Page 47 of Our Little Cliche

Chapter Forty-Six

HOLLY

One risqué text, a misconstrued choking episode, a six course meal, and far too many champagnes later, it’s safe to say that I am buzzed. Horny buzzed.

…Yeah.

That.

I can’t believe I sent that text, right under the noses of two members of Riverton House Publishing— without being noticed .

Fuck, it was hot: defying the odds of getting caught sexting her boss.

Clumsy Holly? Who? Where? Not here! I’m a skilled woman now, nothing can stop me—one who can type out a naughty message without looking at the same time as having a professional conversation about em dashes, without batting an eyelid.

Em dashes. Pfft. These new reports showing authors are being wrongly accused of using Artificial Intelligence in their writing if they use em dashes is quite frankly the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.

I’ve been reading books since before I could walk, those little lines aren’t new!

At least I know Cyrus doesn’t use AI… that plot is literally us .

Not a story generated by an emotionless eBrain.

Goddamn that book.

Goddamn that man.

I certainly wasn’t expecting the reaction my text had: Cyrus coughing up a lung, and then some old fart thinking he was choking?

Exceptional. Hands down the best entertainment of the night.

But in my defense, Cyrus really does look good.

He’s absolutely fucking delicious in that suit.

I needed him to know how much my body craves him again. And again. And again.

I’d even sit on his lap to prove a point.

Right now…

In front of everyone here. It’d be easy, I’m not wearing underwear… again. Hmm, this seems to be a trending thing with me, doesn’t it?

Instinctively, my legs clench together, only making the pulsing sensation worse.

I could stir the plot a little more. Come to think of it, I do actually have another text written for him that I didn’t get to send earlier saying I want you to unbuckle your pants for me.

Don’t ask questions. When you’re done, turn your knife at a 180 degree angle.

Maybe it’s the champagne talking, but I would risk it all to give him head under the table in a public setting.

Something about it just has my veins vibrating with enticement.

Maybe I could send it now… see how he reacts to it.

See how well he can keep it together, or will he fold like a fucking chair for me?

Should I?

No. That’s absurd.

“Damn this drink is strong. I’ll take another,” Stacy, the woman beside me says, interrupting my orgasmic mind boggles.

I haven’t held much of a conversation with anyone since I left Australia other than Susan, so when Stacy Pollac — a loud, energetic, fire cracking redheaded romantasy author, and graphic designer for the Riverton House—started filling my ears with sexy shifters, knotting, and big monster cocks I locked in pretty quickly, hitting it off with her like two peas in a pod.

I feel good. Happy. Electric, even. I feel like I’m in the right place.

“Yes. It is,” I agree, holding up my once again empty flute glass for a refill too, laughing at the matter of needing to say, do or feel something, anything else before I send that text. “I’ll have another too, please, Mr. Sir.”

Mr. Sir? Really, Holly?

Maybe I should slow down…

NAAAAH!

The waiter fills our glasses with an amused grin spread on his face. “Uhh— Thank you,” I say, trying to recover my wits.

“You’re welcome… Mrs. Ma’am.”

“Just keep this corner of the table coming, okay?” Stacy giggles.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Holly, we have to hang out one day. What’s your snapchat?”

“Snapchat?” My eyes spring wide. Are people still using that bloody app?

Suddenly, I feel old. Is thirty four the new fifty?

“I haven’t used it since… far out, 2014.

” Stacy isn’t much younger than me, but I guess she’s into technology and what not.

And going out stylish and all, is in with the trends and TikTok’s or whatever.

“Insta?”

Am I the odd one out for not having much of a social media presence other than creating a fake profile to stalk Adam’s side bitch?

“Uhh, no…?” I say sheepishly. Why did it come out as a question?

Her eyes roll sarcastically. Yep, I’m definitely the odd ball.

But Instagram’s so weird! What am I going to post?

Cute Matcha coffees that I don’t even drink?

Stylish flat lays and get ready with me’s , or bimbo bikini photos on the beaches of Gold Coast of Australia, pretending that my body is like the rest of the Instagram girls?

No thank you.

“Surely you’re on Facebook, then?”

“Now, that I do have.”

Stacy and I exchange details, and in the back of my mind I genuinely hope that we actually see each other outside of this event.

Stacy, well, her real name is Renee but she doesn’t like to be called that, seems like an amazing person.

She is polar opposite to me, but a breath of fresh air.

And it feels nice to actually share a connection with someone. Other than Cyrus, of course.

“What do you do when you’re not writing one of your naughty little books, or at the publishing house? You seem like the type that would rarely be home. Always on the go.”

She laughs. “What gives it away?”

“Your energy, I guess,”

“Well, you’re not wrong. I DJ at a gay bar.”

“Oh, that’s awesome!”

“Yeah, it is. I love it there, it’s become my home. Plus I’m… gay.” She pauses, rubbing her hand along her arm as if in shame, then her eyes drop to her lap. “Sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. Are you not comfortable talking about it? We can talk about something else if you want.”

“No it’s not that. You’re so easy to talk to, eh. I’ve only ever told a few people, but what you say in the club, stays in the club ya know? I haven’t even told my parents. And it’s why I don’t like to be called Renee, because I don’t feel that Renee is me. I am Stacy.”

I swallow, feeling terribly guilty that she’s opened up to me so vulnerably.

I’ve just met someone who feels that I am her safe space, and yet I cannot reciprocate it for my own bloody secrets would cost me my career, and Cyrus’s.

Meaning, as much as I so desperately want…

and need a friend, I cannot truly be one for Stacy. And that just fucking hurts.

“I can fully get that. You’re so lucky to have such supportive friends there that make you feel safe and welcome. That’s so special to have. And your readers too I’m sure of it,”

“Yeah. That’s why I write what I do. It’s for the gay community.

I create women who make other women climax with their magical minds.

I compose men who shape shift, and can grow cocks the size of A4 journals depending on how far the other male is prepared to explore.

I write queer romances that are open and public about their sexuality to escape the reality of closeting my own.

And I write it as fantasy because that’s all I can imagine.

I have nothing to go by…” She gulps, chewing on her words as though they’re acid.

“I haven’t been with a… well, I haven’t been with anyone for that matter. What kind of gay does that make me?”

I let her question stew in my mind for a moment, unsure if she’s venting that she hasn’t been intimate with a woman, or guilty that she hasn’t been with a man because it’s the societal norm. “You will when you’re ready. You don’t have to have sex to prove you’re who you are.”

“Holly,” her eyes soften, like something has finally clicked into place. “I’ve been in intensive therapy, taking antidepressants for seven years , and no one has ever been this honest, nor made this much fucking sense. Thank you,”

“You’re welcome. Well hey, I can’t wait to read one of your shifter books,” I say truthfully. “Where can I get a copy? I didn’t see you at the signing today.”

I trail off, thinking about Cyrus—a man who to me sometimes isn’t human just like the men Stacy writes about. He’s like a giant bear, with a… well… not an A4 size ding dong, but he certainly isn’t small.

My big bear.

I lean over the table to my left, seeing that Cyrus is still talking with the old man who tried performing the Heimlich on him.

God, I’m so incredibly lucky. He loves so good it hurts.

The way he opens doors for me, cooks for me, brushes my hair, plaits it too.

He rubs my back, he buries me in blankets, he makes sure I cum first, and wants to know me on a deeper level that I never knew existed in men.

Cyrus is a real man .

“I’d love that, Holly. Where are you staying? If you’re nearby I can give you one tomorrow if you’re around, or I can always post it to you.”

“I’m staying here with—” Not with Cyrus… definitely not staying in the same hotel room as my boss… totally not in the same bed as her work colleague. “Myself.”

“Really? Why don’t we catch up tomorrow if you’re free?”

“That sounds…” Why do I feel like I’m about to cry? “Perfect. I’d love that.”

We spend a few more drinks talking about her upbringing, and her vulnerability being gay. Everyone deserves to feel free to be who they are, and being cooped up in a closet is no place for a woman like her. I’ve only known her for a few hours and already I feel like we’re best friends.

“What if the world doesn’t accept me the way I am, Holly?”

“What if the world does? This is all new. When you experience new feelings, new becomes different, then different becomes familiar. Then, one day, familiar becomes home. And home , is you.”

“Wow. That-that’s amazing. Have you considered writing books? You have a way with words. You could change brain chemistry talking like that, I know you have mine!”

“It’s on my bucket list to write a romance book, definitely.” I smile, thinking about the only kind of love I ever want to write about until I’m in my grave. The love of Cyrus and I. It’s a hot minute by the time I speak again. “By the way, you’re not missing out on much,”

“Hmm?”

“Men…” I deadpan, mentally directing the dig about Adam. I’m so glad that she doesn’t have to ever experience someone like him, or any man like that for that matter. His sex was sub zero.

“Oh, is it that bad?” Stacy queries, shuffling in closer as if it’s story time, and making me giggle.

What a perfect opportunity to shit on my ridiculous, pea sized brain of an ex boyfriend.

“My ex was,” I allude, regret quickly sinking in.

As much as I love the idea of bitching about Adam, it’ll be hard to stop there.

I wish I could tell her everything about me, I really do.

I feel like I’ve had so much bottled inside of me that it’s like I’m an actual cage, trapping in all of the toxins of how I got here in the first place.

A story that normal people would tell their friends about.

But I can’t tell anyone anything! Because the people I know here, know Cyrus, and everyone I know at home, wouldn’t listen…

or care. Sure, I could tell Stacy that I got cheated on, got white-girl wasted and of how I got here, leaving everything behind, got a house with no furniture…

but then what? How do I continue on from that, because there is nothing else to tell without saying what has filled my life from then on: getting snowed in with my boss who I’m so madly in love with, that we’re fully incognito about it, how sex can be so fucking good that it hurts, how I live with him and have completely neglected the house I still pay for with no furniture in it—furniture that I don’t even care about anymore.

But I can’t. Because anything that I bring up would have to be a complete and total lie.

Everything .

And what kind of friendship would that be, if it’s based on only lies?

I draw down several gulps of yet another champagne until nothing is left at the bottom as if it’ll give me the strength to actually not give a damn.

“Ah. Without being a total ass myself explaining it, he was an ass. An ass who left me for another woman. Who couldn’t make me cum to save my life.

Who made me move states for him. Who never put the toilet seat down and just played stupid games all day.

Let’s just say, I’m so lucky he’s out of my life for good, because where I am now, is where I’m meant to be. ”

“Well, shit. Let’s drink to that then, hey?”

“Let’s.”