Chasing Stars

by L. Duarte

  “How long are you going to be away?” He pushes the strap of my tank top and trails kisses on my shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” I lie, letting out a deep sigh.

  “I do believe you owe me a tat.” I change the subject.

  “Do you want to do it before you leave?”

  “Hell yeah, how about we do it now?” I can’t believe I’m really doing a tat. My father despises them. Unconsciously, I have tried to please him all these years.

  “Are you sure?” Will frowns.

  “Absolutely!” I say.

  Will tugs my hand and ushers me to the shop.

  “Hi Rick,” I wave my hand.

  “Oh, look who is here, the movie star who has our Will smitten.” Rick hugs me. He smells of tobacco and pine. Will strides to the counter and collects a machine.

  “I guess it is the other way around.” I glance at Will, who is taciturnly assembling the tattoo gun.

  “Do you have a gig?” Rick asks, glancing at his watch. It is almost midnight.

  “Yeah, Portia’s” He gleams, the sulky expression dissipating from his face. I wonder if the comment Rick made was the reason for his brief moodiness.

  “Cool. Well, I will be on my way. My lady must be waiting.” He kisses my cheek briefly and leaves.

  “Where do you want the tat?”

  “On the inside of my forearm.”

  “That’s good you are done filming then.”

  I seat on the same table where I had my temp tat. Will approaches me and I enlace his hips with my legs. “Remember when you first tattooed me?” I say running my fingers through his hair.

  “Darling, I don’t think I will ever forget that day. Damn, I wanted to kiss you so badly.”

  “I do have a feeling I will enjoy this one better.” I lick his lips.

  He places the gun on the counter and his arms snakes around my waist. “Yeah…” He trails kisses along my neck.

  He gently pushes me against the table. I tilt my head to have a better view of him.

  “Right here?” He asks, running his soft and strong hand along my arm.

  “Hmm-hmm.” My entire body quivers under his gentle fingers.

  He leans over and his tongue caresses the inside of my forearm setting my skin on flames. Will exudes sensuality. Oh, I am aroused. I guess I am not a big fan of that purity ring after all.

  “Your skin is soft and pure; it’s sinful to blemish it.” He says and his breath tickles me.

  “Will, if you keep up with this, we won’t be doing a tat.” I say and my voice is so husky.

  “I just want you to be sure about it.” He says.

  I realize he is stalling. “Why?”

  “Niki told me that you were apprehensive about getting a tattoo. I don’t want you to feel pressured into it.” He finally says.

  “Oh, Will. Your concern is charming, touching even. But I am one hundred percent sure I want a tat. It was just a stupid reason, a long time ago, that kept me from getting one. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Then it will be my pleasure to be the first one to mark your skin.” He flashes his even teeth in a dazzling smile.

  I wonder if he realizes that his mark on me is deeper than skin deep. But I don’t say anything. This thing we have going, is too confusing.

  Will switches on his iPod, and a soothing sound swirls on the vacant tattoo shop. I watch his face as he wipes my skin and applies the stencil identical to Tarry’s and Nick’s.

  “How does it look?” He asks me.

  “Perfect.” I gleam.

  “Last chance,” He dons a pair of latex gloves.

  “Get it over with.”

  I close my eyes bracing for the excruciating bite of the needle. I have heard horrendous tales of how painful it is to get a tattoo. My senses are on high alert. I hear the hum of the tattoo gun and feel a sting. It is as if tiny claws are scratching my skin. I open my eyes.

  “Is that it?”

  “What?” He sweeps the ink on my skin.

  “The pain.”

  “Hmm, interesting, you have a high threshold of pain. My favorite kind of client.” He says with amusement in his voice.

  “Huh, I better be your favorite client, period.” I tease.

  “I need to think about that one, baby. I did ink a Playboy model once. If I recall correctly she too had a high tolerance for pain.”

  “I beg your pardon? What about that ring of yours, it stands for purity right?”

  We continue the sweet bickering, and in a little over an hour, Will announces the end of the tat.

  “Oh, I love it.” I admire the intertwined symbols.

  “Do you want to send a picture to Tarry and Niki?”

  “Yes.” I give him my iPhone, and he snaps a picture. He tapes the tattoo. Perching on the table, I watch him. With fluid movements, he completes the routine cleaning and sterilizing of the instruments.

  “All done,” With a playful smile he pecks a kiss on my nose.

  “Yep,” I look at his handsome face and a wave of sadness threatens to drown me. In a few days, I won’t have his warmth anymore. I am distraught with the mere thought.

  He climbs on the narrow table and presses his strong body against mine. “Well, for the next few days, we will spend saying good-bye.” His hand holds my nape, his lips are over mine, and I dump all my worrisome thoughts as we sink ourselves onto one another.

  “If I told you, it would not be a surprise,” I grin.

  “Oh, Will, tell me. Where are we going?” Portia pleads and pouts.

  “Just wait, baby, we are almost there.”

  Without taking my eyes off the road, I lean over and taste her luscious lips. Wow, I wonder if I will ever have my fill of her lips. She is so beautiful.

  I inhale. Portia is a puzzle I am trying to figure out. And when I see her face, I just became putty in her hands. Not that anyone can blame me for feeling intimidated by this woman, who millions of people stare at and adore.

  This date has gotten under my skin and made me nervous as hell. It is quite a daunting task, planning a date with this gorgeous girl, who has dated so many men. No, I am not comparing myself with any of those douche bags. But, I can feel a bit insecure, can’t I?

  I take the New Jersey Turnpike exit, driving toward the Jersey Shore. Glancing at Portia, I see she is deep in thought watching the landscape. I let go of her hand to maneuver the car and pull in Rick’s driveway.

  “Where are we?” She scans the surroundings.

  “Rick’s beach cottage,” I explain. “He loaned it to us for the night.” I slide out of my seat, and jog around the car to open her door.

  My hand rests on the small of her lower back as I steer her toward the cottage. She wears a haltered mini-dress, exposing the curve of her spine. I am horny as hell, and every single muscle in my body tightens at the sight of her exposed skin. She looks at me, and her eyes gleam with anticipation. I put my arm around her waist, drawing her to me. Tomorrow she leaves for her premiere tour, and I cannot help but feel shitty about her departure.

  We stroll around the house, to a backyard with an amazing ocean view. The sea tang welcomes us. Her eyes glimmer with delight. She kicks her stilettos to the side. I follow, removing my shoes and enjoying the feel of the sand between my toes.

  “Will, this is beautiful!”

  With entwined fingers, we follow the path marked by lanterns in the sand that leads to a table set near the water. The sun will set soon, and the horizon clouds are an unusual hue of pink and purple. Candles flicker under the gentle afternoon breeze. The only sound is the waves crashing on the shore and the distant cries of seagulls.

  Her fingers tremble as she lightly caresses the white lilacs on the table, her favorite flowers.

  “This is perfect, Will.” She flashes an alluring smile.

  I enlace her waist and pull her to me. “I am going to miss you, y’know,” I murmur with my lips against hers.

  “Me too,” she breathes against my lips, and ki
sses me so passionately that I need to concentrate, not to throw her on the sand and claim her.

  It is getting so damn hard to control myself around Portia. Each day my desire to possess her increases. I want this woman, more than the air I breathe.

  I pull a chair to her, and switch the iPod on. It plays the same music from the day we met.

  “God, I love this playlist, it will never get old,” she purrs, her voice is longing, and for a moment, a fear this is good-bye.

  “I added it to your iPhone earlier today.” I grin.

  “Thank you, Will.” She reaches across the table, searching for my hand.

  The waiter I hired interrupts us.

  “Good evening, my name Is Jorge, I will serve you tonight. Would you like to start with something to drink?” he inquires.

  “Yes, please,” I say, my eyes fixed on Portia.

  He pours chilled wine and water, then discreetly disappears into the house.

  Portia glances at my wineglass. “Is this OK? I mean, I know you don’t drink.”

  “As a general rule, I don’t drink. But there is no harm on drinking a glass of wine with my girl.” Her concern is cute and, at the same time, profound.

  Portia flushes, her lips curve into a pure smile that is beyond beautiful. It does things to me. I know at this moment what I have known all along. I will do anything for this unbelievable woman before me.

  I ponder on the months we have spent together. Life with Portia is a wild ride. But once you’re in, you better buckle up, because hopping out is not an option. Once you experiment with her, there is no turning away. I guess that’s the trait that makes her so captivating to her fans. Except in my case, this is personal.

  I would do anything for this woman, and I don’t know what her feelings for me are. Portia remains a mystery. At times, I catch a glimpse of someone hidden behind the persona the world sees. But all her real emotions are tucked under a carefully crafted shell. I wonder, just how much of her true self she allows me to touch.

  I raise my glass, “To a successful premiere and a quick return to New York.” She silently raises her glass, clinking mine. Savoring our dinner, we watch the sun set. Portia slips her hands into mine at every chance she has, but her silence is bothersome.

  After lighting the fire bowl, I sit next to her on a blanket along with dozens of fluffy pillows. Jorge brings us dessert and retreats.

  “I can’t believe you remembered my favorite dessert.” She looks at the vanilla ice cream topped with jellybeans and candy corn. She smiles, scoops a spoonful of the dessert and slides a spoon into my mouth. I smile at her and, before I swallow it, she straddles me and her mouth crashes mine.

  Her lips are soft and warm. The ice cream melts inside my mouth. She licks my lips, stirring my body to life. I inhale her sweet scent, my hand fists her hair, the other arm finds her waist and I pull her closer. My teeth graze along her jawline, my tongue caresses her skin and samples her erotic taste. My lips skim the delicate skin of her neck, sucking on her throbbing pulse. I tighten my grip of her hips and she thrusts her pelvis against me. Oh, fuck. I clench my teeth and my body stiffens.

  Portia notes my tension. Still on my lap, she straightens herself. Her gaze meets mine and I see in the depth of her eyes fire…and need. She rests her forehead on mine, giving me time to cool off.

  For a moment, I reevaluate my values. The ring on my finger kept me grounded during crucial years after I quit drugs. In a sense, it freed me. Why then, in this moment, does it burn my skin? More than anything else, I want to make love to Portia. Well, except for violating the vow I’ve taken. I fear that Portia will lose interest in me, due to my unorthodox beliefs.

  Even she realizes it is getting hard for me, to restrain myself. She slides off my lap, sits next to me, and snuggles against my chest. We remain silent for a long time.

  I can’t help but to look at her under the flickering flames and realize the truth: I am in deep with this adorable woman and it scares the hell out of me.

  “Dance with me?” I stand, and reach down to her.

  Portia’s arms wrap around my neck, her face rests on my chest. A Cold Play song flows, muffling the sound of the waves. I inhale the intoxicating scent of her hair and get lost in the sway of her hips as they move against mine.

  “Yellow is one of my favorite songs,” she says quietly. Needless to say, I already knew, and therefore included the song.

  “Will, this is the best date I have ever had. Thanks.”

  “Is my girl thanking me for a date?” I ask playfully. “Why does that have the wrong ring to it?” I ask, and I look down at Portia, seeking her eyes.

  She bites her lower lip. “I’m sorry, I guess that came across wrong.” She inhales, “I’m just not used to this. I have had incredible dates, Will, but they were all inane compared to this. I guess what I am trying to say is, this is so different from everything before.” She gazes at me, and for the first time since we met, her eyes are lost.

  I swallow hard. Unsure, I say, “What you mean, Portia?” I frown, pulling her tighter against me. My heart is throbbing with a desperate need to erase the sadness I see in her expression.

  “You.” She wrenches her eyes away, staring at a distant point in the ocean. “You make it special, and I am afraid, that you are going to see me for who I am, and be done with me.”

  My hand finds her chin and I gently force her to face me. The wind tousles her hair and she looks stunning. But in her eyes, I find insecurity that matches my own fear of the wonder of her.

  “I see you for who you are, Portia.” I caress her cheek and cup her face. The music shifts to the deep and melodic voice of The Verve as they sing “Sonnet.” “And it fascinates me.” I kiss her lips, tasting her, searching for her, because my own need of her is urgent and painful. I cannot bring myself to tell Portia the depth of my feelings, but I want her to understand through the pulsing of my body, my deep-seated need of her.

  I know I will never be able to give up this woman. I know I am hers, for as long as she will have me. Pulling her even closer to me, I feel her body trembling under my hold. I revel, realizing that I do shake her a bit. She definitely rocks my world.

  We spend the night on the blanket, by the fire. Portia is uncommonly quiet. I don’t push her. But inside me, fear stings through the night. And I wonder if this starlit sky is the witness to our last night together.

  I have to consider, the most viable solution for me, is to join the “Detox Will in Twelve-Steps” program.’ Yep, I am that addicted to everything Will and his absence is an unbearable torture. Since I am being honest, I need to say that the withdrawal symptoms are only worsening.

  Pain grips my heart. It’s been over two weeks since I left Will behind. The last night we spent together replays in my head for the hundredth—maybe millionth—time. True, my mind seems like a broken record. In a way, I am broken too.

  The date he planned was simple, tasteful, thoughtful, and unsurpassable. It was then that I realized how incompatible we are. That night, I would have given away my right hand to make love to Will. An overwhelming desire seized me. And guess what, I loathe myself for wanting to blemish his beautiful character. Will is perfect, and I am unworthy of him.

  What I fail to understand when I decided to rupture him from my life, is that I have become codependent on him. I miss his bright smile, his brooding eyes, his smell, and most of all I miss his comforting embrace surrounding me. I am bereft without him.

  I haven’t called or answered Will’s calls since I left New York. Awful, I know, but here is the deal. I had hoped that after being away for a few days, I would forget him. To my dismay, I obsessively think of him.

  With my shoulders hunched from the exhaustive weight of the past weeks, I stand by the door leading to the terrace at the hotel. Traveling in and out of countries sounds exciting on the news, but the reality is that I constantly need a reminder of which country I am in so that I don’t make the gaffe of relating to the wrong place. The proce
ss is draining. Nursing a broken heart makes the matter worse. I simply do what I do best: I place myself on automatic, fulfill my duties, and hide my true emotions from the entire world.

  We finally arrive in London and I will get a day’s break before Paris, which is my last stop. I check the time and do a quick mental calculation for the time zone difference. In London, we are five hours ahead of New York.

  I stare at my cell seemingly burning the palm of my hand. The need to connect with Will unsettles me. God, I miss him so much. My fingers feebly tap the keys of my cell.

  Me: Hi.

  I tap my feet impatiently as I have seen Will doing so many times. After thirty seconds, I hear a ping. It quickens my heartbeat and I anxiously glance at the screen.

  Will: Hi.

  I pause, unsure on what to type. He must be pissed at me for ignoring him, rightfully so.

  Me: How’s are you?

  Will: How am I doing??? Why didn’t you call me or answered any of my calls?

  Oh-ho, I am in trouble, and Will is not taking any hostages.

  Me: Sorry, in and out of planes, interviews, photo shoots. Extremely busy.

  Will: Really? Fine. Got to go.

  Me: Will?

  But there is no reply. That did not go well. I managed to screw things up, big time. I have placed a huge obstacle between us.

  I toss my cell away from me and sprawl over my king-size bed. This is for the best. Why delay the inevitable? Obviously, I am not meant to be with anybody.

  I close my eyes and Will’s deep, green eyes haunt me. Seemingly, I can’t get away from the thought of him and it fucking hurts. Once again, I am lost and lonely, and I have no one but myself to blame for it. Damn it.

  I want to forgo my obligations, be miserable by myself, and have a self-pity party. I’m not suicidal, really. But tonight, like many nights before I met Will, all I want is to stay in bed and fantasize how it would be if I died. Certainly the media would be in a frenzy with reports of how good I was—even though it isn’t true—and whether or not I should be canonized. Yep. I said canonized. I am, after all a frivolous and famous actress. People eat this up. The sad part is, other than sensationalizing the news of my death, no one would give a crap. And that stings a tiny part of me.