Ellen went all goofy in the face. It made my heart sing to see my friend so obviously smitten, even if her love interest hated my guts. At least one of us would be getting laid.
“There is no drama in Ellen land, you know,” she said. “You have to make Nicolette like you.”
“How could she not?”
Ellen eye-rolled so hard she nearly missed her dip into the marinara sauce. “She thinks you’re a crazy liar.”
I grinned. “How could she not?”
“I see your point.”
It wasn’t until the wee hours of the morning, when I was tucked away in Ellen’s guest bedroom, that I dared to believe my Picasso madness was over. The villains off to jail, and me back where I belonged, with my friends…er, friend who loved me. I’d just drifted off to that floaty almost-sleep place when I heard the window quietly sliding upward.
I bolted straight up. Oh, God. Not again! Cold air blew my hair everywhere at once. The curtain billowed inward, the city lights haloing around the dark form stealing through the hole. My heart galloping in my chest, I kicked at the covers and searched for something solid to defend myself with.
A heavy weight pinned me into the mattress, and a hand fell across my mouth. I bit with all my might.
“Ow! Dammit, Samantha!”
That man would do anything to get me in the sack.
I let Sam groan and hiss over his hand while I crept to the door to make sure Ellen wasn’t stirring because of his crappy attempt at quiet burgling. With a grin I could not contain, I slipped the lock home.
When I turned back, Sam grimaced at me, looking sorry he’d come. We stared at each other. I knew I should kick him out. But he had managed to shimmy up three storeys. The least I could do was hump him.
I hurried to the bed and pushed him onto his back. I nipped on his chilly earlobe. His arms tightened around me. “Please tell me you brought…”
He grinned and nodded. Something told me he’d accessorise with condoms whenever he was in the same hemisphere as me.
He slid his hands into my elastic pyjama bottoms to cup my ass. I moaned. “Shhhh,” he blew into my ear. Slowly, deeply, I breathed in the spicy scent of his neck. Desire spread through me like melting chocolate. I sat on his hips and propped my hands on his chest, rising and falling with urgency. His T-shirt was soft under my kneading hands. He sat up to spread feathery kisses across my temple. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
I pushed his ruffled hair behind his ear. “Yes.”
His lips grazed the corner of my mouth. “Tell me to go.”
I bit my lip. It was too late to begin making good decisions. Especially when bad ones were such accomplished kissers.
A harsh breath fell from him, and I turned to look in his eyes. Every beautiful thing a girl dreamed of seeing was there. And then some. The dimple winked, ready for mischief. My tongue flicked across it. His hands dug into my hips. My lips found his, and we kissed, long, slow. Tongues playing, moans quiet and caught between us. He rocked me over his hips, his cock firm as ever, feeling so familiar to me now.
With an impatient grunt, he flipped me over and stood to shuck off his jacket, shirt and jeans. Before his pants fell away, he grabbed a condom from the pocket and tossed it at my head. Stifling a giggle, I tore it open. He pulled at my pyjama bottoms and almost dragged me clean off the bed. “Your butt is too big to get these off,” he half groaned.
“Shh!” Pants and panties off, I shifted backwards towards the headboard. “My butt is perfect, and you know it. Vive le big butt!”
“Mmmmm,” he agreed. He definitely agreed—I slipped the condom over his agreement. He pushed me farther back on the mattress and crawled over me. A laughing grin on his face, he slid into me and planted his mouth over mine to stifle my gasp of pleasure. Or maybe his own. No slow and careful loving this time—immediately he rode me, urgent and demanding. I clutched at his shoulders, and my head fell back. He felt so, so good. Thrums of pleasure rocked through me, leaving molten, wanton fire in their wake.
One hand braced beside me, he pawed at the buttons of my top with the other until I helped him, pulling the fabric away from my breasts. His hungry lips came down on my nipple and he feasted on me. His tongue worshipped the peak, and I could take no more—my body burst with wave after wave of climax.
He smiled. A carnal smile full of male pride. I hid my own smile in his shoulder. “Was that good?” he whispered.
“No,” I said casually. He didn’t need any more ego inflating, the bastard.
“You little—” He slid out and turned me over onto my face. His breath fell hot across the back of my ear. “I guess I’ll have to try again.” His hand slipped between my legs, and he nudged them wider with his knee. Slippery fingers played with me while I buried my face in the pillow, my cries burying themselves therein. I felt his hips come down on mine, and he entered me from behind.
His breathing hitched as he thrust into me again and again. He worked faster. A thrill flared through me—I knew he was close to coming. Our bodies pressed into the mattress. The friction from him above and it below sent me over the edge again, and my orgasm shattered me just as his did him.
His weight fell heavily on me, but I didn’t mind. After a few minutes, he shifted to the side, his knee across my back, his fingers tracing gentle trails into my bottom.
“You made me love you, my irritating girl.”
I think I whispered “I lorvst you, too” before I fell asleep. It was probably part of a dream.
* * * *
A pounding at the door wrenched me from slumber. In a panic, I fumbled to hide Sam. But he was gone.
I’d locked the bolt last night. Ellen knocked again, and I stumbled into my pants and shirt. Clutching the two halves of my top together, I unlocked the door and opened it an inch.
Ellen stooped until her nose was level with mine. Her all-seeing eyes narrowed. “You are making breakfast. And after that…” She stood back and shook her head in disgust. “You’re washing my sheets.”
“They’re my sheets.”
“You’re bleaching the whole room!”
I enacted my penance for the night of illicit revelry with good spirits, delivering some cheese, bacon and mushroom omelettes post haste. We scarfed them down with matching hastiness.
My judgemental BFF went off to write her brilliant novels, and I retired to the laundry room to wash my sex sheets, fantasising about Sam the whole time. I wondered, my female places tingling, when I’d ever see him again. I made a mental note to leave my bedroom windows unlocked. Men of poor character would just burst through them anyhow and splatter glass all over my shoes if I didn’t.
Maybe my next apartment ought to be on the third floor or above so that no questionable men other than Sam would actually make the effort.
Midway through the dryer cycle, Ellen came thumping down the stairs to the basement. “You have a delivery upstairs,” she said, hands on her hips.
Too hopefully, I asked, “Is it Sam?”
“No, but it’s not allowed by my lease any more than he is.” She turned around and climbed back up, stomping even louder than she had on the way down.
I abandoned the sheets faster than good sense fled my brain and ran up the stairs to Ellen’s door. In the front hall, prowling the length of his carrier, was Captain Taco.
“Taco!” I said.
“Meh,” Taco replied.
I released him from his prison and cuddled him close. He put his two front paws on my forehead and proceeded to eat my hair. “Was there a note?” I asked Ellen from behind a furry cat belly.
Wordlessly, she handed me an envelope.
I carried it and Taco to the couch and set the cat down beside me. He stalked as far away from me as he possibly could without leaving the cushy black cushion he practically disappeared into. Hiding in plain sight—he’d been well taught in the ways of the Force.
I read the note.
Dear She with the Gorgeous Ass,
Unfortunatel
y, because of reasons beyond my control and not my fault, I must leave town for a while. I asked Taco whether he would rather live with you or go to a shelter—he said the shelter. However, since I am the human and will not be ordered around by a creature that licks its own butt for fun, what I say goes.
I hope you’ll keep each other company. I very much look forward to visiting my cat at a future time. I would insert a tasteless pussy joke here, but that’s the sort of thing you do, and I leave you to it.
Please take care of yourself and stay away from evil people.
Except for me.
S.
In a disgusting display, I hugged the note to my bosom and giggled while thinking of several pussy jokes.
“Well, cat, you’re mine now. After I finish the laundry, I’ll go get you a taco. And a litter box, or else Ellen will throw us both out into the mean streets of Hollywood. Would you like a taco?”
Captain jumped off the couch and wandered into the next room.
Yup. No one keeps the men mesmerised like me.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Bitterballen Is in My Court
Four months later.
I Cried Lavender Tears in Paris
(J’ai Pleuré Des Larmes De Lavande À Paris)
by
Lavender Nevaeh
(and Michael Bay)
Final Draft
Ext. the Eiffel Tower—Paris—Day
Lavender Nevaeh (played by herself), a nineteen-year-old blogger, sits on the steps of the banks of the Seine, the Eiffel Tower behind her. She is nubile, young and stylish.
Her cousin, Sassy Alfredo (played by Samantha Lytton), joins her, eating a chocolate crêpe that dribbles on her ‘I Heart Paris’ tee.
Flattering Angle On: Lavender Nevaeh, whose blonde hair ripples in the Parisian breeze.
Lavender Nevaeh: Oh, Sassy. I’ve always dreamed my whole life of coming to Paris to find myself, ever since I was fifteen, four years ago.
Angle On: Sassy, eating.
Sassy Alfredo: I dreamed of getting with a hot French guy.
Sassy snaps madly in the air.
Sassy Alfredo: You know that’s right!
Sassy squeezes her crêpe too hard, and a stream of chocolate squirts all over the Snooty French Couple sitting nearby. In a barrage of angry French, they stalk away, bump into Mime Number One, and fall into the river. Mime Number One mimes drowning as he is fished out of the water by a passing tourist boat.
Lavender Nevaeh: Oh, Sassy! There you go again!
Sassy Alfredo: What can I say? I’m an American! Or should I say, American’t.
Lavender laughs, a sound so light and airy the birds join her in joyous song.
Lavender Nevaeh: What are we gonna do with you? It’s just so sad that you’re a forty-year-old virgin.
Sassy turns to her cousin Lavender in alarm.
Sassy Alfredo: I’m not forty. And I’m not—
Lavender Nevaeh: Whatever. You’re old.
Lavender stands. Her leather miniskirt rides up over her slender, young thighs.
Lavender Nevaeh: I vow, upon my purple mini Macbook Air, that I will blog morning and sometimes in the afternoon until I find the man of my dreams and learn how to make authentic French…um…those little cookie things…
Sassy Alfredo: Macaroons?
Lavender laughs, birds sing, etc.
Lavender Nevaeh: Of course you know what they are, Sassy. You can taste-test them for me when I’m a famous writer/chef/model/UN Peace Ambassador/fashion designer/judge on French Idol. I try hard not to eat.
Sassy Alfredo: I’ll eat enough for the both of us.
Everyone in the vicinity laughs.
Sassy Alfredo: Did I say something funny?
A floppy-haired French man, Guy Dubois (played by Justin Bieber), whips off his beret, kneels next to Lavender and takes her hand to kiss it.
Guy Dubois: But what eez theez? You are zee most beautiful zing I ‘ave ever zeen!
Sassy Alfredo: Is he speakin’ English?
Lavender Nevaeh: No.
Lavender flips her hair and stares straight at camera.
Lavender Nevaeh: He’s speaking Lavender.
Angle On: Sassy nods appreciatively at Lavender’s superiority.
Sassy Alfredo: How come no man ever speaks Sassy?
Angle On: Ten flying saucers, suddenly swooping around the Tower. Everyone is mesmerised by this historical event. Lavender begins attractively blogging about the aliens—it’s her big chance! The spacecrafts shoot lasers and blow up the Eiffel Tower.
Angle On: Sassy, who drops her crêpe.
Sassy Alfredo: Maybe I can get an alien boyfriend!
Guy Dubois: I don’t zink zee aliens are zat desperate!
I closed my script and paid the Parisian cab driver. I hoped I said, “Thank you very much and have a lovely evening,” but from the look on his face, my accent still needed tweaking. Today had been an amazing day on set—the aliens were so cool, and only fourteen crazed teenage girls had attacked Justin Bieber. That was a new daily low.
I opened the door of my hotel room as the sun began to set over the charming rooftops of Paris. Two weeks into my first real, actual movie role, and my life was even better than I had ever imagined it could be.
Except that I didn’t own a transporter. And one didn’t actually exist. Still, the eleven-hour, Xanax-filled plane ride to France had been worth it.
God bless Deborah Diaz, Attorney to the Stars™. She also represented the plucky teenager who had written my movie, J’ai Pleuré des Larmes de Lavande à Paris, based on the book of the same name, based on the blog of the same name, based on the Twitter of the same name.
Deborah had convinced Lavender’s producers to audition me for the role. And I’d got it! I wasn’t the star, or anything. I played the heroine’s weird cousin who flew off to Paris with her to Learn Lessons About Life and Also Deliver the Comic Relief. My lines consisted of such gems as, “Where can a lady get some Italian food, s’il vous pizza?” and “When I asked you to show me your laser blaster, I meant the other kind.”
But I was loving every second of it.
I didn’t even mind that everyone in the film repeatedly called me ugly and fat. In Hollywood, fat meant you were above a size two and ugly meant that the character wore glasses. Sassy’s rhinestone cat-eye frames looked adorable on me, thank you very much.
I had kept my red hair. It seemed fitting—I wasn’t the woman I used to be.
The light really was gorgeous in Paris—a sort of loving, pinky tint that made one smile even when no one else smiled at you because you were a clueless American in a truly craptastic movie.
First thing I did today, just like the end of every day, was open my window to take in the almost warm April air. Second thing I did was feed my feline roommate, lest he gnaw my face off in the night in revenge.
Once my loving pet was busily snarfing down food, I flopped onto my red and white toile duvet, exactly the sort of bedding you’d imagine would live in a quaint, slightly budget hotel off the Arc de Triomphe. I flipped on the TV, some of which I was actually beginning to understand. How little I’d paid attention in high-school French class had become appallingly obvious the minute I’d stamped my passport. Quel désastre!
Captain Taco hopped up on the bed with me and immediately sat on my chest, as was his wont. It wasn’t hard to tell that he was Sam’s protégé, he was so fond of boobage.
I told him about my day, like a proper, crazy cat lady. “Today the director said I was ‘hella funny’. He should know—he’s directed award-winning Fritos commercials. With any luck, I can play an unattractive relative in the next Will Ferrell movie. My agent is putting me in for it. I’m fancy, huh?”
Taco reclined all the way and butted his head against my chin. Petting his soft fur was therapeutic. For once he was tolerating it. “Oh, and the cute Scottish actor who plays one of the guys who rejects me but falls for my younger, prettier cousin asked me out on a date. At least I
think he did. He just kinda shuffled over to me, scratched his hip and muttered, ‘So, you wanna?’ It might have been a proposition.
“I said no, though. I am a fancy, serious artist here in fancy, serious Paris making great, or at least commercial, art. I am not interested in men. Not that I’m tied down in any way. No, no. I’m an urbane career woman on the rise! I’ve got the ugly/funny market cornered.”
I studied Tacopuss, listening to me intently while kneading his paws. I transferred him to the bed. He huffed and gave me the horribly offended face that cats mustered better than any being alive. “Don’t give me that attitude! I can go on a date with a mumbly, yet brutally hot Scottish actor if I want to. I am not affiliated with your previous owner in any formal fashion. I do not answer to What’s-His-Name. He abandoned you, you know.” Not that I’d dated anyone since you-know-who. Regular, law-abiding men had lost all appeal.
This conversation was becoming undignified. I lay down on my side, propped my head up and went through my mail. A couple of bills, which I could now pay, thanks to my modest acting job! “Hooray!” I said to Captain Taco. His tail landed in my face. Tough room.
A letter from Ellen—we emailed every day, but she loved to write me real letters, too. Today’s was a magazine clipping featuring a Lavender set pic of Mr Bieber. I was standing in the background, next to one of the alien extras. Holy shit—I was in an actual magazine! I got up on my knees and did the Shameless Self-Promotion Boogie. That baby was going in my scrapbook. I didn’t even look too weird in the picture, although they’d caught me with my eyes closed.
The last envelope had a return address of a post box in Miami Beach. I sat back on my heels and tried to remember who the hell I knew in Miami. Maybe some fabulous drag queen wanted me to be in her movie! This happy thought in mind, I tore open the envelope and found a printed confirmation with my name on it for a train departing Paris to Amsterdam in three weeks’ time, just after the film would wrap. A sliver of excitement flared in my stomach. Behind this intriguing sheet, a hotel reservation for one week. The place boasted being right off a scenic canal.
The Dimple of Doom (Samantha Lytton) Page 24