Claiming Johnny: A New-Adult Novel

by Dunning, Rachel

  But all things come to an end.

  Some things end better than others.

  ~Cat~

  -28-

  Boredom is a bitch, and by the third day I’m ready to chew my fingers off waiting for Mr. Special Needs.

  We head on over to a fancy-shmancy hotel in Frankfurt where we’ll be meeting the illustrious Mr. I Don’t Know Who. We walk in the lobby, my camera around my neck. By now, I don’t really give a shit who he is. By now, all I wanna do is take his stinking photos and get back home to my life.

  It’s pretty obvious where Mr. Cool is sitting. I don’t see him, but I see his entourage. Seven or eight beautiful women, all extremely tanned with legs that reach up to the top of Mount Everest. His back is to us, a baseball cap on his head, backwards. It says DIRECTOR on it. One of the girls has her arm around him, and she looks at me with a smile that makes it seem I’m being invited to an orgy.

  We might as well be sitting at a pool in bikinis judging by the amount of skin these chicks are showing.

  There are other people there, too. All slightly dark skinned. South American, I figure. I only knew one guy with this look on him. I—

  No.

  My legs start to tremble.

  As we get closer, marching the walk of death, I hear them speaking...Portuguese. Brazilian Portuguese.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  I’m dressed in an elegant pencil dress, too elegant, and black tights.

  The men at the couches look up at me, smile. One of them has scars on his face, a mustache.

  The DIRECTOR still has his back to me. A hush appears in his crowd. The girls start to look at me with jealousy in their eyes, a threat.

  And then I see it. I see what I expected to see. The ink. The tattoos. Razorwire around the wrists, a knife cutting into a butterfly. No no no no.

  I try and stop walking, try and turn, but Bill, ever smiling, ever the agent, grabs my arm and tugs me forward. “You told me he was European,” I whisper.

  “I said no such thing.”

  “Then why the fuck are we in Germany?”

  It’s too late.

  The DIRECTOR stands.

  Turns.

  Faces me.

  He smiles brightly, with black eyes, and two thin scars going up the left side of his face, just reaching the high cheekbone. His face is unshaven, his skin tanned.

  And underneath his shirt, there’ll be a big tattoo of flames.

  My legs turn to water.

  “Catherine,” Bill says. “This is Tiago Espada, Tiago...The Sword, as they call him in showbiz. Biggest name in the documentary scene out of Brazil.”

  Tiago extends a hand toward me, smiles a deadly smile. “Nice to meet you...Cat.”

  -29-

  I struggle to catch the rest of the conversation. Tiago—my ex-boyfriend Tiago who ripped my heart apart by having his cock sucked by Blondie Simone when he got tired of me—chats with Bill. Some of the Amazonian blonds and brunettes giggle. A few guys behind him say other things. Maybe one of them is looking at me, maybe, maybe, I don’t know.

  Grinning, Tiago is grinning and smiling at me...

  ...and I’m dressed to impress. Because...that was part of the contract.

  My hands are shaking. I can’t make a scene. Can’t. This is Tiago’s sordid game. Clearly no one here knows we’ve been together.

  And I won’t make a scene. I won’t.

  One of the blonds looks over at me, a long fingernail pressing against her bottom lip. She checks me out from bottom to top.

  And then, just like that, they’re ready to leave. Tiago’s crew stands. One guy shakes his hand, grins at me. Another pats Tiago—the DIRECTOR—on the back. A girl runs her long fingers around his shoulder, scowls at me.

  Bill says something. Something. I don’t know what. I don’t.

  And now Tiago and I are alone. Alone in this lobby. And Tiago is smiling, smiling his deadly, sexy, bastard smile.

  There’s only one set of words that comes to me. One. “You fucking bastard.”

  “Nice to see you too, Cat.”

  -30-

  “You can put your camera away, Cat—”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “I can call you whatever I want. You’re under contract to spend two weeks with me.”

  “You’re slime.”

  “Actually, I’m quite a gentleman, according to the press.”

  “You’re a prick.”

  Tiago shakes his head slowly, but there’s no remorse in his look. “As I was saying, you can put your camera away. You heard Bill, we’re supposed to spend a few days together, so you can get to know me and ‘capture me’ in my most natural form.”

  “Why don’t you just get one of those blonds to suck your cock and I’ll take a shot of that? I mean, that is who you are, isn’t it?”

  “It’s an idea, although, I don’t think the magazine would want that on their front cover.”

  The contract. That damned contract. “So this is the only way you can spend time with me, through trickery.”

  “Yes.”

  I shake my head. Airtight. Can’t get out of it. “I’m not doing this,” I say. I don’t care about my career. This isn’t worth it.

  I spin.

  “Cat, please.”

  I keep walking.

  “Cat, please!”

  And then Tiago’s next to me, the grin wiped off his face. “Please,” he begs. “It’s not as you think.”

  I’m still walking, storming off as fast as this damned pencil skirt will let me. Tiago is struggling to keep up. “OK, OK, I won’t hold you to the contract.” We get outside. A gust of wind throws my hair in my face. “I won’t. But Cat, listen.” He grabs my wrist. “I asked for you because you’re the best. And...” He looks out over the street. “I asked for you because...” He shakes his head. “Damn it. Because you...know me, OK? I was serious when I said I want you to capture me as I am. I... I don’t want some stupid photographer to take shots of me to make me look pretty, OK? I want... I want someone to capture my soul, Cat.”

  Artistes. “Your...soul,” I mock.

  “Yes.”

  I can’t help the twitch on my lips. “Your soul,” I repeat.

  “Yes, my soul. You know me, Cat. You know my history, my past, my...” He looks at his feet. “My weaknesses, OK? I’m not asking to be put up on a pedestal. I’m not like that. I want reality, OK? I make documentaries, not Hollywood flicks. I’m not into that.”

  You know what the worst part is? The fucker actually sounds sincere.

  I shake my head. “I’m not spending time with you. I’m here to take photographs, and that’s it.”

  “I’ve changed, Cat—”

  “Goddamnit, don’t call me that!”

  Tiago’s eyes lower to the ground. “OK, OK, I won’t. It’s just...” He sighs. “I won’t, OK? It’s...an old habit. I... Catherine, I’ve changed.” He looks up at me with pleading black eyes. “I’ve changed, OK? I want you to decide the kinds of photos to take of me. You. I want your art to come through, not mine. If you think I’m a conniving liar, then I want your photos to say that. If you think I’m a spiteful womanizer, take those shots. But I have to ask you to put our past aside, and spend a few days with me, and then we start the photos. I asked for you because you are the best, Cat...Catherine. I asked for you...because I trust you’ll do an artistic job, and not a glamorous one.

  “I am yours. Completely yours. And if, artistically, you feel I should be portrayed as scum, you have carte blanche to do that.

  “That’s in the contract, too.”

  The contract. Fucking hell, that’s the last time I take Bill’s word for what’s inside one.

  “And the clothes?” I say, looking down at my pencil skirt, my heels.

  Tiago grins. “I...” He takes his DIRECTOR cap off, runs a hand through his short, curly hair. “OK, fine, the clothes... My bad.”

  “You’re such a fucking prick, Tiago.”
/>
  “You’ve said that.”

  “I meant it.”

  “The clothes...” His dark eyes rake my body up and down, and I’m reminded of when those eyes were so close to mine, his hands around my back...telling me he loves me.

  And then I’m reminded of Simone, the suction sounds, the “Oh, yeah, oh, yeah” from Tiago’s mouth. And that goddamned heart-with-an-arrow tattoo staring at me from just above her butt as she devoured him mercilessly. Sucked him like a porn-star, the actress and her DIRECTOR.

  “The clothes,” he says. “That was me...” His cheeks go red. “That was me...being a prick. And...I’m sorry.”

  “So far, the photo shoot I’m planning for you goes something like this: Girl on the top of a building, ready to fall off, and you pushing her.”

  He scratches his head. “That might not look so good.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Three days, Cat...Catherine. Three days. Please. Get to know what I’m like now. And then, if you still want to shoot that shot, I’m all yours.”

  “The magazine won’t agree to something like that.”

  Tiago grins mischievously. “You’re not the only one who signed a contract, Cat. I mean Catherine. Sorry, old habits. The magazine will print what I want them to print...within reason. I mean, no naked shots, of course.”

  “So you clearly have a big-shot lawyer now that you’ve...what? I don’t even know what you’ve directed.”

  “A documentary.”

  “Of course. About what?”

  Tiago’s face changes completely. Gone is the cocky, arrogant, I’m-The-Man look from before. Replaced by something darker. “Women,” he says. “Women in the favelas, in the slums.” He looks up at me. “And the men who cheat on them.”

  “Uh-huh. Why doesn’t that sound like a big hit documentary to me?”

  “Because I left something out.”

  “What?”

  He clears his throat. “It’s about women in the favelas, the men who cheat on them...and how those women took revenge.”

  There must be more. I stare at him, waiting for it.

  “It’s...pretty rough,” he says. “I mean—it’s rough. It’s hard-hitting. I never realized...” He looks away. “I never realized how dangerous it is to cheat on someone who loves you.”

  “Dangerous.”

  “That’s first on today’s schedule,” he says. “You’re going to watch my documentary. I must warn you—it’s graphic.”

  “Graphic?”

  He grabs my elbow gently. “Come,” he says, “we’ve rented the conference room upstairs.” Then he stops, lets go of my elbow. “If...if...you’d like to.”

  “I want a new contract,” I say.

  “Done.”

  “I want to be able to pull out anytime I choose, anytime you piss me off.”

  “Done.”

  “I want it before we start.”

  “Done.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “You’ll have to run it through your lawyers.”

  Tiago scratches his head. “I, uhm... I...imagined...you might be upset. So I took care of all possible avenues. The contract is inside. I’m sure you’ll want to read it.”

  “Thoroughly,” I say.

  “Take all the time you need.”

  -31-

  But it doesn’t take that long. The contract is simple. It nullifies the previous contract. No clauses about what I should wear or spending time with him. It gives me free rein.

  Except for one thing. I can’t reveal his identity to anyone not working on the project. Not his identity, where he’s from, the fact that he is a DIRECTOR...

  “Why?” I ask him.

  He shrugs.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Tiago. Everything you do has a master plan behind it.”

  He inhales deeply.

  “Tell me, or I walk out the door.” The new contract isn’t signed yet, so I can’t walk out the door yet. Not if I don’t want to be liable for a hundred grand penalty.

  But Tiago seems more amenable right now, so I’m using the upper hand while I still have it.

  “Johnny,” he says bluntly. “I don’t want you telling Johnny.”

  I do my best to suppress a grin. “You feel threatened by him.”

  Tiago shifts in his seat.

  And then my grin appears, full-blown. “Men,” I say, doing my best not to crack out laughing. “I’ll sign the damn contract.”

  Tiago calls in someone to sign as witness, one of the men hanging out with him earlier.

  I sign.

  Tiago signs.

  The witness signs.

  Tiago seems amused, or maybe I’m imagining it. “Obrigado,” he says to the witness.

  Then Tiago swivels his chair, faces the projector against the wall.

  “You ready?” he says.

  He flicks the projector on. Flashes of blood and mutilations and dead bodies appear on the screen. It’s a horror movie. Great.

  And then the title, dripping in blood.

  The title is INFIDELIDADE.

  ~Johnny~

  -32-

  I decide to head out to the library. West Rocks has shit-all else to do except run to the beach or get plastered at a bar.

  Not my thing.

  But especially not now.

  The time away is good.

  The scenery is, as they say in California, ‘to die for.’

  There’s not even a movie theater around here, not without jumping in the car and driving a few miles. I’m sick of driving.

  The library is unbelievably cool. They must have the best air conditioning in the whole state.

  Up on the third floor, there are couches facing the bay, the causeway on the left, a park below.

  I run through the bookshelves, not sure what to check out. I’ve never been much of a reader. The fiction section bores me quickly, so I head on over to the non-fiction section, check out the business books. BE A BILLIONAIRE IN SIX DAYS. Skip it. NO PLAY, NO WORK. I check out the blurb on the back. How to make money while you sleep, without lifting a finger.

  Nah. Skip it. I know how to make money. I do make money, and it’s quite simple. You find out what people want, you work your ass off, and then you deliver it.

  Pat Abreu taught me that.

  I move on to the relationship advice section, nothing else to do. EXTRA-CURRICULAR. Blurb: Four true stories of men and women who learned to love each other again through extra-marital affairs...with old high school flames.

  It goes on to mention the psychology of it all, how the brain is not yet formed and how the cerebral links with the id and the ego to form a clump of bullshit or some such crap...

  I think I know now how Cat felt when she was watching that horror movie.

  THE VAMPIRIC TENDENCIES OF HUMAN LOVE-AFFAIRS. Blurb: How the sharing of blood can awaken primal desires of lust—

  Skip!

  TWO FOR THE PRICE OF NONE. Blurb: The science of extra-marital affairs and evidence of how they bring out the spark in a relationship, and how they can make it last.

  They should call this the comedy section.

  I’m smiling too widely. This is a good shelf. I might spend the rest of the week here for comic relief.

  FAX ME SIDEWAYS. Blurb: Can office flings lead to true love?

  BANG BANG THANK YOU MA’AM. Blurb: The psychology of violence in a relationship, and how violence might be the only true expression of love. Twelve case studies of abusive relationships and how they have been scientifically proven to be the longer-lasting—

  Urgh. Not funny.

  BANG BANG THANK YOU SIR. Blurb: Sequel to the New York Times bestselling book on love and relationships, and the true source of lustful desires inside our brains.

  I don’t think lust or love comes from the brain, I think it comes from somewhere else, somewhere uniquely human, but clearly I’m in the minority. Clearly I’m uncool by today’s standards.

  SCORE. Blurb: How to make any woman fall in lust with you, and how to let he
r down easy when it’s over.

  “Looking for some tips?”

  I turn to look at the source of the voice next to me.

  The source is grinning widely, holding a bunch of magazines under her left arm, pressed up against the masterpiece of her breasts.

  “Vanessa.”

  “You remember.”

  “I, uhm...” I put the book back. “I found the comedy section.”

  She looks confused.

  “Never mind,” I say. “Are you following me?”

  “Pfft. As if. I could ask the same thing of you. What’s a guy on vacation doing in a library?”

  Getting away from girls hitting on me. Clearing my head. “I heard there was a nice view from the third floor.”

  She presses the magazines to her chest, looks up at the Relationship Advice section.

  “It’s not what you think,” I say.

  “No, no, of course it isn’t. So, uhm...” She blinks a few times like something out of a Golden Age of Hollywood flick. “See you around.”

  She takes a step back, stops. Looks up at the relationship section again. Shifts the magazines up.

  She pulls out a book from the shelf, hands it to me.

  Then she smiles, blushes, and swirls away, big buns swaying in a way that I’m not entirely certain is natural, but indeed very practiced.

  I look at the book.

  REBOUND. Blurb: Companion book to the bestselling SCORE. Learn the mysteries to getting a girl back by making her jealous through a REBOUND shot of sleeping with someone else. Works on ex-wives and girlfriends alike.

  Someone shoot me.

  -33-

  I settle on a magazine myself, Sports Illustrated. I decide to sit on a table in the back, away from Vanessa. She’s on one of the couches facing the spectacular view.

  I don’t wanna give her the wrong idea.

  I’m minding my own business when six or seven magazines (Us Weekly, OK!, Star, People) hit the table with a thud.

  Vanessa is next to me, looking, for the first time, a little unsure of herself.

  She folds her arms, doesn’t look me in the eyes. “Did you uhm,” she whispers, “mean what you said? Y’know, that whole You’d Get Together With Me Even If You Weren’t Drunk thing.”