Chasing Stars (11 page)

I cleanse Niki’s left shoulder, and apply the tattoo stencil. “How does it look?” I hand her a mirror.

“Perfect.” Niki says.

“I will start inking then.” I say.

“Yep. Do your magic, god of all inks.”

I glance again at the big clock on the wall, another hour and Portia will be here.

“How do you like Columbia University?” Niki asks.

“Can’t complain. I got a full scholarship to a university that offers one of the best fine arts programs in the nation,” I tell her.

“Oh, wow, you must be a smart-ass.” Niki smirks.

“Don’t know about that. Being adopted without a penny to my name, but being able to paint and give back to my community did help.” I change the needle on my gun.

The silent hum of the gun injecting the ink is the only sound we hear for a while. I like Niki and can see myself being friends with her. She is, somehow, sort of soothing.

“That’s a nice tat you have on the back of your shoulder.” I say.

“Thanks, I did it when I turned eighteen, it was my rebellious way of emancipating. Portia chickened out though.”

“Hum, that’s interesting.”

“What?”

“You being rebellious and Portia not. You seem much more centered and focused than her.”

“Well, being fair, Portia didn’t do the tat cause her father disapprove of tattoos.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, though she won’t admit, Portia craves her father’s approval as much as a junkie craves the next fix.”

I hear a buzz from her cell. She holds it to her face, announcing with a frown, “It’s Portia, she won’t make it. They’re going to film for another three hours. She will call you to reschedule.” Her fingers type a brief reply.

“OK,” I mumble, unable to hide my disappointment. The plan was for Niki and Portia to have a back-to-back appointment today. I was anxious for her to get here. Go figure.

“Portia is the hardest working person I know. Well, besides my dad,” Niki says. “You guys seem to hit off well together,” she adds.

“There isn’t a possibility of anything happening between us. The kiss you saw was a mistake,” I say dryly.

“Portia is not the vain person the media portrays, Will.”

The observation catches me by surprise. It seems Niki looks right through me, reading my thoughts. I arch my brows, but refrain from commenting.

“You shouldn’t believe what’s printed about Portia. Most of it is untrue.” Niki continues, a little too defensive.

“I don’t,” I say curtly.

“Portia has her flaws, we all do. She is an incredible human being. She is the first to get to the job and the last to leave. She never complains, always forgives, she is loyal to her friends, and there is more compassion in her than anyone I know,” Niki says, watching me closely.

“She does not carry herself that way,” I finally say.

“One of the first lessons Portia learned in life was to ignore the inaccurate image of her that has been perpetuated. When you are the daughter of a mega-movie star and a tycoon, your life is under constant scrutiny,” she says.

“She does a good job maintaining a shallow image, that’s for sure.” I look up.

Niki laughs. “The media want Portia to be bad, it sells. People don’t see her as a person entitled to pave her own way. It is easier to judge and believe the worst about her. Portia will not change the public perception of her. Because no matter how good she is, people will always see only the worst.”

“I don’t know her enough to paint a clear picture. But I can’t see beyond the façade of a superficial heiress and actress, either.” Why am I having this discussion about Portia? After I ink Portia, she will be out of my life for good.

“If you can’t see the essence of who she really is, then you are no different than any of them,” she says softly.

I am at loss for words, which doesn’t happen often. There is passion with which Niki defends her friend, but there is also a matter-of-fact tone. Niki is a contained person, but she speaks with conviction.

I am quiet. Niki’s opinion is through a biased filter, but there is a ring of truth to what she says. I remember the way Portia behaved on the day of the tattoo, quietly enduring to make my job easier.

I finish the tat and hand her a mirror.

“What do you think?”

“You
are
the god of all inks.” She grins examining the tattoo on her left shoulder.

I tape it off, and hand the aftercare instructions to her. “You are done.”

“How much do I owe you?” She grabs her purse.

“No, no. It’s on the house. Inking Portia has generated enough business. Next time.”

I feel stupid, but I want to do something nice for Niki. I wonder if it’s because she is good person or because she is good to Portia. I want to believe the first, but I know it’s because of the latter. Should I be worried about my emotions?

“Well. This is it then. I am going back to LA next week.” Niki gives me a shy embrace and, for some obscure reason, I feel bad she is leaving. Crap. It feels as if I am losing a piece of Portia and next it will be her. Yeah, be worried, Will, be freaking worried.

“Very nice to meet you Niki, take care.” I return the hug.

“Be nice to Portia, Will. She really likes you, you know.”

Before I can reply, Niki turns and leaves.

In my shallow sleep, I hear the insistent sound of the doorbell ringing. Bolting from bed, my body stiffens, instinctively surging into an alert state. My hands form tight fists as the intense fight-or-flight reflex instilled in me years ago suddenly reemerges.

I squint at the alarm clock. It is one thirty; I have slept for less than an hour. After I switch on the light, I don a pair of jeans and a cotton shirt. Maybe my last client forgot something. Drawing a long breath of air, I try to decrease my heart rate. I rub my eyes, and stride into the shop.

“Who the hell can it be at this time?” I mumble opening the door.

Flashes from several cameras blind me. I raise my hand, shielding my eyes as two giggling girls enter the shop. Without seeing, I recognize Portia’s sensual laughter.

I shut the door, bolt the lock, and pull down the blinds.

“Damn, these photographers don’t sleep?” I turn to Portia and Niki.

“Hi, Will.” Portia’s lips curve up. Her voice is sultry.

“Hi, Will.” Niki mimics in a hurried tone. “Portia wanted to get her tattoo today, but I can’t stay. Have to run because my boyfriend is waiting in the car.” She turns to Portia. “Be good.” She winks at us, then storms away.

I frown trying to make sense of what is happening. When I turn, I see Portia scrambling on the table, but slipping off the edge. I sprint in her direction, and my hands steady her, right before she falls.

“Wow, thanks, handsome.” Her hands grab my shoulders.

“Are you OK?”

“Yes,” she stutters, and a whiff of alcohol permeates my nostrils.

“You drank, you reek of liquor.”

“Just a little,” she blinks.

“You don’t get a tattoo when you are drunk,” I say harshly.

“Oh.” She slides off the table, raising her hands to my neck. “I can do lots of things when I am drunk.” She draws closer, her whole body touches mine.

“Not in this shop.” I grab both her arms, attempting to release her hold.

“Are you always…this stiff?” Her breasts press against my chest, making my head spin. I glance at her cleavage. God. I wrench my eyes away, and inhale deep, but my body stirs to life and betrays me again.

She tugs my hair, forcing me to look in her eyes. They reveal a raw desire that draws me in. Unable to resist, my hands enlace her waist and I pull her closer. Our lips find each other. Her mouth is soft, warm. It tastes of passion and desire, but it also tastes of liquor.

I pull back. “I will call you a cab,” I say under my breath. My hands abruptly release her, and she sways. I clasp her shoulder to steady her.

She laughs and her body shakes. She looks at me but the smile does not reach her eyes. “Aren’t going to apologize?” she stammers. “You should, because. Because. You know, Will?” A loud hiccup escapes her throat. “I am not lovable, Will, really.” She fixes her eyes on me, and the sadness I detect in them shatters me. “But before you, I was fuckable.” She hammers a finger on my chest. “But you, Will, you took that away from me,” she laughs sadly. “I am not even fuckable anymore.” She frowns. “I don’t feel well. I need to—bathroom.” Stumbling, she turns and covers her mouth with both hands.

“Oh. No.” I place one hand on her waist, guiding her to the shop bathroom. Before we reach the toilet she pukes. It is not pretty. A jet of vomit spews out. It saturates the front of her shirt, then hitting the floor and me. Side note: The vomit mostly hits me and I gag. Not apologizing here, the stench is nauseating.

Redirecting our steps, we go to my studio. She needs to shower; we both do.

Struggling to hold her up, I open the bathroom door and haul her in. I stand by the tub, unsure if I should do this, but the reek of her puke quickly aids my decision.

I grab the hem of her blouse. Her drunken eyes gaze up at me. “Are you undressing me?” she giggles and another hiccup surfaces. “I knew it.” She raises her arms, and I doff her blouse. “Maybe I am still fuckable.” She begins to cry. “I know you don’t want me, but I want you, Will,” she sobs. “Nobody loves me,” she mumbles, and I only comprehend some of the muddy words. “Do you know why I like stargazing? Because
The Little Prince
is the only fucking book someone ever read to me. Dad almost gave a shit about me back then.”

She continues to stutter but, incapable of understanding her stammered speech, I continue to undress her, struggling to remove her tight jeans. How do women wear such tight clothes? Pausing for a moment, I swallow hard, staring at the black lacy panties. I decide I don’t need to remove that piece for now. Indecisive, I look up at her bra, saturated in the vomit. It will have to go. I decide to unhook the back.

I turn the water on, maneuver her under the shower, and step in the tub with her. Letting go of her, I step back, and snatch my soiled shirt off.

I squirt shampoo over her hair, working it into a lather, and washing off chunks of vomit mingled with her long hair. I soap a washcloth and swiftly wash her face and chest removing the spew. I steady her under the stream and watch as the water rinses her hair, and rivulets roll down her perfect curves.

Her cheeks are rosy from the steam. She lifts her chin, and water streams down her face. She is so beautiful and pure; I want to sketch her just like that. I focus on each detail of her glorious face, committing it to memory for a later drawing. I hear my pulse beating loudly against my ears and guilt yanks me from my Peeping Tom moment. That’s what I am doing, gawking at a drunk and naked woman.

I flip the water off, grab a towel, and dry her. After wrapping the towel around her chest, I reach under, and strip her panties. I sweep her off the floor and carry her back to the studio. She snuggles on my naked chest, and her hands caress my wet skin, leaving a trail of fire. Jesus.

“Will?” She kisses my chest lightly. “Make love to me. Please, just once,” she drawls.

My entire body contracts and it takes all the character rooted in me not to oblige her request.

I sit her on the edge of my bed and stride to my cabinet. I grab the first cotton shirt and, what the heck, a pair of boxers and I dress her. I scoot her to the center of my bed, nestling her under my covers.

“Will?” she asks, peering at me. “You are nice, that’s too bad we can’t, you know…” She tries to keep her eyes open, but her lids close.

I stand by the bed, soaking wet and on fire. When I stare at her, curled on my bed, I sense her vulnerability and it breaks something inside me, filling me with a desire to protect this girl. Silly to think this, but I also have this unbearable desire to make her smile and to get to know her. I take a step back because these emotions scare the hell out of me.

For the next hour, I busy myself, cleaning the floor where she vomited, washing her clothes, and showering. I am happy to have something to occupy my mind and take me far from her desirable, sleeping body.

I grab a pillow from my bed and take a glance at Portia. Exhausted—emotionally and physically—I place a heavy comforter and bedspread on the floor, laying my sorry ass on the hardwood floor. Sleep does not greet me.