by Mells, J. C.
“Well, I spend a lot of time with Max’s daughter. She’s a media favorite.”
“You and her keep the paparazzi busy then?” I joked, trying to lighten the mood after all the avoiding she was doing to the original question.
California’s eyes dulled and she shifted her gaze to the carpet. “I’ve had my share of unsolicited media attention. It’s not a part of my life I’m too proud of, and I’m really not comfortable talking about it.”
I noticed a slight trembling in her hands and immediately regretted making the joke. Her relationship to the media and the reasons for their interest in her was none of my business. The fact I’d played a part in the look on her face now, killed me. I’d seen that haunted look before: delicate, fragile, terrified and traumatized – someone haunted by bad memories. Something in me wanted to pull her close, hold her tight, protect her, and promise to never let her get that look again.
But, that wasn’t an option open to me.
What I could do, though, was change the subject.
“I’m sorry, we got sidetracked. You were asking me about the shop.”
She looked back at me through thick lashes, a grateful expression replacing the anxious one. Her grasp tightened on her water bottle in an attempt to stop her hand from shaking. I could tell she was someone more used to covering up her emotions and the slight slip I’d just witnessed wasn’t the norm for her.
“It’s pretty small… four stations,” I continued, hiding my worry with a smile. “It’s just me, my friend Rufus, another artist called Mo, and my dad. Thanks to Max, we’re thinking about renting out one of the stations to a fifth person.”
“You still live with your dad?” she asked, visibly calmer now, her self-confidence returning.
“Yeah, we live in the apartment above the shop. My dad bought the place fifteen years ago for a song. It’s just off the Strip in Downtown Vegas – not the greatest of neighborhoods back then.” I gave a dry laugh. “Actually, it still isn’t the greatest of neighborhoods now, but it’s a hundred times better than it was back in the day. I have everything I need right on the same block: a mom-and-pop coffee shop and sandwich place next door, my gym across the street…”
“I knew that body of yours didn’t come naturally…and oh my God, I just said that out loud, didn’t I?” California shrugged, as if she wasn’t really that embarrassed by her little slip.
The faint blush to her cheeks told a different story. It was completely adorable.
“You sure did,” I laughed. “And, thank you. I have to work out daily for a competition I promised someone I’d enter. My training sessions are pretty intense right now.”
“I wish I could say the same,” she said sheepishly, using the back of her hand to cool her cheeks. “I’ve been struggling with my weight my entire life. Tallulah, my stepmom, made me join a gym when I was thirteen. It doesn’t matter how much I work out though, this is as good as it gets. What competition are you training for?”
“Have you heard of Ultimate Ninja Athlete?”
“It’s the T.V. show with the obstacles, right? Based on a Japanese show or something?”
“Yep, that’s the one.”
“Don’t contestants dress up in superhero costumes and stuff?” She teased.
“Ha ha. Not all of them,” I replied sarcastically.
“I certainly wouldn’t mind seeing you in a pair of tights,” she giggled.
I hastily changed the subject in an attempt to calm down my twitching dick. The sound of her laughter was making it throb.
“What the hell did you mean when you said you had a weight problem? There’s no problem from what I can see.” I let my eyes roam down her body again.
Hell, why not? She brought it up.
“Not according to Tallulah and Lake, my stepsister. According to them, I’m much heavier than I should be,” she laughed, but there was no mirth in her eyes as she spoke. “On some levels, I’m prone to agree with them.”
I instantly knew she wasn’t just talking about just the shape of her body. This girl had issues she was still dealing with.
Who doesn’t?
Cali
I was giving him as little information as I could, but the little I had divulged was already more than I told most.
Having said that, I couldn’t tell him about my struggles with bulimia. Not even the press had picked up on that one yet. My stepmom preferred that the world see me as a rebellious addict over someone struggling with an eating disorder. To her, as a former high-fashion model, drug abuse was acceptable. Admitting to an eating disorder was sacrilegious. Bulimia was not a disorder to Tallulah – it was a diet regimen. My drug and alcohol abuse was only a side effect from my bulimia and not the other way around. I think if the word bulimia started being bandied about where I was concerned, she might have to admit some sort of responsibility. ‘Responsibility’ was a not a word in my stepmother’s vocabulary.
“So you and your dad must be pretty close then?” I couldn’t help myself. The relationship between people and their parents was a subject I was genuinely interested in. Given how screwed up mine was, could you blame me?
“We are now. My mom and he split up when I was seven and I stayed with her in New York. My dad and I sort of reconnected and started over from scratch a few years ago when I turned up on his doorstep.”
Thatch paused here and I couldn’t help but notice how his eyes flicked briefly towards the bag of coke on the table next to his tattoo gun.
“My father,” he continued, “is a recovering alcoholic. He’s been sober now for almost four years.”
“I guess I won’t have to ask if you want to do a line then,” I joked, deliberately looking at the cocaine in front of me.
Perhaps, if I’d done a few lines, I wouldn’t be acting like a tongue-twisted – and boring – schoolgirl right now.
“Not my scene. Never has been,” Thatch shrugged.
Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t indulged too much tonight then…yet.
For the first time in my life, I actually wanted to explain myself a little. Not everything, of course. I may have fallen into lust-at-first-sight with this young man in front of me, but I wasn’t so delusional as to think I could share deep secrets with a complete stranger. When you were often a feature segment on TMZ for no other reason than you had a famous father, you tended to keep some things close to the chest. Never trust anyone – a motto I had to live by for most of my life.
“I’ve spent my fair share of time in that drug and alcohol rough patch,” I finally said to Thatch. “Of course, I don’t think it’s as bad as the media makes it out to be. I was dabbling with things no girl my age should’ve been. I’m not an addict, but my therapist has encouraged me to refrain from my ‘dabbling’ in the hopes it’ll help me deal with my other…issues. Everything’s supposed to be easier to deal with if I maintain a clear head.”
There. That’s sort of the truth. He didn’t need to know anything about my eating disorder or the psychological traumas that fueled it. And, he certainly didn’t need to know I was checking myself into The Blaire Institute and Recovery Center tomorrow. I hadn’t even told my family yet. Tonight was supposed to be my last big binge before going in.
I know, I know. I’m completely aware of the hypocrisy there.
“How’s that working out for you so far?” Thatch asked.
“I’ll let you know,” I laughed a little nervously. “I start tomorrow.” While it was true I wasn’t technically an addict… nothing curbs an appetite like cocaine can.
“My dad has really…”
Thatch was interrupted as the door flew open and Max came into the room, his guitar slung over his shoulder. “Sorry that took so long,” he said. “I had a little business to take care of first with Dee-Dee.”
He gave Thatch a wink before he noticed me.
“Cali! I didn’t know you were in here! Been keeping the young man entertained in my absence?” Max winked at me this time. “Watch yourself with this on
e, young man; she’s got a bit of the devil inside her sometimes,” he said jokingly to Thatch.
Well, it was half-joke, half-truth, if I were perfectly honest.
“Lake was… entertaining… in our room and this was the quietest spot I could find,” I said a little defensively, as he came and wedged himself between Thatch and me after tossing his guitar on the bed.
“That daughter of mine has too much of me in her. Could be worse though,” Max chuckled. “She could’ve taken after her mother.”
Either way, the girl was fucked. I didn’t say that out loud though.
Like I was one to talk.
“Do you guys mind if I hang out and watch?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Fine by me. You okay with that, Thatch?” Max asked as Thatch stood and started prepping his tattoo equipment.
“Fine by me, too. I just need somewhere to plug this in. How about you sit in one of these chairs over here, Max. I’m working on your forearm today, right?”
“Yep. How do you feel about doing a little cover-up action?” Max grinned at him.
“Please tell me you’re finally taking care of the ‘Tally’ tattoo,” I said, stretching my legs out now that I had the couch to myself again.
“You’d better believe it. Your step-monster is going to be so mad…”
I barely paid attention to what Max was saying as I watched Thatch move the second chair nearer to the one Max now sat in. Just the few seconds of noticing his T-shirt stretched tight across his momentarily strained chest muscles as he dragged the heavy piece of furniture, was enough to make my mouth go dry… again. He repositioned Max’s chair so that Max faced away from me, but I had a clear view of his arm that was to be worked on.
“Let’s take a look at this ‘Tally’ then,” Thatch said, taking hold of Max’s right arm. The same arm that was always featured front and center during guitar-playing close-ups.
It might have been over twelve years since Max and Tallulah had been divorced, but they still mixed in the same elite circles and were still tied to one another through Lake. My stepmother would never admit it, but the fact that her name was still clearly visible in any close-up shot or photo, was just another way for her to feel she was still in the spotlight. It was another little way for her to claim fame. Sure, she was the queen of the red carpet at awards shows just because she was on Brock Huntington’s arm, but it wasn’t Tallulah the interviewers wanted to talk to.
Yet, every time Lake was caught by the paparazzi stumbling out of a club, her mother and father were always mentioned – and often times, so was that damn ‘Tally’ tattoo on Max’s right arm. The press loved to play the ‘first love’ angle – as if it was a romantic tragedy that Max and Tallulah had split up.
If there was one thing I was certain of, it was that my stepmother was going to be pissed as all hell when she saw Max had tattooed over it.
Thatch turned Max’s arm over to get a good look at the area in question. “There’s not a lot of room to work with here. What do you have in mind, Max? It’ll have to be something in the vertical for me to cover it completely.”
“I was thinking about my guitar,” Max answered, motioning with his head toward the bed.
“That could work,” Thatch agreed as he walked over and picked up the item under discussion.
Damn – he had a sexy walk.
Max’s guitar was solid black with one red stripe down it. “I think it would cover up the other tattoo perfectly,” Thatch added as he returned to his seat.
I watched as Thatch began drawing across Max’s skin with what looked like red magic marker.
“Don’t you use a stencil or draw it on paper first?” I asked with genuine curiosity.
“Sometimes,” Thatch replied. “This one should be pretty easy though. I’m just going to free hand it.”
“The boy is a genius, Cali,” Max laughed. “He can do whatever he likes to my arm – just as long as I don’t have to see that fucking woman’s name on me anymore.”
“In that case,” Thatch winked at me before turning back to Max. “How’d you feel about me making it a little more interesting than just a straight up image of your guitar?”
“Go for it,” Max grinned.
Thatch
Knowing California was watching as I worked was a bigger turn-on than I’d thought possible. Even when I got into my zone, concentrating on the task at hand, I could still feel her gaze on me. Let’s just say, I knew she wasn’t only looking at the tattoo being drawn.
The music California had been listening to was turned down low, and barely audible. Max stayed on the phone for most of the sitting – his voice nothing more than a dull noise in the background, much like the drone of my tattoo gun.
All my focus was on my work… and the girl watching from the sofa.
I couldn’t stop myself from glancing in her direction from time to time.
An hour into the session and neither California nor I had spoken a word, but somehow we’d fallen into a rhythm with one another.
A dangerous, flirtatious rhythm.
It started when I glanced in her direction and saw her staring at me, eyes hooded, lips parted. I heard the quick catch in her breath and she instantly looked away. Too late. Caught red-handed. Suddenly, the room felt very warm.
With her head turned towards the T.V., I let my gaze drop slightly lower to the smooth skin on the side of her neck – a deliciously soft rectangle of skin framed by a delicate ear, a graceful jawbone, and the collar of her T-shirt.
When her hand came up and covered the area in question and a low blush gently swept across the area where I’d imagined my tongue should be, I realized it was my turn to be caught staring. I quickly turned back to Max’s arm.
And, that’s how it began.
My next glance, a few minutes later, landed on her exposed shoulder that was on display through the wide neck hole of her oversized shirt. My lust-filled mind, fueled by the heat of both the room and her gaze, imagined touching her there.
Immediately her hand came up to caress the spot I was looking at, as if it were my hands on her body and not her own.
Now it was my breath that caught in my throat.
I glanced up at Max, but he seemed oblivious to the fact there were others in the room with him. The person on the other end of the phone was in the process of recounting what must be an amusing story, as Max gave a chuckle and asked them to tell him what happened next.
Whatever Max was on, because he was definitely on something, he was feeling no pain from my tattoo gun.
I concentrated on the tattoo for a full five minutes before I looked at California again. It was the longest five minutes of my life.
She looked at me expectantly, quite obviously every bit as aroused as I was. Emboldened by her look, I allowed my eyes to run leisurely down her arm. Her hand, which was still resting on her shoulder, followed along the path set by my gaze, and I could see tiny goose bumps appearing everywhere her fingertips grazed her flesh.
I turned back to the tattoo, fidgeting a little in my chair as I felt a tightening at the front of my jeans. Thank God I was slightly bent over and my lap was hidden from view.
I became hyper-aware of the sounds in the room – California’s iPod playing softly, the low hum of my machine, the tinny voice of whomever Max was talking to, the dull beat of the music in the other room. I was especially aware of the sound of California breathing. She wasn’t loud, but the pace had increased ever so slightly and it fell into perfect sync with my own.
I paused to remove the excess ink with a clean cloth. I was normally a fast worker, but this job felt like it was going in slow motion. I briefly closed my eyes in an attempt to calm my racing pulse. I already knew if I glanced at her again I was going to look at something I had no business looking at. I wouldn’t be able to control myself. This was completely out of character for me. I’d never reacted toward anyone in this way, not even Charity. Then again, I’d been sixteen, almost seventeen when I’d met
Charity. Just a boy. That boy had had to grow up pretty fast soon after.
I couldn’t stop myself, and I’m not sure I really wanted to anyway.
I looked at California.
Her dark blue eyes bore into me like hot water cutting ice. They told me she knew exactly where I wanted to look next—where I had to look next.
Cali
Every pore in my skin was so turned on right now. There was no disguising the lust in his gaze and I’d never felt a desire like this for anyone. I’d never felt desire like this from anyone.
As his eyes began their oh-so-slow descent, I followed in their wake with a trembling hand, thankful again that Max was facing in the opposite direction and couldn’t see me. If I was completely wasted, as I’d intended to be before Thatch interrupted me, I probably wouldn’t have cared if Max had seen. Just another notch in my belt of shame.
Thatch’s eyes came to rest on my breasts, as I knew they had to. My wrist brushed over the sensitive point of my right nipple, and I gave an involuntary gasp as the contact sent a jolt of searing heat to the damp ache between my legs.
Thatch’s lips parted slightly as he drank in the view of my hardened nipples through my T-shirt. There was no way I could hide the effect his look was having on me, so why even try?
I tried to subtly rub my thighs together under the blanket to ease some of the slow throbbing happening between them, but Thatch caught the movement and lowered his eyes to that spot.
Maybe I’d done it deliberately? Maybe I’d wanted his gaze to head farther south? After all, where he looked, my hand had to follow – and I was so aroused right now, I wanted to touch myself. I needed to touch myself.
I took a deep breath and slowly slid my hand down my stomach and under the blanket. Thatch’s eyes widened for a second and then flashed to Max, who was still on the phone, before they locked back onto mine again.
The smoldering look Thatch gave me took my breath away. Heat, desire, passion, and daring simmered in the hooded eyes watching my every move. His look gave me all the confidence I needed to do what I’d never done in front of anyone before. Hell, I hardly did this when alone thanks to the side effects of some of the anti-depressants I was on.
