by Kacey Shea
“Not at all.”
I press the button on my steering wheel that allows me to accept the call. “Hey! Pierce, my man, how’s life?”
“Jude! It ain’t all strippers and blow, but I can’t complain!” He chuckles. “But that’s not why I’m calling. I need something.”
“Tell me and I’ll find it for you.”
“I’ve recently delved into the . . . darker side of pleasure.” His rough laughter comes through the line, dropping his voice just above a whisper. “How versed are you on the BDSM scene?”
I don’t want to look at Rachel. I don’t even want her in the car right now. Jesus. Why did I pick up on speaker? I should’ve sent him to voicemail. But then he’d have gone elsewhere and I cannot pass up an opportunity. It’s why I flash her my most apologetic smile before speaking confidently. “Are you looking to go antique or new? I have a carpenter who does amazing custom work, and he can match any look you’re going for.”
“Damn, Jude. Should’ve known you’re a kinky fucker, what with the way girls fawned all over you back in prep school.” Over sixteen years ago, which is not much to brag about. We were young. Everyone was stupid. But I caught the attention of Pierce’s then-girlfriend and kissed her behind the bleachers at the start of our homecoming game. By halftime she’d dumped him. He was sore about it then, and brings it up enough that he probably still is.
I have no interest in reliving the glory days of my youth. They weren’t all that great, and nothing to boast about—not when you’re a thirty-four-year-old man. I also don’t want to piss off a paying client. “I know a few things.”
“Yeah you do. Bastard.” He laughs. “Have you been to The Dungeon in West Hollywood? Their red room? I want it recreated in my basement, right down to the last detail. But you know how my father is. Doesn’t care what the fuck I do, as long as there’s no paper trail.”
I haven’t been, but I’ll find a way. “Do you have a completion date in mind?”
“As soon as fucking possible.” He clears his throat, his voice low again. I imagine he’s probably in his office. “I can’t get enough, man. And I can’t risk getting caught coming from one of the clubs. Much better to host my own parties, you know?”
“Right on. I’ll put together an itemized list and invoice for you by the end of the day. If you think of anything specific, shoot me an email or call.”
“You’re the best, Jude. And hey, once it’s all set up, you can come by to help me test it out. We can get away with a lot more in a private residence.” The joy in his tone sends my skin crawling. Worse, I can’t imagine how uncomfortable it’s making Rachel. God, I need him off the phone, and now.
“Sounds good. Hey, I’m stepping into a meeting, but look for my email end of day.” I end the call before he even finishes saying good-bye. “So, um.” I slide my fingers along the grooves in my steering wheel.
“Yeah.” From the corner of my eye, she shifts in her seat.
“Just so you know, I’m not . . . He’s just—”
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”
“I am not kinky.” I chance a glance her way, relieved she doesn’t appear as horrified as I anticipate. “At least not like he implied. Not that there’s anything wrong with that lifestyle.”
Her lips quirk up to one side. “No whips and chains for you?”
“I’m more of a whip cream and chocolate guy.” A vision of Rachel, shirtless and in my kitchen as I lick my favorite flavor from her skin flashes in my mind. Yeah, that’s more my speed.
She bites back a smile. “Sweet tooth.”
She has no idea. I shift in my seat in hopes she doesn’t catch sight of my growing arousal. “You?”
She laughs. “You saw me suck down my milkshake in record time last night.”
Yeah, I did. Her lips around that straw gave me naughty daydream material to last all month. “But whips and chains?” She’s going to slap me. She should, because I have no business asking about her sexual preferences. Only, I can’t help myself. It’s Pierce’s fault.
She glances out the window, and fiddles with one of her earrings. “I think some of the more sensual aspects of play can be stimulating if shared with the right partner.”
Oh? My interest perks. “You’ve played?”
“Uh, yeah.” Her cheeks redden. She glances at me before looking back out the window. “I dated a guy who was into the scene.” She clears her throat. “A Dom. At least, he liked to play one in the bedroom.”
The thought of her with another man quashes all lust-filled thoughts. I don’t want to hear about that. I don’t want to imagine her with anyone but me. A crazy instinct since she and I are hardly friends and she’s given zero interest as to anything more.
Still. I can’t help but notice how she crosses her legs. The slit in her dress falls open to her thigh. If she notices me staring, she doesn’t move to fix it. That’s got to count for something.
“Oh, I love this song.” She leans forward and turns up the console. I don’t know if she’s really into the music or doesn’t want to talk, but it’s not as if I can ask without sounding like some desperate weirdo.
Patience. I need to have some fucking patience.
Focusing on the drive, I let myself enjoy the music. Rachel sings along with some of the lyrics, and I try not to stare at her lips. Much too soon, I pull into an empty space in front of the studio.
“Let me help you.” I say, slipping out of my seat and ignoring her protests before they start. She can carry these bags herself. She’s been doing fine without me, but I’m not ready to say farewell. Thanks to Pierce’s call I missed out on conversation we could have shared. I grab for her bags and sling the straps over my shoulder, not minding a bit that it wrinkles my suit.
Rachel stares pointedly and lifts an eyebrow.
“What?” I grin, “And don’t tell me I don’t have to walk you in, because you know I’m going to anyway.”
“But—”
“Nope.” I hold up a hand and walk toward the building, praying to God she follows. “The only thing I want to hear out of those gorgeous lips is a thank you.”
Her hips swing purposefully with each step matching my stride. “Thank you.” The words leave her mouth just above a whisper. I try not to stare. Or trip. Jesus. I can only imagine how she’d never accept my help again if I dropped these bags. I’ve spent enough time with women to know there’s got to be thousands of dollars’ worth of product in these bags. The cost of beauty isn’t cheap.
“Well, this is me.” She stops a few steps before we reach the door, and accepts her bags as I hand them over.
Even though I’m a little bummed she doesn’t invite me inside, I appreciate the fact she takes her career seriously. “Same time tonight?”
“Oh, you don’t—” She stops when I hold up my hand, letting loose a wry laugh. “Right. Well, then. I think we’re shooting longer today. I probably won’t get done until closer to seven or eight.”
“I’ll be here at seven. Text or call if something changes.”
“Okay, then. Thank you.”
“See. The more you say it, the easier it becomes.”
“Don’t be an ass.” She rolls her eyes, but there’s a smile on her lips.
“Have a good day, Rachel.”
“You too, Jude.”
I practically skip back to my SUV in triumph. I’m wearing her down. Winning her over. I don’t care if it takes me weeks. I’m good at more than dealing puppies and sex toys. Soon enough, she’ll want more from me than a ride to work. I’ll convince her I’m someone worthy of her attention. Windows down and music up, I settle in for the ride back to my condo in bumper-to-bumper traffic.
I’m almost home when my phone rings, my mechanic’s name lighting up the screen on my dash. “Hey Jude, I’ve got bad and good news.”
“Mark.” I roll up the windows to better hear. “Don’t you always. What’s the damage?”
“You know as much as I, this car is worth mo
re for scrap and parts. That’s about all a LeSabre is good for, especially when they’re as old as you are. She’s not a collectable. Not with that body style. The rust spots. She’s obnoxious as hell.”
“You talk about all your cars that way?”
His hearty chuckle comes through the line. “Not your precious babies, which is why I was a little confused when you sent this one my way.”
“Just give it to me straight, Mark. What’ll it take to get her up and running?”
“It’s the cam. They go when the oil isn’t changed regularly. I’ll have to take apart the whole motor. Five days, maybe four. But that’s just to start. The entire vehicle needs a tune-up. New filters. New hoses. I’d be surprised if the AC works, so if you want that repaired too, we’re talking four, five grand. Maybe more.”
Something tells me Rachel doesn’t have the means to cover it, but the thought of being able to provide this for her does something funny to my insides. I have the money. She doesn’t have to know I paid for it. Mark and I go way back. I’m sure he’d whip up a fake invoice if need be. “You know I’m good for it.”
“Sure you don’t want to replace it? I can get you a reliable starter car for less.”
“This one’s special.”
“Mm’kay. You’re the boss. I can order parts and have her back within a week. That work?”
A week. Yeah, that should give me enough time to wiggle my way into Rachel’s life. Become so annoyingly charming she’ll want to snuggle me to her rack like she did the puppy. If not, I’ll have Mark do extra work on the car. “It’s a deal.”
11
Rachel
Today is bittersweet. This job is one I wished could last forever, but since the film itself is a short and studio time costs money, we’re wrapping after three days of work. I’m thankful for the opportunity, though. Grateful knowing there are hundreds of other makeup artists they could have selected, but somehow they picked me. I focus on that, and not the bleak outlook of my future once I walk off set.
I don’t know how, but even with my car out of commission and next month’s rent looming, the time I’ve spent on this set has provided a much needed escape. Maybe because this is the first professional studio set I’ve worked on. Or when I’m here no one sees me as another struggling artist. Or because work on set has been fulfilling, and if anything, cements my decision to be in Los Angeles.
I only pray this isn’t a fluke. As good as it gets. Because I really need another break. A sign or something.
“Let’s break for lunch and finish the final scene when we get back,” Shannon, the director, says after checking the time. It’s well after two and my stomach grumbles in agreement with her decision.
“Rae, you wanna join us? We’re gonna head to the café on lot seven.”
As much as I want to, I don’t have the funds. “No thanks. I’m good.”
“Cool,” Shannon says. “Be back in one hour.”
“I won’t be late.” I won’t be going far, either. There’s a coffee cart one studio over, and they sell yesterday’s baked goods half off. If I’m lucky they’ll still have a muffin or scone, which will pair great with the banana I have packed in my purse. That and a shot of caffeine will get me through the day.
I pull out my cell on the short walk over, but my steps falter at the on-screen notifications. Three missed calls. Two from my brother. But it’s the other one that fills my stomach with dread, a number I’ve been successfully avoiding for over six months. Each call has a corresponding voicemail. Putting off bad news, I click on my brother’s first.
“Rae! You are a godsend. Motherfucking fairy godmother. The stain came out and now I don’t have to explain to Logan what my coworker was doing in my sweater. Seriously, you saved my life and the cashmere. Okay, gotta run. Talk soon. Love you!”
Harmless enough, and I can’t help but smile at his antics. I don’t know how Logan puts up with my brother’s drama. Oh, wait. I do. They’re the perfect match. I sigh and offer up silent hope that someday I find a partner who loves and accepts me so completely.
I tap on the next voicemail. Another from my brother just an hour ago.
“Shit! I almost forgot to tell you. Guess who I ran into last night? Ethan. He looks bad, Rae. Really bad. Matches his personality. But he asked about you and I kinda laid it on a little thick. Said you were working your dream job and loving Los Angeles. Which isn’t entirely untrue, right? Anyway, you should have seen his face.” My brother laughs. “If I could have snapped a photo, I would have. Like he finally realized how stupid he was to let you get away. But I wanted to warn you, because well, I know how men like him operate. I think he might call, and if he does, do not waver! I know how you are with that man-child. I don’t understand it, but I accept he’s basically your kryptonite. Anyway, stay away. Don’t play with sharks. Or assholes with big dicks. The dick ain’t worth it! Okay, gotta run. Talk soon. Love you!”
The next message is from Mr. Big Dick Kryptonite himself. I should delete it. I should block his contact from my phone. I don’t know why I don’t. Or I do, but won’t acknowledge it. Even though leaving him was probably the best thing I ever did, he represents a future I thought I’d always have. Ethan was it for me. My forever guy. We shared a home. I wanted to have his babies. He talked about marriage, though he didn’t get a chance to propose. Together we planned adventures, shared interesting conversation, and yeah, the sex was amazing. Too bad I wasn’t the only one he was sleeping with.
A glutton for punishment, I press play on the waiting voicemail and hold the phone to my ear.
“Rae, baby. How are you? I ran into your brother and he says LA looks good on you. I am going to be in town for business next week. I’d love to hook up for dinner or something. Let’s try and connect while I’m there.” His smooth-as-honey voice conjures up all sorts of memories. Joy. Hurt. Love. He sighs. “I miss you. We were good together, yeah?”
I miss you. It shouldn’t get me, but it does. I blink back the urge to cry and delete the message before I’m tempted to replay it. Or worse, return his call. I cannot go there. Not again. I learned my lesson. I’m not going down that path again.
Sliding my phone into my bag, I walk the remaining steps to the coffee cart. The barista smiles with recognition. “Tall coffee, right?”
“Yep.” I glance to the basket of half-priced items, but today it’s empty.
Her face falls a little, noticing my gaze. “Oh. We just sold the last muffin. The only thing I’ve got left is a cake pop and tea loaf.” She gestures to the glass case, but those aren’t discounted and really, I can get by on what I have packed in my purse.
“Just the coffee. Thanks.” I peel and snack on my banana while I wait for my coffee to cool, then walk back to the set, trying to stay positive. Outlook and frame of mind are everything. They can make an obstacle feel like a speed bump or a mountain. So Ethan called? What? That doesn’t need to change anything about my day. I’m more disappointed there aren’t any muffins.
If anything, his call serves as a reminder that I can’t get tied up in a man again. Someone who’s willing to swoop in and save the day, make promises and earn my trust, only to screw me over when I’ve become dependent, needy, and half the woman I want to be. I’ve come a long way since leaving Chicago. I’m stronger. I know what I want from life, and I’m no longer willing to settle.
As I reach the set, my stomach rumbles with another wave of hunger, my coffee and fruit not nearly enough to keep me satisfied. I scrounge in my bag and produce a granola bar. It’s crushed and by the look of it, has been at the bottom of my bag for God knows how long, but it’ll do. I just have to get through a few more hours.
I wonder if Jude will want to have dinner again. As much as I enjoyed last night, I can’t accept if he does. I already feel an imbalance in our relationship. He’s wealthy and I’m not. He’s offered me so much: his assistance with my car, free rides, and dinner. I can’t lean on him. It would be too easy to fall into old habits.
Jude
“Fantastic. Thank you.” The VP on the line sings my praises and I can’t help but pump my fist at the small victory. “I really appreciate your commitment to the environment and local art.”
Last night at dinner with Rachel, the perfect solution for procuring bottle caps struck me when I noticed how many beers and specialty soft drinks the restaurant was tossing in the trash. The store manager was open to my idea of collecting them, and today’s call with corporate gains me even more support.
“Thank you for reaching out, Jude. This is a fantastic idea. We’re always open to ways we can support our communities.”
I thank him again, say good-bye, and hang up the phone feeling accomplished. Chance will have all the bottle caps—and more—he needs to finish his sculpture on time.
The bigger challenge will be collecting the volume of plastic he requires. Especially with his insistence they be collected authentically. I ditch my home office, grabbing my wet suit and board to spend a few hours in the surf. I get my best ideas out in the ocean. Away from the hustle. Away from the day-to-day grind. The cold water revitalizes my mind. The exercise is good for my body as much as my soul. Out here, I can’t think about the next project or looming deadlines. It’s just me, a man and surfboard, against the ocean’s ruthless power.
Sometimes the waves are easy, my path smooth and practiced. Other times it’s a constant battle, the riptide threatening to pull me under. I’m a sick bastard, because I prefer the days when I have to work to stay afloat. When there’s a chance I might not make it out alive. I don’t know what that says about me or my mental status, but I don’t ponder it more than a few minutes. I can’t because all my attention is focused on not drowning, and attempting to catch the next killer wave.