Then there’s silence.
“We’ve been making plans all week for what they want to do when they get here. They deserve my full attention,” I say, then trying to make it up to her, I slide my hand onto her thigh. “And you are a beautiful distraction.”
She immediately stands up. “Well, since we’re all finished up here, I’m heading home. Thanks for all your help today, Dawson. I’ll see you bright and early in the morning.”
“You don’t want to come back to my place for a massage?”
“No, I’m very tired. It’s been a long day. Good night, Dawson,” she says, then quickly walks out the door.
Shit.
Riley’s Penthouse - L.A.
RILEY
I’m sitting alone in my penthouse staring out at the view, trying to avoid the phone in my lap.
After the photo shoot, Keatyn sent me home but asked me to keep my phone on. Thankfully, I was so tired I did nothing but shower and then fall on my bed and pass out.
But, now, the phone is taunting me.
I have twenty-four unread text messages, waiting to be read.
I have no idea who they are from, but I’m sure at least one is from Ariela.
I’m trying not to obsess over whether or not I should read them, but that’s exactly what’s on my mind.
Fuck it.
I know I probably shouldn’t go out after everything that’s happened, but I don’t feel like being alone.
So I’m going to the bar for just one drink.
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 8TH
The Bar - L.A.
RILEY
I’m at the bar for about ten minutes when I notice two young blondes staring at me, then talking about me, then looking at their phones to confirm what they thought; that I am indeed Riley Johnson.
I roll my eyes and look around the room, searching for someone who might not know who I am. Who might not care what I could do for their career.
My mind flits back to Ariela holding her shoes and wrapped in her husband’s arms.
Next thing I know, a high-pitched voice says boldly, “Buy me a drink?”
I turn, wondering if that line actually works for her. The girl has a fresh-faced Midwestern look set on the body of a porn star.
I’m thinking it does.
“Sure, why not?” I raise my finger in the air to summon the bartender. “Get this lady a drink.”
She orders some sort of fruity concoction and quickly downs it.
Then she sets to work on me; touching my arm, giggling, leaning forward to allow me a closer look at her cleavage, which is prominently on display in a low-cut, skintight dress.
“You wanna get out of here?” I ask. I’m not in the mood for flirting. I’m in the mood for fucking.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
When the valet pulls up in tonight’s ride, you can practically see the dollar signs blazing in her eyes.
“Ohmigawd! You have a Poorsh,” she exclaims, slaughtering the Porsche name.
On the short drive to my penthouse, she gives me an excellent blowjob, which is always a sign of good things to come.
Pun intended.
Once she’s naked on my bed, I reach into my nightstand and pull out a couple silk scarves. This chick looks a little like Shelby, and I’m thinking she may have the same taste in sex.
“I’m going to tie you up,” I tell her.
Her eyes get big but then she quickly purrs, “Of course. Whatever you want.”
Once she’s pinned to my bed, I position myself above her.
But the closer I get to her the more scared she looks.
Is she afraid?
Of me?
I study her more closely, realizing she looks pretty young. But she had to be twenty-one to be at the bar.
I think back to my college days and the fake IDs we all had.
“How old are you?”
“Twenty,” she says, but she’s not a good actress.
“How old are you really?” I ask sternly.
“Um, nineteen.”
“And how long have you been in L.A.?”
“A year.”
“And why are you here with me?”
“Because you're hot,” she says, trying to convince me, but not succeeding.
I frown and shake my head, suddenly pissed.
“Don't lie to me! Why are you here? Why did you come home with me when you don't even know me?”
She doesn't bother trying to act this time, but she still lies. “Your name doesn’t matter, baby. I think you're sexy.”
I get in her face. “Tell me the fucking truth.”
She sighs, her perky breasts rising and falling. “Fine. Because you're Riley Johnson.”
I sit on top of her, grab a pocketknife from my bedside table, and flip open the blade.
Her eyes get huge and she starts to cry. “What . . . What are you gonna do with the knife?”
I quickly cut the ties, jump off her, and pull on my pants. My boner is long gone.
“Get out of here,” I command.
She sits up.
“Wait! It's fine. I'm kinky. I love that stuff. I was just acting. Pretending to be inexperienced. I'd be perfect for the role of Miranda in the new teen romance you're casting.”