by Morgan Rae
His eyebrows knit. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I lie. I squeeze my eyes shut and take in a couple deep breaths as the plane jerks and begins its ascent. A small whimper escapes my lips and I will this feeling away.
Damien’s hand rests on my arm. His warmth startles me. “Take it easy there,” he says.
I know he’s trying to be soothing, but the situation is really hitting me square in the face now. I’m about to spend the month pretending to be in love with a wild, playboy rock star. How am I ever going to make this work? Ironically, it’s not Damien I’m particularly afraid of. I think of the cameras on me, expecting me to open up and be vulnerable, and my blood goes cold.
The plane levels out, the pilot says it’s okay to move about the cabin, but the knots in my stomach never leave.
“Nothing is going to happen between us,” I finally blurt out. “I want you to know that going in. We’re going to fake it for the next thirty days and, at the end of it, we’ll both get what we want.”
“And what exactly is that?” he looks back at me.
“You want your reputation spit-shined,” I tell him, “and I want to film for movies. This is my ticket in.” At least, that’s Tomlin’s story and I’m sticking to it.
“Right,” he says. “Fair enough.” He’s distracted now and his eyes flicker away from me. We’re sitting side by side, but I already feel a huge gulf between us. I thought laying it all out on the table would be a good way to start, but now I’m not so sure.
“While you sit here making love to your career,” he continues, his voice surprisingly icy, “I’m going to grab us a drink.”
CHAPTER EIGHT: DAMIEN
Tomlin Murray is the human equivalent to a brick wall.
I know it because I’m exactly the same way. I only let people so close before I block them out completely. It’s survival, I get it, doesn’t sting any less, though. Maybe we’re just playing games to her, but if I’m honest with myself, there was a part of me, a small, idiotic part of me, that thought I might actually find something-like-love here.
Something-like-love. That’s the truth, I suppose. Never real love, just false hope and smiles for the camera.
My eyes look down the aisle searching for a flight attendant to get a drink from but instead I find my blond fan from earlier staring at me. She unbuckles her seatbelt and gives me a last glance before vanishing in the airplane bathroom.
I answer the call. I need to clear my head and lick my wounds. I get up, step down the aisle, and stand by the bathroom.
A flight attendant stands in the wings and scrutinizes me with his eyes. Already, he’s sized me up as trouble, which I am. He’s smart to do so, but even so, I have to get rid of him.
“Excuse me,” I say get his attention. I reach into my wallet, pull out a twenty, and hand it over. “My girlfriend in 6F would like a glass of chardonnay. Can you see that she gets it?”
“Yes, whatever you need, sir,” he mumbles as he pockets the money and plucks out a mini-sized bottle. He won’t even make eye contact and Martin’s words come back to me. Maybe he’s right, maybe the band’s name is suffering due to my antics. The thought alone, the reality of the situation, is enough to get my heart palpitating. Presidents have been impeached on lesser accounts, how is an old-school rock-n-roll band supposed to survive that blow?
The bathroom door folds back into itself and the blonde behind it stills when she spots me. I get this reaction a lot, women who flirt and then are, somehow, floored when I flirt back. As though they’re surprised to find they’re on my level or something.
And, of course, she is. Every woman is beautiful, that’s something I believe in the core of my being.
“Staying or leaving?” I ask. I don’t mince words and I don’t play games.
She flattens her back against the wall. “Staying,” she murmurs hopefully.
“Good answer,” I reward her. That’s all it takes to make her eyes sparkle. I step inside the tight space and slide the lock closed behind us.
There’s something you should know about me before I continue. Making it in the music industry isn’t easy. I know ResurrXtion is worthy of its place in the top charts, but it took a lot of convincing men and women with big pockets to get it there. To break into this industry, you need raw talent, dog-headed determination, and the willingness to shake so many hands that your palms develop callouses. We had the talent, our sound was never a problem, it was the marketing that gave us trouble.
I had to rub elbows all on my own. And, occasionally, I rubbed more than elbows.
So, in short. Did I sleep my way to the top?
You bloody bet.
I will do anything, anything, to get my music out there. ResurrXtion delivers quality sound with a unique edge. Our music is important, it transforms, it’s an experience. I’ve poured my life, everything I have, all my money, my time, my effort and, most importantly, my heart into developing our sound. People need to hear it, even if that means writing my lyrics between their legs with my tongue.
Fifteen years ago when I stepped into my manager’s office, he told me that only bad boys sell, so, I became the bad boy.
That was, of course, before Smartphones, before TXR, before bad boys like me got punished when we went a little too bad. But I’ve always been an old dog incapable of learning new tricks.
So, when the bombshell blonde links eyes with me from across the aisle, it’s a kneejerk reaction to follow her to the bathroom. I don’t even think twice, not even with my soon-to-be-faux-fiancée sitting right next to me.
But it’s not real, none of this is real. I know that. It’s music, notes like vapor in the air, nothing concrete, nothing you can hold in your hands. Ever changing, shifting like tectonic plates under my feet, and I’m doing what I have to in order to keep the band alive.
I’m doing, and Blonde is just another thing to do. In the tight compartment, we’re already flush against one another. She smells roses and sweet cream. My lips graze hers and she melts like sugar on my lips. I deepen it, tasting her, and she moans.
I back her into a corner. She’s mine now, trapped and pliable, and she opens to me easily. Her legs part and I take the initiative to slide my hand up her short dress. I find her knickers easily enough, the nuisance, and push them to the side so I can feel her silky sex underneath.
She gasps and curls up into my chest. She’s incredibly slick under my fingers and, within seconds of petting her, she’s soaked my hand.
“My,” I laugh. “You’re wet, darling.”
“I need you,” she pleads and digs her nails into my shirt. The way she begs sends a pulse of heat through me and I can feel my organ swell in my pants.
She needs me. I like that thirsty look in her big eyes, as though she’s trapped on a dry dessert on a summer’s day and I’m the cool ravine here to take her away from it all. There is something darkly appealing about that kind of adoration. It makes it even better, somehow, when I turn the tables and worship her instead, until her legs buckle and she can no longer bite back her screams.
I push one finger inside of her and, when that slips in easily, I insert a second all the way to the knuckle. She throws her head back and inhales sharply. “Do you know how sexy you are right now?” I ask her.
She’s lost the ability to form words. Her lips part but only sighs come out as she ruts against my hand.
Not good enough. I grab her hair and give a small tug. She whimpers loudly and her eyes flash to mine. I have her attention. “Answer me, baby.”
She swallows hard. “I don’t…I don’t know.”
I dip my head by hers and murmur into the shell of her ear, “That’s a damn shame Her rapid breaths beat against my throat. “Because you’re as pretty as an angel.”
I shove my fingers deeper inside of her and stroke her inner walls. My thumb rests right at her little clit so I rub tiny circles around it. Her whole body clenches, squeezing my fingers tight. She grips
my shoulders as her thighs begin to quake. The plane shudders with turbulence, but she’s already taking off. She grips my shirt, throws back her head, and opens her mouth to scream.
I cover her lips with mine to quiet her scream. The plane tousles and shivers around us. She whimpers and mewls like a kitten into my mouth as I help her down from her orgasm, pumping my long fingers deep inside of her. She’s gushing in my palm and I draw it out as long as I can, forcing her to feel every burst of pleasure, every agonizing throb.
Finally, her orgasm is reduced to small, butterfly-wing pulses. I keep my fingers pressed inside of her, however, as I lean in and kiss her hard on the lips. I taste her, claim her. In a few minutes, we’ll be strangers again. But in this moment, I’ve made her mine. This is my life; this is the nature of the beast. Fly by night lovers, friends who last only long enough to get a paycheck. I know better than to get close to anything anymore. I know that I don’t truly own anyone’s affection, I only rent and borrow scraps of intimacy here and there.
It’s a price I’m willing to pay for fame. Her thighs are shaking and she’s forced to hook her arms around my shoulders to stay up. “Oh God,” she sighs against the crook of my neck.
She’s warm, clingy, and I can nearly hear her heart beating out of her chest. Yet as the moment passes, she grows cold suddenly. I guess my time is up. I retract my fingers from her and I fit her knickers back around her small waist.
Her eyes are on mine and there’s a hint of fear in her expression. She’s been a naughty girl with a rock star in an airplane bathroom. She’s had her fun and now she’s looking for an escape, so I give her one. I press my lips together in a polite smile and say, “You should leave first.”
“Right, of course.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She’s flushed, grinning shyly, and she murmurs a quick, “Thank you.” With that, she unlocks the door and slips out.
I’m alone, again. I take my time washing the girl off my hands. I lather, rinse, and repeat, until every trace of her is gone and my erection has died down. I should feel victorious, perhaps, but this is an old habit and it’s lost some of its shine.
I splash the cool water over my face, dry myself off on a couple hundred towels, then exit the lavatory.
The flight attendant is waiting outside and he shoots me a look that could kill. “The fasten seatbelt sign is on,” he says coolly. “Please return to your seat.”
“Right.” The plane shudders underneath me and I stumble back to my seat.
Tomlin sits stiffly in her seat, eyes on the window. The glass of wine I bought her sits untouched in the pullout tray in front of her. I don’t know why, but I’m suddenly grateful she’s here. We’ve only known each other a few minutes, but she’s already a familiar face in a sea of strangers. I flop back in my seat and buckle up.
“Everything okay?” her inquisitive eyes are on me.
“Don’t like white?” I deflect her question with another question, pointing to the glass.
“I don’t…” she pauses, hesitates, and revises her sentence mid-thought. “I don’t drink on planes.”
“Suit yourself.” I take her glass and down it in a single swallow. I barely taste the wine as it skips over my tongue and flies down my throat. I’m eager to get the taste of the blonde out of my mouth. The wine takes some of the pressure off my bones and I lean back and try to relax.
“I suppose we should get to know each other,” I say in attempt to fill the silence. “What’s your favorite breakfast cereal?”
“A woman never discusses her fiber intake,” she says before she snaps her sleep mask over her eyes and hugs her sweater.
Right. I should’ve known better. Celebrities like me don’t get the luxury of something so intimate as companionship. I stare at the fasten seatbelt sign and will the plane to land.
CHAPTER NINE: NANCY
I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until we’ve already landed. My nerves must have exhausted me, because I don’t even wake up when the tires hit ground. I wake up to Damien’s hand on my shoulder, gently shaking. “Tomlin. We’re here.”
I push my sleep mask up my head hurriedly. I somehow ended up slumped on his shoulder and I peel back quickly. There’s a wet drool spot on his shirt and I’m mortified.
Damien, however, seems to think it’s hilarious. “Sleep well?” he smirks.
“Sorry,” I stammer and quickly shove my sleep mask in my bag, along with my Sudoku puzzle book.
“No need to apologize,” he says. “It was quite nice, really. Like having a little cat purring away on my shoulder.”
Everyone stands and I move to grab my bag. Damien’s fingers brush mine as he wraps his hand around the handle instead. “Allow me.”
“I’ve got it,” I protest. I’m an LA girl, I’m used to holding my own doors, paying for my own meals, and carrying my own bags.
“Nonsense,” he smiles. “My fiancée isn’t going to truck her own baggage around. Speaking of...” He slings my bag over his shoulder before I can argue, reaches into his pocket, and flips open the case once more. “Time to put it on.”
This is it, do or die, no turning back now. I pluck the ring carefully from the case, as though unpinning a grenade, and slip it on my finger. To my surprise, it’s a perfect fit, but more than that, the diamond sparkles nicely on my hand.
“How did you know my ring size?” I ask.
“Lucky guess,” he winks.
Damien collects the rest of the bags and the flight attendants escort us out before everyone else. I remind myself I’m practically royalty now that I’m in Damien’s vicinity. It’s a strange feeling, one I know I’m not going to get accustomed to.
A sign hangs above customs welcoming us to sunny Honolulu. I’ve never been to Hawaii and there’s a part of me that’s itching to ditch this whole project just to explore the volcanoes and beaches.
I follow him to baggage claim, where we meet a limo driver with BLAZE on the placard. Ironically, sunny Honolulu is pouring rain and the driver covers all three of us under one wide umbrella while the boys work to shove the suitcases in the back.
In the limo, Damien has gone quiet. I wonder if he’s as nervous about this whole Destination: Desire thing as I am and I’m tempted to ask him. But Damien doesn’t seem to be the type to get nervous about anything, so I chalk his silence up to the exhaustion of a six-hour flight. I curl up in the corner, pretend to be asleep, and stare at the ring instead, twisting it back and forth on my finger, watching the light catch on it.
“We’re here,” the driver announces.
I look out the window and a small gasp escapes my lips. Everything is blue and beautiful. Smokey blue sky covers the longest stretch of coast I’ve ever seen. I’ve been to the Californian coast before, I’ve seen the Pacific Ocean spread her long fingers, but there’s something novel about being stuck on an island that makes the ocean seem that much larger. We’ve stopped at a harbor with a long deck, littered with different types of sailboats and motorboats.
At the end of the dock, I see our mark. There’s a white tent set up at the foot of a long pier, complete with craft services. The camera crew flock back and forth, trying to find the right light for this hazy day. I immediately recognize the face of Destination: Desire, Tonya McKenzie, huddled in a fashionable raincoat. I didn’t think it was possible, but she looks even prettier in person.
Very abruptly, it occurs to me that I’m on a TV show. For once, I’m not going to be the reporter chasing down celebrities. I’m going to be the celebrity that reporters chase down.
The realization nearly makes my head spin, but I keep it all together. Celebrities don’t scare me, it’s the thought of the cameras pointed at me that makes me shake in my heels.
“Are you ready for this?” Damien asks. He’s looking straight at me and, to my surprise, there’s genuine concern in his voice. It’s as though he sees right through me to the bundle of anxiety that lies underneath. He continues, “We can turn
around right now. I wouldn’t blame you.”
Is he giving me an out? I’m momentarily floored. Damien Blaze would not be doing this if he didn’t have to and yet, at this critical moment, he leaves his fate in my hands?
“Do you want to back out?” I press him.
He shakes his head. “I don’t have much of a choice in the matter.”
Now we’re getting somewhere. I mentally hit record in the back of my brain to save this conversation for my article later. “Why not?”
His eyes narrow. “Didn’t they tell you?” I play dumb and shake my head. He sighs. “Right. That’s Martin, keeping everything in the dark. Look, this is a publicity stunt, yeah? The band’s breaking up. I’ve got to sink or swim with a solo career. And if I want to try to get that off the ground I’ve got to clean up my reputation.” He motions to me. “Enter you.”
“You’re being very candid about this,” I tell him. Dangerously so.
“You signed an NDA, didn’t you?”
I keep my lips pressed shut and nod in agreement. I signed it, just not with my legal name.
“I don’t deal in half-truths,” he says bluntly. “I’m honest. If you’re going into this, I only think it’s fair you go in with both eyes open.”
“I want this,” I tell him. I reach over and cover his hand in mind and then give him a wink. “Let’s show them what a gentleman you can be.”
Relief floods his expression and he cracks with a laugh. It’s a genuine laugh, not one of plenty practiced smug smirks I saw from him in the plane. For a second, his guard is down, and it’s a good look on him.
He politely removes his hand from mine in order to run his fingers through his hair and I can physically feel that wall between us again. “Right then,” he says distractedly. “What are we waiting for?”
“I’m waiting on you,” I say plainly. When he gives me a confused look I motion to my door. “You’re a gentleman after all, aren’t you?”
