Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  I’ve got my going-out uniform on—dark-wash Seven jeans, Sigerson Morrison stilettos, and a flowy, flirty Calypso top, with a Wonderbra that pushes the girls up and out. He’s having a hard time looking into my eyes.

  “Well, technically, you won and lost¸” I fire back. “You were on time. Early, actually. So I guess we’re even.”

  As I grab the drinks menu to choose a cocktail, Jesse snatches it out of my hand.

  “I’ve got another dare for you, Starr,” he says, with a mischievous smile.

  “Another one?” He both excites and scares me. I play up my confidence, even if it’s a show. If I exhibit any weakness, I know he’ll own me. “What is it? You know, I’m a very competitive person. Captain of the soccer team senior year.”

  “Then you’ll be good at it. This one isn’t that bad. It will be fun, I promise. This place has the best tequilas, imported from all around Mexico. You haven’t tasted anything like them.” He pauses and looks at me with an older brother type grin, like he’s won already. “I dare you to do a flight of shots with me.”

  One night in college I did too many tequila shots and spent the night in the dorm bathroom, puking my guts out. I’ve been off it ever since.

  “I don’t know,” I say, as my mind reels toward work. I feel like Bernie knows when I’m hungover, and she rides me even harder. It’s like she can smell the weakness, or maybe she just smells the booze seeping out of my pores.

  Ignoring my response, Jesse orders two flights of tequila. Soon, two wooden trays arrive, each with five little glasses, filled with liquid in shades ranging from white to amber, lined up on top.

  “Come on, you don’t want to lose now, so soon,” he says, grabbing his first shot, lifting it in the air, and motioning for me to do the same.

  He starts to make a toast and I relent, caught up in his happy-go-lucky aura. He shows me how to tap the rims of our glasses together, then the bottoms, then the middles. We move carefully not to spill but some splashes out, which is fine with me. In time with each tap, he says, “I’m not above ya, I’m not below ya, I’m right with ya.”

  “Bottoms up!” he adds, before tossing his back. I follow suit, opening my throat and swallowing the burning liquid. It feels like hot lava going down. I pucker my face and grab my water to douse the fire in my stomach.

  “A gold star for Starr. I wasn’t sure you’d get it all in one try. Most girls sip it like a martini,” he says, lifting the empty shot glass daintily, with his pinky finger outstretched, and puckering his lips.

  Jesse is that popular guy who was always out of reach in high school: perfectly built, cracking the funniest joke, rallying rooms full of people, dating the prettiest girl. And now he’s here, with me, daring me to cut loose.

  “Oh, I can keep up. Just you watch.”

  The way he leans in and looks at me, I feel like I’m the only woman in the room, the center of his attention. Suddenly, he moves in closer, and his flirting has become charged—into something stronger.

  “Cheers, then,” he says, motioning toward the shots.

  Jesse recites the same toast, and this time I follow along.

  “It’s British, and all the guys at the Reporter do it,” he explains. “We have a lot of Brits in the newsroom. Merry old chaps,” he says, again, in that cute mock English accent. He orders a round of Coronas to chase the tequila down.

  This is the most fun I’ve had in a while. We’re getting louder with each shot. As we sing out the toast for the fourth time and howl with laughter, someone next to us shushes us.

  “We’re at a bar, for chrissake,” Jesse cracks to me, loudly so our neighbor hears. “You want quiet, stay home!”

  “That’s right!” I concur, the tequila emboldening me.

  We throw back the last shot and finish our beers.

  “Time to party with the power players, Starr. Are you ready?”

  “As I’ll ever be,” I say.

  Jesse pays the tab, while I clumsily reapply my lip gloss. We stagger out of the bar and up the street to the Von Buren building, on 82nd and Fifth. A butler in tuxedo and tails, wearing white gloves, stands outside the private entrance.

  “And you are?” he asks haughtily, before allowing us to go any further.

  “Martin. Jesse Martin,” Jesse says coolly.

  The butler checks his list, slowly scrolling his pristine white-gloved finger down until he finds “Martin,” reluctantly checking the name off, and letting us through.

  Another formally attired attendant opens the door. The elevator is waiting for us. This is a world of privilege and a degree of wealth that most only know from the pages of Vanity Fair. My insides jump in anticipation of getting upstairs and experiencing it for the first time.

  As we step inside the small, cramped space and bump our way up to the third floor, I wonder if I had the ability to do whatever I wanted and had a safety net woven of money to cushion me, if it would’ve hurt so much when my father left. I wonder if I could jet off to Ibiza in August, London in May, and the Grenadines at Christmas, would I feel different. I’d have a network of people at the ready, people who could make anything happen. It would be a big life—a huge, fabulous life, full of rich experiences and luxury that would erase the pain by its sheer size and scale.

  I gaze adoringly at Jesse. I feel closer to him for sharing this with me, for bringing me to this party, into this world. This is the New York I dreamed of inhabiting since the night at Tavern on the Green.

  Finally, the doors to the private elevator slowly open. My eyes grow large and my breath halts, taking in the view before me. It’s like entering a museum, decorated just like the pictures I’ve seen of the Palace of Versailles. The expansive apartment is filled with ornate Louis XVI furniture. Several gilded chandeliers dripping with crystals hang from the main room.

  Jesse grabs my arm, and I break from my trance as he leads me through the crowded main room. Thanks to art history class in college, I identify a Miró and a Seurat with one quick glance. I catch a view out the majestic wall of windows in the front and see the Met beautifully lit up, glowing across the street.

  I try a tuna tartare crostini offered by a formally dressed server circling the room. Jesse grabs two glasses of champagne from one of several bar tables set up, each with dozens of glasses of champagne and wine, poured and ready for the taking. There’s even a string quartet playing in the corner of the main room.

  I take mental notes on who’s with whom to share at tomorrow’s meeting, spotting a few young socialites tottering around in stilettos and skimpy designer dresses, flirting with the blue-blood boys.

  “Drink, Starr,” he says.

  “Or what? Is this another one of your dares?” I ask, raising my left eyebrow—one of the few talents I know I have in common with my dad. He would try to make me laugh by raising first one eyebrow, then the other, doing what I called “the eyebrow dance.” It’s one of the only happy, vivid memories I have of my dad. We’d both break down into peals of laughter. Sometimes he could be so silly, so loving.

  “Trust me. With this crowd, you’ll need it,” he says. “But since you ask, I’ll have you know that I’m not finished with you yet. The night is young.”

  Out of nowhere I spy a head with long, manicured dreadlocks. When he turns slightly, I see that it’s Max, flanked by two models. I gasp quietly. I haven’t seen or heard from any of that crew since I left the Tunnel that night with the girl who had OD’d.

  Sometimes you’re shown signs in life—another one of my mom’s spiritual mumbo jumbo-isms that now kind of make sense. Part of me misses it, misses them. The escape and fun, even if it was chemically manufactured, dissipated the pain that sits just under the surface. I felt free from all my insecurities and worries, like I could be someone else. But it was a dangerous road to go down.

  “What’s up, Starr?” Jesse asks. “Looks like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “Nothing…just a guy.”

  Jesse gives me a look.

  “Not
in the way you’re thinking. More just hung out and partied with. He’s over there, with two models.”

  He follows my line of sight. “Max Ballard?”

  I nod.

  “What’re you doing hanging with him?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been on the scene for a while. Everyone knows him. He’s the dealer to the stars.”

  My mind reels while everything starts to come together. The velvet ropes parting and the VIP treatment; Max’s knowing everyone and doling out drugs like a pharmacy.

  “I can’t believe you didn’t know that, Miss Hotshot Celeb Reporter. Everyone knows Max Ballard. The A-listers love him because he can keep a secret; he’ll go to the grave with theirs. But he loves the ladies. Always with the models, giving them drugs. Not so cool.”

  “I only hung out with him a couple times. Wasn’t my scene.”

  Geez. I exhale a deep breath, relieved that I followed my instincts.

  Suddenly, Jesse sidles up close and stands directly in front of me. “Max is right behind you now. I saw him look over. He knows you’re here.”

  I turn my head and casually glance over toward Max.

  “Here’s another one, Starr. I dare you to let me kiss you right now. Make him a little jealous. Show him you’re better off now.”

  Without thinking, emboldened by tequila, I lean in, tilting my head up, staring directly into Jesse’s eyes, with my lips just slightly parted, giving him my answer.

  The tension that’s been building up between us releases as he places his hands on either side of my face, leans down, and so softly puts his firm lips onto mine. Slowly, he covers my mouth with kiss after gentle kiss, until I feel like begging for more. I kiss him back with a fire that surprises me. His gentle touch is so passionate and so unexpected, coming from someone that seems like such a playboy.

  Our mouths are moving together, as he slowly slides one hand down my body, exploring my curves. He feels the round shape of my butt and groans softly into my mouth. I swoon, and he catches me as my knees buckle. He places one hand firmly on my butt and squeezes.

  “He saw everything,” he whispers, as he slowly pulls away from me.

  I stare at him, with an awkward smile. It’s written all over my face, my confused feelings. I know it. Not about Max, that was just an excuse to kiss Jesse. I feel the memory of the whiz-bang feelings with Damien that radiated to my core. And then there was the pit of sadness when I read the New York magazine story. Jesse strokes my hair, as if he can sense it, or maybe he’s just making a cool guy move. I don’t have enough experience with guys to know. But somehow it soothes me.

  “You’re a great kisser, Starr,” he says.

  The compliments sure don’t hurt, either. “You’re not so bad yourself, Martin.”

  “I’m not finished with you, you know,” he continues.

  “Now, it’s my turn,” I say, pulling myself together, keeping the game going.

  I spot Lecia Thompson, the $20-million-a-movie star, sitting in the corner with a group of friends.

  “I dare you to go over to Lecia Thompson and ask her if she’s wearing underwear.”

  “Done,” he says and walks over to where she’s sitting, on a nearby chaise.

  I watch the quick exchange. Jesse, with his irresistible charm, woos even the biggest movie star into submission, and she laughs as she shakes her head.

  “‘No’ is your answer,” he says, swaggering back to me. “Now it’s my turn.”

  I look over and she is laughing with her friends as she points over at us. You can get away with anything when you’re a hot young guy with confidence to spare. But I’m impressed as a reporter, too. You have to be fearless in this job, and that was good.

  He grabs another round of bubbly.

  “Drink,” he says.

  I dutifully obey.

  “Now, I dare you to touch me right here,” he says.

  Without waiting for my answer, he leans in again and places his mouth on mine. His mix of playful and sexy is new to me, and it’s hot. I fall into him and close my eyes as our tongues explore each other. The fire between us grows hotter. I feel myself getting wet. He gently takes hold of my right hand and places it on his package. I can feel him growing.

  “I have a God-given gift,” he whispers in my ear.

  “All guys say that.” I call his bluff.

  “I dare you to find out,” he says. “Touch it.”

  He slowly backs me into the corner, away from the crowd. The tequila, mixed with beer and champagne, has lowered my inhibitions. We start to kiss deeply again. I move my hand to his pants. His abs are so tight and cut, it’s easy to get my hand inside. I nimbly move my hand down until I’m holding his erection. He does have a gift. He’s in full bloom and pulses in my hand. I begin to move my hand up and down in the confines of his pants.

  “I’ve had bigger,” I say playfully, as I pull my hand back. I come to my senses and realize that things could get hot and heavy pretty quickly. “But not by much.”

  He looks at me with the sexiest smile and shakes his head back and forth.

  “Starr, you are one in a million,” he says, looking at me with his irresistible gaze. He’s seems like one of those guys who has no problem throwing out a compliment to get what he wants, but it still feels good to hear. “I dare you to leave this party right now and go home with me.”

  As we rush toward the elevator, I privately worry that I didn’t get a real item for tomorrow’s meeting.

  7

  The Night of Dares

  We burst inside Jesse’s apartment like two animals in heat, all arms, hands, and lips moving, discovering each other. We’re barely in the door, when Jesse grabs me by the hips and lifts me up, cradling me in his strong arms. I wrap my legs around him tightly as I dive deeper into his mouth. We’re like a ball of energy that has been gaining speed all night and has suddenly been released, careening through the air at top speed.

  He takes a few steps down the hall and throws me down on a side table. The lamp teeters, and we both reach to grab it before it falls. We miss, and it tumbles to the floor, the bulb shattering. We both pause in our heat for a beat. He looks at me, and we both start laughing uncontrollably.

  “Starr, you taste so sweet,” he says, getting serious. “Like saltwater taffy.”

  I smile and kiss him hard as I grind myself against him—caught up in his wild mix of sexy and playful—feeling him nearly bursting from his Red Tab jeans.

  Instead of picking up the lamp, Jesse slides the stack of books sitting on the table onto the floor, clearing it. He lays me down on top and climbs halfway on me as we kiss deeply. He explores my neck and slowly moves down to my breasts, kissing and sucking and running his tongue around my cleavage, making his way to my nipples, which are taut and ready. I arch my back and he releases my left breast from my bra, exploring it with such fervor that it makes me cry out. I grab him and pull him down onto me, spreading my legs.

  He begins to undo my jeans. And as he does, he lifts me up into his arms. I grab hold of him and push myself against his gorgeous chest. I can’t wait to undo his shirt and feel his sculpted body against mine. He lifts me up again, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me effortlessly into his bedroom.

  He lightly lays me down on his bed, undressing me slowly, not hurried or frenzied. Unzipping my jeans, he slides my pants off carefully and places them on the floor. I dive for his belt and clumsily begin to undo it. He helps and pulls back, undoing the buckle and then his jeans. He pulls them down and takes his boxers with them too, releasing himself.

  “Was I right?” he asks, cocky as hell.

  “You won that one, for sure,” I say with a smile, as I toss my hair.

  He pulls his shirt off. He has the body of an Adonis: gorgeous six-pack abs, tight, sculpted butt. He leans in toward me and unbuttons my top, sliding it up and off over my arms. I’m only in my bra, which he quickly undoes, releasing my breasts. He moves in, slowly again, and exp
lores my body with intensity. I respond with each touch of his lips. He grinds himself into me and I move my hips in time with his, feeling his erection pushing up against me. I moan in anticipation.

  “I have another dare for you,” he says playfully, with a hint of sexy, take-charge.

  “No more shots. I think I’ve had my fill,” I say, as my head spins.

  “No, we’re done with that. We’ve moved on to a different realm,” he says, smiling devilishly. Looking down at me, he says, “I want to shave you. I dare you to get in the shower with me and let me shave you.”

  “Like down there?” I say, pointing.

  Despite my alcohol- and hormone-infused haze, I like this feeling of being desired. It’s done something to me. I feel self-assured. I haven’t even thought about biting my nails all night. I feel like it’s even smoothed my klutzy, awkward edges. I’ve been on, at the ready, with witty responses and the right moves. I feel like a new and improved me, a sexier me. Hell, it just plain feels good when someone wants you. It’s powerful.

  “I have only one stipulation,” I say, looking down at him, as he gives me a quizzical look. “Only if I get to shave you first.”

  “Touché, Starr,” he says, with a wicked smile. “I like the way you think.”

  He grabs my arm and lifts me off the bed, and we scoot to the bathroom, giggling. Jesse is fun, I have to give him that. He turns the shower on and pulls me in with him.

  Under the powerful stream, he takes my shoulders and brings me to him, melding us together. The water tumbles down over us, and he gently takes hold of my heavy breasts, and I moan in pleasure. He takes one in his mouth and begins to suck and caress it with his tongue.

  I run my fingers over his beautifully sculpted pecs, as he moves his large, strong hands down my slicked-up body and around behind me, cupping my butt. He squeezes and kneads me.

  “It’s beautiful. Your ass. Do you know how hot it is? Perfectly shaped. I’ve never seen one so damn perfect.” He’s so good with the compliments. He lifts me up again, and I wrap my legs around him.