Chasing Stars Page 3

  “Thanks, man.” I wave good-bye.

  I stroll back to the shop, lock the door behind me, and keep the closed sign up.

  Heading straight to my loft, I spot Portia standing by one of my paintings. It is a portrait of Mel.

  I put the food and my cell on the table. She joins me, and I hand her a coffee. “I hope bacon, egg and cheese is OK.” I get the sandwiches out of the bag, and hand her one.

  “Oh, it’s fine. Thank you.” She sits across from me.

  We eat in silence for a moment. She nibbles at the sandwich, chewing slowly. Damn. She is sexy, even when she is eating.

  “Mmm, this is delicious. I guess I was hungrier than I thought,” she says between bites.

  “Good.” I try focusing on eating my own food, but she is so damn distracting.

  The silent buzz of my cell grabs our attention. We both glance at the lightened screen.

  “Excuse me.” I stand up, relieved for a reason to leave the room. Her heady presence is a potent aphrodisiac and I feel completed aroused.

  “Hey, gorgeous.”

  I overhear him as he strides into the shop for privacy. The door remains open so I can hear the conversation he is having with his wife. Before he answered the cell, I saw a photograph of them on their wedding day, flashing on the screen. He is taunting in a black tuxedo, and she is beyond beautiful in her white gown. She rests her head on his shoulder, and her eyes glimmer at the camera.

  When I see their picture, a bothersome feeling sweeps through me and I try to understand. Jealousy? You have to be kidding me. I don’t do that kind of crap.

  Suddenly I am dead tired. That’s messed up. I want this day to be done. I want to delete from my mind the intimacy I saw humming in between Will and his wife. I want to evict the sound of his voice, sweet and lovely, when he answered her call.

  What the hell is with me today?

  I need to taste him, that’s the only way to exorcise the aching burning inside my chest.

  “Yeah, I am coming home today,” he says. “Really?” he goes on. “I’m sorry, baby; I guess your morning sickness is one of the bad ones. I promise a foot massage when I get home, ’K.” He pauses. “Listen, I’ve got to go, see you soon.” Another pause, “Love you too.”

  He comes back, “Ready?” He tosses his unfinished sandwich in the trash can and glances at his watch.

  “Sure.” I rise from my seat.

  “I will have you out of here in no time.” He marches back toward the shop.

  “Ouch, that eager to rid of me, huh?” I half joke, following him, and doffing the hideous gown as I go.

  He comes to a halt, turns abruptly, and we are inches apart. Oh, yes, I grin inwardly. This is my only chance. I’ve learned one lesson in my vain existence: carpe diem.

  With trembling fingers, I stroke the chiseled muscles of his chest. I stand on my tiptoes, my hands reach up, and I clasp his face, drawing him to me.

  Our lips collide. His tongue hungrily skims over my lips, and then enters my open mouth, caressing my tongue, and intensifying the contact. Flames, his lips are set on fire.

  He bends his knees, and his arms wrap around my waist, pulling me closer. My body molds to his. He groans. The flames spread, consuming us.

  We are all hands, touching. His taut lips slide across my cheeks as he kisses, bites, and sucks his way down my neck to my naked shoulder, and then he returns to my lips.

  He pulls me closer. I feel his arousal against my abdomen. My heart pounds, my core muscles clench. His arms fasten around me so tight that I think he is going to break my ribcage.

  I’ve never felt such a yearning for anybody before. Is it from the earlier tension or anticipation? Maybe both. This is beyond a physical urge; I want to obliterate the abyss of my soul.

  Desperate for more of him, I reach for his belt. He perceives my intention, pulls away, and his long fingers grab my wrists and stop me. Breathing labored, he steps back, placing some distance between us.

  I am flushed, I am needy, and, for a moment, the rejection stamped on his face makes me vulnerable.

  His eyes burn into mine, revealing raw desire, but he takes a ragged breath, and wrenches his eyes away.

  “This is a mistake.” He drops my wrists. “It is not worth it.” Shaking his head, he whispers to himself. Without another word, he marches to the bathroom, banging shut the door.

  I grimace. My heart warps under the sting of his words. I know I am worthless, but it hurts like hell to hear it. Growing up, rejection from both my parents was so much more than an acquaintance. It was a constant. However, I have never been sexually rejected before.

  A shudder runs through my body. I rake a shaking hand through my hair. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see how wild and aroused I am. The lack of self-control scares the heck out of me.

  Recognizing my wild expression, I swallow hard. I will not stray from the vow I made.

  “Damn it.” I close my eyes, trying to ease my erratic breathing. Every inch of me wants to succumb and bury myself inside her. I lower my head under a jet of cold water from the sink faucet, allowing the flow to run through my hair. I need to be rid of this primal urge to make her mine.

  Deep down, I realize the fire is too intense. I can’t do anything about it. Correction. I won’t do anything about it.

  As I climb on the table, my legs tremble from the undeniable electricity stirred from our contact. Do I regret it? Not for a moment, but the intense explosion between us scares the crap out of me.

  Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I refuse to release them. I have never been the teary type and I’m not starting a bad habit now. I can feel something inside me is shattered. And it hurts. I lie back and squeeze my eyes shot, willing my shaken body to relax. I hear his quiet footsteps approaching. God, this sucks.

  “I’m sorry. That, um, was very unprofessional of me.” His voice is detached.

  “We are two consenting adults. No big deal.” The last thing I want to discuss is his rejection of me. To avoid seeing the disgust and regret on his face, I keep my eyes closed.

  The music is back on. Please, let this day be over. I hear soft notes swirling around me. His music selection is freaking awesome. I consider stealing his iPod before leaving. Just a souvenir of the day I was rejected.

  Call me crazy, but a small part of me urgently needs to make amends with him. I want him to like me, though I have the impression that right now he despises me.

  Another part of me, just wants to leave. Yet, the thought of not seeing him again is unwelcome. What’s wrong with me? I am not this vulnerable and emotional.

  I don’t usually ask for much, but how I would love to have a do over for this day.

  “Can you lie on your back, please?” he asks. I comply, feeling his fingers touching me again. I swoon. Really?

  For a while, there is a heavy silence pulsing between us. His hands are on my stomach, dangerously close to my breasts. I need to do something before I explode.

  “How long have you been a tattoo artist?” I ask, opening my eyes. Maybe if we talk, it will erase the discomfort humming through us.

  “Around six years. I got this job out of high school.” He secures the blanket over my hips.

  “Do you go to college?”

  He squirts a jet of ink out of a tube. “Just graduated this May,” he says, grabbing a small painting brush.

  “Let me guess, fine arts at Columbia University.” His hand stills, and he raises a brown.

  “Lucky guess,” I add.

  Truth is, I looked into many universities and I remember reading that Columbia offers one of the best fine arts majors in the nation. I ended up never pursuing a degree, but I don’t say that. For a silly reason, I feel ashamed for not having a college education.

  I want to know more about him, but I hit a wall and he is not volunteering any info. His intense green eyes are intent on the tattooing process, and his skillful hand focuses on inking my skin. I examine his face closely. Oh, yeah, he is deliciou
sly handsome.

  I see he is biting inside his cheek, and my mind reels instinctively to the texture of his full lips, soft and possessive, over mine. Frustrated, I redirect my thoughts. I am dead tired of fighting the surge of foreign and unbidden thoughts and emotions.

  “Interesting playlist,” I offer.

  “Music is a powerful tool. It calms or excites. I try to create an interesting playlist. Getting a tattoo should be a pleasant experience.” The right corner of his lips curves into a half smile. “With long projects like yours, I will often ask for preferences. In your case, well, let’s say it was kind of hard to get in touch with you.”

  “So, how did you come up with this list?” I ask. Many of the songs are unknown to me, but I really like them.

  “Well, I um, just played my personal favorite playlist and hoped you would not just hate it.” He turns, gets a tube of red ink, and squirts on the tray.

  My heart is racing. He is talking to me as if nothing had happened. A thrill runs through me.

  “Honest truth?” I smile. “I like…no, I love it; I even considered stealing your iPod.” I confess.

  “Maybe some other time, I can add the playlist to your iPod.”

  My heart falters. I can see in his eyes, that there won’t be another time.

  I observe his stained fingers squirt orange ink from a tube onto the tray. He gets closer to me, and deftly his fingers resume the inking.

  “So, you will be filming the scene with the tattoo, today, yeah?” He is so close to my abdomen, that I can feel his breath tickling my skin when he talks.

  “Yeah, you should come to filming and watch,” I say before thinking.

  “That would be interesting. But I can’t, I am going home today,” he says.

  “Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask hopeful.

  “Sure. No guaranteed answer though.”

  Gosh. Is he always this blunt?

  “I didn’t see a tattoo on you. Your chest, back, and arms are bare. You, don’t believe in them?” I am very curious how a tattoo artist doesn’t have a blessed tattoo on his body.

  He pauses for a bit and then looks right at me with his intense green eyes.

  “I have one,” he simply says.

  “Oh.” I know instinctively that is all the answer I will get. Damn. It kills me I won’t get to know where it is. For whatever reason, he wants to keep to himself. I can relate. Certain areas of life are better tucked away, protected from prying eyes.

  “I like stargazing,” I murmur so quietly I wonder if he hears me. “When I was I kid, I went to a boarding school in New Hampshire. I hated it. At night, I would go to a meadow, lie on the grass and spend hours visiting stars from every constellation. It was sort of an escape, my secret place where I could be who I wanted to be, and be free to go wherever I wanted. I invented my own memories on each star as though they were real.” I smile. “Certain things, we keep to ourselves. It is safer that way.”

  I don’t know why I told him the dorky story, but in all honesty, it feels good to share something so personal with him. Does the loneliness I see in his soul somehow match mine? Perhaps, I just want him to see beyond my bitchy and shallow image.

  I am not Miss Purity. I will say this though, a great deal of what the press prints of me is untrue, but since I can’t fight the wave of gossip when it sways my way, I don’t. I float, allowing it to drift me to the shore. Yeah, sometimes I crash against reefs. Do I get hurt? Whatever. Who cares?

  I am never impressed or fascinated by much. A rough start in life taught me to be skeptical of the elusive. But wow, this astonishing woman has the ability to astound me.

  “Did you ever visit Asteroid B-612?” I finally ask, referring to The Little Prince, my favorite book.

  “Yeah, in fact, I did visit the lonely, tiny planet,” she answers, with an amused smile curling on her lips.

  I guess she read it too. I try not to make a big deal out of this particular fact we have in common. The book is a classic after all, and most children read it at one point.

  My mind paints the picture of the miserable, rich, little girl alone in a field. Her candid disclosure, which gave me an insight into her soul, reaches deep inside me. I don’t think she realizes it, but this vulnerable side of her is attractive as hell. For a brief moment, the broken boy inside me connects to the lonely girl inside this fascinating woman. I want to cuddle her inside my arms. Honest truth.

  For once, I am at a loss for words. So, I just remain silent. Words can be useless in times like this, even harmful. I gaze at her for a moment and I am sure she can sense a mutual understanding humming between us.

  As my fingers add the last details completing the tat, we remain in a peaceful treaty. After I stroke the last ink to her flawless skin, I take one last glance at her face and bare body, now with my artwork imprinted temporarily on it. She is drop-dead gorgeous. The design complements her just the way I intended. Prior to creating the design, I studied her pictures, trying to capture her essence. I understand that the tattoo is for a character, but her body hosts it.

  The wholeness of the result is breathtaking. I look at her hair spilling on the pillow, her naked chest rising up and down, and her eyes gazing at me with a purity that is nonexistent when she flirts. I commit the image to my memory; I need to sketch it later.

  “It’s over,” I announce. I hand her the post-care of temp tats.

  Briefly, I see disappointment crossing her eyes, but she composes herself and sits up.

  “Thank you.” She smiles, slips off the table, and walks—nude—to the bathroom.

  OK, I know I should not, but I can’t help as my gaze follows her swaying hips. I admire her freedom, exposing a naked body is hard for most people, but she displays hers with confidence. Oh well, it is her tool of the trade, is it not?

  I begin cleaning the tray, but my mind recaps the morning we spent together. There is more to Portia than the prepackaged image the media displays.

  I see her walking back, fully dressed in her yoga pants and tank top. The seductive smile is back on her lips as if suddenly she is back in character. I feel a pang of disappointment.

  “Wow, I saw the tattoo, it is unbelievable. No wonder they made me come to your shop.”

  “Good, I hope it does the movie justice. I hear you might be up for an Oscar nomination.” I stand up.

  “Nah, just media speculation.” She shrugs.

  “Well, I guess this is good-bye,” I say.

  “Wow. Good-bye is too definite, Will.” She smiles.

  “It is proper. Our paths will never cross again, I don’t think,” I say.

  “Never is a long time, Will.”

  “Later then,” I reply.

  “Anyway, I’ll be in town for the duration of the filming.” She fidgets with her hands. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but I never found anything interesting. Would you consider designing me something?” She asks, unsure.

  “Yeah, of course, um, here.” I reach for my wallet, and hand her my business card. “Give me a call. I will clear the shop.” I clear my throat. “Y’know, to avoid pictures and all that crap that chases you.”

  I reach out my hand, relishing the softness of her small hand curling inside my smudged fingers. She steps closer and, before I realize, her lips brush lightly on my cheek. There is a different taste to this kiss. It is apologetic. I accept, though the last thing I want is her apology.

  My arms must be disconnected from my brain because, before I process what is happening, I wrap her small waist in them, pulling her to a tight embrace. Traitor body. The hug surprises us both, and I quickly release her with an awkward smile.

  “Take care.” I know it sounds lame, and I feel stupid saying it, but my brain falters, and that’s the best I can come up with.

  “I will.” She smiles. Just like that, she walks out of my shop and out of my life.

  I tend to the cleaning up and hope the void she left will disappear. But it doesn’t. I disassemble the airbrush machine,
place the parts on the ultrasonic cleaner, and scrub the counter. After I sterilize all surfaces, I rub my eyes and debate what to do next, when the cell inside my pocket vibrates. I fish the phone from my jeans. “Hello.”

  “James, this is Lauren Smith, the PA for Jason Brown. Um, we had an incident, and the tattoo you did last night was damaged. We need you to repair it.” She sounds apologetic.

  “When?” I inquire sulky, remembering the actor’s unnerving demeanor. He acted like a jerk during the two hours I worked on his tat.

  “Um, right after you’re finished with Portia’s,” she says.

  “Well, she was early. I just finished hers, so send him in.”

  “Well, we hoped, that you would consider coming to the set.” She pauses. “We are delaying filming enough as it is.”

  I glance at my watch, and exhale. “Give me your address, I’ll be right over.”

  Fresh air greets me as I step outside the tattoo shop. Well, as fresh as Manhattan can produce. I hail a cab. Though I am early, I head to the filming location.

  My sitter Stefan, aka personal assistant/manager/spokesperson/friend, is going to throw a fit. He is a control-freak ass, who hates when I don’t tell him my whereabouts, or when I don’t use security at a filming location. Worst of all, he hates when I hop in a taxi. He has a profound dislike for cabs.

  Stefan says I am too unpredictable for my own good. I disagree. I am predictably inconsistent and that I cannot change.

  I stare mindlessly out the window, and inhale. The fading scent of Will lingers on my skin, makes my head swoon, and my heart rate elevate to an unhealthy level.

  My mind goes automatically to his surprising embrace. Slowly, I open my curled fingers and stare at the business card he gave me. Disappointment crushes me at the fact that he never gave me his cell number.

  I remember the electricity pounding between us during the kiss we exchanged. Raw desire permeated every touch. My lips turn into a cynical smile. Life can throw a mean curveball. I think of all the crazy, marvelous sex I have had. Suddenly, they are all inane compared to the heady passion running through my body this morning. My body prickles, craving more. Damn it, I need to forget that kiss. I need to erase from my memory his scalding heat right before his hungry lips consumed mine.