by Ash Harlow
6
Stone
Having Katrina pushed onto me at CJM last week had pissed me off even more than the request for social media restrictions. Sure, I’d fucked up. Sending the dick pic to my author page instead of the private group was a simple error. I’d thought it was hilarious until the shit storm rained down the following morning.
Friends don’t let friends Facebook pissed...unless they’re my Pussy Posse. Those crazy online friends of mine join in the drinking games until madness ensues. Sarah didn’t know about the private group until I fucked up. The publishers apparently lost their shit completely once a couple of bloggers ran with it.
It wasn’t even my dick, just some random shot I found on the internet.
I discovered there was a core group of my readers who don’t appreciate hard dick popping up on their newsfeed while they’re having their cereal and coffee first thing in the morning, right about two minutes before Facebook shut my page down.
My brand was built around being outrageous because my fans found that to be hot. They wanted in real life what I wrote about in the books. What they didn’t want was some polite, caring guy who posted cat videos and inspirational quotes. For a small moment in their daily lives, they wanted to experience the story. Some stuff was faked. Maybe all of it was. I honestly didn’t know anymore.
Between books, I traveled. Some authors do book signings. I do bar takeovers. I’d put out a message like: LA Thursday, who’s on for shots? The fans would come, and we’d fill up a bar and get hammered, and sometimes, I’d hook up with a honey or two, or maybe more. Occasionally, the hotel room felt crowded.
So I started again from scratch. The new page had more likes by the end of the first day than the old one had. Thank you, angry bloggers. Seemed I’d attracted a new core group who enjoyed watching people like me do it wrong. Sales of my backlist went through the roof, so I had no idea what all the bitching was about.
Except Sarah wanted me to shut the Posse down because she was worried it would affect negotiations with the television company trying to buy the rights to my series. She also figured Katrina would give me some respectability.
I had no desire to rewrite that fucking book. Destroying the manuscript had been an act of self-sabotage.
I was a stubborn fucker when I wanted to be, and I resisted anyone trying to direct my career. Rewriting that story would have been a breeze, but it wouldn’t have been the story I’d set out to write.
Everything had been going fine until the publishers demanded a finish to the Steele Heart series. They were worried readers would tire of the manwhore and the only way to save him was to write him a happy ending with love and babies.
I’d done that until I’d written Lily into the story, then wrote her right out of it again. Leaking that shit to the Posse hadn’t been my coolest move, but there it was, self-sabotage again. Once we’d split, I discovered I didn’t want to publish the story with Lily in it. Once the lawsuit was threatened, I found that choice had been shut down anyway.
Destroying all the copies was the decent thing to do.
It was after two a.m. and I was still in the tower. Poppins had been busy. There were some bland posts on my social media that had created a raft of ‘Stone’s been hacked’ responses from the fans, so she was in trouble. I thought she’d be a pushover, and the way she turned pink if I swore, talked about sex, or caught her looking at me had an alarming effect on me. The women who came on to me were confident, deliberately seductive, or wantonly slutty. Not Poppins, though. One blush from her, and it was obvious why Sarah had picked her as my assistant.
I wasn’t that bothered about my author page, and I’d created a fake profile and made myself admin on the Posse page just in case I was ever locked out. I removed admin access from my proper profile because Katrina would surely notice it and shut that right down. Then I popped in and said goodnight to the pussies, ignoring the full inbox, and logged back out again.
My cell lit up with another text. Twenty-three since midnight, all from Lily’s burner phone. They started out as cute. She missed me. She was sorry. Then she became progressively angry. Why didn’t I call her? Why did I break up with her? I guessed the last few were insults.
I’d done Lily a favor. She’d understand that one day.
I went back to my outline.
The hero in the series was behaving like a sex addict. I had to tone him down to get his ultimate finish. So far, I didn’t have much. I wrote for a couple of minutes.
Pick up hot slutty woman in the club.
Fuck her till she can’t stop crying out your name.
Fall in love.
Shit happens. Maybe she gives lousy head.
Can he live with bad blow jobs?
Probably not.
Break up. More crying. Ugly crying this time, tears.
She goes to blow job school.
Comes back. Blows his mind. Good girl. That dedication is worth a marriage proposal right there.
Epilogue: twins.
Fuck me. Ctrl-A, Del.
I wasn’t blocked, but the self-sabotage button was still switched on. I simply wasn’t enthusiastic. And I’d been obsessed about blow jobs since I’d touched Katrina’s lip and she’d followed my finger with her tongue. Why the hell was that sexy? She wasn’t even my type. She was so wrapped up in her clothes—from her sensible shoes to the blouse buttoned all the way to her neck—that I had no idea what she looked like.
Total bullshit.
When I followed her up the stairs, I had to make two fists to stop myself from aiming a quick slap to the curve of the best ass I’d seen in a long time.
One thing was for sure. I needed to know a lot more about my sweet little nanny.
I fired up my browser, typed in Katrina’s name, and found her immediately. The glasses were a giveaway.
Her social media pages were public, and while I intended to find something to tease her about, instead, I found her life somewhat dreary. Dull, but a perversely compelling read, because within minutes, I’d discovered each of her posts expressed some sort of inner longing. It was like a fucking public bucket list of how I wish and if only. Every month, she posted a photo of her vision board.
Vision board? Just when I thought I knew everything, my straight-laced little assistant comes along and teaches me something.
I imagined my own vision board. I could create one and give it to the Posse. They’d be clubbing each other to be the one to help manifest my dreams.
I returned to Project Poppins. Here was someone who’d never let herself live. Everything posted was a wish, but no posts of achievements. There was a longing there, but for some reason, she’d never been able to set it free.
She thinks she wants an adventure but won’t let herself have one.
On popped the bright white light bulb of inspiration.
I’d teach Katrina how to have adventures. I’d call it research, even if Sarah called me out on it. She’d say it was more like a distraction because I didn’t know what to write. But Sarah would also remember that every crazy idea that came out of my mind had made her twenty percent very fat indeed.
I grabbed a pen and paper and spent the next hour enlarging the vision boards and making notes, reading her posts, and finding all the stuff she yearned for. Apparently, there are eighty-five different kisses every girl should experience. Eighty-five! What the fuck? I started counting and had moved from her mouth by the time I got past twenty. I thought I was good, but I’d have to up my game.
I curated a list of experiences for Katrina, and even though the kissing thing might require its own list, I was determined to make her a participant rather than a spectator in this small life of hers.
No, it wouldn’t be better than sex, but it would be a change from the self-experimentation I was drawn to. An interesting vicarious experience.
When I was done, I turned the notes into a brief list and tucked it into my wallet.
My blank outline called to me. I was enthused again.<
br />
Kitty is a mousy woman...I make myself laugh. Conservative, cautious, hides in the shadows. A virgin.
Huh.
I wondered if Poppins was a virgin. No way. She looked to be in her early twenties. No one made it that far through life while still carrying their cherry in its pretty box.
I worked with renewed focus until five a.m. then headed to bed for a few hours’ sleep before my Nanny turned up to organize my day.
Waking, as usual, found me hard and frustrated. These days, the public perception of Stone Logan didn’t exactly match the personal reality. I lay there, lazily stroking myself. I considered waiting like this until Poppins turned up. Fuck, I couldn’t stop grinning at that idea. Poppins’s first Stone-curated experience. It wasn’t on the list, but the list was a dynamic thing that would evolve and change.
She would enter the house, calling out an efficient greeting. I’d call her through and show her an enthusiastic greeting. I could picture the blush on her cheeks if she caught me like this. Had she ever watched a guy jerk off? Judging by the demure downward cast of her eyes any time she caught sight of my skin, I somehow doubted it.
I hauled my ass out of bed and headed to the bathroom to shower. Poppins would be a lights-off lover. Of that I was certain. I soaped up and considered adding illuminated sex to her list.
When I entered the kitchen, I could see Katrina through the window, sitting on the doorstep, totally focused on whatever it was she had loaded onto her Kindle. I tapped on the glass and waved her inside.
“Poppins, I said you should come right in. I gave you a key, didn’t I?” She was wearing jeans and a bulky sweater that reached her thighs. Hiding again. I aimed to change that.
“I didn’t want to ...you know...in case you were...”
She’d kill me with her pink cheeks. Yesterday, she finished up confident, but this morning, she was back to her hesitant, blushing self.
“In case I was what?” I teased.
She cleared her throat and pushed her glasses up her nose. I recognized it now as her move to tap into that inner strength I planned to unleash. “In case you were entertaining,” she said, looking me square in the eye.
“The only thing you were in danger of seeing this morning was some self-fulfillment,” I explained. “Come on. I need coffee, then we can plan our day.” She’d completely missed my masturbation reference, which I guessed was a good thing.
At her insistence, I taught her how to use the coffee machine and how I liked my coffee. Then she sat herself at a safe distance from me with the kitchen island between us for added protection.
“So, today’s plan would be that you write, and I’ll assist however I can,” she said.
So fucking earnest, and the way she spoke, so fervently, just made my plan even better.
“First, we have something to do.”
Katrina shot me a puzzled look.
I winked at her. “We’re going out for the morning.”
She tapped her coffee cup with a neat, short-trimmed, unpainted fingernail. “You really should write, to be honest.”
“Research, Poppins. Finish your coffee. I’ll be back in a minute.”
When I returned, she was stacking our cups in the dishwasher. She eyed what I carried and frowned.
“You don’t expect me to—”
“Come for a ride with me? Sure I do.” I put my motorcycle helmet on the counter and approached her with the spare. She backed away until she hit the fridge.
“Let’s fit you into this.” I raised the helmet, and she ducked sideways and under my arm, but I followed her to the corner.
“No way, Stone. Motorbikes are dangerous, and you’re nuts. It’s a bad mix.”
“Mixed nuts are my favorite. Have you ever ridden a bike?” I knew the answer to that already.
“No.”
“God, look at your eyes, Poppins. I hadn’t noticed what a pretty green they turn when you’re anxious.” I took one step closer. “And excited. Admit it. You want to do this.”
“I want to live. It’s a strong force that burns within me. Life.”
“And this morning, we’re going to set it free. Give it some oxygen. Fan those flames.”
I held up the leather jacket for her. “Here you go, arms in the sleeves.” She stood rigid as I zipped her up. I pushed the helmet over her head, wiggling it, adjusting the fit. Her fight was brief, but cute. I took a moment, enjoying the peculiar thrill I got from Katrina wearing my helmet. I could think of only one way to improve on the way she looked, but she’d have balked at naked. “Let’s go.”
“My face is squished.”
“So long as you’re breathing, you’re good.”
I took a gentle pace out of town. Behind me, I could feel Katrina doing her best to prevent her thighs touching mine—a slight bump and a quick retreat. She’d tire of that pretty soon, and if she didn’t, a couple of corners at speed would make that monkey-grip instinct kick in. Once over the Tappan Zee Bridge, we headed for the I-87.
“Where are we going?” she shouted.
“Pancakes. Hope you’re hungry.” She would be by the time we got there. There was a great pancake joint in Phoenicia, more than an hour away.
She made a noise, but I couldn’t tell if it was approval, hunger, or dismay. I reached behind me and took hold of a reluctant hand, pulling it around my waist. “Hold on and follow the way I move. Relax and lean with me. Be the bike, Poppins.”
Her other hand sneaked around my waist, and once she felt secure, I opened the throttle. Not too fast for starters. She needed to get used to the feel of the ride. Finally, her knees tucked against my hips, just where they should be, all the tension leaving her.
Half an hour later, we pulled off to a picnic area at the edge of a small river. I helped Katrina take off her helmet, and there was the look I’d been trying to create. She beamed, her face flushed with excitement, eyes bright.
“You’re a natural, Poppins.” I couldn’t tell if she was happy or if it was the roller-coaster fear grin I was getting from her. “How do you like it so far?”
“Terrifying, but fun. Let me take some photos for the fans.” She whipped out her phone. “Sit on the ground over there and lean against the tree trunk. Unzip your jacket. Chew on a piece of grass and look contemplative, or hot and smoldering.”
“Annie Leibovitz had better watch her back.”
“You’ve sort of got this James Dean vibe going on today. The fans will love it.”
I sat against the tree, posed the way she wanted, then hammed it up for a few shots. Had a simple ride on a motorcycle really given Katrina this much confidence? Fuck, I couldn’t wait to tick more experiences off her list. Who knows what I could turn her into? I ran through a few possibilities that involved more bare skin than she was probably willing to show right now. The Poppins Project was turning into just the sort of distraction I loved.
This time, when we set off, she was way more comfortable on the bike, hooking in behind me, her soft body molding against mine, hands gripping my waist. I shuffled back into her and she took the hint, cozying right up. In some ways, it was a shame we both wore leather jackets. In another way, the hampered gratification was working just fine.
Being Tuesday, the cafe wasn’t busy, and we grabbed an outside table, ordering buckwheat buttermilk pancakes filled with berries and bananas, peaches and fresh strawberries. I added a jug of organic maple syrup because I could tell Katrina wanted it, even though she’d passed it over, and a side of bacon. I knew the size of the helpings here. Sure, I’d over-ordered, but I wanted Katrina to taste everything.
I was beginning to see how jaded I’d become, hanging out in the hottest bars and clubs, surrounded by equally jaded women. Katrina was fresh. Not my type, because I sensed her zippered-up nervousness would turn stale pretty quickly. I liked loose women. For now, though, she was turning out to be fun to have around.
7
Katrina
“I scared off my last babysitter when I was thirt
een.” Stone shoveled a forkful of pancake dripping in syrup into his mouth and chewed, watching me.
Everything with him was bait. If I ignored him, he pushed, and when I jumped in and reacted, he usually embarrassed me. Forty-one days to deadline. I hoped we’d both make it.
“I’m not your babysitter.”
He swallowed like a seagull. I could actually see the lump in his throat.
“Poppins, you’re only here for one thing.”
“The book,” I said hastily.
“Exactly.”
I put my fork down and leaned my forearms on the table. “Go ahead, then. Tell me what you did to the last babysitter so that I can prepare myself.”
He sat back, stretching his arms above his head. “My parents are a fucking mess. They didn’t neglect me, not financially. But emotionally, neither of them were equipped to bring up a child. Shit, neither of them were equipped to be adults. They fought constantly, elegantly, with big, sharp samurai words, oblivious to the fact I was even there. And then, after fighting, they’d head off to their room, their private part of the house, to make up. Or they’d take a short-break vacation. I had a lot of sitters.”
Stone drained his juice glass and peered into it. “Diluted with tequila, that would have been excellent,” he muttered, putting the glass to one side.
“That sounds awful...the tequila idea and your childhood.”
“It was fine. It was all I knew. I soon learned I could behave like a completely obnoxious little shit, and nobody cared. I had to be truly awful to even be noticed. I do love to be noticed, Poppins.”
“It’s easy to see why.”
“So, back to my last sitter. Ms. Coddington, professional spinster. I thought she was ancient, but she was probably only in her sixties. She used to wear these terrible skirts with matching jackets...they were suits, I guess. The material was thick with the harsh texture of upholstery fabric. They smelled terrible, as if mice nested in them. Beneath them, she’d wear these blouses that were varying shades of a pink color that had died. All dusty and dull. Dense caramel colored stockings that would take a weapon of mass destruction to break through. Anyway, The Cod turns up at the house, and I walk out of the bathroom naked, declaring it’s national nude day and refusing to clothe myself. I was thirteen. I thought it was hilarious. She pointed at my dick. ‘Cover that stupid thing up’, she said. When I refused, Cod informed me she’d been more impressed by the bodies at her side-gig, nursing geriatrics. Then she left the house. I had to fix my own lunch, which was about the only bad consequence I could see from what I’d done.”