A Mess of Reason

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.

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Wilding Wells at [email protected].

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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.”