by Mia Sosa
He palms my ass, squeezing it every time I reach the base of his dick. My hair is everywhere, and several strands are plastered against his shoulders. We rock against each other, until I sit up, my mind intent on riding him until we both come. But Carter’s got other ideas. He readjusts our bodies, lowering himself on the couch lengthwise and taking me with him. Then he bends his knees and surges into me, so quickly and forcefully that I scramble to gain purchase and finally settle on hanging on to his waist. I’m a rag doll in his hands, the muscles of his arms flexing in response to the demands he’s putting on them.
“Tighten around me, baby,” he says in a voice so low and rough I don’t recognize it.
The friction devastates me, reaching a point where the pleasure momentarily stuns me, and all I can do is hold on to him. “Yes, yes, Carter. Oh God, yes.”
“I’m going to come, Tori,” he says. “Are you close?”
“Not yet,” I say in a strained voice.
One of his hands trails up my back and snakes around my shoulder. “Milk my cock, Tori. That’s it.” And then he alternates between caressing and tweaking my nipples.
I’m so fucking close I want to cry. It’s going to slam into me any minute now, but being on the brink is taking its toll on my body. I’m so tense my back and thighs ache. “Carter,” I cry. I’m begging for release.
Sensing my need, Carter slips his hands between my legs and rubs my clit. Once. Twice. Oh yes. And then I detonate, the pleasure emanating from my core and fanning outward to the very tips of my toes and fingers.
And Carter’s with me, seized by his own orgasm. “Yes, Tori. Yes. Fuck. Yes.”
Afterward, we’re breathless, spent, an utter hot mess. And I’m deliriously happy because that was incredible. He pulls me down and hugs me tightly, his warm breath tickling my ear.
“Carter,” I say in a serious tone.
He pulls back slightly and regards me with adoring eyes. “What, baby?”
“Don’t let anyone ever tell you that you don’t have range.”
His eyes crinkle at the corners, and he caresses my back. “I won’t, Tori. I won’t.” After we cuddle for a few minutes, he pulls my torn panties from between the cushions and winces. “My body can’t handle sex on this couch. I need more room.”
“We have a big bed twenty feet away.”
“I have an even bigger bed at my place in California. Can’t wait to get you in it.”
Yes, I suppose I can’t avoid LA forever. But just a little longer would be nice.
After several seconds of silence, he sits up, dislodging me in the process. “You don’t want to go.” Without giving me time to respond, he jumps up, grabs his jeans, and yanks them on.
I slip my arms through the straps of my dress. “I didn’t say anything.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Exactly. And you stiffened in my arms. What am I supposed to think?”
“That I’m hesitant to deal with being in the public eye?”
“Or you never intended for us to be serious so you’re biding your time until I return to California.”
He’s so wrong I could scream. Essentially, we’ve been dealing with being in the public eye since the Twitter fiasco. LA, though, is . . . just more. Of everything. And I’m trying to shore up my emotional reserves to face it, but I’m just not ready yet. I rise from the couch and pull the skirt of my dress down. “I was overwhelmed when it was one or two reporters in Philly. I can’t imagine what it would be like in LA. All those people wanting to take your picture, shouting at you, prying into your life. Just give me time, okay?”
He gives me a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Take all the time you need.”
But now I feel like I’m running out of it.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Carter
“CARTER, WE HAVE great chemistry.”
Gwen Styles and I are sitting at a table in the tree-lined courtyard of New York’s iconic Tavern on the Green. Classical music plays from speakers camouflaged as rocks and nestled in the shrubbery framing the space. She’s wearing the biggest sunglasses I’ve ever seen, and the server just delivered Styles’s second Tom Collins.
While she sipped the first TC, she asked me enough questions to ghostwrite my autobiography. A thin sheen of sweat covers my arms. I’m not nervous. It’s just hot as Hades.
The read went well per Styles, which is good news because ten minutes into it, I realized her opinion trumped virtually all others in the room. The director, John Paulson, consulted her on everything, much to Samantha Bell’s annoyance.
Styles is an attractive woman with a regal bearing. The fluidity of her movements makes it easy to imagine that she was a professionally trained dancer in a former life. She also has a sharp tongue. When we arrived at the restaurant, she looked around and said, “Fucking great. It’s a tourist trap now.”
I wait for her to say more.
“Do you have a girlfriend, Carter?”
I nod. “I do.”
“Is she an actor, too?”
“No,” I say, picturing Tori’s terror-stricken face when I asked her to read with me. “She’s actually averse to all things Hollywood.”
“Here’s my advice. If you find someone who doesn’t care about the lights or the cameras, a person who’d rather sit with you on the couch than walk the red carpet, you should grab onto her and never let go.”
“Do you have someone like that in your life?” I ask.
“Yes,” she answers with a smile. “But it took me a long time to find them.”
I don’t disagree with her theory entirely, but Tori should be willing to bend, too. I’m a young male actor whose livelihood depends on being in the public eye. My perceived popularity fuels my actual popularity. If Tori wants to be with me, she can’t ignore that reality. “I’m trying to make it work, believe me.”
Fifteen minutes into the lunch, she passes me the bread basket, takes a long sip of her drink, and gets to what must be the true point of this meeting. “I’ve dealt with enough dirtbags in my life, so I refuse to spend the next three months with a jerk. You seem like a good guy, but there’s just one thing that concerns me.”
My stomach plummets. “What’s that?”
“I know Simon Cage. He doesn’t have great things to say about you. He seems to question your abilities.”
I choke down on all the negative information I could share about my former agent. Hearing that he’s still trashing my name, I regret that I didn’t go after Simon legally. In my mind, it was easier to let our business relationship end quietly. I reasoned that bringing a lawsuit against him would make industry types skittish to work with me. He misused his position and stole from me, yet I’m the one still experiencing the repercussions of that failed relationship. “If I may be frank?”
Styles tips her head forward. “Please.”
“Simon Cage is a snake who took advantage of me. Even if I’m as bad as Simon claims, why would he share such negative information about a former client? I’ll tell you why. He’s deflecting.”
The easiest way to shut up Simon forever is to get this part. If I land the lead role in Swan Song and deliver a kick-ass performance, Simon’s criticisms won’t carry much weight, and I’ll have proved him wrong in the process.
“We all have a Simon Cage in our lives, Carter. It’s an unfortunate but inevitable fact of every actor’s life. Some of us are unlucky enough to have several.”
“Do you?”
“A few. I’ve been doing this a long time. I’ve met so many people on my journey, and here’s what I realize: This business makes users out of people who never even set out to harm us. It’s hard to resist latching on to someone else’s success when the opportunity arises.”
That’s Simon in a nutshell. And now that I think about it, the shit-for-brains doctor in Philly went there, too. I don’t think he set out to sell photos of me, but when he realized there was something to be gained, he jumped at the chance to make money at my expense. And I�
��m sure it’ll happen again. Maybe not tomorrow or the next day, but someday.
“So how do you protect yourself against the users?” I ask Styles.
“I’m very selective when it comes to choosing the people I let into my life.”
So am I. Usually. Tori’s my exception.
I welcomed her into my life with relative ease, never questioning her motives. And there was no reason to, given how she initially resisted being with me. But if Tori were presented with an opportunity to trade on our relationship, would she?
Now that I’ve thought about it, I’m finding it difficult to think of anything else. Because if Tori betrayed me in that way, I’m not sure I’d recover. Trust her, Carter. She hasn’t given you any reason not to. Besides, what other option do you have?
I’M AT THE airport when Julian calls me.
“Good news,” he says without preamble. “The word is, you’re still in the running. It’s down to three: you, Andy Winn, and Drew Cherry.”
My meeting with Styles messed with my confidence, so I’m relieved to hear I remain a contender. “Any other intel?”
“Just that the director, Paulson, is nervous about the reviews for Hard Times. Wants to be sure you’re still a hot commodity. So I called him and told him about your upcoming appearance on The Actor’s Couch, and he seemed mollified by that. My advice? Don’t hide in your condo. Get out there and be seen. Spend time with your Hollywood counterparts. Banks, Conner, Madlin. Conner’s celebrating the opening of his new restaurant and club this Thursday. Dana says she can get you on the guest list.”
Ace Conner is an ass, and we don’t move in the same circles, but his star is on the rise, so it’s not a terrible idea. “Tell Dana to get me that invite. I’ll be there.”
“Will do. And congrats on making it to the final three.”
“Thanks, J.”
I make a quick call to Jewel and explain the change in my itinerary. Within minutes, she’s got me on the next flight to LA.
I’m not due to board for another hour, so I call Tori. No matter how frustrated I am by our situation, I know she cares, and that knowledge sits in my pocket as a constant reminder that she’s worth waiting for.
She picks up after three rings. “Hey. How did it go?”
I hear weights clanking in the background. “It went well. Julian says it’s now down to three actors for the lead, and I’m one of them.”
“Carter, that’s great,” she says. “I’m so happy for you, and I’m not at all surprised.”
There’s a genuineness about her response that soothes my soul. I’m not ashamed to say I want her with me all the time. “Thanks, baby.” I hesitate to bring it up, but she needs to know I’ll be leaving from New York. “I have to head back to California for a bit. A week probably. I’m just going to leave from here.”
“I’ll miss you,” she says in an uneven voice.
“Listen, there’s a thing this Thursday. An event I need to go to. Part of the song and dance to make myself appealing to the Swan Song producers. Any chance you’d like to join me?”
The silence lasts several seconds. “Carter, I can’t. My pitch to the investors is scheduled for Friday morning. I need to prepare, and I don’t think there’s any way I’d be able to get back to Philly in time.”
“Yeah, no. I get it. Just thought I’d ask. So I’ll check in with you when I get home, okay?”
“Okay. Have a safe flight . . . and enjoy your . . . thing.”
“Thanks.”
Patience, Carter. This pitch is important to her. It could open so many doors.
Gwen Styles’s observation pops into my brain: “This business makes users out of people who never even set out to harm us.”
And no matter how hard I try to, I can’t force the thought out of my head.
Chapter Thirty
Tori
I’M NERVOUS ABOUT this pitch.
Friday morning, I quickly shower and get dressed, practicing parts of it as I go. When I arrive at the Center City high-rise where Dreams Inferred LLC occupies an entire floor, I’ve recited the key points more than twenty times.
I check in with the receptionist, and a short while later, my only contact so far, Gary Evans, greets me with a firm handshake.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Alvarez,” he says as we walk down a narrow hall whose walls are decorated with photographs of iconic people and places related to Philadelphia. City Hall. Benjamin Franklin. The Liberty Bell. Rocky Balboa with his fists in the air at the top of the steps of the art museum.
Mr. Evans opens the door to a room and ushers me in. He then motions for me to sit across from him at the conference room table. I place my purse in the chair beside me and settle my hands over the manila folder protecting the pages of my pitch.
“Ms. Alvarez, my partners and I have reviewed your package, and we’re impressed. The concept behind your fitness plan is simple and accessible. Many Americans don’t have access to a gym, and another subset of your target population travels extensively. The concept of using only your body to attain fitness isn’t new, but no one’s presented it in this way as far as we know, and we’re impressed with your research on differently abled individuals.”
Wait. Why is he pitching my program for me? I drop my hands to my lap. Let the hand-wringing begin.
“We have a few concerns with the proposed program, however.”
Ah. The good ole compliment sandwich. I should have known a but was coming. “I’m happy to address them if I can.”
He straightens in his chair, adopting an authoritative stance. “First, we don’t see much scaling potential. Your proposal only mentioned two locations in Philadelphia. If the program succeeds, what opportunities do you see for additional revenue? What are the synergies?”
I open my folder, pull out the relevant pages of my proposal, and hand him a summary page. He retrieves a pair of reading glasses from his suit pocket and puts them on. “Go on, Ms. Alvarez.”
“As you’ll see, I envision You Are What You Move as a fitness movement of sorts,” I continue. “It’s taking the simple idea that physical activity using your own body as resistance can be more effective than expensive gym memberships or personal exercise equipment.”
His eyes flash with a hint of annoyance. “Right. The concept isn’t the problem. Talk to me about execution.”
“Okay, I’d like to build an online community that will also be an attractive demographic for advertisers. Although gyms and exercise retailers aren’t targets, other manufacturers would jump at the chance to reach this community. Think exercise apparel, including You Are What You Move apparel, exercise mats, water bottles, and so on. Also, the program relies on my personal training experience and education. Other personal trainers could design programs for clients based on the concept. Groups of differently abled people working out together in the outdoors, for example. No exercise studio needed.”
“So one could become a certified trainer?”
“Yes, like Zumba.”
“Then you’ll need a catchier name.”
I don’t want to smile at that, but I do anyway. “I’m sure I could come up with something better.”
Mr. Evans nods. “I think we’d like to see that fleshed out a bit more.”
“Sure. I can revise the proposal to include data on this aspect of the program. What are your other concerns?”
Mr. Evan leans forward and considers what he’s about to say.
Just spit it out. Please.
“As you said, the program relies on your education and experience as a personal trainer. But you don’t have extensive business experience. You’ve managed a gym for three years, but you’re not bringing any ownership experience to the table.”
My hands are sweating now. “I do have a minor in business administration.”
“That’s education, not experience. We’re interested in how you’ll run this company. What support you’ll have. We’re angel investors, Ms. Alvarez, and although we’re not inves
ting our life savings, that doesn’t mean we’re not looking for the typical indicia of a good risk.”
“I intend to use some of the money from your investment to hire a business consultant who’ll assist me with starting the company.”
Mr. Evans doesn’t respond to this. Instead, he rolls his chair back and rises. “And finally, how do you intend to draw people to your doors? Showing a physically fit personal trainer demonstrate exercises using her own body weight isn’t as effective as using the real people who’ve used the program. You need testimonials. Before-and-after pictures. People need visuals. They want to be convinced that achieving their goals is possible.”
He’s pacing, and my stomach’s churning. I’m losing him. Where the hell’s the compliment in this sandwich? So far, it’s been bad, bad, and more bad. I could solicit people to sign up for a beta program. But I need to keep the investors’ interest in the meantime.
He pulls out his chair and takes a seat. “Ms. Alvarez,” he says as he straightens his cuffs. “I think my partners and I would be willing to overlook certain risks associated with investing in your program if you had a secret weapon.”
I stare at him with what I’m sure is a blank look, because I have no idea where he’s going with this.
“Suppose you were able to secure a celebrity endorsement, for example. That might be of particular interest to us.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, swipes left, and glances at the screen. “Do you know anyone you could convince to vouch for the program?”
His question hits me upside the head like a sledgehammer. It all makes sense now. I’m here because of my relationship with Carter, not my proposal. Dreams Inferred LLC didn’t have an “unexpected opening” in its potential portfolio of investments. No, the investors somehow learned of my connection to Carter and suddenly “rediscovered” their interest in my venture.
But even if I were willing to trade on my relationship with Carter—and I’m not, of course—the truth is that he wouldn’t be able to vouch for the program. His training and my proposed program are two different animals.