by Emily Snow
So you gonna kiss and fly? ;)
Nothing. Complete fucking radio silence. Sitting in LA traffic for the next hour with nothing to do but wonder why she isn’t responding is making me feel like I’m losing my mind. It’s a good thing I’m not driving or I’d be hell on wheels right now.
By the time we arrive and I still haven’t heard anything, I’m beginning to question if it was just me that felt something. I’m also starting to feel like a damn girl. Time to put my big boy underwear back on.
“Cal, the boys going out tonight?” I ask as we climb out of the car. Man, I missed this Escalade.
“You know they are. Why?” he asks, looking at me curiously. “I thought you were stayin’ in?”
“Changed my mind. Give me fifteen, will ya, and then mind if we roll out?”
“Nah, Ace, I don’t mind,” he says, but I get the feeling that for whatever reason, he does.
“’Aight,” I say, “see ya in a few.” I head up to my suite and I’m not in the room for two minutes before my phone buzzes, alerting me to a message.
Sorry about that. You’d have thought the building was on fire as quick as my mom got me out of there.
Figured. Good to know she wasn’t avoiding me. Unfortunately, the urge to see her again just multiplied.
Me: What ya up to?
Taryn: Early to bed, early to rise….
Me: I thought I was filming tomorrow?
Taryn: You are. I’ve got appointments lined up and a recording session for a new song.
Shit—I hope to hell it’s not another collaboration. The thought of her and some fucker in a cramped recording studio makes my skin crawl. And forget about her shooting a video. My fingers type out a text and send it while brain is still trying to figure out whose ass I need to kick.
Me: Wanna get together afterward?
Did I just ask her out on a date? I rub my palms together as I await her response.
Taryn: Sure, whatdya have in mind?
I have no clue, just as long as she’s there. What a fucking pussy I’ve become.
Me: I’ll text tomorrow with the details but keep the evening free, ok?
Taryn: Sounds good. See ya tomorrow.
Me: Yup. Nite, lil’ lady.
Suddenly, going out with the guys tonight loses its appeal. I send a message to Cal, letting him know that I changed my mind—again.
Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica is a little on the touristy side, but it’s also the perfect place to get lost in a crowd. Not to mention, the musicians and performers lining the streets on Saturday nights are known throughout LA. I’ve always wanted to go and when Taryn said she’d never been either, that sealed the deal.
As bad as I wanted to be the guy to pick her up for our date, I just couldn’t. No way would we have made it out together without causing a scene. She said she’d wear a disguise and have her driver drop her off, not far from where we’ll be eating. I arranged to meet her on a specific street corner, hating that we had to start off the night looking like I was picking up some chick for her tricks.
I laugh out loud when I actually lay eyes on her because that really is what it looks like. Standing on the corner of Wilshire Blvd. and 3rd Street wearing a hot pink wig that would make Nikki Minaj proud, my little country girl is wearing a short-ass skirt, some funky-ass tights, a pair of high-ass heels, and a sequined shirt that hangs off one of her shoulders. Along with her outlandish outfit, the sunglasses hiding her eyes ensure that no one…and I mean, no one…would guess that that’s Taryn Starr, the darling of country music. I sure as hell wouldn’t have.
Even through the shades, I can see her striking hazel eyes staring at mine. She bites her lower lip and I’m instantly reminded of doing the very same thing just yesterday. As much as I want to take that video shoot one step further, right here and right now—tourists be damned—I stride toward her as slowly as I can, take her hand, and kiss her chastely on the cheek. If there’s an award for exhibiting control under impossible circumstances, I just took home the fucking trophy.
I lead her along the main street, taking in the sights and sounds, enjoying the perfect California weather. After passing by a number of shops, which thankfully Taryn has as little interest as I do in checking out, we come across one street performer who outshines the rest. I probably would have kept on walking but Taryn tugs on my arm, indicating she wants to stop.
The thin but relatively good-looking guy standing in front of us is spitting rhymes with so much passion and anger that I’m even taken aback. Instead of sucking up to the ladies, who I’m certain are responsible for most of the tips the musicians receive, he glares at them, and I instantly know there’s a story behind the vitriolic words he’s spewing. Dude better figure out how to rein that shit in or he’s going to be digging through trash cans for his food here pretty soon.
The thing about it is, the guy can rap like there’s no tomorrow, and I know it’s an original because I’ve damn sure never heard anything like it before. I can’t even imagine what he could do with the proper guidance and a team behind him.
Without thinking, I pull out my wallet and locate one of the cards that Jay gave me years ago, certain that I’ve never used them before. Never needed them—not when everyone knows who I am. But in an effort to go unrecognized, I’m not exactly dressed the way I normally am today. Guess it’s working because the guy hasn’t given me a second glance. He’s too busy giving hostile looks to every woman within a half-mile radius.
When he finishes rapping and grabs a bottle of water, I squeeze Taryn’s hand and release it before approaching the guy. After checking to see that no one in the vicinity is looking, I push my sunglasses on top of my head. His eyes widen in immediate recognition. That’s right, motherfucker.
“What’s your name, man?” I ask, leaning in toward him.
“Eli,” he says, but it comes out almost as a question.
“Two pieces of advice, Eli. One—quit fucking glaring at the ladies. They’re the ones who might buy your shit someday. And two—you’ve got talent, kid, and if you decide you want to lose the big-ass chip on your shoulder, give me a call,” I tell him and then turn right back around and head back to where I left Taryn standing.
Taking her arm, I lead her in the direction we were previously heading and say, “So…I didn’t know what kind of food you liked, and this place is a mix of Mexican and Asian. One of those fusion places. Figured you might like at least one of them.”
“Mexican and Asian? Wow, that’s quite a combination,” she says, smiling at me as if she knows something I don’t. I can tell she wants to ask me about the brief conversation I just had, but I’m glad she doesn’t. The guy will either ask for help or he won’t, but either way, he’s gotta get over whatever has him down or he’ll never move up.
“I know, right?” I say, smiling in return. “Well, if it sucks we can just go somewhere else.”
“No, I’m sure it’ll be great. It’s just nice to get out and go somewhere without it being a huge production. Speaking of which, how’d you ditch the security detail?”
“Cal and I have an understanding. Sometimes I just need to get away and he respects that,” I tell her. She nods her head and there’s no doubt in my mind she knows exactly how that feels.
Speaking of Cal, I see the restaurant up ahead and try to think like he would for a second. “Peaches, why don’t you go on up ahead and get seated and I’ll follow behind in a few minutes. Walking through the restaurant together might gain us a little more attention than we need. Does that sound good?”
“Yup, sounds like a plan,” she says. “I’ll see you in there.” I point out Jenga and let her know the reservation is under ’Manning.’ She cocks an eyebrow and then walks away, leaving me to watch her until she enters the restaurant. Damn, her legs and ass are the reasons mini-skirts were made.
Just before I’m about to head that way, I see a kid, no more than sixteen, selling a basketful of single-stem roses. Even though I want to buy the
whole damn thing, I can’t risk the interest that might draw so I pick out one instead and give the guy a twenty, telling him to keep the change. I’d give him more than that but then the pimply-faced punk would probably sell me out to the paps, and I really don’t want them around tonight.
When I arrive at the table, I see Taryn frowning at her phone, texting furiously. I place the rose in front of her and she looks up, her face instantly transformed. Man, I love it when I can put that smile on her face, and I’d sure as hell like to kick whoever’s ass it was who made her unhappy in the first place.
I sit down in my seat and thank the hostess, who inspects me a little closer than I’d like before she heads back toward the stairs. I purposely made the reservations for the outdoor patio while the sun’s still out, so it wouldn’t seem strange for us to keep our sunglasses on. But considering I wear shades in all my videos and most promotional shots, I probably don’t look that much different than normal. I was hoping the lack of security and my toned-down wardrobe would throw people off.
“This place looks fantastic,” Taryn says, putting her phone away in her bag. Good, there’s nothing I hate more than people who are attached to their fucking cell phones. “You picked a great table too—perfect for people-watching.” I’ll have to admit, I did pick a great spot. From our table for two, we can look out over the Promenade as the crowd crawls by below us.
“People-watching, huh?” I muse.
“Yeah, it’s nice to turn the tables and be the one who watches everybody else for once. Don’t you ever feel like you’re in a jar, put up on a pedestal for the whole world to see and look at?”
“Oh, I hear ya. And worst of all, you’re all by yourself in that jar, and you feel like you’re just waiting for the pedestal to get knocked out from under you, and then you know that about a half-second later, the jar will fall and break.” Where the hell did that come from? She looks at me curiously but before she can respond our waiter arrives with the menus.
A quick glance at the offerings tells me this is not the Tex-Mex I’m used to. Well, shit—now I have no clue what to order…not that she needs to know that. I look up to see Rafael eyeing my date, not with curiosity but with desire. Even in her disguise, Taryn is a knockout. Well, not while I’m fucking sitting here.
“Hey, señor,” I say, being a dick but not really caring, especially since I got the guy’s attention. The look he gives me is priceless. “Could you get my girl here one of your mango mojitos? And I’ll take a Corona with a lime,” I say, handing him the unopened drink menus. Yeah fucker, you’re dismissed.
He looks back at Taryn once more for confirmation but she’s looking at me, so he walks away. “And what makes you think I want a mango mojito, Mr. Alpha-Male Manning?” she asks with a smirk. So she likes me being bossy, huh? Good to know.
I hate the fact that I don’t know something as simple as what she likes to drink so I bullshit her instead. “Well, since they are famous for being super sweet, I just figured that would be the perfect drink for you.”
She shakes her finger at me, “First you’re trying to get me drunk, and now you’re buttering me up. What am I going to do with you?”
Oh, I can think of a lot of things. “Do you really want me to answer that?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow.
“Actually, forget I asked,” she says with a smile, but the flush on her cheeks is almost the same color as the wig she’s wearing. Fucking hot. “I have a better question anyway…is Manning your last name? I was beginning to think that Trace was the only name you have.”
“Actually, Trace is just a nickname. And even that gets shortened to Ace by my boys,” I tell her.
“So what’s your real name?” she asks, not attempting to hide her interest. And for once, I don’t mind saying because I know she won’t go blabbing about me to whoever asks.
“Aster Manning,” I say.
“Really? How did you get Trace from that?”
“Aster Manning, the third,” I reply. When she scrunches her nose in confusion, I explain, “You know how in Spanish, the word ‘tres’ means three? Well, that’s where they got Trace.”
“But you’re not Hispanic…are you?” she asks, looking thoroughly perplexed—it’s so damn cute.
“Do I look Hispanic, señorita?” I ask with a playful smile.
“No, but I’ve never seen someone with dark skin and blue eyes either.”
“Yeah, apparently that’s kind of an anomaly. Lucky me,” I say sarcastically. I’ve been teased mercilessly my whole life for my blue eyes, even more so than for my lighter-than-most black skin. My mom always said they were just jealous, because I had something different that they could never have. Then again, I think mothers are required by law to say shit like that.
“No, lucky me,” she mutters. I give her a questioning look and the flush reappears as she adds, “I get to look at them.”
Thankfully, our waiter drops off our drinks right then because I’m not sure how to respond. Well, that’s a first. While squeezing my lime into my beer, I watch as Taryn daintily—and really, there’s no other word for it—takes a sip of her mojito. Her eyes close and I hear a soft moan of pleasure. Ah shit, if a drink can make her sound like that, I can only imagine the sounds she’d make if I was pumping inside of her. Back to the menu, Trace.
There are a whole lot of things I see listed that I don’t know what the hell they are. I hate deferring to the waiter and his recommendations though; it’s like admitting I don’t know shit about what I’m doing. The smirk on his face as he walks up tells me that he’s confident I don’t know shit either. “We’re going to share…” I start, but before I can finish, the fucker states, “Oh, sharing plates isn’t allowed. We’d have to charge you extra if you want to do that.”
I look at Taryn, who is trying not to laugh, and then I stare back at Rafael before saying, “If you let me finish, you would know that we’re going to share about four different dishes. Gives my girl here a chance to try everything, ya know?” He nods and I’m happy to see I shut his superior-sounding mouth. I point out two dishes of each type of cuisine, close the menu, and then taking Taryn’s from her, I hand both to the waiter so he can get the hell out of here.
She and I make small talk about how each of our tours has been going while we wait on the food. We’ve both been visiting half a dozen cities or so per week and neither of us can easily recall where all we’ve been. We hardly notice when the food is being dropped off because we’re too engrossed in our conversation.
The dishes I ordered are a hit, and I’m happy to see Taryn puts away a healthy amount of food. I love it when a girl eats and I was afraid she’d eat two bites and leave the rest for me. When the next mojito arrives, it reminds me once again that I don’t know what she would have ordered, which in turn reminds me that there’s still more I want to know more about her, both big and little. Taryn’s not completely closed off, but she’s not forthcoming with information about herself either. I ask about a few of her ‘favorites’, finding out that blue is her favorite color, horses are her favorite animal, and Duck Dynasty is her favorite TV show.
“Favorite dessert?” I ask.
“Oreos,” she says without pause, and I try to stop from scowling. I’ve hated Oreos since the first day someone called me that name when I was a kid.
“Really?” I ask. “Out of all the desserts in the world, you pick Oreos?”
She nods her head. “Yup, I’ve loved them since before I could remember. My mom wasn’t exactly the baking type, as you can probably imagine, and didn’t allow a lot of sweets in the house. Heaven forbid I gain a pound or two when I was twelve,” she retorts and my heart hurts just hearing her say it. “But every once in a while, my dad would sneak a package of Oreos he bought at a convenience store and give them to me. I’d hide them in a drawer and eat just one or two in a sitting, wanting to make them last as long as possible.”
What she says reminds me of the way I hoarded and rationed food when living with my uncle. Althou
gh it was for an entirely different reason, the rationale was the same—when you don’t know if or when you’ll have something again, you respect it a great deal more.
Trying to lighten up the conversation a bit, I joke, “I’ll bet you dipped them in milk just like in the commercial, didn’t you?”
“Oh no,” she says and shudders, “then the chocolate part would get all soggy. I always unscrewed the chocolate top to get to the yummy frosting, and then I would lick every last bit of the white part off before eating each of the round chocolate cookies whole.”
And just like that, not only is my dick hard, but I am over my long-standing aversion to Oreo cookies. “How about you, what’s your favorite dessert?” she asks.
Without thinking, I blurt out, “Bluebell.”
“Bluebell?” she asks, arching her eyebrow. “As in the ice cream from Texas?”
Damn, I should have thought that answer through before I said it. Thinking quickly, I answer, “Hell yeah, that shit is good. Had it when I was there for a concert one time.”
My face must be giving something away because she still looks skeptical when she says, “I wasn’t questioning where you had it. I’ve actually heard that they sell it in quite a few states now. I just didn’t know if we were talking about the same Bluebell.”
“No one could copy that ice cream. It’s one of a kind, that’s for sure,” I say.
“So what’s your favorite flavor?” she asks.
“Oh, that’s easy,” I answer, “It’s one that nobody else could make if they tried. ‘Dos Amigos’ is vanilla and chocolate with some—“
“Cinnamon flavor,” she finishes for me, “and made with real Mexican vanilla. I love it too…or at least I used to. They haven’t made that one for awhile.” Shit. She stares at me for a second but then puts on a smile—although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes—and asks, “You sure you’re not Hispanic?”