Chasing Stars Read online

  Her flirtatious demeanor takes me by surprise. I stand up and collect the cups. She also stands and, before my brain processes what’s happening, two of her fingers trace my biceps, sliding dangerously close to my chest. My muscles tense and a thousand random thoughts rush through my head, none of them decent.

  Prior to today, I had Googled her. The media portrays her as a conceited, spoiled heiress. The majority of the pictures show Niki and Tarry, Portia’s best friends, accompanying her.

  According to the tabloids, Tarry Francis, the famous musician, has been her steady lover since their teenage years. I had scrolled through numerous snapshots of a drunken Portia partying in LA, always with a different guy.

  A fan site reported she has dated movie stars, royalty, a sheik, and an endless number of playboys. Through all the sensationalism, I had learned about her, one tidbit of news drenched me with sorrow. I read that she has been in and out of rehabs since the age of thirteen. No one should have to endure the pain of addiction.

  I am not one to believe all the shit printed out there. But I do believe that sometimes the media expands on the truth.

  I look at her unbelievably beautiful face. She is flirting with me. Honest truth. She is implicitly hitting on me. Minefield, that’s what she is. She is freaking hot, seductive, and her eyes sweep through my body. She drinks me in as if I’m an oasis on a damn desert. Wow. Don’t go there. My mind jolts to a stop, and I search desperately for a detour. Getting cozy with Portia, leads to the loss of a limb. Unsure of how to respond to her flirtatious tone, I clear my throat.

  “Well, we can start now, if you like.” I step to the sink and rinse the cups. My voice is cold, though I am burning.

  “Where can I change?” she asks, her velvet voice purring in my ears.

  “This way.” We walk back to the shop. I retrieve an open-backed gown from a small cabinet and hand it to her.

  “There’s a bathroom where you will find hangers for your clothes.” I nod to the bathroom. Before she turns, I catch a glimpse at her devious smile.

  I head to the tattooing station and slide onto my rolling stool. I pull the sketch I developed with the director of the movie. Though I was responsible for the creative process, he gave me valuable info on Portia’s character.

  I have done a few temporary tats for low-budget movies, but nothing as elaborate and lengthy as this project. The movie is the adaptation of an acclaimed book. Portia will portray a disturbed prostitute, who falls in love with an ascending musician.

  When the director’s assistant called to offer me the job, I immediately refused. Seriously, who wants to deal with the tantrums of overpaid Hollywood actors? That’s when the director Alex Asechner called me. I understand every movie studio has its own makeup artist on staff, so I inquired why he wanted me. Asechner explained that he wanted the actor to have the realistic experience of a tattoo artist designing and applying the ink. “Insignificant details, my dear friend, turn a good production, into fucking mind-blowing production.”

  Let’s just say, calling my work insignificant was not the deal maker.

  Of course, they are paying me a fortune. I charged an exorbitant amount of money, in hopes of not getting the gig. Asechner did not as much as blink before obliging. Then, I demanded to do the job in my shop, which is not the norm, but since the filming location is New York, he accommodated. They wanted to have a tattoo artist assist me during the process, to speed things a bit. I said no, certain to be throwing the deal breaker. He paused for less than a second before the gig was mine.

  I rub my eyes and let out a long breath. I would rather handle the fits and tantrums of starlets, than deal with the hungry, seductive stare of this woman.

  Sliding the stool along a sterile counter, I gather the airbrush machine, and the tubes of ink. The familiar smell of fresh ink permeating my nostrils is comforting. I check the brushes selected for the freehand tattooing and lay them on a tray.

  I study the picture on the stencil. The design is intricate but clean. It will be “fucking mind-blowing” on her bare body. The director envisions a paradox where the gentle harms and the rough purifies.

  I draw flames melded to a vine of roses. Originating from the lower spine, roots sprout alongside flames. The flames and the rose vine climb and cross along the back, sprout on the sides, and spread over the abdomen and breasts. Ever possessing and all consuming. The roses, though beautiful and gentle, tear the skin with unforgiving and tormenting thorns leaving behind drops of blood. In contrast, the flames are a purifying fire.

  Oil painting is what I do best, and what I love to do. I am damn good at it. Or so people think. People pay me buckets of money for my artwork. I also like my tattoo gigs. There is something special about marking something meaningful on people’s skin.

  Anxiety threatens to creep in on me. I initially resisted this project, but once I got involved, I connected to it. Now, I really hope to convey its meaning.

  I don’t hear her steps, but I sense the pull of her presence. From my peripheral vision, I see her bare feet, and they are hot as hell. Shit. I am in deep trouble. My mouth goes dry. I struggle to redirect my thoughts; I am doing that a lot on the last hour.

  The gown pools around her feet.

  My eyes slowly begin a pilgrimage, rummaging up her toned calf. In the back of my mind, a small siren tries to alert me, but I ignore it. My eyes continue their lazy travel, drinking in the fullness of her thighs, suddenly coming to a halt. The absence of panties sends a jolt directly to my groin. My breath quickens. My eyes shoot up, pass through her small waist and generous breasts, and land on her unbelievably beautiful face.

  She reaches for her ponytail and lets her hair fall to her shoulders. The movement has me hypnotized.

  I am a painter and a tattoo artist. I have touched innumerous naked people and painted many nude models. If I am being honest though, in my twenty-four years I have never felt this enthralled.

  I notice her breathing has increased. Her round breasts move up and down in a hypnotic rhythm. I swallow hard. My eyes meet hers. A wild expression cradles her face. She has a fuck-me attitude, in a naïve sort of way. An explicit invitation dances on her parted mouth as she skims her tongue on her lower lip.

  It takes all my self-control to resist her provocation. A primal urge sweeps over me to throw her over my shoulder, toss her on my bed, and make her mine.

  Attempting to keep my sweaty hands occupied, I rub them on my jeans. I do my damn hardest to focus on the work. My mind betrays me and I imagine my nose nuzzling her neck and my face buried in her hair. Primitive desire swamps my being. A caveman has nothing on me, and it is frustrating as heck.

  “Sit.” I snap, pointing to the table.

  “How do you want me?”

  I walk to the small closet and retrieve a blanket.

  Did I mention it yet? Today is going to be long day.

  He quietly hands me a blanket, our fingers touch slightly, and I swear, sparks travel between us. I offer my signature sensual smile. My eyes seek his, but he looks away, avoiding me. Now, that’s a first, I muse. Yet, I smile. Resistance adds a new depth to the game. Oh, I like my man in control. But when a guy allows me do the pursuing, it turns me on. The anticipation of the chase turns the sex into a colossal explosion when it finally happens. He will succumb, that’s a fact, and the thought of him losing himself around me, awakens a dormant volcano in the pit of my body. “Have a seat, let me clean the area.” I sit down, my hands clasping the blanket.

  “Since there are no needles involved, do you mind if I don’t wear gloves?” He inquires, his voice falters.

  Are you kidding me? All I am doing is craving your long fingers on my skin.

  “No. I don’t mind.” I brace myself for his touch. My head is swooning. His hands gently push the blanket down and secure it under my hip.

  I sigh.

  “Raise your arms, please,” he commands.

  In one hand, he holds a small washcloth. He tilts his head and inhales a
deep breath. Goosebumps rises on my skin when he places the warm cloth against my hypersensitive skin. He walks around the table and begins to wipe my back and waist. He returns to the front of the table. He faces me again and avoids eye contact as his fingers glide over my ribs and abdomen. His able hand swipes in the direction of my breasts. For a brief moment, he hesitates. After a short inhale, he resumes the sweeping, spreading a path of fire where his hand touches.

  The gentleness and confidence of his fingers overwhelms me. Have I ever been touched like this? I don’t know. I am dizzy and dazzled; my heart is beating so fast it is scary.

  “Here is the design.” He pulls me out of my twisted emotions.

  He holds a rather large stencil paper. “This is going to start on your lower back, right above your bottom, and snake on your side, spreading over your abdomen and breast.” His voice is contained. However, I see sparkles in his eyes.

  “You will need to stand up and hold still.”

  I obey.

  Though my mind is flooded with wanton thoughts I push them away, for now. There is no greater turn off than a needy female. Get your shit together. I tell myself.

  Damn, this is torture. The cool surface of the stencil replaces his fingers. With regret, I notice he is careful to avoid touching me excessively.

  I glance back to see him leaning behind me, his face, is very close to my ass.

  “Steady, please,” he admonishes me.

  Bossy! “Sorry.” I smirk.

  His hand smoothly slides along my spine, pressing the thin paper around my torso, until it reaches my behind. Whoa.

  “The tricky part is to get the stencil aligned to perfection.” His fingers move with steady strokes gluing the stencil to my oversensitive skin. “The beauty of a temp tat is, well, it’s not permanent. Raise your arms again.” His hand skims along my ribs. I try to stay put. I swear I try. Damn, it is hard.

  He faces me now. He leans so close to me, that I fear he might be able to hear my galloping heart. The clean male scent of him inundates my nostrils, making my breath speed up a bit. OK, I am panting.

  “Let’s hope it is aligned.” He informs. I worry. I cannot go through this again. Can I?

  His confident fingers peel the stencil away. I can feel his breath oh so close to my skin. It prickles. My head is swimming. Who would have thought having a fake tattoo could be so arousing.

  After the close examination, his lips turn up, almost in a smile.

  “Perfect.” He points to the table. “You can lie on your stomach, and I will start on the back.”

  I lie on my tummy, purposely leaving the blanket on the side. Unable to take the sight of him, I close my eyes. My cheeks are burning, and my heart is thumping.

  A soothing song permeates the air with the most pure voice I have heard. My hyperactive, hypersensitive, and hyper-aroused body is grateful.

  “Please tell me to skip any song you dislike. I had no clue on your music preference, and I don’t mean to impose,” he says, cold and distant.

  “Thanks.” Please impose on me, in multiple ways. No. I don’t say it. I am not there yet, or rather, he is not there yet.

  His wry demeanor sends a wave of doubt through me. I shove it away. I never had difficulties corrupting a man before. I am not as vain as I am portrayed. I realize though, that my body possesses a magnetic force. My proportions pull the eyes of men, hypnotizing them. I recognize when a man desires me, which is often. OK, always. Do I plan it this way? No. Yes. Oh, well, it really depends on which mood I am.

  There is no doubt, that right this moment, every inch of me, wills for this brooding man to hop on this table and fuck me. But, if I'm being honest, he does not seem very interested. At the very least, he has serious self-control.

  Keeping my lids closed, I feel the closeness of his hands when he places the blanket over my behind. All the while, I anticipate his touch.

  The melody of a new song flows in the desert room. I recognize the voice of Mathew Barber singing “Somebody Sometime,” one of my favorites. Between his strong presence, his gentle touch, and the familiar lyrics, I slowly drift into a deep sleep.

  Unexpected? Yeah, but I welcome the much-needed sleep my body lacks.

  I notice her breathing become even. What the hell, is she sleeping? Unbelievable, just like that. Though I would not have done anything anyway, it is unnerving to see her so calm. How can someone tease and seduce in one minute, only to fall into a profound sleep the following?

  Yes, I am pissed at myself, but also at her ability to undo me. Almost.

  Was she on fire just a second ago, or is my own desire messing with my imagination. I need a second shower. I stand up, stretch my aching muscles, and readjust my jeans.

  I stride to the kitchen. Before I reach for a coffee refill, I open the faucet to splash cold water over my face. It will have to suffice.

  My thumb twirls the band on my finger, reminding me of what it stands for and infusing me with resolve. With renewed strength, I grab my earplugs and tread back into the torture chamber. Five hours and this is over.

  For a few seconds, I wonder where I am. The room is quiet. Warm fingers press lightly over my skin, and I feel a firm sweep over my ribs. That’s what woke me, and I am so turned on.

  Hell. With whom did I go to bed? For a moment, confused and disoriented, I am afraid of opening my eyes.

  The scent of ink reminds me of where I am, and relief flushes through me.

  Waking up with a stranger has always terrified me, though it never got in the way of me going to bed with a man I just met. In all honesty, I enjoy every second of the night, until the following morning when the brief disorientation of waking up scares me and, against my will, a wave of regret and sadness replaces the fun from the previous night. I usually fight the feeling, but it always gets the best of me.

  I have never had a steady relationship. I learned very early, how usable we all are, and how vulnerable you become, when you become attached to someone. Instead of being used, I became the one who uses others. In return, I offer a glorious night of pleasure to those who venture to be with me. It is a win-win deal, no hurt feelings on either side.

  I don’t understand why and, frankly, I don’t care to. Waking up under the gentle stroke of Will’s steady hands made me yearn for some unknown crap.

  The soothing music is gone and the only sound I hear is the silent humming of his airbrush gun swishing over my skin.

  “What happened to the music?” My voice is raspy, longing.

  “Every five or so songs, I have a fast-paced song on the playlist.” I notice when he stops the air brushing. “You know, to keep me awake. You slept so peacefully. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  The genuine concern in his voice breaks something inside me. I feel the absence of his hand and hear the wheels skidding on the wood floor. Music fills the room again. The calming beat of the song places me back at an idiotically relaxed state.

  I open my eyes. My arms, tucked under the pillow, are numb. I turn my head to have a full view of him, and our eyes meet.

  “Thank you for your thoughtfulness,” I say. “I was a tad tired. I did not get much sleep last night, and we have at least ten hours of filming after the tattooing. So, it was good to rest a bit,” I mumble.

  He simply nods.

  “How long was I out?” I ask.

  “Over two hours. I just want to finish this line on your sides. Do you need a break?”

  “No. I’m OK. Do what you have to do. I’ll stretch when you’re done,” I say.

  “You not tired from sleeping in this position?” He gathers a small brush and his fingers are fast at work again. He seems relaxed and, for a moment, I want to keep it that way.

  “You are kidding me?” I laugh a little. “I haven’t slept this well in a decade.”

  “Are you hungry, thirsty?”

  “A little of both,” I smile. He is trying to make small talk. Damn. Something changed when I was sleeping. “The jogging must have made me hu
ngry; I’m not much of a breakfast person.” I watch him closely.

  The fast strums of a guitar and the beat of drums blare from the speakers, and I feel the room vibrating.

  “Your cue to stay awake,” I say and, without my full permission, my flirting tone is back.

  He looks down at me and our eyes lock. There is a connection there. I can feel it. He wrenches his eyes away, breaking the intensity of the contact. Oh, he doesn’t like when I flirt. His thumb nervously spins the silver band on his finger. A pang of sadness strikes me. He is the faithful type. His wife holds something rare in her hands.

  “The back and the sides are done,” he announces.

  I sit. The blanket slides off my ass. Ignoring the horrendous gown that looks like a hospital gown, I stand up and stretch my stiff muscles.

  I gather the gown, “I am going to use your bathroom. I will be right back.” I glance over my shoulder, and yes, his eyes are on my ass. Whether he likes or not, he is not as immune to me as he might want.

  I am lost in the sway of her hips. I swear I cannot take one more minute of this ordeal. I have to change gears.

  I tread across the street to pick up the breakfast I ordered from a deli. I need to rid my mind of her.

  I hope she is OK with the food. Her father is a multimillionaire and her mother is a famous actress. Breakfast from your friendly local deli probably is not her usual menu.

  According to tabloids, she is a snob, narcissistic, and self-centered. Nevertheless, she has earned a name for herself as one of the most acclaimed actress of this generation.

  “Hey, Bert! Got my order?”

  “What’s up, Will? Order for two, huh?” He smirks and hands me a brown bag and a tray with two coffees.

  “Early client man, that’s all.” I hand him a twenty.

  “This early, male or female?” He hands me the change. I glare at him.

  “Just asking.” He smirks again.

  If he only knew who has been lying naked on my table, his raging hormones would catapult to an unhealthy level. Bert is a nice guy, but he’s always thinking about sex. He will screw anything labeled female.