Claiming Johnny: A New-Adult Novel

by Dunning, Rachel

  “Nicole.”

  She’s weeping. “I fucked up, Johnny.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Oh, Johnny, I’m so fucking sorry.”

  I can’t comment. I have no words.

  “I’m so fucking sorry, Johnny. I...I just...” She sobs.

  I say nothing for a bit. “Where are you?”

  “I’m sorry, Johnny. I’m so sorry. I... We can try again. We can try again, I swear I won’t fuck it up. I swear it to you.”

  My mind is filled with both rage, and pity. “Where are you, Nicole?”

  “I’m...(sob)...in...(sob)...LA, Johnny. I...(sob, sob, sob)... I love you, Johnny. I so fucking love you, and I was just scared, I was just scared, baby. Please, you’ve gotta believe me.”

  My hand tightens around the phone. “I believe you.” But I don’t forgive you.

  “I love you, Johnny. I so fucking love you.”

  I shake my head. So much weight on it. So much weight. “What are your plans, Nicole?”

  Sob. Sob. Sob. “I...I...I wanna come home, Johnny. I wanna...come...home.”

  Home.

  “Johnny?”

  Christ. She’s so on edge. Anything I say might push her over some boundary I’m afraid she’ll cross. But Thunder has his eyes on her. He said so. “I think it’s a good idea you come back to New York, Nicole.” But we need to talk when you do.

  “Will you take me back, Johnny? Will you? Will you forgive me?”

  Ah, fuck. “Nic...ole, you... We need to talk.”

  “Please, Johnny. Please. I screwed up. I so fucking screwed up. I just—I panicked.”

  “I know.”

  “And then you wanted this kid so badly and... I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.”

  “Come back to New York, Nicole. We’ll talk when you’re here.”

  “I need to know you’ll take me back, Johnny. I need to. I need to know...” She goes quiet.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, fuck, what a fuck-up. I just—I want you to love me, damnit.”

  I did love you... “What makes you think I didn’t?”

  She says nothing.

  “Nicole?”

  Still nothing, but the sobbing has subsided. “Johnny, you chose me, right? You chose me. So...maybe...maybe... Look, if you love me, Johnny, would you...would you consider...moving...out of New York? Out west? For me?”

  Oh, man. “My family lives here, Nicole.”

  “We’ll start our own family!”

  Like we were about to? “Nic, please, just come back here. It’s... You need to be around friends.”

  “Fuck friends! I need to be around you. I just want to be around you, damn it. No one else. No one. Not Cat, not Alice, no one! Just me and you, Johnny. No one else.”

  “Come home, Nic. Come home. We’ll talk. Things will be OK.”

  And then, out of nowhere, out of the bright blue yonder, leaving me wondering what the fuck I just said that triggered this: “Fuck you, Johnny!”

  Click.

  My hand is shaking when I look at the phone.

  She’s lost it. She’s completely lost it.

  I hear my door creak open.

  It’s my dad. Round and mustached and big. “Tudo bem, Joãozinho?”

  “Everything’s fine, dad.”

  “It’s early.”

  “I’m sorry if I woke you.”

  “I was awake.” Dad looks at my phone. “Nicole?”

  I nod.

  “OK,” he says in a deep voice. “It’ll be OK, Joãzinho.”

  There’s something very disarming about my dad telling me everything will be OK. Something that makes me feel like a little boy, no matter the money I have, the clothes I wear, the business I started, or how many muscles I’ve built up.

  I smile up at him. “Thanks, dad.”

  Dad slides away, his body darkening as the door closes.

  I stare at my phone, the screen off now.

  I think of calling Cat, just to talk, just to say hi, just to try and figure out what the hell just happened with Nicole there. Girls can read other girls.

  If Dani was older, I’d talk to her too.

  I pull Tyler’s details up on my phone, and I delete them.

  Dani’s a good kid.

  And she’s right about being able to read people.

  ~Cat~

  -22-

  I arrive at ten PM, European Time. Frankfurt Airport. I don’t know what it is about this place, but every time I land here it feels like the air itself is heavy.

  Santander is waiting for me, the magazine limo driver. He gives me a bright smile and says, “Nice to see you again, Meeze Cattereen.” He grabs my luggage and shoves it into the trunk.

  He doesn’t bother to open the back door for me, he knows I like driving up front with him. I just can’t get used to this Holier-Than-Thou attitude in the celebrity business. (I still have no idea who Mr. Famous is that I’m supposed to be photographing.)

  Santander reminds me a little of Pat, Johnny’s dad. They’re both extremely round around the belly and both have a big brown mustache. Santander, on the other hand, is a lot shorter. Santander was the shortest person I knew, until I met his wife. “How’s Elena?” I ask.

  “Ah, she is good. But she is still wanting to pay for those fotgrafias you took of us.”

  “The dinner she made me was payment enough.”

  Santander smiles while turning the wheel into the confusing freeway.

  “So do you know who this famous guy is that I’m supposed to be taking pictures of?”

  “Oh, Meeze Cattereen, you know da magazine tell me nutting. I just drive da people from and to da airport. But Mr. Big Shot was driven by somebody else. So I cannot tell you.”

  I get into my hotel room and crash on the couch. I’m exhausted from the flight but not exhausted enough to sleep. I look at my watch, count back six hours. “Five thirty PM,” I mutter to myself.

  A drink would help me sleep. Hell, a drink would help me with a lot tonight. I didn’t wanna drink when Johnny was getting plastered.

  I open up the minibar and see what they have on offer. Beer, vodka, and lots of other dangerous looking little bottles that will probably make me regret this the next morning.

  My mind drifts to Nicole, and to us getting plastered at a honky-tonk and then Nicole driving her knee expertly into some cowboy’s crotch after he tried to put his hands on me.

  No, not drinking tonight.

  Not tonight. After dad died, I promised myself I’d never drink when I was down. So far I’ve managed to keep that promise.

  I unpack my bags, but that’s over quick. A one week trip (possibly two) doesn’t require a lot of luggage. I brought one gown, because there’s always a party after (or during) one of these shoots. But the rest is jeans and t-shirts.

  I do wish I’d brought a sweater. I keep forgetting how fricking cold Germany is, even when it’s close to summer.

  The next morning, Bill comes over with contracts. The usual bits, except for one of them. “Non-Disclosure agreement,” he says. “I had to sign one as well.”

  I start looking over it, and immediately get lost in the legalese.

  “You’re not allowed to talk to anyone about this project once it begins, once you know...his identity.”

  “Christ, who is this guy, an ex-Nazi?”

  Bill raises his perfectly trimmed eyebrows. “I’m not allowed to say.” Bill’s giving me his best Agent Smile.

  “What else?” I turn the pages over.

  “Nothing. Nothing about him. Not where he’s from, not what he’s working on, nothing at all. You’re not allowed to talk about any of it.”

  “I thought he was famous.”

  “He is.”

  “And yet, his photographer can’t even know who he is?”

  Bill swallows. “A hundred thousand dollars. That’s the penalty. Nobody can know until the magazine gets printed. Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “And when will it be print
ed?”

  “Next month.”

  Celebrities. Whatever. It’s not as bad as the clause specifying the number of shots of toes I was supposed to take of one particular diva from France. No names mentioned.

  I sign it.

  Bill’s face glows. “Have you seen the numbers?”

  I shake my head. I don’t worry about money, Alice does. And I don’t care, either.

  Bill turns the page of the contract, shows me the figure I’ll be getting paid.

  OK.

  Wow.

  Uhm.

  “That’s a lot.”

  “We milked him.”

  I cock an eyebrow.

  “Hey, he wanted you, and the finance department got excited.”

  “And no doubt got three times what I’m getting for the shoot.”

  “Well...” Bill shrugs. “When you said you were delayed I might have...spun a tale...or two.”

  “You’re a vampire, Bill.”

  “No, I’m a good agent.”

  “When do we start?”

  “Three days.”

  “Three days? Why am I here so soon?”

  Bill shuffles in his seat.

  “Bill?” I do my best Unimpressed Voice.

  “He, uhm, wants you...fresh...for the shoot. Not jetlagged. And...” He clears his throat. “He asked if you could...dress...well. So we need to go shopping.”

  Suddenly my hand feels cold. “And you decided to tell me this after I signed the contracts.”

  Bill doesn’t answer.

  “You know I can fire you if I want.”

  “He’s no harm, Catherine. A harmless boy from the—” He stops suddenly. “Wow, see? Best not talk about him. A hundred grand is more than I can afford.”

  Me, too. “Please tell me I won’t be alone with him. This guy’s starting to give me the creeps.”

  Bill swallows hard.

  “You’re fucking kidding me.” The contracts are still on the table. I could tear them up right now. I snatch them up and I think I see Bill going green.

  “Relax, Catherine. He wants...private shots. He wants to be caught...in his element, y’know, waking up, doing his thing. He’s a... Well, I can’t tell you that. But he seeks realism. You’ll understand more when you see him. So, yeah, you’ll be alone with him for a few hours of the day.”

  “I want a panic button.”

  Bill laughs.

  “I’m not fucking kidding, Bill. Either that or I tear these up right now.”

  He thinks about it for a bit. “Fine. Fine. I’ll get that for you.”

  Fucking celebrities. Please don’t tell me this guy wants me to take pictures of his toes.

  -23-

  Well, if they want me to look good, and if they’re paying me a fortune to do this shoot, and if I’m getting all my clothes paid for by the this actor / musician / producer / director, I do what any woman would do: I go shopping.

  For three days.

  ~Johnny~

  -24-

  I drove. It took me two days and I was beat when I arrived (and hot and sticky), but I’m glad I’m here. Already I’m feeling better. West Rocks. There are signs saying ‘Voted Best Beach Resort in Florida’s West Coast 3 Years in a Row!’ all over the place.

  The air is muggy, humid, and I’m sweating like a dog. Even though it’s after nine PM.

  I didn’t need to call on Thunder’s friends for a place. I found one on one of those rental sites, two bedrooms, a TV, Netflix. But I doubt I’ll be watching much TV while I’m here.

  I head on over to the beach and stop by the first bar I can find. Tikilicious. No windows. Tables outside, TVs playing sports news. Food being served. A bar.

  I pull up a seat at the bar, look around. Playing the part of a regular ole vacationer.

  I don’t notice the girl behind the bar until her breasts are nearly in my face. They’re big breasts. I mean, gargantuan breasts. And she’s smiling, smiling brightly, with bright blue eyes and black-black hair in a pixie-cut.

  “Hi,” she says. “What can I get you, honey?”

  She licks her lips, missing the lip-ring protruding from the side of it. To match that one, she has a nose-ring, several other rings in her left ear, a choker, and a small tattoo of a heart on her neck. Very small, one of those quick blue-only jobs that takes ten minutes.

  “Something local,” I say. Just a regular ole tourist.

  She grins, does that lip-licking thing again over her extremely red lips.

  She grabs a plastic cup, pulls on the lever and inhales deeply while pouring the drink, thrusting her massive cleavage out.

  She’s dressed in nothing special. A black t-shirt with Tickle-Me-Licious over her breasts, and gray sweatpants. Sweatpants, of all things. Not trying, not trying at all.

  Her belly protrudes a little from under the shirt, and I’m reminded of Cat’s comments to me at the park about big girls. I guess this proves it. Because I find this girl strangely attractive.

  She slides a beer over to me, sticks an orange slice inside it. Leans over. “That, hon, is local.”

  I curl my hand around the plastic glass, take a sip. Strong. Stronger than I expected. The girl is grinning, smiling.

  She’s not slender.

  She’s not dressed up.

  And yet, there’s something about her... “How long you staying?” she says, and I notice a hint of something southern in her accent. I mean, real southern, not Florida.

  “A few days? A week?”

  She looks at her fingernails, painted black, lots of rings on her hands, big silver things. “Alone?”

  “Yeah.”

  She grins more widely.

  I’m reminded of Dani’s comments about girls doing something that gets guys hard.

  I don’t know what this girl’s doing, or if she’s doing anything...

  She turns away, swaying her hips in a way that’s not entirely sensual, and almost a little grotesque, and yet, those massive buns underneath those sweatpants...

  Johnny, get a grip.

  I turn to face the boulevard, and the beach beyond it.

  Chilling.

  Relaxing.

  I finish the beer, and then the black-haired girl is in front of me, another full cup in her hand. Orange slice inside it.

  She hands it over to me. Also strong. Damn. Already, I feel my tongue loosening, as if we’re all friends here, all pals, ready to tell each other our deepest, darkest secrets.

  Before I know it, I’m on my third beer (fourth?), and it goes straight to my head. Is that tequila in there?

  The world is looking happy, pleasant, the moon bright and full over the Gulf.

  I catch the girl looking at me, a finger to her lips, smiling.

  Those tits, Jesus Christ, those fucking tits.

  Am I drunk?

  I blink, feeling a little heavy under the lids. Too heavy. Fuck me, Florida beer is intense...

  I get the vague impression that she’s talking to me, or someone’s talking to me. Not sure. Long drive. Empty stomach. Is this the fifth beer in front of me? Or is it the second? No, wait—one, two—

  A giggle, right by my ear. I find myself laughing as well, not sure why. Was something funny?

  I see the girl again, her breasts mesmerizing, then I don’t see her. Then the beer. Full? Didn’t I just drink this thing?

  More laughs, and maybe she’s sitting next to me, maybe. Is she? Is that a hand on my wrist? Fuck me, must get home.

  “No, no, tell me more!” a girl’s voice says.

  Tell her more? What was I saying?

  I’m thinking of Cat, and I don’t know why. The more I look at this barmaid, the more she reminds me of Cat. OK, they look nothing alike, except for the blue eyes maybe. Beyond that, night and day.

  But I’m reminded of Cat in ways I haven’t thought of her in a long time. And, in fact, the last time I thought of her like this, I was in a bar. In Portugal. Getting drunk.

  And looking at another girl.

  That gir
l’s name was Susana, and we dated for a while. Then there was Marina, who I took in a drunken stupor, and I couldn’t even remember half of it the next day (there was sucking, a lot of sucking, I remember, and giggling, maybe.)

  All of them, all of them reminded me of Cat. Why?

  Cat’s not That Kind Of Girl. She never flirts, she never pushes her tits up to show off her cleavage (the girl in front of me now doesn’t need to), she never wears tights for the sake of wearing them, or miniskirts. She never leans over and brushes her breast against my arm (this chick nearly did, or maybe it was unavoidable due to their size.)

  Cat’s not the I’m Gonna Make You So Hot That You’ll Fuck Me Tonight type.

  She’s the honest type.

  A good type.

  Except in bed.

  Christ. In bed, fuck me. Cat...fucking hell I’ve never been with a woman so sensual, so unbelievably ready. And it’s not because she does some weird shit (man, I think back to some of the shit me and Nic did and, well, it was a little beyond my comfort zone.)

  Truth is, Cat’s the most erotic, sensual, lustful, animalistic girl I’ve ever been in bed with.

  “That’s so cute, Johnny.”

  Huh? Who said that?

  Cat doesn’t put on an act.

  And when she gives herself to you, she gives herself completely.

  That’s why these girls I see at bars remind me of her. They’re trying to be something which Cat is naturally.

  “That’s a fucking romantic story,” someone says. “My God, Johnny, that is so fucking romantic...”

  What?

  The room is swaying, swaying terribly. And it’s been swaying for a while...

  In front of me is a beautiful set of gorgeous blue eyes, lips so red I could kiss them. Cat’s lips. Cat’s... Huh?

  I lean forward...

  “Another one?” the girl asks.

  Fuck, why not? I haven’t been in this good a mood in days.

  “Didj I tchell you I losht mah kid, huh? Didj I? Shit. Shit down. I’m gonna tjell you zhat one.” Swaying. Swaying. Among friends. Feeling so damn good.

  I look down at my hand, try and focus. There’s a shot glass in it, an amber liquid inside. So we’re onto shooters now. Sweet.