Title: Faking Lucky
Author: Q. D. Purdu
Genre:
Contemporary Romance
About the book:
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.
Excerpt:
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.
About the Author
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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