“Mind if I draw up some ideas for a more postmodern twist on her?”
Zach says he’d love that. I ask where he wants this tattoo and he says on the right side of his stomach, just under his ribcage. Seems like an odd spot for a first tattoo, but I never question my client’s choices.
“When can we do this?” he asks. “If we wait too long, I’ll wimp out.”
“I’ve got nobody coming in for the next few hours. If you want, I’ll do some designs and we can get started right away. Can you come back in an hour?”
“Sure. I’ve got to stop in at the Laugh Factory for a bit anyway. So… two o’clock, then?”
I look at the clock. “Yep. See you then.”
As the door shuts behind him, Elena looks up from the forearm she’s working on, then smiles at me.
“He’s really fucking cute!”
“I saw him first,” I say.
“Technically, I saw him first,” Renee corrects me, and we all laugh.
It’s been almost exactly three months since Link unceremoniously dumped me. I don’t even know if you can say “dumped,” since we’d only been together twice. It’s more like he just decided he didn’t want to continue what seemed to be an awesome, unique thing. But that was then, and this is now. After all this time of aching and longing to touch Link’s big muscles, to somehow have him next to me again, I decided on the way to work this morning that it was time to put more effort into moving on.
Raven, you need to get laid. The next attractive single guy you see, you’re going to fuck.
Three hours later, Zach Halley walked into my life, and I knew he was the one.
Not as in “THE ONE!” but as in “the one I’m going to have sex with to get my mind off of Link.”
A short time later, I watch as he slips his shirt off. My first thought is that his physique pales in comparison to Link’s, but he’s pleasantly fit. He’s got a light dusting of hair on his chest, and a bit on his flat belly that trails downward into his jeans.
Yeah, Zach will do just fine.
Of the three designs I show him, he loves one in particular, and it happens to be my favorite as well. An extra-sexy little pinup chick in a hot outfit, sitting atop that eight-ball and looking especially sassy.
I prep him, slowly and sensuously shaving the hair from that half of his belly and side.
“This is your last chance to bail,” I say, wiping the area clean.
He laughs. “I’m as nervous as when I lost my actual virginity. Though I’m guessing this time it’ll take longer than thirty seconds, right?”
“I take way longer than thirty seconds, Zach.”
I smile at my double entendre and lean forward to begin outlining. Since it’s his first time, I need to distract Zach with conversation or he’ll really start to feel that needle.
“You said earlier that you were going to the Laugh Factory. Do you work there?” I ask.
“Sometimes. I was there Friday and Saturday last week.”
“Are you a comic?” Who else would work at a comedy club only two nights in a week?
“I am,” he says. “Comic-actor-writer. Typical Hollywood hyphenate. Stand-up pays the bills for now.”
I lift the needle and look at Zach.
“You don’t look funny.”
He starts to respond, then sees the glint in my eye and laughs.
“And you’re the first girl who’s ever told me that,” he says.
“Are you a working actor? Have I seen you in anything?”
“I did a three-episode guest spot on ‘Separated at Birth’ earlier this year.”
My head pops up.
“That’s where I’ve seen you! I remember it now. Oh, my god, you were so funny!”
He grins. “Oh, so now I look funny.”
I like this guy.
I’m about halfway through with the piece when I realize I keep stealing glances at the hair on his lower belly. It look at how it disappears into the very top of his pants, and I realize how horny I am. It’s been a while since I’ve actually wanted to have sex. Time to turn up the flirting.
“Are the audiences at the big comedy clubs mostly men?” I don’t know why, but it seems to me like it would be that way.
“Nah, it’s about half and half,” he says.
“Do the women laugh at you?”
“When I’m dressed, or undressed?”
“When you’re dressed, dork,” I say with a laugh.
“You just did,” Zach replies.
“True.” I can’t help but smile. “Hey, when you came in you said you wanted to be tattooed by the owner of the shop. Why’s that? The owners aren’t always the best artists in their own shops, you know.”
“They’re not? Well, if this tattoo ends up looking like a monkey sitting on a beach ball, I’m gonna sue,” he says. “Actually, I saw you on TV right after the Oscars. I told myself I should stop in, get this first tattoo I’ve been thinking about for a couple of years now, and see if you were single.”
He says that last part as if he almost didn’t want me to notice.
I lift the needle and sit up straight.
“I’m single, but why does that matter?”
He smiles. “I just read an article that said the best tattooers were women, and the very best are sex-deprived single women.”
I keep a straight face. “That’s not me. I had sex during my lunch break.”
“Touché. Well played, Raven.”
After a brief silence, he says, “I was wondering: Did that big dude ever come by to get a free tattoo?”
Shit. I really enjoyed that last hour of being mostly Link-free. Now I’m remembering him lying naked on this very chair.
“Yeah, I did a tattoo for him.”
“Is he as huge as he looks on TV?”
“He’s gigantic,” I say. “Not very bright, though.”
Saying it makes me feel a little better. I believe it, though. I could have been the best thing that ever happened to Link, and he totally blew it when he decided to bail.
I resume my work, and almost immediately Zach says, “Hey, you should come to the Improv tomorrow night and catch my show.”
“And what if I don’t laugh?”
“Then I’ll drop my pants. Whenever I do that, women laugh.”
Zach’s session is one of the more fun ones I’ve done, and he keeps me laughing so much I sometimes have to stop and steady my hand before continuing. His finished tattoo is a beauty, and he was man enough to only whimper a few times during the hour-and-a-half session.
I walk Zach to the mirror, my hand on the opposite side of his waist as I position him in front of it.
“Voila! You are now the owner of a tattoo.”
I keep my hand on him and stand next to him as he inspects his new tattoo. His skin is soft and warm to my touch, and I realize how badly I need to feel that. I am desperate for physical interaction with a man, to help me forget.
“This is crazy good,” he says. “You’re awesome.”
After he’s looked it over thoroughly, I take him back to the chair to cover the new ink in plastic wrap and give him the care instructions. When I’m done, Zach stands and puts on his shirt.
“Raven, thank you so much,” he says, then opens his arms to hug me.
I hug him back, careful not to touch the tattoo, and equally careful to push my tits against him. Accidentally, of course.
“So, are you going to come to the Improv tomorrow or not? I refuse to beg.”
I consider the offer.
“Come on, you know you want to.”
I smile and say, “You’re begging.”
“Dammit! I waffled on that one almost immediately. No self-restraint whatsoever. But seriously, I want you to be there. It’ll be just like a date, only cheaper for me.”
I pause a few more seconds, then say, “All right, I’ll come see you—but only if you promise to keep your pants on.”
“Man, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard t
hat…” We both laugh, then he says, “Okay, I’ll leave two tickets at the window for you, so you can bring a girlfriend or platonic male friend.”
“Platonic male friend?” I ask with a smile.
“Sure, because if you show up with a date, that means I got this damned tattoo for nothing.”
The truth is I’m already excited for Friday night.
“Just leave one ticket, Zach. You’ll be my date.”
My mood is lighter for the rest of the day. I do still think of Link, but not every goddamn minute.
Whenever he does pop into my mind, I remind myself that I just met a very cute guy. Also, that I actually am a sex-deprived single woman, one who’s determined to have sex with that cute guy as soon as possible.
Maybe even tomorrow night.
19
Link
Marissa Mooney has just given her speech at LACMA, the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. The museum brings in influential film industry people to give presentations, and Marissa was this month’s choice. She gave a short speech on the history of independent films, something she would know about since she cut her teeth directing indies before Jackie Hightower plucked her from obscurity to do big-budget Hollywood movies.
I watch Marissa as she fields questions from the audience, marveling at how comfortable she is in front of a crowd. She’s attractive, too: mid-thirties, quite short, with thick dirty blonde hair that spills down over her shoulders. Thin frame, small breasts, hot little butt. She’s a tiny thing, and she’s wearing an outfit that preserves her indie cred, with a slate blazer over her light gray T-shirt and pale green chinos. Despite the indie uniform, she’s a polished pro at this point in her career.
To be honest, I have no idea why I’m even here. Marissa called me personally, saying she’d gotten my number from Jackie. She needed a security guard for this event, and wondered if I might be available. Since I had nothing going on with Jackie for the date in question, I agreed. Two grand for an afternoon’s worth of easy work. I met her at her office in Santa Monica at one in the afternoon, and half an hour later we were in the back of a limo on the way to LACMA.
Marissa Mooney doesn’t really need security because she’s not that wealthy and isn’t a big name outside of the industry. Plus, a theater at LACMA is probably among the safest places to be in Hollywood. But hey, if the woman wants to pay me for doing pretty much nothing, I’ll gladly take her money.
She steps down off the stage and spends another twenty minutes talking to various attendees and museum personnel, then finally approaches me.
“Glad that’s over with,” she says. “I’m ready to get out of here.”
Nothing out of the ordinary happens on our way out of the museum to the waiting limo. I dwarf Marissa as we walk together. She’s probably about five-two in those sneakers, and might weigh a hundred pounds. I’m fifteen inches taller and weigh three times as much. We climb in the back and drive off. She removes her jacket and settles into the seat.
“We have some time left, Link. I want to discuss my home security needs with you.”
She hired me for five hours and the event took about half of that.
“You’ve got me until six,” I say. “Might as well get your money’s worth.”
Marissa smiles. “I plan to.”
We head down Sunset into Beverly Hills. Marissa’s place is halfway up Coldwater Canyon, on a little side street called Heather Road. The house is small by Beverly Hills standards, but huge almost anywhere else. The limo drops us off and Marissa dismisses the driver, saying she’ll take me back to my car at her office when we’re done.
Her place has a really cool vibe, with all sorts of funky, quirky design touches on the inside.
“Make yourself at home,” she says. “There’s beer in the fridge. I need to change clothes.”
She walks off and I head straight to the nearby kitchen. I normally don’t drink on the job, but this job is already over as far as I’m concerned. I grab a bottle of amber ale and open it, then take a long swig as I return to the living room. There’s a sliding door leading out to the patio, and I take a look at her small back yard, half of which is taken up by a pool. Sweet place she has here.
“We should go for a swim.”
“Didn’t bring my suit,” I say as I turn around. I’m stunned to see a totally naked Marissa Mooney walking into the room.
“Nobody can see us in the back yard,” she says. “Get out of those clothes and we’ll take a dip as we discuss my security situation here.”
Unable to stop myself, I quickly look her over. Her body looks naturally thin, and I doubt she exercises much to keep it that way. Those small tits are actually a perfect fit for her shape, and there’s a landing strip above her pussy that testifies to the fact that she’s a real blonde. She somehow looks even smaller naked, though not at all fragile.
“Um…”
Yeah, I’m tongue-tied. To say this was unexpected would be an understatement. Women in LA never cease to amaze me.
“Come on, it’s so nice out this afternoon.”
She pushes past me and steps out into the sunshine. Her skin is already tanned, but with no tan lines. I watch her cute ass as she puts her hair in a ponytail, then descends the steps into the water.
I follow her out to the patio and remove my jacket, taking a seat in a chair.
“Aren’t you coming in?”
She’s looking at me expectantly.
“I probably shouldn’t,” I say, taking a sip of beer.
“Oh, you probably should,” she counters. “Take your clothes off and get in here with me. I don’t want to skinny-dip alone.”
I’m unsure whether or not Marissa is coming on to me, but it sure feels like she is. And I’m already fucking one client too many, so I politely decline.
“That would be a treat, but I try not to mix business with pleasure.”
Marissa gives me a sexy smirk, then says, “That’s not what Jackie tells me.”
My brain hangs for a second, not quite certain that I heard what I think I did. Then I see Marissa rising out of the water and headed my way, water pouring off her gloriously naked body.
She stops at my chair, facing me, shamelessly making it impossible for me not to look.
“Come on, Link. You’re still on the clock and I want to have some fun.”
I force my eyes away from the tits two feet in front of me.
“Did you bring me back to your house hoping to have sex with me?”
Marissa grins. “My walking out butt-naked wasn’t enough of a clue?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t normally sleep with my clients, that’s all.”
That comment she made a few seconds ago returns to me: That’s not what Jackie tells me. The thought buries itself in my brain and quickly becomes an itch I can’t scratch.
“Don’t worry about me being a client. Consider this a reward for a job well done. Let me see that body I’ve heard so much about.”
I already wondered why she would hire expensive personal security like me for something that needed no security at all. I put that next to her comment about Jackie, and now this “having heard so much about my body” one and it starts to make sense.
What the fuck?
“This isn’t going to happen,” I say. “You hired me for security and I’m here on business.”
“What is wrong with you?” she asks, clearly irritated. “It’s just sex. Jackie said you'd be fine with this."
If there was any doubt left about what exactly is going on, it evaporates with that remark.
"I can't do this shit anymore," I say, getting up and grabbing my jacket. “I’ll get a ride back to my car.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” she demands. “I paid for you! You’ll stay until your time is up, and if I want you to fuck me, you’ll fuck me. Who do you think you are?”
“I’m nobody.”
Now that gets her really pissed. I never imagined this tiny woman would be capable of this kind of reaction. S
he follows me into the house.
“Come back, damn it!”
When I reach Marissa’s front door, she’s still right there behind me.
“Jackie’s gonna hear about this,” she warns.
I open the door, then turn to her, filling up the door frame.
“Tell her whatever the fuck you want. I don’t work for Jackie anymore.”
I’m halfway down her short street when I hear her behind me.
“Asshole!”
Turning back, I see Marissa actually standing naked in the middle of the street.
“That’s me,” I say dryly. LA women are fucking weird.
I reach Coldwater Canyon and take my phone out of my jacket pocket. A door slams in the distance as I call for an Uber, which I’m told will be here in four minutes. Perfect. I dial Jackie’s number and get her assistant, Gail.
“Hi, Link. Jackie’s in a meeting. Can I take a message?”
“Yeah, tell her I said, ‘Fuck you.’”
Then I hang up.
I may not be rich and famous, but I’m no whore. Fuck Jackie and fuck her friends. No job is worth being degraded.
The Uber driver pulls up a couple of minutes later, and as we drive to Marissa’s office so I can get my Escalade, he looks in the rearview mirror.
“Hey, you’re that guy. The one who saved that little girl at the Oscars.”
“Yeah, that’s me.” I try to make it obvious I’m in no mood to talk.
“Did you ever take that chick up on her offer of free tattoos?”
“Nah.”
Now he gets the hint and shuts the fuck up, but he’s already dragged Raven to the front of my brain again, where she stays all the way to Santa Monica and is still there as I fight the five o’clock traffic back to Hollywood.
I finally get home and start drinking immediately. I get shitfaced by myself and jerk off twice thinking about the crazy hot sex I had with Raven.
That’s no big deal. I think about women I’ve been with all the time when I masturbate, and the two orgasms I have are sufficient to relax me. The problem is that I start to remember how easy she was to talk to, because I could sure use someone like that tonight.
Hollywood Bad Boys Club, Book 4: Link Page 14