by Teagan Kade
A harder squeeze on my calf. “That will not be required.”
If I didn’t know better, I’d say the tables have turned. The anti-flirt has become the flirt.
I speak down to the polished concrete through the hole in the table. “Do you mind if we talk about Vegas a little more?”
Be gentle here, brother. Real gentle.
I hear an audible gulp, but she manages to speak. “I need to concentrate, sorry, but maybe later?”
There’s no use trying to force her into it, so I simply reply “Sure.”
She continues to run her hands over my calf, fingers working at the tension there. “I think I’d like to see a bit more of LA. Do you know your way around?”
Do I know my way around? “What do you want to see? Where they filmed the chase scene in Terminator II, spend a fortune at Oscar de la Renta, or perhaps swing by where Ryan Gosling lives? We’re buds. He’s actually got a sick pad up in—”
“Somewhere to relax. Somewhere quiet.”
I have to laugh at that. “Somewhere quiet? In Los Angeles?”
“You’re telling me you don’t have somewhere special you take your groupies? A secret spot?”
My thighs tense as her hands glide higher. God, keep fucking going. Please. “What makes you think I have groupies? Bon Jovi has groupies. I have fans—crazy fans, as you saw with our little run-in.”
“Blondie?” she laughs. “She wanted more than an autograph alright…”
It comes to me. “So, you want to see something special? I’ve got something for you. Pick you up at eight?”
“You don’t know my address.”
“Not yet, but Glenda in payroll does love a bit of harmless flirting. I think it’s the roulette wheel. She’s always—”
“Okay, okay. Pick me up at eight. If you’re not there I’ll assume you didn’t flirt with poor ol’ Glenda hard enough.”
Hard enough—She doesn’t know the meaning those words, but she will.
Chapter 7
Sam
I don’t know if letting ‘the girls’ help me get ready was the best idea. They cluster around behind me looking into the mirror. I’ve come to learn Amy is the ringleader of the apartment block cabal. She’s rocking that same, crazy, Harley Quinn hair tonight, her fellow actor and model friends ‘oh’ing and ‘ah’ing at my transformation. Thirty minutes with a curling iron and a borrowed Armani dress so short I’m starting to think it might actually be a T-shirt.
“Hot,” purrs Amy. “See how lucky you are to be surrounded by miracle workers?”
Looking at myself, yeah, I actually don’t look so bad. If I look close enough I see the quiet librarian girl lurking, but the cleavage-pushing rockstar has risen ready to take on the world… or maybe just a man.
A burbly engine echoes outside.
“He’s here!” one of the others announces, giggling and bouncing around.
And boom, I’m back in high school.
The idle shuts off and I try to calculate the distance to my door. I start to shoo the girls out, but then comes the knock, which makes them even more hyperactive. Thankfully, Amy manages to sweep them up into the kitchen, all of them peeking around the corner into the living room as I open the door.
I’ve never known a man to wear such simple clothes so well—distressed jeans, black tee and a leather jacket, but damn does he fill them out perfectly.
There’s a gasp from the kitchen.
Chance looks past my shoulder. “Got company?”
I clear my throat loud enough for everyone to hear. “Shall we go?”
“We shall,” Chance smiles, stepping back out.
I’m closing the door when I see Amy poke her head around the corner. ‘Good luck,’ she mouths, pelvis thrusting. ‘He’s so fucking hot!’
I close the door and exhale, follow Chance down the stairs. I expect to see the Mustang, but a sleek sports bike waits instead, two helmets perched on it. So much for the curls.
I stand in front of the death machine. “I should have known you’d own a bike too.”
He hands me a helmet. “This isn’t a bike. It’s a Ducati.”
“Ducatai shoomati. It’s all Greek to me.”
“You have been on a bike before, haven’t you?”
I start to shake my head slowly.
He laughs. “Looks like there might be a few firsts tonight.”
He opens a satchel on the side and hands me a jacket. “It’s hot out, but you’ll need it. Trust me.”
Do I? I mean, how well do I really know this guy? I’m still thinking about it as I pull the jacket on and let him help with the helmet, putting his own on before swinging over the bike and stirring it into life with a sharp vroom vroom. He pats the space behind him, speaking muffled through his helmet. “Hop on.”
With some difficulty, I manage to swing my leg over and pull myself against his back, the crotch of my panties pressed right against his back, legs straddling his sides.
“You ready?” he says, but it’s a rhetorical question since he doesn’t give me time to reply, speeding off out of the complex onto the main road.
I’m a die-hard eighties movie fan. Speeding through the streets of LA, it’s like we’re in Tron—neon lights turned into streaky blocks of color, everything moving and warping.
Funnily enough, I find I quite enjoy the sensation. There’s a thrill in travelling like this. I can see why people like it, being so close to death. I’m usually way too cautious about this kind of thing. Maybe my very own Chance Adams is what I need to actually get off my ass and start living life a little.
Fifteen minutes later we arrive in the heart of downtown outside a non-descript gate. Chance cuts the ignition. The reverberation of the engine continues to beat through my body.
I slide off the bike, my crotch hot from being pressed against Chance, my legs jelly.
He pulls off his helmet and shakes out his hair. It falls perfectly into that messy, fresh-after-a-roll-in-the-hay look that countless others probably spend a lifetime trying to achieve but which comes so naturally to Chance. It’s like he’s barely trying.
He helps me get the jacket and helmet off, my chest brushing against the front of his jacket and my nipples pulling into tight points against this dress. I shake out my hair, but it doesn’t turn into instant perfection like his did. Given the way he’s looking at me, though, I don’t think he cares. Maybe he prefers it like this—a little rough and dirty.
I look at the gate. “Can’t say downtown is my idea of a quiet place.”
His eyes go half-lidded. “Wait and see.” He walks to the gate and raps on the bars.
A slim man appears, unlocking the gate to swing it wide. “Chance. Good to see you, buddy.”
God, does he know everyone in this city?
The two embrace. “Johnathan. Thanks for doing this.”
Johnathan smiles. “No problem for my favorite football star.”
Chance pulls two tickets out of his pocket and hands them over. “For your trouble.”
Johnathan looks surprised. “You didn’t have to.”
Chance places his hand on Johnathan’s shoulder, turning to look at me. “I like to share the love. What can I say?”
Johnathan sees me. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I reply, stepping forward. “I’m Sam.”
Johnathan steps aside. “Welcome, Sam, to the oasis in the eye of the storm.”
I step in. Chance takes the lead up a series of stairs and Johnathan stays by the gate.
“Have fun, kids,” he calls.
At the top of the stairs we come to the most unexpected sight. Right here in the middle of downtown LA is a Japanese garden.
Chance spans his arms out proudly. “Welcome to the James Irvine Japanese Garden complete with cascading stream, handcrafted cedar bridge, and all the trappings of paradise right here, smack-dab in the middle of the City of Angels.”
“Angels?” I say it knowing precisely what the answer will be.
Chance does
n’t disappoint. “I’m looking at one right now. Come on.”
Chance leads us around the garden. It’s lit beautifully, everything neat and orderly. “It’s called the Garden of the Clear Stream,” he narrates. “Something of a rarity in LA. It’s open year round for the public free of charge—another rarity.”
I take in the sights, the smell of honeysuckle and green tea. I know it’s just an illusion, but it everything seems fresher standing here, my lungs filling with crisp perfumed air. “It’s amazing.”
Chance balances on one foot a rock in the middle of the cascading stream. “Have you ever been to Japan?”
I shake my head. “I’ve never been out of the country.”
“Wow. You should. We had some downtime in Japan coming back from the Sandpit. It’s the polar opposite of the States, you know. Tokyo is the future, another world, but Kyoto? A whole different story again. It’s packed with culture, a garden like this around every corner. It was cherry blossom season, too, and you know what they say about cherry blossoms…”
“Enlighten me.”
“In the cherry blossom’s shade there’s no such thing as a stranger.”
“That’s actually quite beautiful.”
He leaps off the rock towards me and buries his hands in his pockets. “I want to do to you what Spring does to the cherry trees.”
I’m trying desperately to hide my smile. “And what’s that?”
He takes another step closer and brushes a missing strand of hair from my face, hooking it over my ear. His touch is electric. “Make you blossom.”
I push him away playfully, still not willing to commit to this insanity. “You are incorrigible. Do girls actually fall for this?”
“All the time,” comes the smug response. “This way.”
I follow Chance up a small incline to a pagoda amongst the bamboo. Inside, a table has been set up two chairs and a grouping of lit candles—lavender, if I’m correct.
He’s good—real good.
He pulls my chair out and I take a seat, noticing the Chinese takeaway boxes on the table. “Chinese, in a Japanese garden?”
He seats himself. “Stick with me long enough and you’ll learn I like to mix things up. Dig in.”
I open a box. It does smell delicious. I take chopsticks and start to fill my plate. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were deliberately trying not to spend money on these little dates of ours.”
“So they are dates?”
I play coy. “Maybe.”
His eyes drop into my cleavage. His Adam’s apple bobs before he brings his gaze back up. “This is the finest Chinese takeaway in LA, I’ll have you know. The General Tso chicken… orgasmic. Trust me.”
The thought of an orgasm with Chance doesn’t seem as repulsive as it did when we first met. In fact, it sounds downright attractive right now.
I continue to tease him, moving food around my plate. “Maybe the Wildcats aren’t paying you enough?”
He laughs, grin wide. “You should try telling Morgan that. But money isn’t everything.”
“It’s not? I don’t follow football, but I do read the papers. You seem to enjoy your money, like really enjoy it.”
He places his chopsticks down and locks those pistachio eyes on me. “Money makes you comfortable, but it doesn’t guarantee happiness.”
“You’re not happy? You’ve got everything you want—a career, fame, a… body.”
“You’re wrong. There’s something I want, something I need, money can’t buy.”
I have a strange feeling he’s talking about me. Surely not. I wipe my mouth with a napkin and try to change the subject. “Do you come here often?”
“To meditate sometimes, sure.”
I choke on my Tso chicken, which is, true to Chance’s word, orgasmic, though the company might have something to do with it. “You meditate?”
“Does the idea seem that outrageous?”
“I just can’t picture you sitting down by the pond there with your legs crossed chanting om.”
“You’ve got it all wrong. It’s not like that. You just sit and focus. It’s actually very, very fucking difficult to stop the noise, to center yourself, but it helps.”
He is full of surprises. Maybe I have misjudged him. “You just decided to mediate one day, on a whim?”
A pause. “An Army psychologist recommended it when I got back from my tour. You know, to help me process things.”
I get the sense he doesn’t want to elaborate, so I don’t push. “It must have been hard.”
He looks down at his plate. “It was, but it was the right thing to do, and it makes you stronger in a way. I wouldn’t be half the player I am now if I wasn’t in the Corps. The friends I made in there… They’re brothers for life, blood or not.”
“You seem pretty close with David. He was in the Army too, right?”
His eyes lift, broad shoulders relaxing. “Like I said, a brother. It’s nice to know he’s got my back on the field, too.”
A brief moment of quiet follows. I let it pass.
Chance is the one to break it. “If you are in trouble, Sam, we can help.”
I gulp again, looking away. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Morgan, David, me—We don’t want to see you hurt and I know you’re running from something. Tell me. Let me help.”
“You barely know me.”
“I know I want to make you happy. Isn’t that enough? Let me in.”
He’s pleading, but his eyes speak loudest.
Do I let him? Is this a trap? An emotional ploy to get into my pants? I don’t think so. Even a renowned womanizer like Chance Adams wouldn’t stoop that low.
“Please,” he says, and my mind is made.
I’m going to roll the dice. I’m going to tell him everything.
Chance parks his bike. By ‘park’ I mean next to his Mustang inside his actual house, both cars looking out floor-to-ceiling windows, Los Angeles in all its blanketed, twinkling glory laid out below us.
I take off my helmet and step into the house itself, the entire place open plan, glass running down one entire side. I had expected a lot of bachelor clutter, action-movie posters, beer pyramids and what-not, but it’s surprisingly refined. “Your place is incredible.”
Chance removes his jacket, slinging it over a sofa and coming beside me at the window, the two of us locked opaque in the glass. “I got it off Liam for a steal.”
“Liam?”
“Hemsworth.”
“Oh.” How it must be to count celebrities amongst your closest friends. “It’s quite the view.”
I’m conscious of his eyes on my ass. “It is. Drink?”
“Sure.” I’m not about to tell him the beer we had at the food truck the other day was the first alcohol I’ve had since college. Whoop. Whoop. Wild alert.
I watch him in the window disappear to the kitchen and return with two wine glasses.
He hands one over. “It’s a great cabernet sauvignon from the Napa Valley. Impressive legs.”
Impressive legs? Who is this guy and what has he done with Chance Adams from the papers? “I don’t know much about wine,” I confess.
“I’ll take great pleasure teaching you all you need to know.” He slides the door open. “Come outside. It’s beautiful.”
We head out onto a large balcony overlooking the city. The temperature has dropped to something a little milder, but still the hairs on my skin prick to attention.
I lean against the railing, take a sip of my wine.
Chance leans in beside me. “How is it?”
“It tastes like… wine.”
He laughs. “Impressive analysis. In reality, I was simply hoping to get you drunk enough for those inhibitions of yours to slip away.”
You might not need to get me drunk for that. “You wanted to know about Vegas?”
He nods, solemn now.
I take a deep breath, cherry notes from the wine coming through. “As I told you, the massage parl
or wasn’t what I thought it was. It turns out it is, in fact, owned by the Vegas Mob.”
Chance raises an eyebrow, swirling his wine around. “The Mob? As in the Godfather, guys in stripy suits?”
“I suppose so. I left after that first client asked me to… you know. Problem is, the place was raided by the cops the very next day, which is fine. I mean, I was glad I got out when I did.”
Chance listens attentively. “Sounds like you got lucky.”
“Not quite. One of the other girls called me the night after, told me the owners thought I was the person who tipped off the cops given the way I left. She said they don’t mess around, that she overheard one of them saying they put a hit on me to make a point. So, I skipped town, packed up right then and left. I didn’t get to say goodbye to my friends.”
“Your family?”
“I don’t have any, thank god. Mom and Dad passed away when I was younger, and I’m an only child. It’s just as well. I’d hate to think I’m inadvertently putting someone else in danger.”
“But you didn’t tip off the cops, right?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to leave, to forget the whole thing.”
He doesn’t question any part of my story, doesn’t probe, but thinking about what I left behind, everybody that was my in life… It breaks me. My eyes grow hot and I can’t stop the tears coming. I wipe them away with the back of a hand, my mascara running. “God,” I sniff, “I’m a mess”.
He places his hand gently on my shoulder. “It’s okay.”
“I don’t cry,” I sob. “I mean, I don’t cry in front of other people, but I’m so stupid, so so incredibly stupid.”
He turns me towards him, placing his glass on the ground, holding me by both shoulders. “Don’t ever say that.” He brushes a fat tear off my cheek, his finger lingering. “Fuck, and to think I such as ass that first time in the massage room. I’m sorry, Sam. I’m really fucking sorry.”
I manage to regain a smidge of composure, but his hands remain. They’re comforting; the most comfort I’ve had in a long time. I’ve missed this—human contact. Chuckles, cuddly as she is, doesn’t make for the most empathetic partner. “It’s okay.”
