12 Inches (Size Matters 1)

Can’t fucking blame her though. A part of me is waiting to fuck this up myself.

“It’s going great, CJ,” I say, looking at her and pouring some red wine into her glass. Drink up, my dear PA, I’m not a lost cause.

“Yeah?” Cheryl asks me, and I flash her a smile and pour some red wine into her glass as well.

“Yeah,” Abby says, reaching for my hand under the table and giving it a squeeze. “The first draft is almost ready. And, I don’t mean to brag but… I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.”

“It is,” I agree, leaning back against my chair as two waiters make their way to our table and start piling up a variety of dishes in front of us. I order one more bottle of red wine—the first one is already empty—and then turn my attention back to Cheryl and CJ. “I know that the two of you are worried about this book, but I think that what we have is pretty good.”

“Well, as long as you know that both of your careers are at stake…” CJ says, exchanging a glance with Cheryl. Great.

“Thanks for being the ray of sunshine, babe,” Abby says, sticking her tongue out at her PA.

Underneath the table she takes my hand in hers.

I think that they’re finally starting to realize that this collaboration might turn into a win for everyone involved. And thank God for that; the last thing I want is to go back to some seedy gym on the outskirts of fucking Queens.

Still, I know that deep down both the PA’s are fucking worried. They don’t know how to act around Abby and I, partly because we don’t make a secret out of what’s going on between us—whatever it is. Both Cheryl and CJ know that Abby spends most nights at my place and, even though we always use the “late night writing” excuse, it’s pretty clear to everyone involved what’s going on. But while our PA’s think our personal relationship puts the working one at risk, I know that it’s exactly the opposite: our personal relationship is what’s fueling our writing. And when I say ‘fuel’, I mean that when we finally ship this thing out, the book will be so scorching hot readers will need to wear protective gloves when handling it. We pulled no fucking punches in this one; every word is brimming with raw sexual energy.

“To our careers, then,” I say out loud, raising my glass. The girls all do the same, and that initial awkwardness fades away like it was never there in the first place.

“To our careers,” Abby repeats, and I notice Cheryl looking at her with a satisfied look on her face. No wonder—Abby has changed a lot since we met, and Cheryl has already realized that. No more man hating, and a new outlook on sex. If you wanna use an expensive fucking word to describe what this collaboration is doing to her, I’d use ‘catharsis’. Yeah, I might look like the reincarnation of Apollo himself, but I also have a brain and know how to use it, even though I mostly use it to think of Abby’s naked body, and all of the deliciously wicked things I want to do to her.

To be honest, writing is as tough as chewing nails; it seems that I can’t even write a paltry one hundred words without being distracted by the smooth curve of her hips. Maybe that’s why we fuck away most of our productive hours. It’s a wonder our first draft is almost done.

“By the way, I’ve booked a session with Mistress Strokes for you,” CJ tells me, devouring the sweet potatoes on her plate. She might be skinny, but she eats almost as much as I do. The wonders of metabolism, I guess.

“The photographer, right? When?”

“Next week,” she says, and then turns to Abby. “I think you should go with him, Abby. Since we’re going the self-publishing route, I think it’d be nice to have your input on all aspects of this production.”

“Makes sense,” she replies, looking at me with that irresistible smile of hers. Fuck, thank God Cheryl and CJ are here with us, or else I think I’d just get up grabbing Abby and bending her over the table.

“Well, I’m glad we’re all getting along,” CJ continues, but I notice a slight hesitation in her voice. No matter how great things are going, I guess she still can’t fucking shake off the feeling that everything’s going to implode sooner or later. I can’t really blame her, though; I’ve been wrecking every single connection in the publishing industry, and she has a hard time believing that trend is going to change. It’s my job to prove her wrong, and I’ll do it, trust me. “It’s going to take a few more weeks, but I figure we’ll be ready for launch in no time.”

I look at her, letting her words sink in. I’m actually publishing a book; can you believe this shit? I never asked for it; I was happy enough with my job, which was to get people to press Buy, but I’m actually glad I had the chance to do this. Writing is more enjoyable than I assumed it’d be and, more important than that, it was what made Abby and I cross paths.

The only drawback to all this? In a few weeks we’re going to be done with the novel, and then… Well, fuck me if I know, but I’m not looking forward to the moment when we go our separate ways.

13

Abby

“Your shirt, take it off,” Mistress Strokes says flatly, casually adjusting the lens in one of the dozens of cameras laid in a half-circle. Aidan walks in front of the large white canvas hanging from the wall and, grabbing his shirt,

pulls it over his head.

The blue-haired woman goes to the wall, the one opposite to where I’m standing, and fumbles around with the electrical board, flipping up the switches. The overhead light projectors turn on, and Aidan’s ripped muscles gleam under the bright lights. He stretches lazily, his pectorals and washboard abs pushing against his skin and making my heart beat faster. It doesn’t matter how many times I see his naked body… I just can’t get enough.

I look at Mistress Strokes, the photographer, wondering why she isn’t paying any attention to Aidan. I mean, if it were me, I’d be ogling him like crazy. But she’s more concerned with her cameras than with Aidan’s body and, if you ask me that works just fine. I’m not the jealous type, but I prefer to have no competition.

“Alright, show time,” she tells Aidan, hunched behind a camera and peering through the lens. “Let’s do a trial run, you know how this goes,” she continues, this time snapping picture after picture.

My eyes are glued to Aidan now, watching every move of his. He flows from pose to pose gracefully, exposing his muscles from different angles. Even though there’s a serious, don’t-fuck-with-me expression on his face, I can tell he’s glad to be back in the studio. He took to writing pretty easily, but modeling was his bread-and-butter for a long time.

“Alright, good,” Mistress Strokes whispers to herself, going up to her feet and turning to me. “Abby, right?” She turns to me and offers me her hand, a kind smile dawning on her lips. I take her hand, shaking it, and nod. “Big fan,” she admits, her cheeks flushing slightly, and then she clears her throat. “Anyway, how do you want to handle this? Have you decided on a theme?”

“Yeah, the theme has to be scorching hot,” Aidan cuts in, walking over to us with a gait to his step. “There’s going to be a lot of fire in the novel, and we want the cover to reflect that.”