Porter (Dick Dynasty #1)

by David Michael

  She furrowed her brow at my joke, glaring scarily.

  “I’m sorry,” I tried, hoping she’d lighten up some, “It was wrong of me to invade your space like that.”

  “Porter,” she sighed, frustrated, “me not wanting to sleep with you is definitely not the problem.”

  “I’m lost then,” I held my hands out to the side, “What the hell was that all about?”

  “It’s the fact that I do want to sleep with you that has me a little freaked out. I haven’t wanted someone the way I want you in a very long time. I’m just not sure how to deal with it. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do. I don’t even know if it’s the right thing to do. Or not do for that matter. I’m out of my league here and I don’t like being out of control. I’ve been there before and it’s not something I ever plan on experiencing again.”

  “Wait a minute,” I put my hands to the sides of my head to keep it from spinning, “Let me get this straight: The reason you won’t sleep with me is because you want to sleep with me?”

  “Yes!” she yelled, “Well, no. It’s not that. It’s…. It’s complicated, Porter.”

  “I’m gathering that.”

  “Can we just reset and go get food? I don’t want to ruin such a good day with my relationship issues.”

  I sure as hell wasn’t going to let the issue drop, but for the time being, I’d put it on the back burner. It could wait.

  “Sure,” I said with a gentle smile, “but only if you’ll hold my hand again.”

  She looked down at my open palm like it was a snake, but slowly slipped her hand into mine.

  “See? Not so bad, right?”

  “Don’t make fun of me, Porter.”

  “I’m not,” I placated, “I’m just saying that we can enjoy each other’s company and touch without spontaneously combusting.”

  I wasn’t so sure about the last part, but figured I’d throw it in there for good measure. If I did burst into flames from the heat I felt when I touched her, at least I could say I died a happy man.

  Halfway down the block, I pulled open the glass door to the restaurant and held her hand as she stepped up the single stair. We sat down at a two-top near the door and waited for our server to bring us menus.

  “So, what got you into the industry?” I hoped that the topic was a safe one that could lead us back to having a good time together.

  “My parents. My mom was an actress and my dad was a producer. Nothing major, but they made ends meet and paid for my schooling. Of course, each of them thought I should follow in their footsteps, but I just didn’t have an eye for production and I’m a terrible actor. Like, Nicholas Cage bad. So, after several failed attempts in design, makeup, and screenwriting, I finally landed a gig as a secretary at an agency. The boss was impressed with my ability to read people and, after a couple years, I was offered a position as a casting director. I got the shit films for a while, but when my eye started turning nobodies into somebodies, they started handing me the bigger projects. Bigger budget means bigger names. Bigger names mean more connections. Those connections are what I rely on to get A-listers to even glance at a script.”

  “You’re totally a shining example of the American dream then,” I said with a smile.

  Holly laughed and the tension in my chest loosened. I hadn’t realized how bothered I was that she was upset with me until that moment.

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she smiled, “My parents had a lot to do with me getting in at different places. They knew people who knew people. Once I landed the position where I’m at now, it was just a matter of working hard and proving myself.”

  “That sounds all-too familiar.”

  “You had much bigger shoes to fill, too. I can only imagine what it was like for you. How old were you when you got into porn?”

  “I didn’t really get into it on a large scale until I was twenty-three. I had put a few videos up on paid sites before then. My parents never found out about that, luckily. It wouldn’t have gone over so well in our house to know that one of the Hale boys was releasing ‘cheap’ videos on the internet.”

  She nodded her head as our waiter walked up and set two waters with lemon on the table, “Can I get you anything else to drink?”

  “Water’s fine for me,” I said with a smile.

  “I’ll take a Sapporo, please.”

  The guy nodded and walked off to retrieve her beer.

  We picked up our menus and browsed through the rolls featured for the month. It didn’t take me long to pick three and two appetizers.

  When the waiter came back with Holly’s beer, she ordered two rolls and no appetizer.

  “Hungry?” she asked as she smiled around the neck of her bottle.

  “I told you near death experiences make me hungry. I wasn’t kidding about that part!”

  “And how many near death experiences have you had, Porter?”

  She placed her elbows on the table in front of her and stared at me expectantly.

  “A few,” I shrugged, “I’m a bit of an adrenaline junkie. Usually the trouble I get myself into is relatively safe, but there’s always something that can go wrong. Not to mention I work with volatile porn directors. I can’t even count the number of blunt objects that have been thrown at my head over the course of my career.”

  “I hardly think a flying dildo counts as ‘life threatening’.”

  I laughed quietly at her joke, “No, the dildos I can take, but the lighting stands are a bit on the painful side. I’ve gotten good at dodging them though, so don’t worry.”

  “Porn directors really do that? I mean, they take that stuff that seriously?”

  “Contrary to what the conservative-types in this country would like you to believe, the adult film industry is a nearly a hundred billion dollar industry, globally. So yes, directors take it very seriously. They stand to make a lot of money on a good film. If we’re not up to par, they tend to get a little touchy about it.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of any director in Hollywood taking things that far though. I mean, who the hell would throw the equipment they rely on to make money? Those lights are expensive! I can’t imagine they’re something that production companies just have lying around in excess.”

  “Generally speaking, you’re right. Most production companies don’t. Luckily, or unluckily, for me, the companies I work with at my level are generally bigger outfits with a budget to back it up.”

  “I guess that makes sense, but I still don’t see how abusing your talent gets anything done.”

  “It’s just a scare tactic. It works on the new kids. Personally, I’ve gotten to the point in my career where I’ll just walk off set. I don’t need that shit in my life and, on the off-chance I have a contract already signed, I can afford to pay for the breach. It hasn’t happened in a while, but I think it came pretty close on my last shoot. The director was super pissed that I was late. He kinda blew up and tossed hot coffee all over my driver who was posing as my assistant.”

  She tipped her head to the side and smiled, confused, “Why the hell was your driver posing as your assistant? Don’t you have an assistant?”

  That question did a hell of a job at reminding me that we were both coming from very different worlds.

  “No,” I shook my head as the waiter set my edamame and wantons between us, “I can think of four major porn stars that actually have assistants. And when I say ‘major’ you should think like, Jenna Jameson level. My dad didn’t even have one until the last five years of his career, and then it was because he needed a wrangler, not an assistant—someone to make sure he got to where he needed to be when he needed to be there.”

  “To be honest, I think that’s why most regular movie stars have assistants. I’ve seen some of those people stumble into my office at ten in the morning either already wasted, or still wasted from the night before. I don’t know how they do it. I was in pretty bad shape the day after Preston’s party and I didn’t even get to drink that much before some
oaf walked over the top of me and spilled my martini on my Choos.”

  Low blow, Nash. Low blow.

  “I think we were all a little rough after that party,” I said, ignoring her jab, “I think Marco was slipping shit into everyone’s drinks.”

  “I think mine might’ve been the two bottles of wine I drank after the party, but who’s to say?”

  “Ooooh,” I cringed, “Wine hangovers are the worst. My whiskey hangover was pretty shit-tastic, but I’d rather deal with cotton in my head than feeling like I peeled my eyeballs off the carpet. No wine drunks for me!”

  She lifted her beer in salute, “I’m trying to refrain.”

  We picked at the appetizers and stuck to small talk until our sushi arrived. As the waiter placed the fifth and final plate on the table, I saw her cast her gaze around the table.

  “Looking for soy sauce?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They usually keep it on the table and bring you a little bowl and wasabi.”

  I shook my head as I stuffed the first massive piece of rice, seaweed, tuna, and carrots in my mouth, “Not here. Each roll comes with its own sauce specific to the roll. It would be an insult to the chef to use soy sauce on it.” I swallowed, “Kinda like salting your food as soon as it hits the table without even tasting it first.”

  “Porter,” she picked up a piece of one of her rolls and sniffed it cautiously before stuffing it in her mouth, “I’m gonna ask you this, oh this is delicious, but you can’t get offended.”

  “Oh shit,” I set my next bite back down on the plate and waited, “This is gonna be bad, isn’t it?”

  She swallowed the food in her mouth and pinned me with a serious gaze, “Are you a food snob?”

  “Are you kidding?” I wasn’t sure that was the question she had meant to ask. Maybe she was a lightweight and the beer had already gone to her head.

  “No. I’m dead serious. Are you a foodie?”

  I shook my head slowly, not sure of the answer she was looking for, “I wouldn’t call myself a food snob, no. I mean, I like fine dining as much as the next guy, but I’m also perfectly fine attending a backyard barbecue in a trailer park. I just have very little manners away from the dinner table, so table manners are where I make up for it. My mom used to kick our asses for bad table manners, so I think it probably just stuck.”

  “Good,” she said, still serious, “because my cooking sucks. If I ever invite you to a dinner function, be prepared for boxed food or takeout. You might get catered food if I’m feeling particularly celebratory. I am the only person I know who can burn water.”

  I popped my abandoned piece of sushi in my mouth and smiled at her, “You and Parker would get along in the kitchen then!”

  We devoured the rest of our food in silence, mopping up every drop of the sauces with their respective rolls.

  “I’m going to hate myself when that rice starts expanding,” Holly groaned with a sigh. She leaned back heavily against her chair and rubbed her stomach.

  “Let’s go walk it off then,” I suggested with a smile, “It’s low tide, so the pools down at Dana Point should be awesome!”

  She nodded her agreement and sipped at her water, “Sounds like a plan.”

  I waved down the waiter and asked for the check.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she said once we were back on the sidewalk, “That was probably the best sushi I’ve had in my life.”

  “I told you so.” She had wrapped her hand in mine again, so I lifted it to my lips and kissed her fingertips, “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  She met my gaze and, to my surprise, there was none of the wary trepidation that had been there before. Something had changed. There was softness in her eyes that I hadn’t seen before.

  “For some crazy reason, I believe you when you say that.”

  I kept myself from wrapping my hand around the back of her head and pulling her in for a kiss—just barely. The urge to dominate her, to own her, to pleasure her, to protect her, swelled inside of me like a tidal wave.

  But Holly Nash is not one to be taken. Owned, maybe, but on her terms. I’d make her come to me.

  We crossed the street and climbed inside the car.

  “Straight south from here. Just look for the pirate ship.”

  “The pirate ship?”

  “Yeah. It’s usually moored in the marina. You can’t miss it.”

  “What the hell kind of adventure are you taking me on Porter Hale?”

  I flashed her a wicked smile, “The kind you’ll never forget.”

  She put the car in drive and pulled out of the stall. It was only a fifteen-minute drive, and the look on her face when she saw the massive privateer and its five thousand square feet of sail was priceless.

  “That, my dear, is the Spirit of Dana Point. It’s a replica of the ships built during the Revolution. Mostly used for local boy scouts and troubled teens now, but they do the occasional joy ride for the public if you ask really nice.”

  “It’s beautiful! I was expecting a sign in the shape of a pirate ship or a cheesy restaurant or something, not a full-blown real-life boat floating in the bay!”

  She pulled into a stall near the ship and almost left the car running in her excitement to get out and see the thing close-up.

  We walked along her starboard side from stern to bow, Holly reveling in the beauty of a handcrafted ship, and me reveling in the beauty of her excitement and passion over something so far outside of what I expected her interests to entail.

  She named off parts of that ship that I didn’t even know had names. After my thorough education on the finer points of maritime architecture, we made our way across the parking lot and down a long set of concrete stairs to the coarse sand of the beach.

  “This is more my area of expertise,” I informed her as we stepped to the edge of the first tide pool, “I don’t know a whole lot about sailing, but I can name off hundreds, if not thousands of plants and animals that live in these things.”

  “I think I could probably give you a run for your money,” she winked up at me before crouching down and pointing to the bottom of the pool, “sebastes umbrosus.”

  I knelt down beside her, nearly dipping my chin into the water to get a better look, “No way! That’s a sebastes semicinctus! The umbrosus has white spots and a more pronounced dorsal fin!”

  She giggled next to me and nodded her head, “I know. I was just testing you!” She moved her finger a few inches to the left, “Scorpaena gutatta.”

  I smiled when I spotted the flash of brilliant red as it darted under a rock.

  “Strongylocentrotus franciscanus,” I said without pointing.

  “The red sea urchin. Watch out for those little bastards,” she held her fingers a few inches apart, “nothing like a couple dozen three inch spines buried in your foot to ruin a day at the beach! Anthopleura elegantissima.”

  I had almost missed the tiny bed of brilliant magenta and green anemones, “You’ve got a pretty good eye.”

  “Tide pools fascinated me as a kid. The fact that they change every day and each one holds such an insanely diverse ecosystem just enthralled me. I used to sit at the edge of them until the tide came back in and my parents made me move. I always wanted to know where all the animals went when they weren’t landlocked anymore and what caused them to climb down into these holes in the first place.”

  I pushed myself up from the edge of the rocky depression, “First one to find a Ruby Octopus gets to pick the movie we watch on our next date!”

  I took off running before she even had a chance to get herself upright. I had already spotted a pool big enough to make it likely that there would be one of the elusive octopi in it and knew I had the contest in the bag. I skidded to a halt at the edge of the eight by four foot cauldron in the ground and scanned the bottom for the telltale signs of the expert practitioner of crypsis.

  Thanks to the chromatophores in their skin, they can instantly change to any shade of red, brown, orange, black, or yellow they need in or
der to blend into their surroundings. They also have expert control of the papillae, the small bumps on their skin, and can mimic textures ranging from smooth to spikey, rendering them nearly invisible.

  “I win!” she cried from a few yards to the south of me.

  I cursed under my breath and headed her direction to confirm her success.

  “You’re full of shit,” I announced after surveying her pool.

  “Are you kidding me right now?” she had her hands on her hips and a single eyebrow lifted.

  I scanned the pool again, looking more closely for an eyeball or a stray tentacle that tended to give the creatures away.

  “I’m still not seeing anything.”

  She let out a derisive snort and bent down close to the surface.

  “I’m disappointed in you, Porter!” She quickly dipped a hand into the pool, poking the wall nearest her. Much to my dismay, it bloomed to a brilliant shade of red and released a small cloud of black ink as the adolescent octopus shot to the opposite wall and puffed up in an attempt to scare her off.

  “Son of a bitch,” I grumbled, “You’re gonna make me watch a chick flick, aren’t you?”

  “There’s a definite possibility,” she teased, “Not because I want to watch it, but because you don’t.”

  I rolled my eyes and rose from the edge of the now-murky tide pool. I had spotted a rocky ledge that butted up to the surf and wanted to be on top of it when the sun set. I had a high level of certainty that she would follow me without me having to say anything, so I headed across the sand, carefully skirting tide pools in the ever-dimming light.

  Holly didn’t disappoint.

  She took my offered hand and joined me on the flat surface of the short, narrow ledge.

  As we stood there, her hand still in mine, we looked out over the Pacific in silence as the sun sank toward the distant horizon. The thin wisps of cloud still lingering in the sky flamed orange and pink, bathing us, and our slice of heaven, in its rose-gold glow.

  The constant spray of the surf crashing against the rocks at our feet chilled the summer air and surrounded us with its briny scent. As the sun finally touched on the horizon, its golden reflection stretched toward us like a pathway we could follow to the end of the Earth and beyond.