Iron Queen (Iron Palace Book 3) Page 2

  I think I may be a nymphomaniac. I’ve always liked sex and wanted sex and enjoyed (mostly; well, sometimes) what little sex I’ve actually had. But being with Kellan has offered new avenues of physical exploration, avenues down which we’ve only begun to venture.

  But there’s something about having this ring on my finger… Don’t they say diamonds are a girl’s best friend? Marilyn Monroe sang that. I think Kellan The Killer Kearns is this girl’s best friend. Him and his beautiful, enormous penis, of which I can’t seem to get enough. Kellan is six-foot-five and built like a Greek god, using years of diligent bodybuilding and meticulous eating habits to build up and chisel out the good genetics he was born with.

  I am presently the benefactor of all those hours in the gym, all those years of discipline with his nutrition. Kellan’s body is perfect. I want to devour every inch of him. The fact that he’s sweet and kind and loving and generous and patient with me helps. Asking me to marry him helps, too.

  It turns out he bought my diamond earrings that were my Christmas present the same day he bought the ring. He bought them in San Francisco at a very, very, very high-end jeweler the day he went there for a photoshoot in the Shakespeare Rose Garden within Golden Gate Park.

  To think that he wanted to marry me way back then and that he kept the ring hidden from me until he had the right opportunity to propose… I love that.

  But now I must face the reality of sharing our exciting and happy news.

  I’m torn between telling EVERYONE I know and posting it all over social media… and not telling anyone; keeping it a secret between myself and Kellan.

  But in my heart I feel the proper thing to do is visit my parents and share our exciting news. Their reaction is exactly that: their reaction.

  After that I must focus on myself and on Kellan and on our happiness for our future. If my family doesn’t react positively, that is their choice.

  I will share our happy news with them first. They are still my parents and they deserve that much.

  MY PLANS ARE undone when we land in Sacramento and I turn on my phone.

  I have a string of text messages from my mom, from Denise, from Beth, from Nancy, from everyone at work, as a matter of fact, as well as from Aaron, Rami, Sheila, Heather, and even from Calista Roth.

  They ALL know about our engagement.

  It seems more than one person posted video of us at the luau. It spread like crazy after that. And my mom is pissed.

  Kellan insists we go straight to their house and get it over with. I’m not exactly thrilled by the notion of wrapping up our Hawaii trip with a visit to subject ourselves to my disapproving parents. But I acquiesce to his logic that going to see them is the proper thing to do.

  My dad answers the door. He never answers the door.

  My mom is in the kitchen, sipping tea.

  She doesn’t run to me and congratulate me and offer to help me begin planning the wedding.

  She merely stands there, sipping her stupid tea.

  The four of us suffer in silence for several excruciating moments.

  I’m about to turn around and leave when Beth comes through the front door. Why I knock on the front door but Beth simply enters is something I should probably investigate. But not now.

  Mercifully, Beth does in fact run to me and hug me and grab my finger to inspect the ring.

  “Holy shit, Kearns.” Beth guffaws at Kellan. It pleases me that Beth is impressed by the ring. Beth then notices my matching earrings. “Nice.”

  My mom finally sets down her mug of tea. When she opens her mouth, it is to rant for five minutes about how A) Kellan didn’t come and ask for their blessing, B) they had to learn about our engagement on Facebook, and C) we can’t possibly get married because we haven’t known each other long enough.

  After several minutes of my mother’s bullshit, I cut in. “You have never been supportive of my relationship with Kellan,” I counter. “At all. Not even a little bit. Even though you see how happy I am with him. All you do is complain and say he’s a loser and a drug user. He’s not a loser. And he’s not a drug user. And for your information, I only found out about all the social media stuff about an hour ago. We just landed. We came straight here from the airport. In fact, it was Kellan’s idea. He felt you guys should be the first to hear it directly from us, even though you’ve already heard it second-hand via social fucking media.

  “So, given all of that, why on God’s green earth would I ever, ever, EVER come to you to share my happy news? So you can shit all over it? Oh! Too late! What else have you got? You want to criticize the diamond? Say it’s a cubic zirconia? That the cut and clarity aren’t good enough? Or that it’s too big and gaudy and ostentatious and only a spoiled whore wears a ring like that? Or that he’ll probably knock me up, cheat on me, and leave me barefoot and pregnant and on Welfare? Do you think I’m that stupid that I would put myself in a position to let you do that to me? After the way you’ve behaved? You’re lucky if you get invited to the wedding. I think we might just go to L.A. and do it on the goddamn beach, surrounded by friends and people who are actually happy for us.”

  I realize I’m swearing like a drunken sailor not only in front of my parents, but actually at my parents. I’ve never been one to carelessly hurl invectives but this is serious; this is my life; this is the man I love, the man who is now my fiancée; and I’ll be damned if I’m going to take all this shit lying down.

  My parents look at one another.

  They’re doing their silent communication thing, trying to decide how they’re going to handle this.

  I begin to feel bad for losing my temper, for dropping f-bombs and s-bombs and gd-bombs all over their kitchen.

  Wait… fuck that. I’m not going to apologize. This IS serious and we need to get this crap straightened out.

  “Look,” I say, while making at least some effort to calm myself down, “I want you guys to be a part of my life. You’re my parents and you raised me and I love you. But that’s just the thing: you raised me. So have some faith in how you raised me. Have some faith in the woman your daughter has become. I love Kellan and he loves me. I’ve never met anyone like him. I’ve never been as happy in my whole entire life as I’ve been since the day I met him. He is an amazing person, an excellent and wildly successful businessman, and he’s helping me to become the best person I can be. Most importantly, he loves me and supports me unconditionally and it’s because of this that the real Claire Valentine is finally coming out. And she’s not an introverted, shy, fat girl you can assuage with pie and ice cream, so, mother, please take note, no more sweets, no more brownies, no more pies or cakes or cookies or muffins. I’ve been turning to food for comfort for too long. It’s not healthy, it’s not right, and I’m not going to do it anymore. I understand that now. Kellan is probably the healthiest person I’ve ever met. He takes that whole My-Body-Is-My-Temple thing very seriously. As we all should. And, for some reason, he took an interest in me about six months ago and we’ve been inseparable ever since. I cherish every day we spend together. Every minute. Kellan got down on one knee on a beach in Hawaii and asked me to marry him and I said yes. It was the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to me. Every woman should be so lucky, so blessed. And I plan to cherish the fact that Kellan and I are going to be married, we are going to be husband and wife, and we are going to spend the rest of our lives together, whatever exciting and terrifying and challenging and wonderful events that may bring. As long as we’re together, we’ll be okay.”

  BACK HOME AT Kellan’s, we’re barely in the door with our luggage when Kellan is all over me, kissing me, his tongue in my mouth, his lips devouring me as he peels off my clothes.

  The next thing I know, I’m buck-naked and he has only his pants and zipper undone and I’m sitting on the back of the couch with my hands around the back of his neck and my legs over his shoulders and he’s inside me, giving it to me fast and deep. We’re both staring down at his penis as
it plunges in and out of me.

  Two minutes later, Kellan erupts inside me. I immediately follow suit. Every time I feel him coming inside me, my orgasm is automatic.

  I love it.

  We collapse on the sectional.

  “What was that for?” I gasp. My whole body is still quivering with aftershocks.

  “Nothing. It’s just that all that stuff you said at your parents’ house really turned me on. It was nice to see you stand up to them and speak your mind and establish the fact that you and I are for real. I don’t think they understood that before. Hearing it from you in no uncertain terms forced them to understand. They even seemed pretty cool about it by the time we left. They both looked at the ring. Your mom gave me a kiss on the cheek, a small one, and your dad shook my hand and said congratulations. That’s progress. That is major, major progress.”

  Kellan’s correct as usual. Me getting forceful and loud and outspoken with my family was what needed to happen. It was overdue, in fact. But having a ring on your finger certainly legitimizes the relationship. Like Beyonce says, if you liked it you shoulda put a ring on it.

  “What should we do now?” Kellan asks.

  “Train. There’s this little movie they’re making, it’s only the biggest movie of all time, and there’s a possibility that I might get to be in it. But it kinda depends on how fit and sexy I am, so pretty much I’m going to do nothing but eat, sleep, and train between now and then.”

  “Now you’re talking.”

  “If I drink a protein shake while I’m working out, will the amino acids go into my muscles faster and help me get bigger and stronger and more fit and less fat sooner?”

  “Theoretically. That’s why so many supplement companies have come out with intraworkout drinks. Preworkout drinks have been around for a long time. They usually have a blend of caffeine and other stimulants, plus some other stuff like nitrous oxide for blood flow and stuff. But for people who train three hours a day, an intraworkout can be a good idea. They’re usually amino acids plus some carbohydrates in order to maintain energy levels so you can continue working out. The more work your muscles can perform, the faster they’ll get broken down and the faster your body will build them back up bigger and stronger. But for you, we want to get you shredded asap, so I recommend we go low-carb from the get-go. So no Gatorade for you right now.”

  We get up and go straight into the home gym. I make a minor detour to the bedroom to put on some clothes. But then we get after it.

  Kellan brings me a protein shake and I sip on it for the next two hours while we train.

  My engagement ring sparkles and several times I catch sight of it twinkling at me in the mirror. I love it. I can’t believe I’m engaged to be married.

  I feel different with the ring on my finger. I feel a resolve I’ve never known before. As well as a determination I’ve never had before. I want that role. And I’m going to do everything I can to get it. If I do that and they give it to Calista, so be it; I can live with that. You can’t win ’em all and life goes on. But if I don’t give it my all and they give it to Calista, I will spend the rest of my life wondering what if?

  Screw that.

  I’d probably internalize all that grief, piling it onto myself in the form of a million calories worth of ice cream and cookies and cake and pie and brownies and pizza and God knows what else.

  There’s approximately 3500 calories in a pound of fat, so if I ate a million calories, that’s 285 pounds.

  Of pure fat.

  I’d probably gain a hundred pounds in the first year, Kellan and I would be no more, I’d go back to my crap catering job, I’d have to go back to Walmart to buy more crappy men’s work pants because my old crappy Walmart men’s work pants would be way, way too small for me at that point. I’d end up a fat-assed catering manager living alone, too resentful to even masturbate regularly. I’d be Denise’s pathetic fat-ass friend. I’d probably have to sell the little red Solstice Kellan got for me because I wouldn’t be able to fit behind the wheel anymore. Kellan would wind up with Stacy and her perfect, Beverly Hills plastic surgeon boobs. I’d be too depressed to write so my writing career would go down the toilet. Nathan Hamburger Wellington wouldn’t want me anymore. And my mom would continue to feed me huge bowls of pie and ice cream and giant cake pans of brownies and huge platters of cookies. And every time she saw me she’d say, “There, there, Claire bear, you were too good for him, anyway.”

  And I’d sit on the sofa, shoving cookies in my mouth and eating pints of Chunky Monkey and wiping tears from my eyes as I watched the billion-dollar-movie over and over on my DVR. Every time Kellan and Calista kissed on screen would be a giant butcher knife through my heart, knowing it could’ve been me. And that it very nearly was.

  That scenario ain’t a pretty picture.

  So when Kellan and I go to bed that night, exhausted, I set the alarm on my phone for six a.m.

  And when it goes off five hours later, I get up, pee, brush my teeth, take a cold shower for all of 60 seconds because that’s as much as I can stand, and then I get dressed and do my fasted cardio with Kellan.

  He doesn’t have to bring me coffee or drag me out of bed or cajole me into consciousness.

  I want that part.

  And I want it bad.

  EVERY DAY IS the same after that.

  Kellan and I wake up at six a.m. every day on the dot. We do an hour of cardio, we eat, take care of business, and in the afternoon, we train again, this time enjoying a nice, long resistance training session.

  One day during breakfast, Kellan says that if I want to, I can add another cardio session. A short one, just 20 minutes, at some point in the day.

  So the next day, that’s what I do. At noon, I put down my laptop and get on the step-mill for 20 minutes. I put Calista’s old stoner comedies on the big-screen and watch them twenty-minutes at a time as I do my lunchtime cardio sessions.

  And I study her. I study her speech and how she delivers her dialogue. I study her movements, which have a particular loping gait combined with a frenetic quality. I come to the conclusion that she’s loping because of her weight and frenetic because of her dislike for it. When I watch Chasing Lazer, she doesn’t have it. She’s fluid instead of loping, and relaxed instead of frenetic. I come to the conclusion that she’s fluid and relaxed because she is no longer uncomfortable with her body.

  Several times, Denise texts to have lunch but I tell her I can’t, and I text her a pic of me on the step-mill. I choose the step-mill every day because it’s a heck of a lot harder than the treadmill or the elliptical climber or the stationary bike. There’s no way to fake climbing stairs, lifting your own body weight a gazillion times.

  On the fifth day, it’s too easy so I jump off and grab a 25-pound dumbbell and then climb back up onto the ever-moving steps.

  This makes it much harder.

  My knees hurt so when I’m done I ice them.

  Kellan sees me sitting outside by the pool with my laptop on my lap and ice bags on my knees. He nods approvingly.

  He tells me about the Rice Protocol.

  I say what’s that.

  He says it’s an acronym: R.I.C.E.

  It’s what you do whenever you have minor pain or injury:

  Rest.

  Ice.

  Compression.

  Elevation.

  RICE.

  I say it over and over to myself until I know I have it.

  The ice helps a lot. The knee pain goes away. A few days later, the stepmill is again too easy so I grab a heavier dumbbell.

  I repeat this process over and over.

  Calista ain’t the only one who’s going to be known for her sexy legs.

  A WEEK LATER, Kellan and I meet Denise and Mark for dinner at the same Mexican joint.

  Denise does NOT take her pills. When I ask if she’s still taking them, she gives me the patented Denise Look.

  All in all, watching her endure e
xplosive diarrhea in the Bank of America parking lot was entertaining. Probably not for the people who stepped in it over by the ATM machines, however.

  Kellan and I are sticking to our nutrition plan so we each order chicken and steak fajitas. We skip the tortilla chips and yummy warm flour tortillas and eat only meat and vegetables.

  Denise is happy but sarcastic about my engagement to Kellan. She busts my balls about shacking up with a guy I barely know. She then busts Kellan’s balls about putting a ring on the finger of a girl he barely knows, only to give him a hard time in the next breath for waiting so long.

  Denise takes a long look at my ring. She rattles off a bunch of stuff about the carat size, the cut, and the color and clarity. She’s an expert.

  Kellan confirms Denise’s appraisal.

  “I need another drink,” Denise says.

  Later, after we’ve finished our entrees, Denise orders two desserts, deep-fried ice cream and flan, which to me is like eating snot, but to each his or her own. Denise tells me to help her with her dessert.

  I decline. Politely.

  Denise scoops up a spoonful of ice cream and attempts to feed it to me as one might a child refusing to eat.

  I again decline.

  “Oh come on, Claire bear, you know you want some. Deep-fried ice cream is the shit.”

  “No, thank you.”

  Denise makes a third attempt, spooning up a bunch of ice cream with that weird but freakin delicious crunchy outer shell stuff.

  “Goddamnit, Denise, I said no!”

  Everyone stops.

  “Jesus Christ, Claire bear, what’s up your twat? It’s just ice cream. Live a little.” Denise acts taken aback, clueless as fuck as always.

  “No, it’s not just ice cream. I’m trying to accomplish something here. Something big. Your goddamn ice cream is not part of the equation. Okay?”

  “Okay. Jesus, Claire bear, calm down. You’re making a scene.”

  “I don’t give a shit. I know it’s yummy and everything and in an abstract way, sure, I want to eat it. But I want my goals more. I’m doing something here. I’m striving for something. Something I really want. Something I want more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life. Next to being with Kellan, this is the most important thing to me. I want that movie role. I want it like I want… air. Like I want oxygen. I want to kick Calista Roth’s ass and take the part from her. She and I talked down in L.A. in the bathroom and I’ll tell you a secret: she was really sweet. I know a lot of people talk all kinds of shit about her but she is none of those things. She’s not a bimbo. She’s not an airhead. She’s not a mean, selfish bitch. Okay? She’s actually very sweet and very intelligent and she’s busted her ass to get where she is today. She said it to my face, too, that she wants this role. She wants it badly. She said whoever plays this part is going to be huge, is going to be the next Demi Moore, the next Julia Roberts, the next whoever. And she wants it. Badly. And she told me to my face that she’s going to do everything in her power to get it. And that it’s nothing personal. It’s just business. This is her career. This is her job. This is how she makes her money and earns her living and it’s about survival. That’s why people you work with who seem like your friends suddenly stop being your friend when office politics come into play or when there are cutbacks or layoffs or whatever. It’s because it’s not about friendship and super-happy fun-time. It’s about earning money to put food on the table and a roof over your head and shelter and safety and security for your family. It’s called survival. And people will fight tooth and fucking nail over that. They will fight to the death. And so will I. I want that part. As far as I’m concerned, it’s mine. I’m the one who read for it first. I was the one down there in the club with Kellan, reading for Aaron and Rami. I stood on the table with Kellan and we had a moment I’ll remember forever. We connected in a real way. And Rami and Aaron felt it. They witnessed it. And they were moved by it. And that’s why they offered me the part in the first place. But then a bunch of other stuff happened and now this thing has grown into the biggest movie of all time, the first billion-dollar movie and every actor and actress in Hollywood wants to be in it, including Calista Roth. Maybe I’ll get it and maybe I won’t. But I’m going to do everything in my power to get it. And that means busting my ass training and dieting harder than I ever have before in my life. It means focusing on what I want and going after it with everything I’ve got so that at the end of the day I know I did my best, that there was nothing more I could’ve done and I don’t have to spend the rest of my life beating myself up and hating myself because I didn’t try and because I didn’t go for it and because I didn’t give it my all and because I ate fucking deep-fried ice cream and fucking flan. I want that part. I want Kellan to get his part. And I want us to be in that movie together. I want to sit in a movie seat someday and watch the movie and see the two of us up there together. I don’t want to sit there and watch Calista fucking Roth sticking her tongue in his mouth and jumping off cliffs with him and killing aliens with him. That’s my job.