Chasing Stars (5 page)

A shudder runs through my body. I rake a shaking hand through my hair. Looking at myself in the mirror, I see how wild and aroused I am. The lack of self-control scares the heck out of me.

Recognizing my wild expression, I swallow hard. I will not stray from the vow I made.

“Damn it.” I close my eyes, trying to ease my erratic breathing. Every inch of me wants to succumb and bury myself inside her. I lower my head under a jet of cold water from the sink faucet, allowing the flow to run through my hair. I need to be rid of this primal urge to make her mine.

Deep down, I realize the fire is too intense. I can’t do anything about it. Correction. I
won’t
do anything about it.

As I climb on the table, my legs tremble from the undeniable electricity stirred from our contact. Do I regret it? Not for a moment, but the intense explosion between us scares the crap out of me.

Tears burn the back of my eyes, but I refuse to release them. I have never been the teary type and I’m not starting a bad habit now. I can feel something inside me is shattered. And it hurts. I lie back and squeeze my eyes shot, willing my shaken body to relax. I hear his quiet footsteps approaching. God, this sucks.

“I’m sorry. That, um, was very unprofessional of me.” His voice is detached.

“We are two consenting adults. No big deal.” The last thing I want to discuss is his rejection of me. To avoid seeing the disgust and regret on his face, I keep my eyes closed.

The music is back on. Please, let this day be over. I hear soft notes swirling around me. His music selection is freaking awesome. I consider stealing his iPod before leaving. Just a souvenir of the day I was rejected.

Call me crazy, but a small part of me urgently needs to make amends with him. I want him to like me, though I have the impression that right now he despises me.

Another part of me, just wants to leave. Yet, the thought of not seeing him again is unwelcome. What’s wrong with me? I am not this vulnerable and emotional.

I don’t usually ask for much, but how I would love to have a do over for this day.

“Can you lie on your back, please?” he asks. I comply, feeling his fingers touching me again. I swoon. Really?

For a while, there is a heavy silence pulsing between us. His hands are on my stomach, dangerously close to my breasts. I need to do something before I explode.

“How long have you been a tattoo artist?” I ask, opening my eyes. Maybe if we talk, it will erase the discomfort humming through us.

“Around six years. I got this job out of high school.” He secures the blanket over my hips.

“Do you go to college?”

He squirts a jet of ink out of a tube. “Just graduated this May,” he says, grabbing a small painting brush.

“Let me guess, fine arts at Columbia University.” His hand stills, and he raises a brown.

“Lucky guess,” I add.

Truth is, I looked into many universities and I remember reading that Columbia offers one of the best fine arts majors in the nation. I ended up never pursuing a degree, but I don’t say that. For a silly reason, I feel ashamed for not having a college education.

I want to know more about him, but I hit a wall and he is not volunteering any info. His intense green eyes are intent on the tattooing process, and his skillful hand focuses on inking my skin. I examine his face closely. Oh, yeah, he is deliciously handsome.

I see he is biting inside his cheek, and my mind reels instinctively to the texture of his full lips, soft and possessive, over mine. Frustrated, I redirect my thoughts. I am dead tired of fighting the surge of foreign and unbidden thoughts and emotions.

“Interesting playlist,” I offer.

“Music is a powerful tool. It calms or excites. I try to create an interesting playlist. Getting a tattoo should be a pleasant experience.” The right corner of his lips curves into a half smile. “With long projects like yours, I will often ask for preferences. In your case, well, let’s say it was kind of hard to get in touch with you.”

“So, how did you come up with this list?” I ask. Many of the songs are unknown to me, but I really like them.

“Well, I um, just played my personal favorite playlist and hoped you would not just hate it.” He turns, gets a tube of red ink, and squirts on the tray.

My heart is racing. He is talking to me as if nothing had happened. A thrill runs through me.

“Honest truth?” I smile. “I like…no, I love it; I even considered stealing your iPod.” I confess.

“Maybe some other time, I can add the playlist to your iPod.”

My heart falters. I can see in his eyes, that there won’t be another time.

I observe his stained fingers squirt orange ink from a tube onto the tray. He gets closer to me, and deftly his fingers resume the inking.

“So, you will be filming the scene with the tattoo, today, yeah?” He is so close to my abdomen, that I can feel his breath tickling my skin when he talks.

“Yeah, you should come to filming and watch,” I say before thinking.

“That would be interesting. But I can’t, I am going home today,” he says.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” I ask hopeful.

“Sure. No guaranteed answer though.”

Gosh. Is he always this blunt?

“I didn’t see a tattoo on you. Your chest, back, and arms are bare. You, don’t believe in them?” I am very curious how a tattoo artist doesn’t have a blessed tattoo on his body.

He pauses for a bit and then looks right at me with his intense green eyes.

“I have one,” he simply says.

“Oh.” I know instinctively that is all the answer I will get. Damn. It kills me I won’t get to know where it is. For whatever reason, he wants to keep to himself. I can relate. Certain areas of life are better tucked away, protected from prying eyes.

“I like stargazing,” I murmur so quietly I wonder if he hears me. “When I was I kid, I went to a boarding school in New Hampshire. I hated it. At night, I would go to a meadow, lie on the grass and spend hours visiting stars from every constellation. It was sort of an escape, my secret place where I could be who I wanted to be, and be free to go wherever I wanted. I invented my own memories on each star as though they were real.” I smile. “Certain things, we keep to ourselves. It is safer that way.”

I don’t know why I told him the dorky story, but in all honesty, it feels good to share something so personal with him. Does the loneliness I see in his soul somehow match mine? Perhaps, I just want him to see beyond my bitchy and shallow image.

I am not Miss Purity. I will say this though, a great deal of what the press prints of me is untrue, but since I can’t fight the wave of gossip when it sways my way, I don’t. I float, allowing it to drift me to the shore. Yeah, sometimes I crash against reefs. Do I get hurt? Whatever. Who cares?

I am never impressed or fascinated by much. A rough start in life taught me to be skeptical of the elusive. But wow, this astonishing woman has the ability to astound me.

“Did you ever visit Asteroid B-612?” I finally ask, referring to
The Little Prince
, my favorite book.

“Yeah, in fact, I did visit the lonely, tiny planet,” she answers, with an amused smile curling on her lips.

I guess she read it too. I try not to make a big deal out of this particular fact we have in common. The book is a classic after all, and most children read it at one point.

My mind paints the picture of the miserable, rich, little girl alone in a field. Her candid disclosure, which gave me an insight into her soul, reaches deep inside me. I don’t think she realizes it, but this vulnerable side of her is attractive as hell. For a brief moment, the broken boy inside me connects to the lonely girl inside this fascinating woman. I want to cuddle her inside my arms. Honest truth.

For once, I am at a loss for words. So, I just remain silent. Words can be useless in times like this, even harmful. I gaze at her for a moment and I am sure she can sense a mutual understanding humming between us.

As my fingers add the last details completing the tat, we remain in a peaceful treaty. After I stroke the last ink to her flawless skin, I take one last glance at her face and bare body, now with my artwork imprinted temporarily on it. She is drop-dead gorgeous. The design complements her just the way I intended. Prior to creating the design, I studied her pictures, trying to capture her essence. I understand that the tattoo is for a character, but her body hosts it.

The wholeness of the result is breathtaking. I look at her hair spilling on the pillow, her naked chest rising up and down, and her eyes gazing at me with a purity that is nonexistent when she flirts. I commit the image to my memory; I need to sketch it later.

“It’s over,” I announce. I hand her the post-care of temp tats.

Briefly, I see disappointment crossing her eyes, but she composes herself and sits up.

“Thank you.” She smiles, slips off the table, and walks—nude—to the bathroom.

OK, I know I should not, but I can’t help as my gaze follows her swaying hips. I admire her freedom, exposing a naked body is hard for most people, but she displays hers with confidence. Oh well, it is her tool of the trade, is it not?

I begin cleaning the tray, but my mind recaps the morning we spent together. There is more to Portia than the prepackaged image the media displays.

I see her walking back, fully dressed in her yoga pants and tank top. The seductive smile is back on her lips as if suddenly she is back in character. I feel a pang of disappointment.

“Wow, I saw the tattoo, it is unbelievable. No wonder they made me come to your shop.”

“Good, I hope it does the movie justice. I hear you might be up for an Oscar nomination.” I stand up.

“Nah, just media speculation.” She shrugs.

“Well, I guess this is good-bye,” I say.

“Wow. Good-bye is too definite, Will.” She smiles.

“It is proper. Our paths will never cross again, I don’t think,” I say.

“Never is a long time, Will.”

“Later then,” I reply.

“Anyway, I’ll be in town for the duration of the filming.” She fidgets with her hands. “I’ve always wanted a tattoo, but I never found anything interesting. Would you consider designing me something?” She asks, unsure.