by Torrest, T.
My body was still Jell-O, but I guess I had some strength left in my mouth. I worked that thing with more determination than a shop-vac on Tool Time.
Every downstroke of my hand was closely followed by my lips; every suck on the way up had him begging for mercy. My other hand wrapped around to mind the stepchildren—You. Must. Mind. The Stepchildren—and the groan he let out just then made me want to high-five myself.
He clenched his teeth, sputtering out a string of half-words and addressing our Lord and savior in a most sacrilegious way before letting out with a booming growl as he lurched, practically folding in half over me as he shot to the back of my throat, his throbbing cock pulsing against my tongue.
That’s when I remembered I wasn’t a swallower and had to pull a Blink 182 naked run for the outdoor bar sink. Classy.
I washed up and rinsed out, then wrapped myself in a towel. I darted into the house to get dressed and check on dinner, then came back outside to Trip, who’d managed to pull up his shorts before passing out in the sun. I took a moment to appreciate the dazzling god lying there. He was so beautiful and perfect, even while practically snoring away like an actual mortal. It was hard to remember that he was, in fact, human. That gorgeous crop of golden hair, that chiseled body, those inviting, full lips just begging to be kissed… Damn. I’m so wrong. Please disregard what I just said about him being human.
I went in the house to get dinner finished and plated. By the time I brought everything out, he was awake and doing laps in the pool. You’d think by looking at him that he was just born that beautiful. And he was. Genes definitely were very generous to that man. But the truth was, he worked really hard to look that good. A body like that doesn’t come naturally. Even back in high school, hockey kept him in shape during the winter and jogging kept him fit the rest of the year. I stood there for a moment and watched him, pushing himself to go faster, harder. Testing his body to its limit. I knew he must’ve spent a fair amount of time in his private gym downstairs—so I apologize if I’m shattering any myths about him right here—because no one looks that good by accident.
He hauled himself out of the water, gave a shake to his head, and dried off with a towel before throwing on an Atari T-shirt and meeting me at the table. I’d made a London broil and a mesclun salad with some new potatoes dressed in a dill vinaigrette and a side basket of “homemade” biscuits to round it out. (Okay, fine. They were from a can.)
He appraised the spread on the table and gave me an enthusiastic, “Wow, this looks great!”
Then the sick bastard announced that he was heading inside to grab the ketchup.
He came out, the bottle swinging triumphantly from his fingers as I warned, “You are not putting ketchup on that meat.”
He just ignored me, singing “You’re So Vain” as he slathered a dollop on the side of his plate.
“Ummm… wrong song, fucktard.”
I was stunned, watching as he sliced off a hunk of London Broil and dipped it into the glob before looking right into my eyes—a victorious gleam in his—as he chewed.
“I don’t know if we can stay together anymore,” I busted. “Ketchup on steak? That just might be a dealbreaker.”
Chapter 16
SHOW ME
The next morning, I had barely opened my eyes when Trip came busting through the door whistling some unrecognizable tune, and I couldn’t quite find it in me to raise my head yet. Even though I rarely slept-in, it still normally took me a few minutes to ease into my morning. But it looked as though Trip was apparently an even earlier riser than me.
Based on that circumstance, our future together did not look promising.
“’Morning.”
I rolled over at his greeting and saw him grinning ear to ear, holding a mug of coffee and wearing nothing but a pair of cotton PJ bottoms. Yum.
I supposed I could overlook the morning person problem.
“Mmm. Good morning,” I answered back, fluffing the pillows and sitting up in his bed.
He put the coffee on the nightstand. “I guessed cream and sugar. ‘Suppose I should find stuff like this out.”
I was touched by his thoughtfulness. “Cream and sugar is perfect. So are you.”
He gave a shy smile and then pulled something out from behind his back. “Hey. Check this out. I’m going full-on John Lennon with the peace crusade, baby. I just had this made.” He snapped a T-shirt out toward me and I saw the motto for his Earthling Rights Foundation across the front:
LOVE
W I L L W I N ♥
It was a song from the band Slanker Knox, and Trip had adopted it as the theme for his charity. What started out as a crusade for human rights had soon evolved into an all-encompassing organization, benefitting not just people in need, but animals, communities, and the environment as well. ERF helped military families, assisted children’s groups, and aided in disaster recovery. It gave tons of money to the ASPCA and funded various movements directed toward improving education and medical research.
It was really pretty amazing.
He flipped the shirt around to the side, and I saw the extra hit he’d had customized on the sleeve:
earthlingrights.org
It looked really good. So did he. “Nice.”
“You’d better get up. CNN will be here in about an hour.”
There was a camera crew on its way over to set up for a taped interview. Trip was excited to have a chance to plug his philanthropic venture to such a large audience. He’d founded the organization soon after he’d gotten out of rehab, but it took a couple years before it grew legs.
After reports came back about our under-protected soldiers in Iraq, ERF sent over a shipment of bullet-proof vests. After that tsunami ravaged the Asian coast, Trip’s people hand-delivered a shipment of goods and helped to care for the displaced citizens of Indonesia.
His charity was basically a group of real-life superheroes, coming to the rescue of any fellow humans that were in need. I was really proud of him for the time and money he devoted to it.
I stopped daydreaming and hauled myself out of bed, slammed down the coffee, and got my butt in the shower. By the time I made my way into the den, Trip was pacing the room. I watched as he futzed with the pillows on the couch, changed the angle of the side chair, and picked a non-existent piece of debris off the floor. I swear, he was being even more OCD than me.
“Trip! Stop. The place looks perfect.” And it did. I’d seen with my own eyes the considerable amount of time Mrs. Elena had spent in that very room, readying it for the day’s filming.
He stopped his pacing to look at me and say, “I don’t know. You think we should do this outside instead? This room is too… serious.”
I’d already taken note of the framed artwork Trip had chosen for his walls. Most were enlarged photographs or prints of various landscapes. But upon closer inspection, I realized they were tagged with the names of some of the places he’d visited over his lifetime: Lagos, Nigeria. Cairo, Egypt. Antananarivo, Madagascar. It was as though he were trying to constantly remind himself of all the people who didn’t live in such grandeur.
“Your charity is serious. Stop second-guessing yourself. Once your face shows up onscreen, no one will be looking at the room, anyhow, studmuffin.”
He gave me a durr-hurr face and threw one of the couch pillows at me.
I laughed and put it back on the sofa.
And then Trip rearranged it.
The film crew finally showed up then, taking over the house. Sandy was there, greeting everyone and directing the setup. I was panicked at the thought that the beautiful tile floors would be scratched by the wobbly wheels of the equipment dollies. I was too preoccupied with that spectacle to be nervous for Trip, who spent his time vacillating between gracious host and nervous wreck. This was, by far, not the first interview he’d ever conducted, but I guessed he was a little freaked out because it was the most important. Of course his charity was reported on and he was normally asked a few questions a
bout it on talk shows, but this was the first time ERF was going to be the main focus of a full-length interview on a major news network.
After everyone had bagels (I will refrain from tearing California bagels a new asshole here) and coffee, it was time to film the interview. Perry Kingston settled himself in the chair, while Trip took a seat on the couch. A tech got them mic’d up as Sandy went over the line of questions, schmoozing just a bit with Perry. The man was a known egomaniac, and Sandy made sure to give him the proper attention to which he felt he was due.
Another tech checked the lighting with some hand-held electronic gizmo, readjusted the umbrella things, and checked the lighting again. It was pretty interesting, watching the behind-the-scenes production of a TV show.
Sandy finally made her way over by me, and the two of us claimed our spot out of the way, but with a good line-of-sight to Trip. He looked adorable with his hair all combed and lying flatter against his head than usual. I guessed he was going for a more respectable look. He’d even paired his rockin’ tee with a black sportcoat, the lapels of which he was picking invisible lint from.
The crew did a few test takes before they were ready for the real interview, and soon enough, it was underway.
Perry debriefed the audience, starting out by asking Trip about his latest film projects. After a few minutes of friendly chitchat, he directed the conversation toward Trip’s foundation.
“So, Trip, Earthling Rights Foundation has recently been recognized by Charity-Navigator-dot-org as a four-star organization, and it ranks in the top ten on their ‘Celebrity Related Charities’ list. Have the accolades brought any new attention to ERF?”
Trip had turned into him, but managed to answer with genuine humility. “It certainly has, Perry. The success of an organization like ours depends on making the public aware that we even exist. Catching the eye of the preeminent not-for-profit analysts over at Charity Navigator has been a huge boost for our exposure.”
“I suppose having the name of an Oscar-winning celebrity at the helm didn’t hurt matters, either.”
Damn. Perry was good. Watching him smooth his way from one question to the next was pretty impressive. I had a brief pang of longing, thinking about my abandoned journalism career.
Trip gave a chuckle. “I like to think so, yes. Only because I have a built-in audience to speak to. But it’s not about celebrity. It’s not about me. It’s about a group of individuals helping as many people as we can. We have hundreds of in-house volunteers; kind, generous people who just want to spread a little love where they can. They make ERF happen.” He turned his eyes toward the camera and added, “You do.”
Perry took note of Trip’s tee, acknowledging it with a nod of his head. “You mentioned that ERF is all about ‘spreading the love,’ and I’m guessing that’s where your T-shirt comes in.”
“Yes, Perry. Slanker Knox kindly let me steal their song title for ERF. They’ve generously agreed to donate a portion of the profits from sales of their album Patched Soul, so make sure you buy it, kids.” At that last part, he smiled that spellbinding grin directly into the cameras which, I was sure, would have everyone running for the nearest music store.
All hail the hypnotoad.
Perry chuckled jovially at Trip’s blatant plug, asking casually, “And do you believe that? That ‘a little love’ can make a difference?”
Trip’s mouth quirked into a tiny, calculated grin. He tipped his head slightly, checking himself out in one of the monitors, as he deliberately adjusted his blazer over his T-shirt.
It took me about a split second to realize what he’d just done.
His alteration blocked out some of the lettering, leaving only:
LOVE
L W
visible between his lapels. He must have seen my shocked face, because he raised his lip into a half-smile before answering Perry’s question. “Yes, Perry. I do believe love can make a difference. It can change the world, even. Heck, it worked for me.” Then his small smile turned into a huge grin as he looked past the cameras and right at me.
I almost died. There was Trip, announcing that he loved me to the freaking world.
Well, to the room, anyway. It’s not as though a respectable news station like CNN would bother reporting on the person behind the initials branded across his chest.
A few eyes swung in my direction, and I hoped my face hadn’t turned bright red. Perry had actually twisted in his chair at that, trying to get a better look at the woman who had stolen the infamous Trip Wiley’s heart.
Then again, I couldn’t very well steal what was rightfully mine.
* * *
Trip was saying goodbye, offering his thanks, and showing the last of his houseguests out the door. He threw the deadbolt, took his fingers off the handle, and turned to find me standing there with my hands on my hips.
“What?” he asked lightheartedly, knowing damn well what I was going to say.
“When did you have that shirt made?” I asked, pointing to the tee in question.
He took a few steps in my direction and wrapped his arms around my waist. He was wearing an evil grin, those perfect, white teeth smiling down at me. “Just last week. But I adopted the motto a year ago.”
“You devil! You did that on purpose!”
“It was either ‘Love Will Win’ or ‘I love bisexual women.’ I thought you’d like the first one better. But on that note, is there any chance I can talk you into a threesome?”
I smacked his arm as he cracked up. He lowered his laughing mouth and kissed me, cutting off any snarky remark I was readying myself to offer.
He pulled back, just far enough to admit, “I figured after your public heartbreak, the least I could do was publicly unbreak it. Mission accomplished?”
The exasperating man in my arms was looking at me optimistically, those playful blue eyes waiting on my reaction. Just because he had very visibly announced his engagement to the underwear model didn’t mean my heartbreak was public. No. That was a very private destruction which ate away at me from the inside.
But I appreciated what he was trying to do. His heart was in the right place.
It’s not like anyone from CNN would bother making a fuss over what he’d done anyway. And thank goodness, because I was starting to learn how the Hollywood grapevine worked. If that interview had been with some corny entertainment show, my name would have been leaked to every gossip magazine in the country as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. And that would have been a shame, because Trip’s foundation deserved to be the focus of that interview, not the woman he was sleeping with. It was a pretty risky stunt he’d pulled, but if I was able to figure out he could get away with it, he must have been dead certain. It didn’t need to be a public outing. It was enough that he and I knew what he’d done.
“Mission accomplished,” I confirmed, pulling his smiling face down for a kiss.
Chapter 17
CINDERELLA MAN
The next day, Trip had a “read-through” for Slap Shot, and he asked if I’d like to go with him. We took the Batmobile to the studio, and I can’t say that I wasn’t excited about it. Not only was I going to get a real insider taste of Hollywood, but I’d be seeing where Trip worked.
He stopped briefly at the gatehouse and gave a salute to the security guard, who did nothing more than salute back and say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wiley,” before raising the gate. Trip was well-known everywhere, but the familiarity vibe was definitely different on his home turf. He hadn’t even turned into him yet. I guessed there was no need to amp up the Wiley just for the gatekeeper.
We drove past a few low office buildings, which Trip explained were for “the moneybags,” and down a narrower street lined with trailers, for “the peons.” He maneuvered around a million identical white structures that looked like airplane hangars, and I wondered how he knew just where to go. My eyes kept darting around between the buildings, hoping to see some action. I mean, this was a Hollywood studio lot! I’d never seen one in pe
rson and only had my impression of them from the movies. So, where were all the lions on leashes? The clowns walking around on stilts? The feathered showgirls and the zombies and the cowboys?
The only humans I saw walking around were a few harried-looking, but fairly normal people.
What a gyp.
We parked in the lot near a building with a big, black B 124 painted on the side, and Trip let me out of the car. He held my hand and led me through the doors. It was bitter cold!
“Why is it so cold in here?”
Actually, it was only my top half that was freezing. Even though I was wearing a pair of shorts, the nerve endings in my legs had been deadened after four winters in my St. Norman’s skirt. To this day, as long as my torso is bundled, I could brave the arctic tundra in a pair of bikini bottoms and be perfectly comfortable. True story.
He smiled and answered my question. “You’ll see.”
We walked through another set of doors—where it got even colder—and I saw the massive hockey rink that took over the space. “Oh my gosh! Is this the Slap Shot set?”
His smile turned into the full-force grin, proudly announcing, “Yep. All the interiors are going to be shot right here. Welcome to the home arena of the Charlestown Chiefs.”
“Wow! Cool! So, you’ll get to shoot it right here? No going on location?”
“Maybe just a few quick trips for the exteriors.”
I snuggled against his side, trying to get warm. “Quick trips. Okay, I can handle that.”
He rubbed his hand along my arm to warm me up. “It’s not like you won’t be coming with me, babe.”
I caught the look in his eyes and was suddenly very warmed by his words. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It should have been.
He led us out of the freezer and across the lobby again, through another set of doors and down a hallway. The temperature was more bearable back there, and by the time we made it to a door marked “PROD,” it was comfortable. It was a large, fairly non-descript room that reminded me of a gymnasium. There was a long table set up in the middle with about a dozen people sitting around it on folding chairs, getting ready to do the read-through.
