CUTTING LOOSE

by Kristin Hardy

Ty slid it up her neck to her cheek and she caught a hint of fragrance. The rose that he'd brought home from Jocasta's opening and placed in the bathroom. The flower petals slowly caressed her belly, then lower still, circling around the area between her legs. Then they stroked up in between and she jolted.

  The mattress gave as Ty got onto the bed beside her. Trish made an impatient noise. "Touch me," she pleaded in a strangled voice.

  "All right." Instead of stroking her where she burned for it, though, he ran his hands up over the fragile skin between her breasts, then along her collarbones and up her neck. She had never dreamed that a touch there would tighten the coil of tension between her thighs. Suddenly, her entire body felt connected, all of it tied to the arousal that gripped her. All of it tied to him.

  And then, when she least expected it, when she was still buzzing with the last touch, his fingers found her. Trish cried out and her body bucked, but he'd moved on even as the sensation carried her. The briefness of the contact made it all the more vivid. Anticipation had her strung tight as a wire. It was an exquisite intensity beyond that of normal lovemaking. It was giving up control that had brought her to this point, the point where her whole world was built around the promise of his touch.

  And when his tongue found her, hot and quick, it sent her fighting against her bonds, crazy with the urge to have her hands on him. Heat, liquid and smooth, stroked in maddening patterns over her clitoris, building the tension until she was ready to scream with it. Minutes passed until she was so close to orgasm that she no longer heard her moans, no longer realized the rhythmic pump of her hips. But just as she started the rushing slide to glory, he pulled away again.

  "Please," Trish called out raggedly.

  Before she could draw breath, Ty slid up, over and into her with a suddenness that caught and held her. And that quickly, his restraint was gone. She could feel him, fully aroused, pumping in and out of her in a frenzy as his body surged against hers. It was true what he'd said, that watching her pleasure brought him to a fever pitch. She could feel it in the thick hardness of his cock, hear it in the tortured gasps of his breathing.

  She could feel it in the pleasure that began in her body and ended in his. Every fiber of her being concentrated on the insistent stroking and heavy pressure, taking her up and up, building to a level she'd never imagined she could reach. And when it flung her into jolting orgasm, in wave after wave, the sensation flowed over her. Each time she thought she was nearly finished, she'd rise to another peak until she cried out with amazement. Until she cried out his name.

  * * *

  13

  « ^ »

  A brisk wind whisked the leaves around the courtyard at Park La Brea, sending them skittering along the footpaths. "This is a banner moment," Ty observed as he walked up to Trish's front door.

  "What do you mean?"

  He looked at her. "I finally get to see where you live. Always before you've just kind of disappeared for a couple of hours and come back with clothes. I started wondering if you were hiding a husband or something over here."

  "Come on in and find out," she invited, and opened her front door.

  After the days and nights spent at Ty's house, walking into her apartment was a shock. The place looked unfamiliar, as though she were intruding in someone else's home. It wasn't someone else's home, though, it was hers.

  Trish had been thrilled when she'd moved in. Though it had taken her years to get the look right, she thought, admiring the beveled mirror she'd picked up at a desert flea market, but it held together. Even compared with the stretched-out space of Ty's house, it had its own style. She just had to get used to it again.

  "I like it," he commented, dropping Trish's overnight bag to the floor. Almost casually, he reached out an arm and scooped her in. "I like the tenant even better," he murmured.

  Trish leaned in for a quick kiss that stretched out into long minutes. "Mmm," she said when she finally pulled away.

  "Mmm, indeed. Why don't you come over to the couch, here, and we can discuss that part further?"

  He had an unerring skill for making her resolve melt away. "We came here to get some clothes for me and then we've got to go over your closing scene," she said, easing away from him.

  "We've already finished it. You polish too much."

  "I polish just enough, and I think we should take another look," she said. "We have to do it today. Filming starts in less than a week."

  "Slave driver."

  "I only want what's best for you, dear," she said in a bright and shiny tone, patting his cheek.

  Ty strolled over to the couch and flopped down. "What's best for me on a Saturday is forgetting about work and making love with you. Besides, we haven't christened your bed."

  And if she had her way, they wouldn't. Ty was going to leave too big a gap when things were over as it was. She didn't want the memory of his beautiful face against her pillows haunting her. Trish hung her purse over the back of a chair. "I'm going to go grab the mail. I'll be back in a sec and we can go."

  Given that she hadn't been back for nearly a week, her box was probably stuffed to capacity, she thought as she walked over to the mail kiosk.

  "Oh, there you are. I haven't seen you in so long I was wondering if you'd moved." Trish turned to see Ellie twinkling at her, white hair pulled by the wind into disarray. The velour track suit this time was mauve, and its wearer looked primed for gossip. Trish's heart sank. "Hi Ellie, how have you been?"

  "Just fine. And you?"

  "Dandy." Trish pulled out her keys and unlocked the little door of her mail slot.

  "I guess it has been a while," Ellie said, her bird-bright eyes noticing the mail wedged in Trish's box. "I saw your young man. He's quite a handsome one."

  "Now, stop that," Trish scolded. "He's just a friend."

  "He seemed like a very attentive friend to me. But wait," she put a hand on Trish's arm. "Don't run off just yet. Let him cool his heels a bit. Anyway, I need to tell you about Mr. Fox getting locked out of his apartment. You wouldn't believe the way the new assistant at the rental office treated him. He's been renting here for almost forty years and she demanded I.D…"

  And she was off and running, leaving Trish standing there blinking in the sunlight.

  * * *

  Ty sprawled on the couch, looking over the apartment. Trish had a sense of detail that manifested itself in small ways: the paperweight on the end table, the trio of vases on the hearth, the twisting columns of candles on the coffee table. The furniture was deep and soft, in luxuriant colors like dark purple and dark green. The women he dated usually lived in houses with that "professional decorator" look, houses with just the right angles and objets d'art cast casually about. This space had none of that professional patina. It was clearly all Trish, acquired piece by painstaking piece with an eye for form and style.

  His cell phone burbled for attention. Carelessly, he pressed the "end call" button that sent the caller to voice mail. Before he could turn it off, the phone burbled again. He glanced at the display to see Charlie's number. Ty grinned and flipped it open. "I told you, I don't want to buy a timeshare in Cancun. Now stop calling."

  "Funny. Ramsay, why don't you answer your phone?"

  "I just told you. Besides, why should I talk with you and ruin my day?"

  Charlie snorted. "While you're lying around being a big movie star, some of us are power-brunching."

  "Really? Making waffles for the kiddies?"

  "My waffles are legendary, you know."

  "I'm sure."

  "That being said," Charlie said thoughtfully, "the last time we used the waffle iron it fused shut. I thought I'd be nice and let a professional make them today. Went to The Ivy."

  "How were the waffles?" Ty reached out to pick a green glass cube off the coffee table.

  "Not nearly as good as the company. You'll never guess who I wound up sitting next to while we were waiting for a table."

  "I'm guessing you'll tell me."

 
"None other than Mr. Indie, Paul Tate. I met him last year at Sundance."

  Ty considered, holding the cube up to his eye to look through it. "I suppose this is my cue to ask what you talked about."

  "Very good," Charlie said approvingly. "We chatted about a little of this, a little of that. He was going on about how he couldn't find anything worth sinking his money into right now."

  "Sad thing."

  "Isn't it just," Charlie agreed. "Seemed like a good time to bring up GDI."

  "And?"

  "We have ourselves one very interested fellow. He liked the idea of having your pretty face involved."

  Ty sat forward, setting the cube aside. "Not to mention my pretty wallet."

  "Hey, if we can get him to pony up some money on a film, we'll be doing the happy dance."

  "My feet are twitching already. So what happens now?"

  "He wants to talk with you and then maybe arrange a meet."

  It was funny how just the promise of their company had him more excited that the reality of his current film. "He wants a meeting, he's got one. Tell me when and where."

  "I'm going to give you his phone number. Write this down."

  "Just a minute." Ty scanned the room and walked to a spindle-legged deco desk against one wall. There had to be a scrap of paper he could use. The pens were easy to find, all stuffed in a pewter vase. Paper, there was in abundance, though it mostly was computer printouts, he realized, moving it just enough to see if there was anything usable underneath.

  Then he took a closer look.

  "While I'm still young, Ty?" Charlie said.

  "You were born an old man," Ty replied automatically, picking up the clipped-together stack of paper on top. It was a script, he realized, scanning it. A finished script.

  With Trish's name on it.

  There was no reason for him to be surprised, really. If she had a talent for revising scripts, why wouldn't she be writing one of her own? Except that when he'd asked her about it she hadn't told him.

  The stab of disappointment was sharp and vicious.

  "Ramsay?"

  "Look, I'm not at home. Can you just leave the number on my answering machine? I'll call him as soon as I get in." Suddenly, GDI Films receded in importance. Instead, there was the script, something Trish had obviously invested time, energy, effort in. The few lines he read rang true. She had to have been working on it well before they'd gotten involved, and yet she'd never said a word about it. Hidden it, to be honest.

  She'd never trusted him at all.

  "Okay, I'll leave the number, but let me know what happens."

  "You'll be the first," Ty promised absently and switched off the phone.

  Then he picked up the script and settled on the couch to read.

  * * *

  Her head spinning from the gossip dump and her arms filled with mail, Trish opened the door to her apartment. "Ty?"

  Ty raised his head and gave her an opaque look. "I was thinking maybe you'd run off."

  Trish crossed to pile the mail on the kitchen table. "Chatty neighbors," she said by way of explanation. Then she noticed the sheaf of paper in his hands. "What are you reading?" she asked sharply.

  "What, this?" Ty held out the paper and she snatched it from his hands. "Maybe you can tell me. It looks an awful lot like a script."

  "I can see that." The sense of invasion was sharp and strong, the need to protect, immediate. "Who gave you permission to snoop?"

  "Snoop? I got a phone call," he said evenly. "I was looking for a piece of paper to write something on. And funny thing, there it was."

  He was pissed, Trish realized with a little twist of anxiety. Then again, so was she. "You must have done some looking. I had it covered up."

  "Yeah, the stapler on top was pretty effective. I almost missed it," he returned. "Like I said, I was looking for paper."

  "So you started digging through my stuff and just figured you had a right to read anything you saw?" She heard the edge in her voice and didn't care.

  "Well, since I'd been told it didn't exist, I guess I wasn't sure what it was." Ty went to the window and looked out into the courtyard. "Were you ever going to tell me about it?" He turned back to her.

  Trish balled her hands in her pockets. "I don't know," she answered, wishing desperately that this hadn't come up, that she'd tucked the script safely away in a drawer. "It's not that easy, considering the circumstances."

  "What circumstances?" His temper flared. "The fact that we've spent almost every minute together for the last three weeks either talking or making love? There's a point where you start to trust me, Trish, isn't there? 'What are your dreams, Ty, what do you want?' It's okay to grill me about my art and how I feel about it, but you don't tell me anything? You'd even lie?"

  "I didn't lie to you."

  "No, you just changed the subject every time it came up. Like you do about a lot of things, come to think of it."

  That was it, she realized. He'd opened up to her and she'd held out on him. And yet, how could she have told him?

  "You know, I'm a pretty patient person," Ty went on, dragging a hand through his hair. "I keep thinking that you'll start talking at some point, that you'll really start talking to me about the things that matter to you. I know what it's like to put your heart into something and hope that it's good. I understand how hard it is to put it out there. But after all we've done together? Hell, writing a script shouldn't be a state secret by now. My God, half the people in L.A. are doing it."

  "And you dismiss them just like you'd have dismissed me if you'd known about it. Another wannabe. If I'd told you, you'd have been thinking, 'Great, now she's going to ask me to help her out.' Admit it," she snapped, "you would have."

  "The first day you met me, maybe," he admitted, "but now? You're working on the Dark Touch script, for chrissakes."

  "An action script."

  Ty bristled. "An action script that's actually getting produced. You don't need to remind me that it's not Shakespeare."

  "That's not what I meant and you know it. It's a different type of film altogether. Anyway, I'm just editing it, it's not like coming up with your own thing from scratch." She paced away and whirled to face him. "What am I supposed to say to you, anyway? We're having sex, now read my script? The same as every other Hollywood hopeful who gets within ten paces of you, probably."

  His gaze hardened. "Despite what you apparently think, I don't sleep with everyone who comes within ten paces of me. And in case you haven't noticed, what we've been doing the last couple of weeks isn't just about sex. Or at least that's what I've been thinking." He stalked toward her. "Unless I've just been an idiot all this time."

  Fatally sincere, she thought. "We're not involved," she protested. "I'm not a fool, Ty."

  "Goddammit." His voice rose in frustration. "What have I got to do? What's it going to take for you to trust me?"

  "I can't afford to trust you," she said passionately. "It's not going to last, and we both know it."

  "We both know it? I don't know anything except that you're always in the starting blocks. You talk about me being ready to bail, but you're the one who's set to run."

  "I'm not like Megan and Jocasta and all the other women you sleep with," she retorted. "I don't have an art gallery or a big movie career. I can't keep up with them. And I'm not going to pretend I can."

  "I'm not asking you to. All I want is for you to be yourself—if you'll give me some idea of who that is. I don't want to keep talking about me all the time and I want to know more about you than what I can find out in bed. But you're so busy guarding yourself that you don't have time for anything else."

  "Stop pushing me!" She blinked furiously even as her eyes filled. "Why should I let you in when you'll just walk away."

  He crossed to her. "Who says I'm going anywhere?"

  Trish put her hands up. "Don't, all right? Don't." Her voice shook.

  "At least sit down," he murmured, drawing her to the couch. And then he did gather her
close, despite her protests, stroking her hair and shushing her. It twisted his heart to feel her quake against him and know it was tears, not passion. "Tell me what's going on," he said softly. "Tell me."

  And she did. The afternoon shadows stretched out as she told him about life with Amber, life as a high-school misfit. About her first crush, the guy who she thought had liked her until she realized he was only walking her home in the hope of meeting Amber. And she told him about going to college and falling totally and completely in love her first semester in the dorms.

  Brett Spencer had been like a special prize she got for finally outgrowing her baby fat and becoming thin and pretty like Amber. He flirted, he encouraged, and if he never made a major move, he always left her feeling like the next time they met, it would happen. She remembered the wonder of feeling that she was finally wanted. And then the intimacy and magic of the night before Christmas break, the painful surprise of sex, and the incredulous knowledge that she, Trish, finally had a lover.

  But the new year had held surprises of its own.

  "I'd come up from San Diego the night before the dorms reopened to go to a Filter concert. I'd asked Brett to come with me. We were supposed to stay over at his parents' house, but they lived out in Oxnard, too far to drive, so he'd asked his dorm buddy Drew if we could sleep over at his house. Drew's parents were on vacation, so a bunch of his friends were staying over anyway."

  She remembered the excitement of seeing Brett after the long holiday break, and the puzzlement she'd felt. "I couldn't figure out what was wrong when I saw him again, but it was different somehow," Trish said slowly. "He barely touched me. Then again, he never had before, so I didn't know if I was expecting too much. Maybe that was how it was, what did I know?"

  After the concert, they'd gone back to Drew's house and stretched out in sleeping bags on the living-room floor, Trish miserably uncertain and uncomfortable. "It was so weird to be in someone's house like that to start with. I'd drifted off, I guess, and when I woke up, Drew was home with a couple of friends and Brett was out at the kitchen table with them, playing quarters."

  And it made her cringe to remember.