I guess we are playing a fairytale game now, because he lets out a laugh. It is deep and goose bumps spread across my body. Maybe it is just the cold. I want to convince myself of that, but the fact is, the sound virtually made me come in my panties. Shit. I am in trouble.
“You gonna invite me in, Cinderella?”
No. I am not. The new Star wants to say no. The old Star is already naked on the bed. What would the middle of the road Star do? Maybe I should invite him in? Fuck. I hate making decisions, especially ones that seem so fucking important. I know this is going to be life changing, no matter what choice I make.
“Why would I go and do that?” Hard to get it is. I am through chasing guys.
My back remains toward him as I unlock the door.
He leans in so close his mouth almost grazes my ear, and he slowly speaks.
“Because I know you want to invite me in as bad as I want to come in.” I think he shattered the mere glass wall I had tried to erect in the past five minutes. It’s gone. My defenses are fucking finished. Gone. Shit. Shit. SHIT!
I open the door and let myself in. I stand in the doorway holding the door open, giving him an invitation to the place I now call home. His eyes look around, taking in all my personal touches. Custom designs by Star: clothes all over the bed, bags piled in the corner, and a vibrator just chillin' on the nightstand. What? I didn't know I was going to have company! A girl has needs!
He sits down in the rickety old chair next to the table in front of the window. The curtains are still wide open and the lone light of the parking lot shines directly into my room. At least we don't have that much privacy.
“You know, I don't even know your name,” I tell him. I know nothing about this man. Only that he is concerned about me getting sick from being out in the cold without a jacket. Why would he even fucking care?
“Chrome.” Of course he has some kind of biker nickname. From the cut I got a good view of earlier, it’s clear he is in some kind of motorcycle club. Apparently you must check in your real name when you join, so you can be called by some kind of accessory. I bet his friends are named shit like Sissy Bar or Prison Shank. Jesus. Christ.
“Interesting name,” I say as I pull my shoes off and slowly start to get comfortable for the night. Even if I have a stranger in my room.
“Says the woman named Star.” I want to laugh, but it’s true. How can I make fun of his nickname, when I am named after God knows what. Maybe a bad trip my parents had when they found out they were having a baby? Hey, it is a realistic fucking idea.
“Touche.”
He laughs again, and my insides completely melt on the spot.
“So why don't you tell me about yourself, Star.”
Oh, we are playing the whole get to know you game? I figured that went out the window when he followed me into my hotel room. I am so not into games. He’s hot, but guys like this aren't the get to know you type. They are the bag and bounce kind.
“Quit the games. What do you want? Blow job? Get your dick wet? Don't play games. Just get it out in the open already.” I can't help it. I’m just too blunt. Maybe something of Seven actually rubbed off on me all these years.
“Well, I guess you are straight to the point.”
The smile on his face starts to fade. The look that replaces it is dark, sexy. I’m not sure if I should be turned on, but I am. Men like this are going to be the death of me. Literally. One day I am going to invite the wrong guy in and he is going to fuck me, then kill me. Once again, I realize I have the worst fucking judgment skills. Or lack thereof.
“I wasn't going to come on to you tonight, Star. But if you are offering...” His hand palms his sizable erection, which is pressing against his jeans. I can see every last inch of it. The only thing I want to do is drop to my knees and take him in my mouth, but I don't. I choke down the giant lump in my throat as he stands.
Every ounce of self-control I have left in my body snaps like a rubber band, and I throw myself across the room at him. He catches my petite body and crushes me up against the wall next to the door. His full lips press against mine as he picks me up. Instinctively, I wrap my legs around his wide waist, slowly realizing how massive of a man he really is.
My mouth has a mind of its own; each kiss I return with hunger. I part my lips and my tongue skims his bottom lip, asking for entry. He opens without any hesitation and I explore. He tastes delicious. Something fruity, maybe gum, or candy, mixed with the aftertaste of cigarettes. It seems like ages since I have shared such an intimate kiss with someone. We are frantic and passionate. We’re like high school kids who can't get enough of each other.
Something bounces between our bodies. An electric charge. The energy fuels our desire as we go at it, up against the wall in my shitty hotel room. One arm lets go of my body and reaches down between us. My body slowly slides down his until I am on my feet once again, but he never once lets my mouth go. Not for a second.
His fingers go straight for the button on my jeans, but I have a better idea. I slowly pull my mouth away from his and drop to my knees. He has already freed his beautiful cock from the tight blue jeans, and it is definitely as impressive as it was inside those bad boys. That’s when I notice it. The piercing. Not your regular Prince Albert, the girly cock piercing of cock piercings. No, he has an apadravya, a beautiful barbell directly through the head of his cock. Clearly ribbed for her pleasure.
I slide my small hand down his delicious cock, lick my lips, and slowly suck the tip in between my lips, running my tongue up and down along the bead of the barbell. He leans forward, resting his arm against the wall to brace himself. My lips close around his throbbing dick and I take all nine inches down my throat. A growl vibrates through his body as my hands focus on playing with his smooth balls.
“God, you're good.”
I laugh, even though his cock fills my throat, and that’s when I notice him: River. He is staring inside, his mouth hanging open. Under my heavy lidded eyes, I pretend I don't see him standing there, watching. I can't ignore him, but I don't stop. I close my eyes and start to lick my way back up to the tip of Chrome’s cock. He pulls me to my feet. His mouth covers mine in a kiss full of possession. When I blink my eyes open once again, River’s gone. I try to move away from Chrome, to close the blinds, but he pins me against the wall.
“Nobody is out there this time of night. Don't worry about the curtains.”
His fingers work the button on my jeans and roughly push them down my legs. I shimmy out of them and kick them across the room. Both of us still have our shirts on, and neither is in a hurry to lose them. He wraps his arm around my waist and picks me up off the ground again; my hands grasp onto his leather cut. Instead of wrapping my legs around him this time, I break the kiss.
“Condom” is all I can make out before his mouth is on mine again. He fumbles between our bodies, pushing me back against the wall, holding me in place with his massive body, as he rolls the latex down his rock hard cock. His hands caress up my body and dive right into my hair, once again completely skipping my t-shirt covered tits.
That’s when I feel it. His dick pushes against my soaking cunt. I can't help but beg for it. To me, this is second nature. Something I am good at. Something I love. I don't have much of that in my life, but I’m going to enjoy it tonight, because who knows when I will get a chance to fuck like this again.
“Fuck me, hard,” I say as my breath heaves in and out in quick pants. Chrome needs no encouragement; once he hears those words, he buries his dick so deep inside of me, I think I am seeing fucking stars. No. Fucking. Joke.
There is nothing romantic or loving about this. It is raw and carnal, frantic and passionate. There is something about each other we simply cannot get enough of. As his hard cock pumps in and out of me, I have to tell myself repeatedly that this is just sex because, for some God awful reason, for the first time in my life, it feels like so much fucking more.
A moan slips out from between my swollen lips into his mouth.
My back slaps against the wall with each deeper thrust. I grip his cut and suck on his tongue while his pace quickens.
“Fuck,” he says briefly, breaking his mouth away from our kiss, and trailing his lips down the side of my neck. It’s an intimate action but I ignore the connection building in my own mind and remind myself: This is just sex. Really fucking good sex.
I am close. I can feel my orgasm building deep within my cunt. My moans grow louder, encouraging him. His thrusts get harder. Then, at once, we both let out strangled moans and share a release.
“Oh God! Oh God!” I scream while his mouth remains fixed at the base of my neck, breathing heavily into my damp skin. I can feel the wetness pouring out of my body, coating us both. My body goes limp between the wall and his strong embrace. Before I know it, I am moving across the room, half dressed and still holding on for fucking dear life. He carries me like I weigh nothing, only stopping once he reaches the bed. With one arm, he pulls the covers down, before tucking me in. I blink my eyes, taking in the sight before me.
Chrome stands at the door to the bathroom, pants around his ankles still, disposing of the used condom in the trash. Even after a round of mindblowing sex, his dick is impressive, which is more than I can say for some of the guys I have been with in the past. I try not to let him see me paying him attention, but he catches my stare.
“What are you thinkin'?” he asks me. I almost answer him. Until I realize a man just asked me what I am thinking after sex. I shake my head, and he drops the conversation. It looks like there is something he wants to say, but he stops. It’s better this way.
He pulls his pants back up, and heads for the door without looking back. Like that, Chrome walks out the door and out of my life.
Whatever just happened was more than just sex; there is no fucking way I am ready for anything more than just fucking to get off. Especially right now.
Thanks for mind-fucking me, you gorgeous fucking douchebag!
The Art of Star
Once upon a time, long, long ago, I loved to paint. Not puppies or kittens. No flowers or people. Just paint. I would throw paint onto a canvas and actually use it as a way to express my pent up emotions. It was good for me as a little girl; I could get it out and I wouldn't have to actually talk about what was eating at me. I've never been good at talking.
I laid in bed most of the night, thinking about what happened. The blowjob, River, Chrome, fucking him, the way I felt afterward. Everything that happened in the one day since I left New York City. The first day that was supposed to be the rest of my life, but quickly turned into a rerun of everything I had been doing for years. Maybe it was something I needed to get out of my system? I can hope.
I pick up some clothes from the top of the dresser: A fitted, long sleeve black and white striped top and a pair of jeans. Nothing fancy. For once, I don't feel the need to stand out like a sore thumb.
I run a brush through my hair, scrub my teeth down, rinse with Listerine, and make my way for the door. I am a woman on a mission.
My phone rings and I stop in my tracks. Seven's name appears on the screen and I immediately answer it. I’ve been waiting for this call, because her fancy as fuck private investigator is trying to track down any record of Willow. I’m anxious and my stomach twists and turns while I wait to see what she has come up with.
“Hello?”
“You know, when you fucking leave the city, you really should tell Katy where you are going so she isn't blowing up my damn phone all day.” Shit. I completely forgot to call my manager before I skipped town. It’s common sense, something I unfortunately lack most of the time. Story of my damn life.
“My bad. I will get a hold of her today. I was in a hurry to leave. What’s up?”
Seven hesitates on the other end, before letting out a deep breath. I can't see her face, but I already know this is going to be bad. She isn't good at hiding shit from me, and I can pick up on her tone all the way across the state through this shitty cell connection.
“Davis is going to call you. He found something.”
My heart stops. I want to find Willow desperately, but I doubt I want to know exactly what he found. It’s an internal battle I face on a daily basis. Do I want to be crushed if I can never find her? Will I end up more damaged than I already am? Will it be healing? Fuck, I hate thinking about it all. The line is still silent, and I know Seven is waiting for me to say something. She doesn't want to break the awkward silence between us.
“Okay, can you have him give me a call now?”
She pauses, and I wait. I’m still standing by the door of this shitty, dated motel room; I somehow make my way across the room to sit on the edge of the unmade bed.
“Yes, let me give him a call. And remember, Star?” I just wait for whatever reassurance she is going to try and give me. “Everything is going to turn out just as it is meant to be. Okay?” I nod, as if she can see me. I want to cry; I can feel the tears welling in my eyes already.
“Uh huh” is all I can get out before the line goes dead.
Moments later, my phone rings again. An unknown number pops up on the screen. It is the moment I have been waiting for since I came clean and told Seven all about the little girl I gave up so many years ago.
“Yes?” I answer the phone with my typical cocky tone, trying to hide the impending breakdown.
“Davis here. Miss James said you are available now. Do you have a pen and piece of paper?”
I scramble around the room looking for something. My laptop still sits open on the table from the evening before, and I run in that direction, tripping over my discarded shoes.
“Yes, I’m ready.” My fingers rest on the keyboard as I prop the phone up to my ear with my shoulder. My hands hover above the keys and shake with nerves. I inhale a deep breath and hold it, waiting for him to give me whatever he found.
“Willow James was adopted legally by Raine and Jeffery Driscoll. The adoption was legalized on February 14th, 2003. They changed her name but the record of that was sealed. Her last name, of course, would remain Driscoll. Willow's last known address was in Brooklyn.” He pauses for a moment, and I continue typing out all the information. This is a great start, and I am optimistic that I can find her.
“Raine and Jeffery Driscoll are deceased.”
With those words, my heart stops. He gave me all of the good news first, and now I brace for the shitty news. I take another deep breath and listen.
“Their minor children were turned over into the custody of a Wesley Driscoll of Jefferson Heights. I’m unsure how he is related to Raine and Jeffery. I will email you his last known address, and I will continue looking for any information I can come up with on my end. Okay?”
The line is quiet. He is waiting for me to answer, but I’m not even sure what to say. Yes, the adoptive parents are dead, but she is alive. At least, I hope.
This is good. This is a really good start.
“Thank you, Davis. I appreciate all the hard work you are putting into this. If you come up with anything else, please let me know. If you could come up with anything on Wesley, could you please let me know?”
I may not be mother of the year, but I want to know who is responsible for taking care of Willow. Mine or not, I’m starting to channel the maternal instinct I never thought I would possess.
“No problem, Miss Bloom. Please, let me know if there is anything else you need.”
Like that, he is gone and the line is dead. My phone buzzes with an email with the addresses and information he gave me over the phone, and I smile. A genuine smile. I am happy, which is something I haven't known very often in my life.
Who would have thought I could actually find an art supply store in this little podunk town? Well, given the number of hippie burnouts, it shouldn't be that surprising.
After having a bagel at Maggie's, I took a drive downtown, where all the little shops are. Bright and full of tie dye blankets, old Woodstock posters, and the smell of pot always in the air. It is hippie c
ulture mixed with a bit of nostalgia. They are the comforts of home, even though I never thought I would be comforted by this town.
I toss every paint color of the rainbow into my basket and make my way for the brushes. I load up on every single thing I can think of using. Things I wanted when I was a little girl, but we could never afford. I make one last stop at the blank canvases and grab five different sizes and head for the register. I can barely carry everything, and I am sure if anyone was watching me it would be fucking comical. I place the canvases down before straining to lift the basket onto the counter next to them.
That’s when I notice her, before she sees me. The woman working behind the counter is Seven's mother. Actually working, for once in her life; it is absolutely unreal. I pray she won't notice me, but I am pretty fucking sure it is too late.
“Starburst? Is that you?” She nervously pushes her long gray and white braid over her shoulder and starts to make her way around the counter with her arms extended. I don't want her to hug me, but I know she’s going to. It will be uncomfortable, like any affection Seven or I received from our parents over the years has been. Our mothers don't have a maternal bone in their bodies, even if they try.
“Yes, Mama Joni. It's me.” I just want to pay for my fucking paint and leave. I feel like a broken child all over again. I fucking hate it. I hate the way any of our parents make me feel. Every time I look at any of them, I can hear the moans coming from the bedroom they all shared. I can hear the heavy breathing, the panting, the bodies slapping against each other. It's fucking gross.
“It's been so long, baby girl, so long! What brings you back to Woodstock?”
I want to tell her I’m searching for the baby she and her BFFs stole from me, but I don't want them to know I am looking. All I need is them getting in the way. She seems just as anxious as I am about my reappearance in town, though.
When I became pregnant with Willow, it was a community effort to take her away. Not only did my mother easily convince my father that I could never take care of a baby, but Joni also put the final nail in the motherhood coffin with the threats of Blue being around more. I didn't believe her, but then again, I was young and impressionable. The thought of him puts me on edge because of his craptastic behavior toward me the moment I ended up pregnant. His years of abuse I could almost tolerate because in some sick, fucked up way I loved him. I loved the attention he showed me. The connection I craved with another human being. I said no, I realize this. Then I hurt for a long time. I should have reported it and sent him to jail. Instead, I feel for him. Just showing how much of a lost cause I always was. Needless to say, I hate them both. Deeply.
Finding Willow (Hers) Page 6
