A Mess of Reason Read online

  A Mess of Reason

  By

  A. Wilding Wells

  Copyright 2015 A. Wilding Wells

  Smashwords Edition

  All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For more information, please contact A. Wilding Wells at [email protected].

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  A MESS OF REASON

  CHAPTER ONE

  SCOUT

  She doesn’t hear me when I walk into my bar, The Devil’s Tongue, because the new album I’ve just cut is blaring space-shuttle loud. I do, though, hear everything about her. Every parallel heartbeat, every dulcet breath. I hear the long sweeps of her honey-blond hair brushing across her slender shoulders as she turns her head in slow motion. I hear the swell of her sexy, gap-toothed smile kissing the width of her face. I hear the sway of her hips as though the devil himself has his hands on her flesh, taunting me with her fire. She moves like an angel frosted with light in front of the holographic concert video of me singing. Her liquid arms reaching out to touch my face, causing a short-circuit in my heart. I hear and practically feel her hand move down my image in a lustful sweep, slowly tracing along my lips, my neck…my chest. Then both hands on my hips as though she wants to hold me, as though she really is.

  Watching her startles me, truth be told, because all I’ve ever wanted is her.

  Tess Harlow.

  It’s like Christmas being in her presence. Like capturing the lights of a thousand fireflies in the palm of your hand.

  Sure, I’d had her in junior high, when we’d innocently made out behind the football stadium after my practices. But beyond a bit of messing around as teenagers? Nothing. I was in the friend zone, going in circles as if I had one oar in the water. We became best of friends and that’s the way it stayed. Now that we’re both rounding thirty—bona fide grown-ups—I do everything I can to keep her in my life; friendship the only way I get to be near Tess. I like to think of our relationship as a rough draft, one that needs fine-tuning and more enriched prose. So while it nearly kills me—and is not close to what I’d like to be with her—I man up and we just stay friends. What gives my life weight is knowing she can be in it.

  I’m sure you’re wondering why I haven’t strapped on a set in all these years and asked her to be my girl. You must think I’m a three-bagger. Fell out of the ugly tree…hit every branch on the way down? No teeth, threadbare toupee, tire around my gut that makes the Michelin man look anorexic? I almost wish. But then People magazine wouldn’t have just named me sexiest bachelor of the year, now would they?

  The translation for why there’s no us? Timing, fate, poorly dealt hand…choices? All of it. I wish it weren’t the case. But every time she’d broken up with someone, I was knee deep in a relationship. Should I have dumped that girl for Tess, only to have Tess tell me our “friendship” was too important to jeopardize? I don’t know if she’s ever wanted me in the way I’ve wanted her. Maybe in her heart she does only want to be friends.

  I, on the other hand, would put our chemistry in the nuclear fusion category. Friends? Fact is, guys don’t make great friends when the “friend” is all you see when you close your eyes, and there she is—on her back, rammed up against a wall, on her hands and knees, barely clad.

  You’ll love this one: she lost her virginity in high school to Striker Hart, my football buddy and best friend/lady killer. Talk about the shit card, right? You can imagine the sheer abundance of joy I felt when she called me and her BFF Roxanne Rigby the very next day, to get together and spill the details about it. Naturally I already knew, as Striker had given me the guy version, but Lord help me, to hear her version… I’ll tell you what, my seventeen-year-old balls were blue for a year after that. I swear to you, I have permanent damage.

  Maybe that’s my problem, come to think of it. I’m giving you the “guy-version” about us. Tess will give you her side, but I’m sure it’s going to be strictly about my “good-guy-BFF” status.

  BFF, to her—and likely you—means best friends forever. My version is a little more raw: best friends fucking. Call me a dog—she’s my filet mignon. Now for the hitch, the one I’d like to airbrush straight out of her life. The bane of my existence—her fiancé.

  The good news: she’s just moved back to our home town of Echo Mountain, as she’s handling all the technology on our cutting-edge holographic concert tour. Did I mention she’s a tech genius? Now for the bad news, otherwise known as the hitch or the thing that needs airbrushing out of our lives: Creed Luce. He’s the modern-day version of Kurt Cobain. As big of a deal in the music industry as I am, just on the flip side, so to say. Between us, he’s toe fungus. She’s not a stars-in–her-eyes kind of girl, so for the life of me, I have no idea what she sees in him. No doubt her self-editing skills need an update.

  *

  “Hey, beautiful, if you want to feel me up, just turn around and get that ambrosial tail end of yours over here…I’m right behind you, lover.”

  Thankfully I do get to touch her; in return, she punishes me with a bit of manhandling. She’s a ruthless flirt that makes me feel white-knighted.

  “Scout!”

  She’s racing over to me. A graceful tiny nymph…wearing five-inch heels and painted-on crimson leather leggings, a fringed gypsy shirt flying behind her like wings. Her angel face says love child of Mick Jagger and Brigitte Bardot. She’s my provocative wild heart…and yeah, BFF…wink, wink.

  “Your new stuff is sick! I suppose you caught me getting it on with you?”

  Did you catch that? She admits it…though she has no idea her words undress me. Guess what I’ll be doing in the shower later?

  “Yes, my sweet flame, I saw you in action…petting me, as it were. Did you need me to take you out back for a little frisk, some tickle pink?” Chunks of me fall away as she flashes her billboard-sized smile.

  “I’ve missed you and that naughty mouth of yours. Give me a kiss…get over here.”

  I spin her around as if she’s mine. And in my heart she is; she will never be anything but. I lay a devilish kiss on her velvety lips, holding her captive like a thief…until she halves us, though she stays in my embrace for what feels like forever. I cage her, overruling my better judgment. This is all I have—can you blame me for nursing my heart with her sensuous balm?

  “Sass…you’re scrumptious.” (“Sass” being the nickname I’ve always used with her—no explanation needed.)

  “Aww, you laying out bait, Casanova?”

  “Only to the ones I love, sweetheart.”

  She pierces my eyes, her veil of sooty lashes half masking her chocolate irises, which seemingly flow to the center of the earth. Her long-fingered hands hold my face while she tenderly strokes my cheekbones with her thumbs. My heart thrums in audacious skips. I’m doing all I can to remind myself it’s a marathon, not
a sprint.

  “Speaking of the ones you love, how’s that dick-dungeon-of-a-fish-mitten that you’re shackled to? Where’s she jetting off to these days? Shopping in Paris for more of those I’m-so-cute-and-preppy tight little skirts?”

  Does she offend you? It can happen. While she’s drop-dead dazzling, charming, and über-successful, Tess came pre-programmed with that wicked-lewd mouth. There’s no taming this one. Call it rebellion: her mother was a timid, rightist Sunday school teacher. Tess…she’s a big golden heart with a razor-edged wit that could slice cream pie sliver thin. Just don’t get in her way. That “person” who she’s currently sharp shooting would be my girlfriend, Liberty Storm.

  “Darlin’, I can see you’re not gonna need that Ronco knife sharpener I got you for your birthday.” Tess is repulsed by Liberty. Loathes, abhors…and is downright allergic to her. They are opposite end of the spectrum sort of women. Tess is authentic to the core, right down to the hilarious snort that spills out of her when she laughs. Liberty is the studio manufactured pop-icon of our time. Everything about her is plastic, planned, and in place, like a Martha Stewart brunch. From her bouncy faux tits to her sweep of platinum hair that’s blown out daily, she’s the sort of woman who checks her reflection in everything from the toaster, to the passing bald guy’s head, to the back of the spoon she’s eating crème brûlée from. I’ll admit she might be a little “gates down, lights flashin’…train’s not comin’.”

  “She’s on tour…the lower states,” I said.

  “Do I need to start vetting your women? It’s like you won the antiseptic bingo and she was the door prize. Speaking of lower states, you can fill me in later on all the fine fuckery you must get with her notorious V.A.G.”

  “Tess, you almost sound jealous.” I grab her ass with both hands. I told you, have a free pass on touching, though I never cross the line.

  “Of course I’m jealous. You’re rocking a teen idol’s Easy Bake Oven. I’m entirely perplexed by your relationship. Next thing you know, you’ll be in a boy band. Don’t embarrass me; I might have to un-best-friend you.”

  She smacks me in the tush with all her muster and I swear to you all I want to do is drag her into my back office, toss her over the arm of the couch, yank down her sexy panties, and fuck her seven ways ’til Sunday.

  “Oh, my sweet Sass. This is just one of the many reasons I adore you. That mouth, that naughty-girl mouth of yours, it’s just…”

  “Go ahead…say it. It’s fuckable. You know it.”

  I don’t need to tempt you with the seductive, Oscar-worthy, lip-licking dramatization she’s portraying. Temptation on a stick. Naughty girl. But I love her…all of her.

  “Is that how your mack daddy sees it, Tess? Does he love fucking your mouth, sweetheart?”

  “He’s my fiancé, joker. Speaking of which, you haven’t seen my rock. Look at this thing! Not that I care, but he had to have spent half a mil on it, right? Have you ever seen anything more blingy-blinding gaudy-licious in your life? I feel like Liz Taylor. I would have been fine with a gumball-machine prize. We could feed half the world’s starving children with this. It’s like he doesn’t get that part of me, right?”

  She says that, but still she’s with him? Help me. The thing is, he gets all the parts of her I want… It makes me want to fillet his cock and serve it to my dog.

  “That’s a very ‘small dick ring’ of him. Must be one those guys who’s trying to make up for his corn kernel with a planet-sized ring, right? Leaving a lot of open space in your lower theme park, Tess?”

  She throws her arms around my waist like she’s seven years old and I’m Santa, and it melts me.

  “I’ve missed you so much. I love being with you, my kaleidoscope man. You really are my true everything…because everything’s more fun with you.”

  I’m a guy’s guy, but I swear to you, I want to cry right now. Little man-baby tears. Did you hear her?

  “You’re mine too, sweetheart…mine too.” I kiss the top of her head, breathing in her scent. She’s home for my heart…for all my senses.

  “You know what?” Doe-eyed, batting her excessively long lashes, she slays me again. “I still have that gumball-machine ring you gave me for my sixteenth birthday when you told me you were going to marry me someday. Do you remember giving it to me? You put it inside a Twinkie and made me eat it in front of you like I was giving a blow job, and I cracked my tooth on the damned thing. My mother nearly lost her shit, but then your dad paid to have my tooth capped.”

  She’s all smiles, showing me her capped tooth, touching it with the tip of her tongue—as if I’d ever forget it.

  “I wish you hadn’t been dating Roxanne back then because I swear to you, I was crushin’ so hard on you. I never told you this, but I would have lost my virginity to you if you hadn’t been screwing her…my other best friend!” A slap comes flying at me, along with a pooling of what feels like wet clay in the bottom of my belly from her admission. She really said that.

  “Of course I remember. How could I forget? I think I blew twenty bucks in quarters until a ring came out. I’m still going to marry you someday. Wait, no I’m not…you’re engaged to that bag of dicks, Creed.”

  “Very funny, jerk-off.” It’s the dance we do. The conversation of flirtation. It’s the tiny drop of water on the pond’s surface that first hits with small, bleeding circles that keep expanding exponentially.

  “Sorry. You had that coming. Hey, can we sit and have a beer if we’re going to start talking about the fact that you would have let me have my way with you back then? I think I need a little buzz to wrap my cock around that one. I wish you hadn’t just told me that… Jesus Lord, Tess, I’m a guy. You don’t say that shit to a guy. Even if he’s your best friend. I still have a full package down there, okay? I might need that ammo working for me someday.”

  “Oh Scout, come on, don’t play that hand with me! You were having your way with anything that had female DNA in high school. I was your only non-target.”

  “Harsh, Sass. Boy, you like to ride me hard, woman!”

  “Oh, brother, you’ve never had a ride like me.” She giggles and waggles her eyebrows at me as we walk over to the bar. I go directly behind it—mission: hide my hard-on, which is titanium right now. You see what I mean? She messes with my head…just the wrong one, I’m afraid.

  “Shooter with your beer?” I ask as I pour us each a few shots, then slide them across to her side.

  “Yeah, hello…why would you even ask? Oh Lord, never mind. I have to remind myself you’ve been tamed by the shrew. Miss Ever-Lasting-Cum-Stopper probably drinks wine coolers or Long Island iced teas. Bartender…get me my regular!”

  With a raucous, booming laugh, she slams the palms of her hands on the bar top.

  “Well, if Liberty dies of rat poisoning, at least I know you’ll look hot in that orange jumpsuit you’ll be wearing ’till you’re ninety.”

  “Oh, such a tender pookie bear.”

  A solid Joe Louis jab, with a Sinatra wink wrapped in a Marilyn Monroe kiss blown straight at me. This is my woman, all right.

  “Hey, cheers, baby.” I raise my glass to her. “I’m glad you’re back. In all seriousness…thanks for believing in me and dropping everything to get this ramped up. You realize this is a game changer, right? And it’s all you.”

  “Cheers, my darling. It’s all us…and, just for the record, I will always believe in you. I’ve got your back. You’ve had mine more times than I can count…this is the least I can do for you. Let’s face it. Creed and your little plastic-wrapped candy apple are on the road all the time anyway. This’ll be like old times! My two best friends, raunch-filled conversation, and now we’re legal and loaded! What’s the downside? Bottoms up, lover!”

  She sinks back her tequila, chasing it with half a beer.

  The downside, my beauty, is that you’re in a fogged glass bubble that’s as far out of my reach as I can imagine. I wish you would use your gaudy engagement ring to cut a hole t
hrough the glass to be able see me.

  CHAPTER TWO

  TESS

  It might only be a holograph video, but it’s him: my hell-raiser-hot Scout. The one guy who sends me into joyness overload, who has owned my heart since the very first kiss he placed on my lips in the eighth grade. He’s the guy who makes me crazy enough to want to run around in squares. He loves me, adores me…in the “friend” way.

  A girl just knows these things, because if he wanted me, then when we kiss, he’d make love to my mouth. I end up pulling away because it never happens. Never. Never, as in “You will never see a prostitute that looks like Julia Roberts” never. He never opens his lips and gets carried away with me like I’ve seen him do with more girls than I care to count. Being near him makes my belly flip-flop in roller-coaster loops that I can’t wrap my brain around. Still, to this day, all these years later, he does this to me. It’s science fair chemistry.

  Scout Steele. Billboard magazine calls him the top crossover multi-genre artist of our time. A country-rock star who has a penchant for mixing in a little rap and hip-hop here and there. Too handsome for his own good. Six-foot-three. Full head of short, jet-black hair. Ice-blue eyes. All-state quarterback in high school, full ride to Alabama. Ripped, bombed, chiseled, with guns that make Michelangelo’s David look like a twelve-year-old girl. God help us all.

  Hell, I’m engaged to a foxy guy whom girls literally throw themselves at—though Creed and I don’t share the kind of chemistry that Scout and I do. Why, then, am I getting married, you ask? Simple: Creed fits my current plan. He’s a little rough around the edges but not a bad guy. Here’s the thing. I’m twenty-eight going on “aging ovaries” with no other prospects. I figure, per the song, love the one you’re with, right? I have a need, he can fulfill it—this is part business deal. Life business, that is.