him?

No.

Tell me about him so I can make your story tickle him.

Tickle me first.

She grabs my hand and lunges toward the bed where she lays down and, after sliding out of her sweatshirt, plays dead. It’s a game she likes. She closes her eyes and pretends she’s on a big dining table and she wants me to be a whole bunch of people eating dinner — which just means pretending to nibble on her from different directions — catching her off guard.

I eat as much of her as I can.

Four days a week Claire leaves at four in the afternoon and comes back at three in the morning. I’ve never been the jealous type, and we can talk about that later. Three days a week she doesn’t go to her job, but she’s rarely here, at our place with the tree view.

Our place is a two bedroom flat in the heart of it all. If the fringe is the heart. West Hollywood.

Her: I want eggs.

She craves eggs after a night of drinking.

Me: We’ll stop at Joe’s.

We are walking along Santa Monica Boulevard.

Her: Have you thought about the story?

The one for your mystery louse?

He’s not a louse.

I do this. I upset her with what’s meant to be a playful remark but is, of course, a stab.

Her: Don’t do it.

Me: I’ll do it.

Her: I’ll write it. You’ll teach me how.

To be continued...

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About the Creator

[Bad] Ideas for Writers (& Life)

Stuff from 25+ years in Hollywood trenches. Also producing stand-up comedy tours, mostly in the Middle East and Asia with comedians from LA and NYC (for the most part) bridging cultures through laughter. They say I'm a dreamer…

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