Bad Boy Boss (7 page)

“Still scared?” he said.

“Yes.”

“Will this help you face tomorrow?”

“Immensely,” I responded.

“They’re just ordinary people, you know.”

“To you, and maybe if I had met them one at a time. But they sort of got thrown at me en masse. And then Cash; I mean, that wasn’t even half fair, not telling me about Cash.”

“Would you have gone with me knowing Cash was my cousin?”

I thought for a second. “Probably. Actually, I’ll amend that. About the only way I wouldn’t have gone with you would have been a straight out proposition for a paid sexual encounter. Anything else, I would have come without hesitation. You were – in fact, still are – the hottest, prettiest man on earth, and riding with you made me hot as hell long before we ever got to Sugarloaf. I cried when you didn’t stay with me that first night because I was afraid it would be just a job and I’d never get close to you.”

“That was a trick. In the back of your knee…”

“Is an erogenous zone,” I interrupted him. “I know that. You weren’t the first to touch it. You’re just the best out of those who did. Now, I need two apologies.”

“Two?”

“One for not telling me Cash was your cousin before we got here, and one for leaving me alone that first night.”

“Is there any particular form you want these apologies to take?”

I put his hands on my breasts and wiggled my nipples into his palms.

“Physically is preferable,” I said.

He’d just cum, so while it was probably a bit uncomfortable for him to start, he had time. I got every erogenous zone from my toes to my ears kissed, licked and massaged. I was shaking and my entire focus was not to moan, so I was quietly squeaking. Once he got his tongue between my bush and my leg, I felt like I was flying somewhere between the ceiling and the bed, biting my tongue. When he got his fingers against my pelvis I came about three times before he slipped into me and I just couldn’t help vocalizing it.

“Not the first time it’s happened up here,” he said. “The room’s pretty much sound proof.”

“You’re a little bit late with that information,” I said.

The next morning at breakfast, we were coming in from our various directions. Cash even walked all the way from next door to join us. Okay, only mansions have sound proof rooms for loud sex and a quarter mile to walk for breakfast.

“I got you the Doran first, a pristine copy,” said Anabelle, the middle sister who had publicly disowned him, after his last acting performance. “Your friend also sent along Princess Mary’s Gift Book.”

He reached over and squeezed my hand. “The last pieces of the puzzle,” he said. “Do any of you want to see my fairy princess here?”

We all moved into the library where they could stream his memory stick on the 85” screen of the smart TV and there I was, flying.

I got more praise than he did for the photos, which I didn’t think was fair, it was his idea and he did all the real work. Still, there were a half dozen where you almost couldn’t tell the difference and it looked like the original fairy had just been colorized.

“There’s a third persona for you,” said Harrison. “Admittedly pantomime, but look at yourself, you’re portraying a fairy, or at least the idea everyone has of a fairy. There is something carefree, slightly crazy in it, and you’ve got it in almost all the photos. When you act, your whole being is involved in it, you cease to be you and become someone, or even in this case, something else. You do that naturally, and well.”

“I already noted that,” said Cash.

“Then how come I was on the bottom of the pay scale?” I asked.

“Because you kept your pants on; you know that,” Cash said unabashedly. “I’m not selling acting. I just mentioned that you were a natural at it.”

“I thought all the stuff you did was nude,” said Sarah.

“For the most part, it ends up that way,” explained Cash. “Mary wouldn’t go the whole route, but she was just too good not to use.”

“That’s a pretty high recommendation there,” Rachel said. “I mean appearing clothed in a nudie and still being the top draw. Would you please go get the album, Harry? The poor girl is drowning in embarrassment and she shouldn’t be.”

A change of memory sticks and there was Peter’s mom, naked as the day she was born, in a series of poses from when she was considerably younger.

“The last set was one of the last sessions photographer Bunny Yeager did before she semi-retired,” Rachel continued. “She wanted to take them to Playboy, but I’d just gotten my journalism degree, my first job and the handsomest rich boy around as my new boyfriend; none of which worked really well with having Hugh Hefner sticking staples in my navel. I’d done Gent, Swanky Town and some calendars to get through school, and I know about catfights because I did two for Cavalier. You’re not alone here, my dear. There is nothing wrong with a little exhibitionism if you have the goods to exhibit.”

I changed clothes before we left. I changed back to the mini and nylons from the wrap shirt and leggings. When we got in the car, I rolled down my left hose to my boot top and put my leg up next to the gearshift.

“I am due a second apology as soon as we get home and I want to be sure I’m in the proper mood for it,” I said.

We drove back through Ventura, and then north of LA proper, Pasadena, Glendale, Burbank, stopping at both Trader Joe’s and Whole Foods. He would reach over to my knee when traffic allowed and, well it was working out. It had been a pretty tough weekend for me, I wish I’d known about his mother earlier, but then again, is it something you advertise to an almost stranger? That Mom got through Journalism school posing nude?

It was basically the same road we’d taken the previous Monday, and I was getting hot and wet, just like the previous week. The fact that now I knew why didn’t seem to make much difference. It was all pretty hard to digest. But then, I supposed it was going to get stranger. Here I was, head over heels in love with a guy so rich he probably didn’t know from moment to moment exactly how rich he was, from a famous family with two Oscar winners, and major corporations lying around like houseplants. Plus, he had a mother who understood me and had been through some of the same things I had. And to top it all off, I was set up for an audition for a part in a TV show in nine days. Just one week ago, I was too broke to pay attention, hoping a bad gig with an, I thought, amateur night production would, somehow, turn out to be a big break. And that’s the way it turned out. I had never had any indication from any previous life experience that such a thing was possible.

We stocked his cabin first, then mine. After we put all the food away, I thought I had him cornered when he picked me up and laid me face first on the bed and went to work with his mouth and hands on the leg he’d been playing with since about Carpentaria. He didn’t stop until I squealed, then he stripped me and went into the bathroom. He came out almost stripped, and went back to work; but now on both legs, licking the inside of them up and down while massaging the back of my knees between licking them. He turned me over and started on my breasts and the insides of my arms, leaving me squealing and shivering.

I was getting through this ambush when he finally put a hand between my legs and, after all that buildup, I was about to orgasm with a touch. And then with another touch and… if they were listening in Santa Barbara, they’d have pretty much known what was going on. He pulled me up on my side with his hand across the back of my knee, opening me up to him, though at that point, I suppose it was more like taking a seat on a bucking bronco. I mean he had me going wild, and when he finally came, I practically hugged him into two pieces.

“Apology accepted?” he asked.

“If I can catch my breath long enough.”

“You were the one who suggested we start one hundred and eighty miles away.”

“Remind me to do that more often. God, I can’t move. Do you have any concept of what one orgasm does to you? Jesus, don’t you dare.”

He had his hand on my breast, his other hand on my knee and he was licking up the inside of my arm. He didn’t stop and I was too exhausted to resist. He made me come me two more times before sliding inside of me.

Sometime during the weekend’s activities, I guess he figured out that the inside of my arms were, well, major with me. I had hidden that for a week, but apparently the cat was out of the bag because he spent Monday taking every opportunity to brush the inside of my arms, especially behind my elbow, while posing me. It was all I could do to make it through work and sit patiently through another amazing dinner before I was able to take him to bed.

I stripped him. Licked him clean, like a cat making sure with my paws, rubbing my nipples into his chest, sliding my legs over his, and not letting him up until he came. Then I clung to his back, licking him until he was ready to make a serious attempt at a second time, which I wiggled and squeezed out of him.

“That will teach you to mess around with my arms,” I said.

He just reached up, pulled my right arm down, and started working on it with his tongue. His other hand rubbed the inside of my leg, making me shiver and squeak once more. Then he settled himself soundly between my thighs and went to work. After I was through telling the San Bernardino National Forest all about it, loudly, we had pretty much exhausted each other.

We continued to trade nights cooking, and he didn’t back off; he held me all night every night. Saturday, because it was our day off, I drove all the way down to the bookstore in Crestline. I could never figure out why the smallest resort on the mountain was the only one with a bookstore. I needed a cookbook or two, and I picked up a book on acting.

I went through the cookbooks because we were going to LA on Tuesday and I wanted to see if there were any interesting ingredients to pick up. The mountain is pretty sparse. Big Bear is the largest resort area that caters to people two seasons (they say four, but spring and autumn don’t fill the place up) and it only has two markets. Both stores are bottom level chains, and there are two drug stores of about the same caliber.

In the meantime, Peter and I worked on the book, getting the original poses right and then taking off a bit from them. Basically a children’s book, the spare narration told of a little girl who came to the mountains with her parents from Los Angeles for the summer. Her dad worked down the hill while she stayed with her mom and big sister. The girl was nine and her sister sixteen. They loved the forest, often coming home with muddy feet and soaked clothing.

One weekend in August, when their father was there, they came home a mess. They said they were a mess because they had been playing with the fairies in the creek that ran along the hiking trail. When their father said he’d come along Sunday to meet the fairies, the girls said that the fairies only appeared to children. So he challenged them to take pictures of the fairies and gave them an expensive camera to do it with, because he was a photographer.

The book would be the photos the girls ‘took.’

On Thursday, I had made a stir fry out of a can of Chinese vegetables and a new thing: thin chicken in slabs like Philly steak over crispy noodles. Over dinner, we were discussing the book.

“I don’t like the title,” he said.

“It’s a milk name,” I answered. “I can think of several better names. Fairies aren’t going to replace angels. People believe that there are angels; only children believe in fairies.”

“That’s it,” he said.

And I just clapped my hands.

“Quote Barrie,” he said. ‘If you believe in fairies, then clap your hands.’”

“Why not just
Clap Your Hands
?” I said. “Explain Barrie as an intro, or maybe as a narrator; tell the whole Cottingley fairy story as the dad, and say: ‘maybe?’”

“Oh God, I love you,” he said.

“And you live under the illusion that you’re not my whole world.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” he said.

And I said, “I hope.”

Okay, he was careful, gentle and just incredible Monday night. Every touch was magic. NO ONE has ever been loved that way, loved that much. Every hot button I had was pushed, time and again.

When he pulled me up into him, I knew that if God and the world itself failed me, he wouldn’t. Call it love. It’s a weak term. He was quickly becoming my world, my everything.

We drove down to the house in Glendale. The house had three bedrooms, one staircase. It was in the Verdugo Hills above Glendale and the day was clear enough that you could see the Hollywood Hills from the windows on the second floor. I was wearing a more understated outfit that Peter bought me in Big Bear, as my clothes were, well, a little bit off the scale for interviews.

The people, even the guard at the gate, seemed to know Peter. Except for the guard who gave us directions, no one even asked to see the letter.

It was a suite of offices and the girl at the front desk just handed me a page of dialogue and showed me where I could sit and study it. I was with two other girls, so I supposed we were competing for the part.

I was getting a picture of the character as I read the dialogue. You know the type; the ditz who is always saying something brilliant or coming up with a double entendre without realizing it. I was about halfway there just being myself; the character wouldn’t be much of a stretch for me.