by Julian Bloom
Cuando su tía se vio forzado a entrar en un centro de cuidado completo - Incapaz de alimentarse o siquiera hablar comprensiblemente, Reggie fue turbada. Tim, que han perdido a ambos padres, a la enfermedad, pudo ayudarlo a procesarla.
Pero cuando los 6 meses estaba casi terminado, y su arreglo debe terminar, tuvo que ser discutido. Reggie no me gusta ser pagado por ser algo que se considera ahora como una extensión natural del mismo. Era como si el dinero manchado algo precioso. Tim, por su parte, no estaba totalmente seguro de que Reggie se sienten de esa manera - el dinero que parte de su relación nunca haber sido discutido después de que los arreglos se habían finalizado. Así que él estaba intranquilo, no absolutamente seguro de que Reggie sentía por él lo que sentía por Reggie.
Evitaron la discusión necesaria hasta el último momento posible, hasta que de repente una noche mientras yacían en la cama de relajación post-coito, Tim tomó el toro por los cuernos y dijo, "tu sueldo termina este mes".
"Bueno, no quiero seguir con eso de todos modos".
Tim, horrorizado, cana, "Pensé que estábamos en multa justa".
"Por supuesto, estamos. Por eso no quiero ser pagado".
Tim suspiró un enorme suspiro de alivio. "Pero usted necesita el dinero".
"Sí, lo creo. Sería bueno si me tomó otro trabajo en el lado?
"¡No! No sería correcto. ¿Por qué si yo sólo acordó apoyar plenamente como un dependiente. A continuación, si quería irse, podía, y aún así estar seguro".
Reggie fue profundamente conmovido. "Usted realmente hacer eso?".
"Me gustaría! De hecho, conviene a mis propósitos. Hay una multitud de buitres esperando a que yo muera para que pueda obtener mi dinero. No quiero que lo toque. Usted me da la oportunidad de dejar a alguien me importa".
Reggie sólo miró a Tim, y luego comenzó a llorar. Era demasiado. "tú me amas lo suficiente como para hacer eso?".
"Yo".
"Yo no lo merecen".
"Usted! Doy gracias a Dios cada día que he encontrado".
No hubo más palabras que encajen en la ocasión, por lo que abrazó, tratando de expresar sus sentimientos con la calidez de sus abrazos, y luego por la progresión natural por sus besos.
**
Cuando Reggie dijo a Joel, estaba encantado. "Pensé que iba a trabajar, y tenía razón. Estamos aún sólida?".
"como una roca, mi amigo; como una roca".
**
En el último día de los seis meses, se celebra. Fue un momento personal de gratitud que no quieren compartir con nadie ni ser limitada por estar en público. Reggie organizó una cena con idéntico al primero que hubiera compartido seis meses antes. Una diferencia, sin embargo, fue que Reggie no sienten la necesidad de mantener su ingenio sobre él por mantenerse sobrio. Otra fue que no termina con un simple beso casto.
Se retiraron a su dormitorio - Reggie haber dado su algunas semanas antes - y celebrado con extended acto sexual en que hubo mucha ternura y alegría, e incluso algunas risas y alegría. Hubo el ofrecimiento y la aceptación de ambos lados y una conciencia instintiva de los sentimientos de los demás, que creció como su intimidad había crecido. Verdaderamente, Reggie reflejado mientras yacían juntos en paz agotados, acto sexual hace el amor, cuando existe la voluntad para hacerlo.
El final
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Cray
Rock Hard Romance
By: Michele Hart
Prologue
Cray, a jet setting wealthy Rock star and lead singer for “King of the Damned” wants to immortalize his life in a biography.
Edith, after an embarrassing and public break up, has lost her passion for writing. Her twin brother, Eddy, personal assistant to Cray, knows that the Cray biography gig would be just the thing to snap his little sister out of her depression and writer's block. He gets the ball rolling and sets everything in place between Cray and Edith. But things don't go as smoothly as he had envisioned...
Foreword:
He entered the room and was greeted by cheers and lots of friendly slaps on the back. He made his way to where my brother…his personal assistant and I…his biographer were standing.
"Why don’t you come and watch from backstage," he told us.
We followed him to the backstage area. A harried roadie rushed past with a microphone stand. The Rock Star put both his palms on my arms and maneuvered me out of harm's way. His warm touch left my skin sizzling.
The lights on the stage went out. The females in the audience burst out screaming as the band members filed past and took their positions.
"Are you nervous?" I asked him. I was nervous and I wasn't even the one scheduled to perform for thousands of screaming fans.
He smiled as if the thought of him being nervous was just plain silly. "No Iddy, I'm not nervous. It's just another day at the office."
I loved it when he called me Iddy. I looked at him and was struck again by his striking good looks, his flamboyance, his confidence. I’d seen him relaxed, sad, angry, playful. But I’ve never seen him like this…so full of zeal. The air was crackling with his rock star energy.
Before going on stage, he looked at me, smiled, winked and said: "I'll be back."
I smiled, then groaned as I watched him gravitate onto the stage.
“Are you okay?” My ever-concerned brother asked me.
“Yes, for sure”. But I was lying, I was not really okay.
Because I was falling in love with the Rock Star.
Chapter one: Private Jet
Police cars were being used to section off a few blocks around the sleek, ultramodern building where a huge crowd had gathered. Through the crowd, a very long, blood-red limousine snaked its way toward the building. Rows of frenzy-filled fans dressed in various gothic styles – Victorian, cyber, punk, Lolita – chanted his name...
“Cray! Cray! Cray!”
Black-lipped, black eye-lined girls pressed their breasts and necks up against the limousine. The more daring ones flung themselves on the blood-red hood. Groupies screamed with rabid excitement.
The chanting reached fever pitch as the limo’s door slowly opened to reveal Cray. He gracefully climbed out of the limo and surveyed the chaos that was in his honor.
I watched in morbid, surreal fascination as my brother got out next and hustled Cray the rock star through the crowd.
The announcer of Cray's reality TV show informed the viewers that they should tune in next week to watch more of their beloved rock star. I switched off the TV and turned back to the open book before me.
The most important thing that biographers should do is write from the heart. Biographers should write about people that they care deeply about, whether negatively or positively. If they take on biographies about people they could care less about, maybe just for the money or because they were given a good contract, then the readers will not care about the person either.
I sighed dejectedly. I had bought the "how to write someone's biography" book with the hopes that it would give me ideas on how to proceed with the monumental mistake, I mean, task before me. How was I supposed to write from the heart about someone that I did not know existed until just a few days ago? And as for writing about people that I negatively or positively care about, well, I still did not know how I felt about Cray.
The one episode of his reality show that I had watched had left me gaping in horror and confusion. How can one man have such power over thousands of teenage girls and full-grown women? Granted, the said man was good-looking - if you were into the dark, heavy makeup, tattooed, shirtless type. But there were many good-looking superstars who did not cause grown women to display their breasts and throw themselves on the limousine of the man they were crazy for.
It was Beatle mania in black. Black outfits, black makeup, dyed-black hair.
I sighed again. It was like the author of a how-to book was seeing into my head. I had taken this project for the wrong reason. It was not for the money, although the pay was very good.
What - I mean - if I completed this project, I wouldn't have to worry about money for the rest of the year, meaning that I would have 12 worry-free months to concentrate on writing my first novel. I did not take this job because of the contract, although the terms and conditions were excellent. There would be lots of traveling around the world with someone else picking up the tab.
I took this job simply because I had lost a bet.
I love my brother but he can be too caring sometimes. Apparently, he was concerned because I had not left my small apartment ever since my ex-boyfriend humiliated me by breaking up with me on social media. Me? I think, considering the circumstances, my behavior was very normal. One ought to be allowed to withdraw and lick one's wounds in peace and isolation!
The cab came to a stop. I looked up and saw that we had arrived at the airport. Working my lower lip with my teeth, a nervous habit that I had not managed to get rid of, I debated on the wisdom of just making a mad dash back into my safe little apartment. But I knew it would be futile and would only serve to make my brother even more concerned and overprotective.
I briefly closed my eyes, hoping that I would not regret what I was getting myself into.
***
“Come closer. I do not bite. Much.”
His trademark purple eyes twinkled with mischief. His slender hand, with long graceful, gothic-ringed fingers sporting nails painted black, patted the seat next to him, causing his silver bracelets to tinkle enticingly, inviting me to sit down beside him.
I hesitated. I didn’t dare accept his invitation. Because the lead singer of the vampire rock band called “King of the Damned” looked way too dangerous even though he was just reclining on a pile of blood-red velvet and satin cushions. He was dangerous because he made me feel like an awkward, nervous teenager even though I was pushing thirty-six and I was standing, putting him well below my eye level.
“No thanks. I’m fine right here.” I managed to say. My voice was barely a whisper. I knew I was being ridiculous, standing like a foot soldier over him but this whole situation was ridiculous. What was I doing here, in this private jet, with this wealthy and world-famous rock star?
I looked around again, as though to make sure that I was indeed in a very expensive private jet. The interior was like nothing I had seen before. Thick, blood-red carpet covered the floor. On one side of the plane was a wet bar of some sort. On the right, two enormous black leather chairs sat across from a table and two additional chairs. A large flat-screen TV was set into the wall. The entire back of the plane was closed off, with a door barring it. I couldn’t help but gawk at the interior. I clutched my bag close to my person, feeling out of sorts, out of my depth, like a fish out of water, a very small fish in a very big pond.
I looked at the rock star, from his long, thick, jet black curly hair to his body piercings – ears, nose, lower lip, eyebrow - to his various tattoos – a dragon, an eagle, a tiger, geometric patterns, gothic swirls and spirals that disappeared into his lower navel…
He was beautiful.
And he was looking me over too, his purple eyes not missing anything – from my straight shoulder length hair, to my brown eyes, to my average build, clad in my usual jeans and a t-shirt. When he had his fill of me, he made eye contact. And my heart lurched in my chest again.
“You look so much like your brother.”
All I could manage to say was: “Fraternal twins.”
“So what can I do to you?
“Ex-excuse me?”
“For you,” he amended, a wicked gleam in his beautiful purple eyes. “What can I do for you?”
“My brother says you need a writer. I’m a writer.”
“You don’t look like a writer.”
“You don’t look like a Harvard graduate.”
He smiled and my stomach lurched again. “Touché, Edith. I’m impressed. You have done your research.”
“The information wasn’t exactly easy to come by.”
“Well, we don’t exactly want that kind of volatile information to leak out.”
I momentarily forgot my feelings of being out of place, suddenly fascinated by this unique human being.
“Why not? What’s wrong with being a Harvard graduate?”
“Not good for the image.”
“Ah. Bad boys don’t go to college.”
“Indeed.”
“What did you study in college?”
“Economics.”
I gaped in astonishment. He smiled.
“If I were the sensitive type, I would be insulted by your surprise. You have judged the book by the cover.”
And what a beautiful cover it is. The errant thought flitted through my mind before I could stop it. No. I was not going to go there. Especially not with yet another flighty musician. My ex was an up and coming musician and he threw me away as though I was last week’s trash. How much more could this billionaire rock star hurt me? Plenty more!
Besides, we were like oil and water. There was no way someone like him would be attracted to someone like me.
Was there?
No. No! It was time to lay down the rules and to set up some boundaries.
I took a deep breath, swallowed then spat out the reason I came to find myself in this alien situation. “Listen, I’m only here because I lost a bet to my brother. I always keep my word so I will write your biography. That’s all I’m here to do. Write your biography.”
One eyebrow went up, almost reaching the jet-black curls above it. “Did I give you the impression that you were required to do anything else other than write my biography?”
Now I felt like an ass. “Oh no! Not at all!” I quickly clarified lest I offend him. “You have been a total gentleman.”
“A total gentleman,” he quietly murmured, trying not to smile but failing miserably.
“A total gentleman,” I affirmed with a quick nod.
There was a moment of silence that seemed like eons to me. I could almost hear the wheels in his gorgeous head turning. I was sure he could hear my heart beating frantically.
Finally, he spoke.
“I bet you would really like me when I’m not being a gentleman.”
The blood drained from my face as the realization hit me: I was completely, irrevocably attracted to him. I was no different from the frantic females who were flinging themselves on to the hood of his limousine.
“Relax Iddy. Sit down. It’s just a little harmless flirting. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
I sat down on a leather chair, across from him.
“My name is not Iddy.” I don’t know why but I just felt that it was important for him to know that my name was not Iddy.
“I know your name is not Iddy. Your name is Edith. Iddy is what is known as a nickname. You know, the name you give to people you like?”
He suddenly sat up and looked at me intently, as though trying to figure out what was making me tick. I could not look away from that intensity.
Finally, he nodded, as though he had found whatever it was he was looking for.
“I like you Iddy. You’re different. I’m glad we will be spending lots of time together as you write my biography.”
What?! A billionaire rock star likes me and is glad I will be spending a lot of time with him?
Oh yeah. I was in big, big trouble.
Chapter 2: Cray
Her family sat transfixed, gawking at me.
I was sitting in the living room of the home where she grew up, comfortable in the settee which she and her sister had often fought over when they were children. The fact that I already knew such intimate details about her both thrilled and unsettled me. However, I was not at all perturbed by their undisguised staring.
“Is that your real hair?” Her sister – ever blunt - blurted out.
“Bonny!” Iddy gasped, appalled at her younger sister’s rudeness.
I smiled. She was so cute when she was being appalled. And her being appalled made me just want to tease her.
&nbs
p; “How about you ask Iddy if it is my real hair?” I asked, smiling, then winking at Bonny. Bonny giggled. Iddy blushed.
I knew why she was blushing. Because the first time I kissed her she threaded her fingers into my hair and when we both got back up for some air, the first thing she said was:
“It’s real”
“What is?”
“Your hair. It’s real.”
“The hair, I got from my mother’s side of the family. The music, from my father’s side of the family.”
“It’s gorgeous. You’re gorgeous.” Bonny gushed. Iddy looked doubly appalled. I tried not to laugh out loud. She was so cute!
I had gotten quite used to her appalled expression in the month that we had spent together as she interviewed me for my biography. One of the things she had been appalled at was the amount of money I spent on relatively basic things. I had shrugged and told her that being a billionaire comes with certain perks.
“So where did you two meet?” Mommy dearest pressed, scowling at me. I bit back a laugh at the thought of Iddy’s mother seeing me in all my blacker-than-black rock star glory. I had considerably toned down my look. I wasn’t wearing any makeup or nail polish, all my tattoos were covered up, including my sleeve tattoos, thanks to the long-sleeved dress shirt I was wearing, and I wasn’t wearing any earrings or nose rings or eyebrow rings. Yet, she was still not impressed with my all-black look. Tough. Black is my favorite color. Take it or leave it, Mommy.
Iddy was explaining how we met. How I was looking for a biographer and my personal assistant, Iddy’s brother, recommended her.