by JA Huss
No, this resort. I want to go home. Like right now.
I’m leaving. I walk around the room and pick up all my things, stuffing them into my backpack, then hit the bathroom and grab my incidentals. There’s a pad of paper on the desk and I scribble out a note to Bebe.
Had to go back to Denver, emergency at work, they need me tomorrow. Love you—Grace
I can already hear her when she reads this. A party-planning emergency that requires you to leave a tropical island so you can work on Labor Day? She’ll never buy it, but I don’t care. I take a long steadying breath, hike the backpack strap up over my shoulder, and leave the bungalow. I take the path that takes me to the main hotel, ducking out of sight when I hear voices, just in case they are Vaughn or one of his minions, and make it to the valet area where there are a few cabs lined up waiting for fares. The valet is busy, lots of people checking in after the resort was closed for the wedding, so I walk past the guys unloading luggage and approach the first cab in line. “Airport?” I ask.
“Get in,” he says in his Island accent.
I do get in. And as soon as I settle into the backrest I relax and breathe a sigh of relief.
It takes a while to get to the airport even though this island is small and we’re not that far from the central business district of Charlotte Amalie. It’s all the way across the bay and there are times during the forty-minute ride through the coastal traffic that I think I could’ve gotten there faster if I was swimming. But finally, the cab pulls up into the departures area and I pay him and get out.
A few seconds later, I’m alone at the airport with no ticket home.
Inside it’s a madhouse. It’s Labor Day weekend and people want to get home in time to enjoy the holiday tomorrow before they have to go back to work on Tuesday. I get in the ticketing line and wait patiently as one by one we inch forward and finally, after an hour and a half, I’m next in line.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I take it out and check the message.
Where are you? From an unknown number. Which by now I know is Vaughn.
I consider not answering, but it’s best to just get it over with. So I text back. At the airport, on my way home. Thanks for the fun. Bye, Grace.
And then it’s my turn at the ticket counter, so I stuff the phone into my pocket and ignore the incessant buzzing as I concentrate on what they are telling me.
“First class? No, I can’t afford first class. I just want a coach ticket to Denver.”
“Miss, we have one seat left at a discounted price as it leaves in thirty minutes. You have five minutes to make up your mind and you can make that flight with the complimentary premium security access checkpoint. It’s eight hundred and seventy-two dollars. The next available flight is tomorrow.”
My phone rings in my pants and I grab it and press answer out of habit before I remember that I’m avoiding Asher. “Grace,” he says, his voice urgent. “Stay right where you are, I’ll be there to pick you up in ten minutes. Stay put, do you hear me, Grace?”
I press end and look the ticketing woman in the eye. “Book it. Here’s my card.”
I have exactly one thousand one hundred and two dollars in my bank account—that includes savings—but I do not care. I refuse to let that asshole find me stranded here at the airport like a child.
Fifteen minutes later I’m through security and I’m walking down the aisle to the only seat left in first class. I drop down into my seat, the window, so the woman next to me is put out, and stuff my backpack under the seat in front of me.
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. I hope I never see that man again. I never want to see his face, like ever. Even on TV. I’m not going to see Invisible Man 2, even though IM1 was my favorite movie last year. I am over it. Totally one hundred percent over it.
In fact, I grab my phone and bring up my Twitter account real fast. I look up for the flight attendant and he’s busy making coffee or something in that tiny galley kitchen, so I open up my account and start deleting tweets. I just want to erase Vaughn from my life. My fingers are flying down my profile page, but there’s no good way to delete them all without deleting my whole account. I consider that, out of desperation, and I’m just about to give in and do it when the flight attendant stands over my row and tsks his tongue.
“Airplane mode, please. And I can see your Twitter page, so I know you’re not in airplane mode.”
He waits there, tapping his foot, until I go into my settings and flick that little tab to airplane mode.
Well, whatever. Vaughn has no idea who I am on Twitter, but as soon as I get to my stop in Atlanta, that shit is going.
I plug my headphones into my phone and bring up my tunes, then settle back into my oversized seat and try and enjoy my first, and probably only, first-class experience.
A few hours later, after I’ve been served lunch, champagne, orange juice, a hot towel, and a movie—IM1, it’s the only one playing—I’m satiated, relaxed, and even a little bit giggly over my ridiculous weekend with movie star Vaughn Asher. It’s sort of a blur, and sort of surreal. I mean, did I really get fucked by him in a tropical forest? Did I really put a vibrator against my pussy in the company of the great Adam Asher?
I laugh out loud and several people look over at me.
It was sorta fun, but Jesus, I’m glad it’s over. I’m not his type, he’s way too much ego for me, and we really did fight the entire time. I prefer my quiet, predictable, low-conflict life and the only dates I see in my future are virtual ones on Saturday night Dirty Heaven twitter chats.
The plane lands and phones begin dinging as everyone switches them off airplane mode. I stretch out, ready to get off this plane and find my next gate so I can just go home to Denver. I fish out my phone to check my messages. Bebe is gonna be pissed off when she gets that note. I switch the phone off airplane mode and it begins dinging.
A balloon bubble pops up on my home screen telling me I have twenty-two messages.
What?
I swipe my finger to go into my messages app and look at them.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
Unknown number.
They go on and on like that. More and more and more.
My email app dings and I press that to take my mind off what might be happening on my phone. I have fifty-two new emails from Twitter.
I open the first one and it takes me a few seconds of staring to realize what I’m seeing.
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) favorited one of your Tweets!
On, and on, and on. Down to the very last new email for today.
Vaughn Asher (@VaughnAsher) is now following you on Twitter!
I scream.
People startle and flight attendants come to help me. But I fall back against my seat, unable to process what just happened to my life.
I’ve been outed. He knows. Every last dirty thing I’ve said about him over the years—from I wish I could slide my pussy against your scratchy chin to You have long thumbs, I hear your cock is three times that size—he knows them all.
And then my phone dings a message.
I force myself to look down.
I can’t wait to play Dirty Heaven with you this weekend—Vaughn
I die of humiliation right there. I just die.
Chapter Twenty-One - Vaughn
#HappinessIsHacking
I CHUCKLE to myself as I lounge on my couch back in LA. I’ve been watching Grace’s Twitter feed for twenty-four hours now, ever since I sent that tweet, but she’s gone silent. Black, they call it. Dead.
I laugh again.
“What’re you smirking about?”
I sit up and peek over the back of the couch. Felicity�
��s back is to me and she has the fridge open, staring at it. “She’s hiding,” I tell her.
“Of course she is, you just embarrassed the fuck out of her—”
“Felicity, language, please.”
“—in front of her entire community of online friends. What’d you think would happen?”
I stare at my adopted daughter for a minute, noticing how tall she seems. She is all legs. I hate it. “Your skirt is too short. I hope you’re not going to wear that out of the house.”
She glares at me over her shoulder. “It’s a tennis skirt, Vaughn, relax. I told you, I’m trying to get better at a sport this year so I can be all jocky and shit.” She finally grabs a sparkling water and slams the refrigerator door with a sigh.
“‘Jocky and shit?’ First of all, language. Second—” I have to stop here and think about my word choice for a moment. Twenty-year-old girls are sensitive to any criticism, and while I do not think what I’m about to say is a criticism—it’s the whole reason we met—I do not want her to take it the wrong way. “I love the non-jocky version of you. So whatever jock you’re trying to gain attention from does not deserve you if he can’t appreciate your nerdy side.”
I smile. That was perfect.
She comes into the family room and plops down on the overstuffed chair across from me with a whoosh of cushions. The bottle cap snaps as she opens it and the fizz bubbles into the air. “I hate you.”
“What?”
“I love the nerdy you,” she says in a fake voice. “Of course you do. You’re seeing me in a non-sexual way—”
“Oh, Jesus, Felicity, please—”
“—but I’m trying to get laid by a hot dude, OK?”
“OK, this subject is over.”
“Yeah, let’s just talk about your current relationship, that’s much better. And you know what, you adopted me at sixteen. It barely counts. I’m your best friend, not your daughter, so stop with the parenting, V. I can’t take it.” She takes a long swig of her water and then wipes her mouth. “Anyway, having me figure out who she is on Twitter for you is one thing. The games you’re playing are not nice. She’s gonna flip out. And all seven thousand members of Dirty Heaven Twitter group will see every bit of it.”
I let out a long breath. I have to admit, playing this game with Grace has really injected some fun into my pathetically boring movie-star life. I have been busy most of the year with production schedules and charity benefits, but most of the sex has been… disappointing. I’ve had no real romantic fun until this past weekend. Grace has got me all distracted and bothered. I hate that she left the island before we could have a real date. Fucking her in the forest is not the same as seducing her and making her submit to me in private. Public is fun, but private has so many, many more options.
“Oh, by the way,” Felicity says, “your douche of a brother called. Says he’s gonna be gone on a business trip for a couple weeks and he’ll pay you when he gets back.”
I make a face at the change in subject. Fucking Conner and his business deal. If my parents knew what he was up to, they’d flip. But I promised not to tell them while he gets it off the ground, and I’m a man of my word.
“What’s that all about, anyway?” Felicity asks.
“Nothing,” I say to stop the conversation. “I don’t want to think about Conner.”
“Well, I’m gonna dig up some info then. I barely know anything about him.”
“Felicity,” I say in my stern father voice. “Do not hack into his stuff, do you hear me? He will know.”
“How’s he gonna know?” she laughs. “I’m careful. You know I’m careful.”
“It’s not ethical, anyway.”
“Pfft,” she says. “Please. You have me hack stuff all the time, V. Like your new girlfriend’s Twitter account? Ringing any bells?”
“That’s harmless fun, Felicity.”
“What I’m doing is harmless too. And it’s fun. For me.” She smiles broadly as she takes a sip of water and it dribbles out of her mouth. “Besides, I’m pretty sure Miss Kinsella will not be thinking it’s so funny when you start playing for real. She’s gonna be mortified. She might change her name and move away to escape the public humiliation you’re about to unleash.”
“It’s not public. It’s her Twitter account. She hides behind that FilthyBlueBird handle for a reason. So no one knows it’s her.”
“Whatever you say, boss.” And then she looks at her watch and gets up. “Well, I’ve got a two PM tennis match scheduled to perfectly coincide with my future man’s football practice so I gotta jet.” She walks over and then leans down to peck me on the cheek. “Later, V.”
“Be good!” I call after her. “And be safe if you’re going to—”
“Vaughn! That’s too far.” She waves me off with her hand as she skips down the hallway and a few seconds later I hear the door to the garage slam.
I sigh. She’s so different from the girl I found sitting in a jail cell a few years ago. Brought in on felony hacking charges after she broke into my production company’s database looking for dirt to sell to online Hollywood tabloid shows. She was living on the streets. No parents, no home. No money. No future.
I wanted to press charges, teach her a lesson and make her pay for it all at the same time. I was still reeling from a lackluster performance in an independent project I helped produce a few months earlier, not to mention the constant headlines in Buzz Hollywood accusing me of living some kind of dark, sordid double life. I wanted to make her pay.
Luckily Samantha talked me out of it after learning what Felicity’s situation was, and I ended up not pressing charges. But I still wanted to teach her a lesson. So I made her work for me as my personal assistant that entire summer and decided to become her foster parent.
She changed my life. It went from shallow and empty to meaningful in one day. Like seriously, her first day at the studio with me. She had my whole life arranged on a tablet before lunch. She was quick and personable, and funny. She’s so funny. She lights up my life. We were inseparable that summer. People started calling us Velicity, that’s how attached we became. It’s like we were destined to be best friends.
When the end of the summer rolled around she started asking me weird questions. Would I get rid of her some day? Would I send her to another family to live with if she was bad? Would I get married and forget about our friendship? Would I have new children and replace her?
God, it killed me to hear her asking these questions. And of course, I reassured her without question. I might be a dick, but I believe in commitment. Once I’m on board with something, I’m in. I believe in the long haul. I believe in sticking it out. People who make it past my initial aloofness, and not many do, so I can’t hardly blame Felicity for wondering, but those who do get inside, I am loyal.
I just couldn’t imagine living with that level of uncertainty Felicity was displaying. So I adopted her. Sent her to the best school for the duration of high school and just as I suspected, she was brilliant. She made up for all the previous years of poor education with perfect attendance and she graduated summa cum laude right on time. Colleges came knocking and she was admitted to my alma mater, the University of Southern California, without me even pulling strings or writing an extra check.
Now, she’s a senior. Psychology with a minor in criminal justice. Still has perfect grades. Still has perfect attendance. And even if she had none of that, she’s still perfect to me.
Yes, Felicity has certainly changed my view on life. The past four years have been the best, even though my love life has seriously been lacking. I count up the number of submissives I’ve had in that time. At least fifteen. Some of them were so bad at it, I never got past the first oral sex. All were stand-ins for the real deal.
I’ve had plenty of public girlfriends too, and those I do not fuck. It’s a business arrangement my agent sets up. We go out to eat together, shop once in a while, attend functions—but, you know, public things.
I don’t tak
e the subs to any of that stuff. And to be honest, I’ve never had the desire.
I think I can count two authentic girlfriends in my life and both were in my teens. My co-star at Disney was matched up with me for some awards show and we actually did hit it off. We’re still friends now, but she’s… well, a movie star. Egomaniac, selfish, pampered, and self-sufficient. She never needed me.
I like to be needed.
The other real girlfriend crashed and burned at eighteen. Been in and out of rehab about a dozen times. It’s too bad, she was so cute as a teenager. But that one was clingy. Too needy. I like to be needed, but not for stupid things like waking up on time every day. I want to date a grownup. That girl never quite grew up, no matter how old she got.
After that, eh, I could take them or leave them. You’d think it’d be easy to find a soulmate as an internationally famous movie star. But it’s not. People just want to use you. They want something from you at all times. They want money, they want introductions, they want help.
I never know if they like me for me, or just for what I can give them. It’s hard to separate the two because if you really want to make a relationship work, you have to be invested.
I try not to be invested. I admit that says I’m not trying to be in a relationship. Which is why I have the submissive girls. They do what I say, and while I certainly do hand things out, they don’t get to ask me for anything.
One-way streets. Those are the best kind of relationships for me. I tell them up front I’m not invested. I’m shallow, I’m using them, I’m a controlling asshole. Take it or leave it.
Very few leave it. Well, that’s not true, they all leave it eventually. When I kick them out the door. When I drop their asses off at the airport. When I stop taking calls, or answering emails, or reading messages. I don’t need to change the locks, they never come home with me anymore. Not since Felicity. This is a sex-free house. For both of us. No boys here for her, no women here for me.
Nada. This place is our safe haven from the world and that’s how it’s gonna stay.
