Faking
Lucky
by
Q. D. Purdu
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
Desdemona,
a pianist in the Austin life-music scene, is channel-surfing when she
stumbles upon the program Marriage Exposure. The trashy
television show gets people to spill all the secrets of their sex
lives, and Desdemona’s ex-boyfriend just happens to be a guest. To
her shock and horror, Desdemona’s ex announces on national
television that he dumped her because she never got the big O. “She
faked…,” he says. Every single time.
Her
life is wrecked! If her friends, family and colleagues haven’t seen
the interview yet, they will.
How
do you survive a scandal like this? How did he know she faked? And
why is it that in the bedroom, Desdemona never, ever gets lucky?
The
lovable, creative and quirky heroine tackles these challenges. As
Desdemona tries to run damage control on her reputation, she begins
to explore her sexuality. Along the way, she will get a second chance
at genuine love.
Q.
D. Purdu’s Finding Lucky won first place in the
romance category of the Texas Writers’ League. Desdemona’s quest
for the Big O is full of hilarious moments, handsome men, and
heartfelt memories.
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Chapter
1
So I’m
home alone on Saturday night in my flannel PJs, relaxed on my denim sofa, eating
fudge and brazil nuts, and channel surfing. Jewelry
channel—maybe a flashy gem would jazz up my life. Gag—tonight it’s cameos. Sex in the City—I bet they all faked it,
even Samantha. Marriage Exposure—where
do they find people who will go on television and argue about their sex lives?
Wait.
I don’t
believe my eyes. It looks like Burt on Marriage
Exposure. I raise the volume and edge closer to the screen. It is him, the same
reddish-brown hair and sharp features. He’s even wearing his favorite green-striped
polo shirt. I haven’t seen him in a year, and he’s wearing that same shirt. The
short-haired woman sitting next to him has her hands covering her face. She’s wailing
something like, “You never loved me! You never loved me!”
It can’t
be. Burt’s in an L-word relationship? I edge closer to the screen, hardly breathing.
Burt
pulls at the back of his neck with one hand, the way he always does when he’s
stressed, and looks down toward his feet. “I wouldn’t have married you if I didn’t
love you.” Unbelievable. He’s married to her.
She uncovers
her red, puffy face and leans close to him. “You never loved me.” Spit flies out
with her words. “You’ve always loved…” She gives a big, gasping sob and then slowly,
distinctly blurts out my name. “…Desdemona. With…with…her beautiful dark eyes. Her
perfect body. Her incredible piano playing.” More spit with the p’s. “Her long,
thick raven hair.” She raises both hands to her head and pulls at her brownish spikes.
No. I
must have misheard.
But she
repeats my name, dragging out each syllable as if it causes her physical pain. “Des…de…mon…a.”
Could
Burt have dated another Desdemona?
Something
mushes between my toes. Fudge under my foot oozes out onto my creamy-white lamb’s-wool
throw, which is now on the floor. I must have stood when she wailed my name. Brazil
nuts are all over the floor.
Burt takes
her by the shoulders. “Jenny, no.” He always was considerate of everyone’s feelings.
“I could never love Desdemona. She…she’s a freak. She fakes orgasms.”
A crazy
giggle snakes its way up from my chest. Is
this really happening? How could he have known? Guys can’t really tell, can they?
The giggle morphs into a nauseated groan. Am I dreaming? Drugged? In a parallel universe? Has Burt just announced
my unspeakable flaw to the world?
And so what if I don’t get the big O
every, single time? Well, I guess I hardly ever get it…OK—I got it three times,
and it would have been four if my vibrator had not quit working. But I’m not
even twenty-seven yet—far from the sexual peak of forty.
At some
point during the last minute my phone has started buzzing. My autopilot eyes glance
at it. Friends are texting me about Burt being on TV. So there is something worse
than being a nonorgasmic faker. It’s being a nonorgasmic faker and having the whole
world know it.
A loud
animallike howl shocks the breath out of me. What is that? I freeze and listen for a split second before I realize
the roar is coming from me.
I muffle
my howls, hoping I haven’t alarmed my landlady, who lives in the attached
duplex. With foot in fudge and phone facedown, I’m transfixed.
Burt embraces
his sobbing wife and mutters endearments. The MC hoofs it into the audience, whose
members are clamoring to speak into the microphone.
A long-haired,
leather-vested guy gets the first shot. “Hey, Burt.” He’s got an oily, smooth voice—could
be a talk-show host himself. “Ah, maybe you just ain’t man enough for Mona.”
Mona. I hate when people call me Mona. But
this could be good. Maybe the world will forget my real name. Yes! Mona.
Next a
clean-cut, older guy steps up and glares at the leather vest. “Des. De. Mon. A.
Not Mona.” Crap. “You should be respectful
enough to pronounce her complete name.”
The audience
interrupts with hoots that could be boos or cheers or random insanity. The MC
swings the mic toward an elderly lady, but the clean-cut guy jerks him back. “I’m
not finished. The first gentleman—” He rolls his eyes toward the leather vest. “—was
correct about one thing.”
The impatient
grandma reaches for the mic, and the MC blocks her hand and tries to hurry the clean-cut
guy, who looks like he’s gearing up for a long lecture. “If Desdemona is not satisfied,
it’s clearly a sign of the male’s lack of technique. Research shows…”
Grandma’s
hand darts between the two men and snatches the mic. She runs down an aisle
with the MC in pursuit. “Burt!” Her voice is surprisingly loud and shrill. “Did
you ask Desdemona what’s a matter?” She screams out questions as the MC chases,
grabbing futilely for the mic. “Did you ask her why?” This elderly woman
sprints like a teenager. “How do you know she faked? Did you go down?” The audience
is out of control now.
In a shuffle
of arms, a tall, skinny guy commandeers the mic. “Hey, Desdemona.” It’s as if he’s
looking straight at me—in the room with me—seeing me. “Come to me.” Hairs skitter
across the back of my neck. “I’ll get you there, baby.”
Somehow
the MC has produced a second mic that overrides the other one and muffles the
noise of the audience. “Thanks for being with us for another shocking episode of
Marriage Exposure. Tune in tomorrow for
an unbelievable brother-in-law who sneaks into bed with his own brother’s wife—”
He pauses, moves close to the camera, and raises both eyebrows several times. “—without
her knowing it. You’re not going to want to miss this.”
The camera
pans over the audience that is now chanting, “Desdemona, Desdemona, Desdemona…”
A diet-pill
commercial is halfway over before I shake off the shock enough to silence the TV.
Eleanor, my cat, is batting a Brazil nut across the floor. My phone rings. Ugh. It’s Mom. I grab the phone and the ruined
lamb’s wool, scoop up the nuts, and hop toward the kitchen to stick my foot in the
sink. I would ignore my mother, but if I don’t answer, she’ll call my landlady to
come over and make sure I’m not bound and gagged, unconscious, or murdered.
How will I deal with my mother’s shock about
Burt’s revelation?
“Mija,
where are you?”
“Home.”
“Alone?”
She’d like me to be married and have several kids by now. Alone is never a word she welcomes.
“Yes.”
“On Saturday
night—home alone? With all there is to do in Austin?”
“Yes.”
She lets
a long silence hang. I would normally fill it with disclaimers about being too tired
to go out or the last-minute cancellation of my gig tonight. Instead of chatting
her up, I wait her out and run water over my foot. Eleanor, maybe sensing my misery,
rubs against my other leg. Nothing I could say will divert Mother from Burt’s blast.
I take deep breaths, steadying myself for the onslaught.
She finally
seems to realize she’s not getting an explanation about my solitary Saturday night.
“How do I say this?” She sighs loudly. “It’s one thing to know people privately,
but to see them as a nationally known personality…it’s…it’s…”
“Mom,
just say it.” Tears well in my eyes. The reality of an insane TV show barging
into my life stabs in places I didn’t know I could hurt.
“OK,
OK. Well, it happened while I was with my book-club group at the bookstore.” It’s
really just a book corner in the general store on Main Street.
“You’re
at the store?” This makes no sense. It’s too late for the store to be open.
“No—I’m
not there now. We were there from six to eight tonight for our weekly meeting, and
then we went to ladies’ night at the margarita bar and had two-for-ones, and I just
now got home. You know that new bar that opened where the bakery used to be?”
There
are only a dozen stores in my hometown of Garcia. How could I forget? “Yeah.”
“The antique
store is also adding a coffee shop—oh, I’m rambling. Want me to just get to the
point?”
I force
out a whisper and blot my tear-slicked face with a paper towel. “Yes.”
She takes
a deep breath again. No question that she’s unnerved by the conversation we’re about
to have. My stomach knots. It will be worse to hear my mother talking about Burt
and fake orgasms than it was to hear strangers on national television. I lower my
wet but clean foot from the sink so I’m standing solidly. I pick up Eleanor, who
allows one of her rare cuddles. She must know I need it.
“Hunter
Johns.”
I gasp.
His name triggers the same pow in my chest
that happens every time I think of him, or see a stranger tilt his head that certain
way, or hear a laugh that mimics Hunter’s deep ring, or dream of kissing him only
to wake and remember it will never happen again. Pow.
“Desdemona, are you there? Did you hear
me?”
I should answer Mom—say something. It’s
been over nine years since Hunter and I were seniors in high school and he left
the campus in handcuffs. Nine years since we swore our love to each other. Nine
years since I ruined our chances of ever being together. But still the regret and
loss slice razor sharp.
“Desdemona?”
“What about Hunter?” My voice scrapes.
“Oh, good, I thought we’d been cut off.
Well, we were about to discuss our new novel when all these people flooded in. Not
locals, but people from San Antonio, Austin, Houston. It was just amazing. Our quiet
little Saturday-night book talk was turning into…”
“What about Hunter?” I can’t fathom where
this is going. I’m so caught off guard that for a full two seconds I forget Marriage Exposure.
“I’m getting to him. So Alma went up
to the manager and asked, ‘What’s going on?’ And he said a national best-selling
mystery writer was here for a book signing. Have you read Des Amone’s books?”
“Yes. Sure I have.”
“Did you read the one that was made into
a movie?”
“Mom. Where is this going? What does
it have to do with Hunter?”
“Des Amone is Hunter’s pen name. And
Hunter came to Garcia to do a hometown launch of his new book tour. It’s all over
the Internet, but none of us noticed. You know we mainly stick to romances.”
“Des Amone…”
I repeat her words to make sense of them. “…is Hunter’s pen name.”
“Isn’t
that a hoot? And ya’ll were in school together.” Mom is oblivious to the relationship
I had with Hunter. She lives in her own little world that revolves around her tiny,
barely-break-even flower shop with her upstairs living quarters—my home until I
moved to Austin. “So we each bought his book, and when he signed mine, he asked
about you. Can you believe it—a famous, rich author still remembering a classmate
from all those years ago? Isn’t it funny how his pen name kind of sounds like Desdemona?”
She doesn’t
wait for me to answer. “So for our next meeting we’re all reading Hunter’s book.
You know it’s just so much fun to read a book with a group…”
“What
did he say about me? What did you tell him?”
“He just
asked how you are, and I told him you were playing all over Austin and giving lessons.
I showed him that picture of you in your long, red dress, playing that red baby
grand. I think it was taken in some bar on Sixth Street. He said, ‘Still beautiful
as ever.’” I shut my eyes and make myself breathe. “We could have talked and talked,
but there was a line behind me, so I moved on. I told him to look you up when he
goes to Austin on his book tour. And I gave him your number.”
The
pow that hit me when she said his name evolves into a melody that fills my
chest while she drones on. The melody, not one that I could ever put to music
no matter how hard I try, is always there—inside—below the surface. But at
times like this it expands, presses, and hurts in the middle of my chest.
Q.
D. Purdu’s debut romance FAKING LUCKY, under the title of DESDEMONA
FINDS THE BIG O IN LOVE, won first place in the Texas Writers’
League Romance category, 2014. Her novella THE LIGHT WE FOUND, first
published in MOTHER'S DAY MAGIC anthology, is now available as a
stand-alone short read.
Q.
D. loves her rescued puppy, red wine, running through sprinklers,
dark chocolate with sugared ginger, and anything wrapped in a corn
tortilla. Her prized possessions include a hot pink Christmas tree
and a garden full of okra and basil.
She
hasn’t decided what she’ll be when she grows up, but whatever it
is will be filled with romantic impossibilities.
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2 comments:
I love reading about great books we had not heard of previously so thank you and also for the great giveaway as well.
The cover is adorable. I love the expression on her face.
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