by Adriana Law
“Excuse me?” I choke out the words. Her tiny head turns, and I follow the path of her eyes to a kinky store. “Oh.” I’m afraid to ask. “How do you know what your parents are buying?”
“I heard them whispering about it. They said I’m supposed to wait out here.” She kicks her feet entertaining herself with the wand. Her eyes lift to mine, and I see that hers are also blue. “Do you want to be a princess?” she asks.
“Of course, what girls doesn’t want to be a princess...how old are you?”
She holds up six fingers. “My favorite color is pink.”
I decide I will sit with the little girl until her irresponsible parents come back. I keep a watch on the door leading into the store with black and neon pink in the window. “That’s nice.”
“What’s your favorite color?”
I’ve never thought about it. “Hmm..I guess...um...white.”
Her nose wrinkles. “White’s not a color.”
“Sure it is.” My gaze slides over the crowd and lands on a window with a display of white and tiny pearls. “Wedding dresses are white.” Usually. Mine won’t be.
The little girl considers this, then smiles, telling me, “You have pretty hair.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
“Mine’s not black.”
“You are right; yours is blond.”
“Are you from China,” she asks.
I laugh and shake my head. “No. I’m not from China. I was born here.”
“In the mall?”
“No. Here in Los Angeles.”
“The lady that comes see daddy while mommy is at work has black hair like yours. She is from China.”
Oh my God. I frown. “I’m so sorry.” For your life. For your dumbass parents. For ever sitting down next to you and starting this conversation in the first place. Now I’m hundred percent invested and feel responsible for the little girl. It’s impossible to get up and walk away without making sure she is safely delivered into her parent’s arms.
She shrugs a shoulder. “Mommy hates her, but the woman’s not so bad. She gives me candy and lets me watch cartoons while daddy and her talk.”
I glance over a shoulder at the front of the store, then seeing no one yet, I ask, “Mommy knows about the woman?”
The little girl nods. “That’s why I can’t go to tumbling anymore. Mommy has to stay home to keep daddy’s eyes from wandering.” She holds out her sparkly wand for me to see. “I didn’t like tumbling anyways. They bought me this.”
“You should have held out for more,” I mumble under my breath. I’m five seconds away from snatching the girl up and taking off with her when a guy sits down across from us. Still wide-eyed from the little girl’s openness and honesty I glance over at him. He stares back. “Cute kid,” he says. His voice is deep. Masculine. He’s casually dressed in a charcoal gray sweater that hugs his trim upper body, a pair of worn-out jeans, and boots. He has tattoos and piercing blue eyes—my kind of guy if I wasn’t completely freaked out right now.
The guy grins. “Is she yours?”
“What?”
“The little girl…is she your daughter?”
“No!” I shake my head, then mouth at him, “Her parents left her sitting out here while they shop.”
The guy raises a brow and mouths back, “By herself?”
“Apparently.” I stop whispering realizing there’s no point to it. The girl is too smart.
“Stupid parents,” cute guy returns.
“Apparently.”
He laughs, and I notice immediately that he has dimples.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “I’m a bit…distracted.”
The guy switches seats, sprawling out in the one next to the little girl. He rests an elbow on the arm of the chair, his chin in hand. Warning bells go off—attractive mystery man circling innocent abandoned child.
“Can I see this,” the guy asks the little girl, stealing her wand. He turns the wand around and pretends he is sprinkling “fairy dust” over the top of her head. His words have this endearing tone that is infectious. I find myself leaning in to hear their interaction. He returns the wand with a smile capable of sweeping any girl off her feet. “You are now under the protection of the prince,” he tells her. When she is not looking he mouths to me, “I have nieces.”
“You’re a prince?” the girl stares at him in amazement, completely sold on the idea.
He chuckles and lays a hand on his heart. “Prince Carter at your service.”
The girl’s gaze goes to where his sleeve is pushed up, to the colorful ink covering his forearm. She tells him, “You don’t look like a prince.”
“I’m undercover. Otherwise women would flock to get my autograph, and I wouldn’t get the chance to talk to the prettiest girl in the mall.”
Her cheeks flame with color.
“Uh oh,” I say. “I think you have a fan for life.”
He leans in, whispering to the girl, “I’ll tell you a little secret.” She wiggles in her seat. Anxious. Happy. “A prince can always spot a princess in need of rescue from a mile away.” He scoops the girl up, playfully tosses her over a shoulder and stands. “Let’s go have a talk with your parents.”
Uneasy about the whole situation I grab up my bag and follow them across the mall. The guy is tall and has dark, tousled hair. Even while walking with a little girl draped over a shoulder he was swagger and presences that make women stop and take notice. A few sigh and press a hand to their chest as if, such a strong guy carrying a giggling girl is the cutest thing they’ve ever seen.
The question’s fly from my mouth. I want to know what his plan is. Right as he reaches for the door that leads into the kinky store, the door opens.
A couple steps out. The woman squeals, “Izzy!”
Mr. Cute guy sets the girl on her feet.
“What are you doing with my daughter?” the thirty-something father snaps.
The mother throws Mr. Cute guy a glare before taking her daughter's hand and leading her across the mall. The little girl waves bye to me and Mr. Cute guy.
Mr. Cute guy keeps a smile held in place until the little girl is far enough away to not hear, and then he turns on the father. “You need to keep a watch on your kid.”
“What the fuck were you doing with her,” the father spits.
Cute guy’s hand shoots out, his long fingers crushing into the guy’s larynx. He drags the man closer until their faces are only a few inches apart. People stop and stare. I’m about to slip off when cute guy gestures for me to wait.
He raises a brow at the father. “Don’t act so concerned. You’re the dumbass who left his kid where any pervert could wander up? What the hell were you thinking?” He’s a head taller than the father and in obvious better shape. The man holds his hands up and immediately starts backpedaling. Cute guy keeps on ranting, “What if I were some sicko that preyed on innocent girls. Do you know what would have happened?” The father adamantly shakes his head no. “Oh, come on, you know. You’ve got a dick. Imagine: You walk out of the store to an entirely different scenario.” He holds up two fingers. “That’s how many minutes it would have taken for me to lure your daughter away. With the right incentive, she would have willingly walked with me out to my vehicle and the rest would’ve been a long nightmare your selfish, neglectful ass could never wake up from. Be glad this sweet lady came along when she did.” A finger is aimed in my direction. “She just saved your daughter’s life.”
Cute guy releases the man and pulls a wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. He flips the wallet open and pulls out a wad of green. “Now. Take this cash and buy your little girl something that says you’re sorry.” He crams the bills in the father’s hand. “Then you go home and thank God every night that you’re fortunate enough to still have her with you.”
The father scrambles, not able to get away from us fast enough.
“Crisis over,” cute guy shouts at the onlookers. People return to what they were doing. A few of their g
azes linger, judging the collection of tattoos between the two of us. I know what they’re thinking...that we are the problem.
“My name is Ricin Carter.” He extends a hand.
I take his hand and smile. “Prince Carter?”
“Yeah.” he chuckles. I say, “She liked you.”
“Do you blame her?” Dimples are revealed. Wow. That smile.
He exhales a breath. The tips of his ears are bright red. “Sorry about that. I have a friend that’s a cop. He’s made it his life’s mission to go after the scumbags that prey on little girls. I’ve seen too much bad shit happen. I guess it just didn’t set well with me that those parents were so careless.”
“I understand.”
He nods at the bag I’m holding. “Shopping? Let me buy you something nice to make up for putting us both on display.”
“Something that says you’re sorry?”
“Ha. You got me.”
“Do you always give money away?” I ask.
He shrugs a shoulder. “There’s worse things I could spend my money on than a beautiful girl.”
I consider it. If this guys has too much money and is willing to give it away, I would gladly accept some of his good fortune. But I’m sure the money would come with conditions. I hold up the bag. “It’s a return, and I need to go return it before I change my mind.” I start backing away. “It was nice meeting you Prince Carter.”
For every step I take, he takes one like there is an invisible thread connecting us. “Let me at least feed you.” His voice is deep and sexy and does nice things to my body. Feed me. Feed me what? A line of bullshit. I’m sure. He appears experienced with great pickup lines.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just ate.”
He tries again. “Coffee?” I shake my head. “C’mon, at least let me pump you full of caffeine.”
“Caffeine gives me a headache.” I turn around and start walking. The guy screams broken heart. I can’t afford to break anything else.
“Give me one hour,” he says. “I’ll pay you double what the return will be.”
Double? I could really use the money.
I stop, sigh and walk back toward him. I’ve gone on worse dates. The guy is generous with his money. “Okay.” I hold out the bag. “You just bought yourself a pair boots.”
We decide on one of the vendors selling homemade baked goods. Ricin studies the menu behind the counter. He gestures for me to order first. “A soy latte,” I tell the girl behind the counter.
Ricin leans into me. He smells good. Almost as good as the sugary smell coming from the bakery. His breath blows the hair near my ear. “Is that all you’re going to order?” I nod. He goes on, “You sure? Aren’t you the least bit tempted? It smells real good.”
So do you.
When I continue to refuse to order anything else he grins, telling me, “Okay. Just so you know...I’m not the sharing type.” He turns the devilish grin on the teenage girl taking our order and taps the display glass. “I’m going to have one of those cinnamon rolls and a tall regular. Black. No sugar.” The girl wraps the sticky roll with tissue paper and passes it over the counter to Ricin. I don’t miss the blush that spreads in her cheeks when their gaze meet.
“Do you collect fans everywhere I go?” I tease as we sit down at one the tables out in the main part of the mall.
He chuckles. “Princes tend to do that.” He breaks apart the roll and shoves nearly an entire half in his mouth, shuts his eyes and moans. “Oh my God, that is Heaven,” he says with a mouth full of dough. “But it’s hot!” He appears a little regretful he shoved so much in his mouth at one time. Apparently learning his lesson he tears off a smaller bite and brings it to his lips, blowing on it.
“You have to try it,” he says, checking the temperature of the bite against his lip.
“No. Thank you. I’m good.” I sit back in the chair, sip my latte, and shake my head.
“I insist,” his tone is suddenly stern. “Eat.” I automatically open my mouth, and he slowly feeds me the bite. I’m unaware of the people around us. It’s very intimate and arousing, being hand fed by a dark, mysterious stranger. Even though he cooled the bite, the dough still warms my tongue. My own eyes close, a moan slipping out as my tongue cleans the icing from my lip. I open my eyes to find Ricin watching me.
“Good huh?” he grins. “Told you.” There’s icing on his bottom lip and I find myself wishing I could lick it off.
Instead, I rest my forearms on the tabletop while envying his sweet roll. I’d noticed when he paid for our order that his wallet was full of hundreds. “I have to ask, what do you do for a living…sell drugs?”
He burst into laughter. “No.” He wipes his fingertips on a napkin. “I don’t sell drugs. I’m a photographer.”
“Really. You’re an artist?”
“Something like that. You ever heard of Isabella Lisle?” he asks.
My eyes widen. “Yes I’ve heard of her, she is gorgeous.” Please. Don’t tell me she is your fiancée. “Wasn’t she just on the cover of People magazine?”
“So are you,” he says, blushing after he’s said it.
“I am what?”
“Gorgeous,” he pauses. “The cover. The photograph of Isabella was one of mine.”
“That’s your work?” I choke on my latte. “On the cover of People magazine?”
“Okay. Stop. You’re embarrassing me.” He gestures down at the bag with the return. “May I? I’d like to see what my money buys.”
I shrug. “Sure.”
He drags out the large rectangular box. “Let’s see if I made a good investment.” He lifts the lid. “Wow. Those are some sexy ass black boots. Knee high. Love the heels. What are those, four inch?”
“Five,” I laugh out shaking my head. “A guy who knows—”
“I know what looks good on a woman.” Leaning, he glances under the table at my feet; then his eyes lift to mine. A smile plays at the corner of his lips. “Were they uncomfortable?”
“Most comfortable boots I ever owned.”
“Liar.”
I shrug. “I could’ve easily gotten use to them.”
“You didn’t like them after you got them home?”
“Loved them,” I say, sipping my latte.
“Then why return them?”
“I would rather not discuss it.”
“That’s not fair. It’s my hour. Don’t I get to decide what we discuss?”
I debate on whether or not to share. What the hell. I may never see him again. “I rent from the Grinch.”
“The Grinch?” He folds his arms over his chest. Lifts a brow in speculation. “Really?”
“Yes. I know what you’re thinking. How lucky! That’s what I thought too. Anyways. I owe the Grinch back-rent, and as you know, he doesn’t have a heart.”
“That’s the reason for the return...you need money?”
“You make it sound so pathetic, but you’re right. I’m broke.” I shift nervously in the chair at the sympathetic look he gives me. I laugh it off, regretting telling him. “Bet you’re glad your hour is about up?”
“You’re an attractive girl. Why don’t you model? I can get you a gig.”
Now I burst into laughter and hold up my hands. “No. That’s sweet, but no. I don’t think I would be comfortable with a camera aimed at me all day. The clicking would drive me insane.”
“What if I’m the photographer,” he asks appearing completely serious. At my obvious aversion to the idea, he explains, “there is something unique about you.”
“Desperation?”
“No. You have this innocent quality about you….”
I choke on my latte again. This time it comes out my nose. I quickly reach for a napkin. Did he really just use the word innocent? “I am so far removed from innocent that it’s not even funny.”
He goes on, “let me finish, what I was going to say was...there is this innocence about you but yea, there is also a roughness you can only get from life. There is hope in th
ere along with the desperation, I think. It draws you in. Makes a person want to know your story.” I glance about nervously. He leans forward resting his well-defined forearms on the tabletop. My gaze runs over the tattoo, and I get it—how a mixture of nice and deeply scarred can be very appealing. His blue eyes are magnetic, pulling me toward his soul. I find myself wanting to know his story. He says, “Ok. No modeling. Then I have to ask, what do you want to be when you grow up?” he pauses, a corner of his mouth lifting, “Let me guess…you want to be a princess?”
“Every girl wants the fairy tale.” I swirl the last bit of my Latte around in the bottom of the cup. “I sure as hell didn’t expect to be struggling so hard.”
“It doesn’t have to be that way.”
“You’re right. I could crawl home to my mother and let her turn me into one of her tennis playing snobs.”
“You don’t like tennis?”
“I don’t like my mother.”
He sits back in his chair. “What did your mother say when you came home with your first tattoo?”
“Exactly what I expected her to say. That I had permanently ruined my good girl image, and there was no going back. I officially looked like trash. If it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, looks like a duck…it must be a duck.”
“Ouch. Did your mother really call you trash?”
“Almost every day.” It’s quiet for a few moments.
I really wish I wouldn’t have brought up ducks.
Ricin is the first to break the silence. “You still haven’t told me your name.” I angle my head and touch the tip of my fingertip to the small tattoo below my left ear. “Starr?” he guesses. I nod. “Do you have a job, Starr?”
“Just got fired.”
“Double ouch.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, the way I see it you have to choices: either let it get you down or count it as a blessing.” When I give him a doubtful look, he chuckles. “No. Really. Hear me out. So, you got fired from….”
“Something Italian.”
“I hope that has something to do with pizza and not men.”
“It does.”
“Okay, you were fired from Something Italian; now you can go pursue what you’ve always wanted to do which is….” There is a vibration. He reaches for his cell phone, runs a thumb over the screen, his blue eyes sliding down the message. He types out a short reply and sets his phone on the table.
