by Xavier Neal
“Acting like theater. As in my class for school.”
“Mmhm,” the guard leans back in his chair. “Which should be done at school.”
“Are you going to open the gate or not?” Gianna snaps.
“Not.”
“Do you want those chocolate chip cookies tonight or should I just give them to Sally?”
Fidgeting with things around the button, he ends up hitting it to open the gate, “Have a good afternoon.”
Smiling victoriously she smirks. “We will. Are mom and dad home?”
“Your mother is getting her hair and nails done followed by a late massage. Your father is having a lunch meeting downtown and then cocktails with that director at The Q. House is parental unit free for most of the evening.”
“Thank you,” she says almost a hint of sadness to her voice. No, I don't like when my mother's home and high or wasted but at least she comes home. At least there are times when she's sober and we eat together. From the way the guard outlined their schedules I get the sneaking suspicion Gianna doesn't see them often or maybe as often as she wants. I could be wrong though.
Driving through the gate and onto the property I gawk at the open yard that has exotic birds grazing on it, trees trimmed like buildings from different cities, and statues the height of some trees. Everything is abundantly green and lush, which is impressive considering it is winter.
I admire the Olympic size pool in the front yard area that you can get to by following a beautiful stone path. “Nice pool.”
“Yeah. It’s okay since it’s just the front pool.”
“You’ve got two pools?”
“We’ve got three,” her answer is nonchalant as she pulls around into the circle drive way in front of the house. “I’ll just park here for now.”
Baffled I stutter, “You-You-You’ve got three pools?”
“The small one you saw, the infinity in the back, and the heated one on the third floor in the gym.”
My jaw bobs in amazement, unsure of what to say.
Gianna kills the engine and winks. “We can try out all three instead of doing lines if you want.”
The sexual suggestion kicks my brain into working and I shake my head. “Lines. We're gonna run lines.”
“Can we make out a little?” She tries to look innocent.
Unable to resist her I plant a quick peck on her lips. “Let's get going. Clock's ticking.”
The two of us get out and enter the largest place I’ve ever seen a human being live in real life. Back when I had time to watch trashy television and there was nothing else on, I remember seeing homes like this from the different celebrities with reality shows. I remember being in awe that any family, forget about any one person, needing that much space or that much shit. That those people just spent money to spend money. I promised myself at that point, while my father lay wasting away that I would never do that. If I ever made money like that, there's no way in hell I'd piss it away on useless shit.
Gianna doesn't bother with giving me a tour. Her mind is on one thing and one thing only. If I didn't have Mak to constantly remind me why that's a terrible idea, my head would be right there with hers. She leads me by the hand from the door directly up the set of grand stairs you are greeted with when you walk in. At the point where they split, she takes the right side to the top, takes another right and heads to the very end of the hallway.
My eyes widen at the room that's the same size as my entire apartment.
Immediately she walks over to her California king sized bed that's off to the side in its own nook. Gianna flops down on top of her stuffed animals while she kicks off her heels. Continuing to admire the unbelievable sight, I look around seeing an office like area where there’s a built into the wall desk with a hutch, a desk top computer, two lap tops, an Ipad plugged in next to some sort of other tablet. There are four book shelves overflowing with books, two on each side of the desk.
Tilting my head towards the books I ask, “You like to read?”
“Sometimes,” she hums.
Not too far from that area there’s a mini fridge, a standing storage cabinet that looks like it might contain snacks, and a microwave. My eyes keep moving around the room taking notice of an entertainment area where she has a flat screen mounted on the wall, rows and rows of Blue-rays on built into the wall shelves. On a glass table underneath the TV there's a cable box, the latest XBOX, Play Station, and Wii. The two recliners are positioned to where she can still see the TV from her bed if she wants. If all that wasn’t possibly enough I notice next to her door that probably leads to her bathroom that I am assuming is as huge as her room, is another door cracked open that I assume is her walk in closet.
“You like my room?” the question causes the corner of my mouth to tilt up while I beat down the envy that's steadily growing.
“That's one way of putting it,” I mumble heading for one of the black recliners. On my way to the chair I notice the typical chick posters of Marilyn Monroe are mixed in with various framed posters of her. She looks younger in the photos, but just as attention grabbing as ever. Some of the photos have her in suggestive clothing, others in swim wear, but all accenting the one thing I noticed about her from day one, those Goddamn legs. “Damn you were a good looking model.”
Gianna slightly scoffs, “Were?”
Smiling at her I shake my head, “Chill out. You're still beautiful. You know that.”
“Ya know,” she struts seductively over me, my eyes dropping down to her thighs that my hands are itching to run themselves up. “You're hard to resist when you call me beautiful.”
Gianna straddles my lap and I wrap my hands on her hips. “Is that right?”
She bites her bottom lip playfully before leaning down to kiss me. For just a moment I forget that we came to rehearse, that it's a bad idea to be making out with her all the time, and the consequences of being so careless. My hands slide around, giving her ass the simple squeeze they've been dying too. As soon as Gianna moans and grinds herself against me, I know I have to stop. We can't go there. We just...can't.
Pulling back, I sigh, “Lines. We agreed to run lines.”
“Fine. Fine.” She replies sliding off my lap. “You want a snack first? You didn't eat lunch.” While part of the reason I didn't eat lunch was because I was too busy making out with her, the other is the fact, I'm drained for extra money already. “I've got tons of shit. Basically anything you want you can have and if I don't have it up here, I can tell Betty to make something you want.”
The idea that she has that kind of power and isn't grateful for it, has me threatening to say something I shouldn't. Instead I push that down and shrug, “I'll take a soda or some chips or something.”
Gianna prances off, grabbing snacks for us, rehearsal of just line by line beginning during the process. It's good measure to know all lines and being able to start them at the drop of dime no matter the part of the scene you start at. We go round and round for a while munching. Midway discussing some new blocking ideas, Gianna excuses herself to the restroom.
While I wait for her to return, my eyes start accessing the room again, admiring particularly her photos that I know if they were hanging in my bedroom exactly what I would do with them. Suddenly I hear a sound that forces me to walk over to the bathroom door and press my ear up against it hearing the sound in a louder volume. Between having an alcoholic for a mother and a small child who has had her fair share of upset stomachs, I know exactly what that sound is. In a panic, I barge in seeing Gianna leaned over the toilet, her hair pulled back in her hands, puking her guts out.
Rushing over to her I croak out, “Are you okay?”
Surprised, she leans away from the toilet and against the wall where she wipes away the puke on the side of her beautiful lips. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“But you were throwing up. Food poisoning?”
“No…”
“You’re right.” I shake it off. “It’s too soon for that to be the reason. Well unless it was someth
ing you ate yesterday. What did you eat yesterday? Anything different? Unusual?” Now that I think about it, I rarely see the girl eat.
Gianna ruffles her hair, which is when I notice the guilt in her eyes. “It's always the food I eat.”
In an unsteady voice I ask, “Do you…do you throw up on purpose?”
I watch as she presses her lips together in refusal to answer.
Folding my arms I lean against the door fame, disapproval and disappointment on my face alike, “Do you make yourself throw up? Are you bulimic?”
“That’s awfully rude of you to ask, isn’t it Connor?” she growls defensively. Standing up she grabs a towel, wipes her face and tosses it in her hamper.
When she pushes past me to exit her bathroom, I grab her arm, “Hold up. I want an answer. Gianna, do you make yourself throw up?”
“I…..” She shakes her head slowly, “I…I…”
“Gianna.”
“Fine! Whatever! Yes!” She snatches her arm away from me. “Yes Connor, I throw up what I eat! Happy now?”
“Happy?” Confusion settling deeper and deeper. “Why would that fucking make me happy?”
“Cause I look like this.” Her hand motions over her body. “It’s a great diet plan! I can eat what I want, whenever I want, and look the way I want. I mean I still go to the gym and shit to stay toned, but this helps.”
Appalled I let my jaw bob before I say, “You've gotta be joking.”
“Well I’m not,” she tries to run away again and I grab her by the arm a second time. “Let go!”
“We’re not done here.”
“Yes we are,” her whine reminds me of MaKayla’s.
“No young lady we’re not.”
“Young lady? What are you my dad now?”
Realizing how quickly the parental tone came out, I let her go in an attempt to dial it back. Get it and all the other emotions racing through me in check. I can't afford to blurt out something I don't mean. Not right now. “No, but speaking of, do your parents know?”
Gianna looks away.
“Well?”
“No! And there’s no need for them to know!”
“Are you crazy? Yes there is! Gianna throwing up everything you eat isn’t healthy for you.”
“Well aren’t you the poster boy for good reasoning? You know just because you don’t approve doesn’t make it wrong.”
“You’re right.” I sarcastically snap. “What makes it wrong is you’re hurting your body by shoving ridiculous amounts of food down your throat only to throw them up moments later. It’s not healthy and it’s doing serious damage to your body physically not to mention mentally. Not to mention there are people fucking starving, struggling to find enough food to eat every day and you're throwing yours up like it's nothing!” The urge to mention that I'm referring to myself to drive the point home prickles along the back of my neck. I don't want to go down that path right now.
“Thank you Dr. Phil.” She rolls her eyes. “You don’t think I know that or the consequences of my actions? Like the life-long damage I’m causing? Because I do. I have Google. I've seen the end results. I know what I’m doing.”
“Kn-Kn-Know what you're doing? Are you shitting me? What is wrong with you? Why are you so addicted to hurting yourself?”
“Because it’s the only way I can feel something!” she screams in return which takes me off guard. “It’s the only way I know I’m still alive and not stuck in some pathetic dream my damaged mind created! It’s the only thing I can control! It’s the only way I know I’m still human anymore! It’s the only way I can escape from the hell my life has become! It’s my sanity!”
“Being bulimic is hardly considered sane!”
“Yeah, well, this is as close as I’ve gotten. And why do you care anyway? It’s not your problem to deal with,” she tries to storm away again when I catch her by the arm once more.
This time I pull so her chest is flush with mine. “It is my problem to deal with. I care about you. All about you, from the fact you broke your pen in math to the fact you’re praying to the porcelain god because you have no other way to control your emotions.”
Even if I shouldn't care about her this way, it doesn't change that I do. I don't need this added stress to my own life that is always fucking spiraling out of control all on it's own, but something inside me needs to be in her life. I can't explain what the hell that feeling is, all I know is that it's there. I can't ignore it. I won't.
Her hands gently tug at the bottom of my shirt, eyes planted on the ground. “You…you…really care about me?”
“I do.” My hand tilts her face up. “And you can’t keep hurting yourself. Just because you stopped drugs doesn’t mean that this is okay. Okay?” She nods as I wipe away the tear under her eye. “I know you don't wanna hear this Gianna, but we’re gonna have to get you some help.” She nods again before wrapping her arms around me.
Squeezing her tighter I rest my head on top of hers with my eyes shut. I knew this was gonna get complicated, I just expected it would be because of my princess. Not because the girl I'm trying to date has a list of problems money really can't solve.
Gianna's body slightly pulls back letting me see a very distinct look swirling around in her eyes. She wets her lips and slides her hands under my t-shirt, the contact just enough to make my dick start to rise in my jeans.
Not prepared in any way for where she clearly wants this make up session to go, I shake my head. “Gianna--”
“Come on Connor,” she whispers out. “Let me show you how much I care about you.” My mouth goes to deny the offer at the same time her hand grazes my dick on the outside of my jeans. “You want me....I know you do.”
When her hand strokes me, my breath hitches while my brain begins the process of shutting out all reason. “W-W-We can't.”
“Sure we can,” she insists her hand now fidgeting with the button to my jeans. “I'll be gentle...”
Another wave of logic rushes out of me at the feeling of her warm fingers brushing my skin as she unzips my zipper. “No...no...”
“Yes...” Her tone is low and seductive. “Come on Connor, don't you wanna take this beautiful tongue of mine for a spin in other places? Literally. I know a good spinning trick with my tongue.”
With the will power of a saint, I stop her hand seconds before it has the chance to touch my dick. “Please, don’t do this to me.”
“Do what?”
“Make me feel bad for saying no.”
“Then don’t say no.”
“I have to.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t--” I cut off my own voice removing her hand. “Because I can't--” With a long exhale I take a step back to zip up my jeans carefully. “Slow,” is the only word that my brain can conjure.
“Slow?”
After a couple more breaths I repeat, “Slow. This. Us. That. All of it. Slow Gianna.” Her jaw drops to argue and I point at her with warning, “We just kissed for the first time this week. And we still...have a lot to learn about each other, obviously.”
The reference gets a small agreement from her as she wraps her arms around her stomach, the surprise of rejection still painted on her face. “But we can do that later too. We can do other stuff now....the stuff we can't do at school.”
Over the last couple of years it would be a lie to say that Gianna is the first girl to throw herself at me after being told no, but I can honestly say she's the first one I've wanted to say yes to. And am on the verge of saying yes too. No. No. I have to get out of here. We have to get out of here.
“Look, right now, let’s just...get to know each other with our clothes on a little more.”
“Really? You wanna wait to--”
“Yeah,” I cut her off, just the idea of her saying the possible next word enough for me to rethink my choice. “I really do.”
“Really?”
“Really. Why does that surprise you so much?”
With a sigh she shrugs, �
�I’ve never met a guy who actually cared about me before getting me into bed. I guess I just don’t understand how you know if you really like someone if you don’t…well if you don’t—”
“Best way to know someone is if you can tolerate them when they aren't a sexed up moaning mess.” The description has me adjusting my hard on again. Poor word choice on my part.
“Sorry. I’m just used to guys sleeping with me first and asking questions later.”
“Well I'm not like most guys.”
I know how corny the line sounds. But it's true.
“I'm starting to see that,” she whispers.
My mouth spews the truth before I can stop it. “I’ve learned from my mistake doing that, and it’s one I’ll be paying for the rest of my life.”
Quickly she bites, “What’s that supposed to mean? Did you rape a girl?”
“No!” Running my hand through my hair I snap, “Do I look like Goddamn rapist to you?
“No. But--”
“Look, I’ve made mistakes that I really don’t wanna talk about right now. All that you need to know is I've learned from the past. I want to treat you better than I have past girls. I want you to be treated better than you have been in the past. I want...I want this to be different for both of us.”
“Well that can’t be too hard.” She heads towards me, putting me in her arms again. “Especially not in the sex department.”
“Why do you say that?”
My hands lightly stroke her back making her smile. “Well, since I lost my virginity at thirteen, at an after party, to a thirty year old manager of an agency my parents later signed me up to, I don’t see that being too hard.”
“Wow,” I barely choke out.
Not that my first sexual experience was the greatest. Lost it to some college student interning at my other high school. She assumed I was a lot older than I was. I didn't tell her any different until my dick betrayed in three pump chump style. I did however vow to redeem myself with every girl after her.
“Not to mention any guy I slept with after that...let's just say I don't recall doing it soberly.”
“So basically if you sleep with me, it’ll be like you first time? Except without the pain.”