Fan Girl (6 page)

RedyGo: Cause I believe in knowing the one when you find her. There are millions of girls out there and I end up with the stupid ones every time.

DirtyDozen: LOL what’s your screening process? Or do you just tap shoulders and hand out your number?

RedyGo: Hell no they don’t get my number! You’re thinking like a girl. I pick the numbers out of my pocket at random.

DirtyDozen: LMAO shut up! No wonder you can’t find someone with a brain. Who just hands their number out?

RedyGo: Obviously not me, or you for that matter.

DirtyDozen: I’m one in a million

RedyGo: I know this. I need to get back to work. Later.

Chapter 8

2013

Four years of practical slave labor launches my tattoo shop, Shell Distortion, into a huge success. We have a waiting list months long, and I have my own interns now. Stacie is my assistant manager and fellow tattoo artist. I have six girls on the noon to six shift, and six girls and two bodyguards on the six to midnight shift. It works out that all of my artists are girls, which is something that we’re known for now. We all get two days off of work a week, one of which is Sunday because we are closed. Business is excellent, so a couple years ago I redecorated and spiffed the place up. In fact, it’s so good I’ve had offers for my own reality show. I don’t know about going through with it though, because of what it did to the other reality L.A. star after the first season. I don’t need made up drama in my shop when we are currently working like a well-oiled machine.

I did end up buying a sweet new car though, and Stacie got her own apartment, leaving the condo to me. But I’m still a workaholic. It’s New Year’s Eve and Stacie is begging me to go out to the new club at the Ritz. She’s been on my case since Thanksgiving about this club that’s in the basement of the hotel.

I try one last time. “I don’t have anything to wear.”

She spins around knowing she won. “I already bought you a dress!” She pulls out a garment bag that was in the very back of my closet, and I scowl at her for having the audacity to hide it there.

“Oh stop it, you’re just pissed you didn’t notice it back there.” She would be right.
It’s a white freaking bag, how did I not see it?
She unzips it and with a ‘ta-da’ unveils a short black dress with long sleeves. When she flips it around, I see there’s no back. I shake my head. She talks over me before I can even get a word in. “Ali Dawson! You have a huge sexy back piece that no one gets to see!”

I shoot back, “They do, too! I go to the beach as much as I can. People see it.”

“You are wearing this dress, young lady. Now get in the shower and shave.”

I glare at her before walking to my bathroom and slamming the door.

I’ve been working my ass off for four years to make sure I didn’t fail. The only times I’ve taken off have been three-day jaunts to see Rolling Bridges in different countries, just because I can, and when Reed’s wife died. I’ve been worried about him. We got really close during my stay in New York. Stacie would go home to see her parents, and I would spend the holidays with Reed and Doris. She was the matching set to him. Reed is a gruff man, but wasn’t when he was with her. Doris was an enigmatic woman, who had a heart attack one day while in the grocery store. Tragic isn’t adequate to describe a sixty-two-year-old woman running out for bread and collapsing in the checkout lane.

Shaking off my thoughts, I get in the shower and curl my hair a la Victoria Secret style. Windblown, just out of bed, wild and wavy. My makeup is the perfected nighttime, smoky look. Dark eyelids, highlighted cheekbones, and shiny lips. The dress is taunting me from the back of the bathroom door where Stacie put it after I got in the tub. I pull it down and grudgingly tug it on.

The cut in the front is high so there’s no cleavage on show. The sleeves are long and tight down my arms, so it totally covers my sleeve tattoo. It’s a short dress, and half of the sugar skull on the top of my thigh shows. That tattoo is made up entirely of flowers. I turn to look at the back and my eyes bug out. I have an intricately woven piece on my back that Reed did. It’s all black and a mix between Celtic, tribal, and paisley designs. Right where a bra clasp would go there’s a lotus flower in red as tribute to my grandparents. The piece goes from middle shoulder blades to the small of my back.

The dress is so low I have to tuck the thong straps down a little so they aren’t visible. I open the door and level my glare on Stacie.

She pops up from the bed with chrome-looking stiletto heels in her hands. “These are the shoes. That dress looks even better than I thought it would. You are going to get a New Year’s kiss, and we’re going to start this year off right!”

I roll my eyes at her, put on the shoes, and we head out.

Stacie has curled half of her jet black hair into fifties style curls that make big loops on the sides of her head with the rest down her back. She’s got on a fire engine red strapless dress with a wide poofy skirt that has black tool underneath. Red and black peep-toe pumps with skulls on the heels complete her outfit.

We get valet parking and make our way to the elevators for the club. When we get to the doors, I see Stacie pull out her ID and gesture to me behind her.
What is she doing?
The guy at the door checks his clipboard and stamps our hands. I’m staring at her like she needs to spill her guts or I’m going to do it for her. But she’s apparently immune to my death beams, because she just takes off dragging me behind her. Instantly my heart starts vibrating with the bass of the music, and I’ve lost the chance to figure out what she’s up to.

We end up at a velvet rope with a huge security guard standing in front of it. She shows her ID again, and he checks our hands with a black light before undoing the rope and letting us climb the stairs.

I grab her arm as we go up and lean close to her ear to yell, “Why are we in VIP?”

She looks at me and says excitedly, “Bobby got me in! He had to work and already had the tickets for the New Year’s bash. Yay for us!”

Okay that was pretty cool of Bobby. I ask her, “Am I your plus one?”

She nods and laughs. “You aren’t getting a midnight kiss from me, though. Find your own.” I roll my eyes and take in all that is VIP. It looks like there may be athletes of some kind in the corner, and everyone else looks like they’re either celebrities or wannabes. There are U-shaped couches all along the wall creating separate seating areas. The middle is a dance floor, and along the same wall as the stairs is the bar. There are waitresses everywhere with little tiny drink trays.

We snatch a seat in the middle. Naturally, Stacie would pick where the most light was to better showcase her wares. A waitress comes to us within minutes, and I order us glasses of merlot. Stacie gives an eye roll and orders the bottle instead. When we get our drinks Stacie wants to dance, so we quickly down our glasses and get to the dance floor.

Slipping and sliding on the bodies next to us, the temperature rises. The dance floor below is packed and the heat is sweltering, despite the air conditioning. Luckily, I have learned to dance in the years that followed my transformation. We dance song after song with a ton of guys, some girls, and each other. Before long I’m overheated and suggest a drink. Stacie has a tag along, as is evident when she sits down in our booth on his lap instead of on the couch.

We grab the bottle of wine and, between the three of us, it’s gone in minutes. The guy, I haven’t gotten his name, orders two more. He’s in light grey slacks and a dark grey button-down shirt. He’s got white blond hair and is the total opposite of Stacie’s type. She goes for the Johnny to her Olivia, usually. Then again she’s got dark hair, so maybe she’s playing with the opposite thing.

I worked up quite a thirst while dancing, causing me to chug the expensive wine like water. Two bottles are gone in a flash, and I’m getting dragged out onto the floor again. When I stand, I’m as unsteady on my stilettos as Stacie, but she’s in her giggly ditz mode and just uses that to pull the guy closer. I start dancing to one of the sexiest songs I know by Lorde when I feel hands behind me. Those hands go all over the unprotected tattoo on my back, then skim the lines of the dress with just fingertips. I’m thinking this guy —I hope it’s a guy— is trying to seduce me, and in my buzzed state, I hope like hell he’s hot. I feel him come up behind me as he puts his hands on my waist to pull me back into him. He’s tall, I can feel his chin on my head behind my temples. I haven’t turned around because if he’s a creeper I don’t want to know just yet. He can dance, that’s for sure. He puts one knee between mine, and we roll to the beat of the song. I can smell him. He smells like Diesel cologne, which is the scent that always makes me want to bite something. It’s the scent all hot guys should wear, as far as I’m concerned. I look down to see his hands. They’re pulling on my waist and rubbing over my stomach at intervals. I can feel his fingertips catching on the material of my dress like he’s got calluses. His watch is silver, and he has his sleeves rolled up his arms. I notice he has some tattoos.

I look up when a flash of red catches my eye. Stacie is standing in front of me with a look of horror on her face. Her boy toy is pulling her against him and trying to get her to dance, but she’s stopped. I give her a questioning look that says, ‘Is he ugly?’ She shakes her head no frantically and slaps the guy behind her with her hair. He spins her around and I have nothing to go on. Okay, he’s not ugly
. Perfect
.
But why the look?
I don’t want to turn around and have a nice thing interrupted, so I just keep dancing.

I feel one of his hands leave my stomach, then my hair gets pushed off of one shoulder and onto the other. Goose bumps appear all along my arms because he’s nuzzling my ear with his nose. He slides it down and starts kissing my neck. I push my butt into his front, and he tightens his arm around me, pulling me back as he opens his mouth. I can feel his tongue as he kisses up and down my neck, from ear to shoulder and back again.

The smell of him, the buzz that’s turning into tipsy, and if I’m not mistaken, the tongue ring on my neck, is making me dance more aggressively. I push back more, and he pushes forward countering me. I close my eyes, lean my head back against a rock hard chest, and go with the music as the lights start to spin around me. I hear him murmur something in my ear, but the music is too loud so I just shake my head and keep dancing.

He leans back to move the hair from my shoulder and kiss that side of my neck. I tilt my head to let him. He doesn’t let go of my hair, though. He bunches it in his fist and pulls my head back, tightening his fist, but not painfully. My lips part at the dominant gesture.
Who knew I would like that?
I’m admittedly inexperienced, so I go with what feels good. He sucks my neck and rolls his tongue along the sensitive tendons at my shoulder.

By the fourth song we’re both breathing hard. I can’t hear it, but I can feel him panting behind me. He takes the hand that’s not in my hair and holds my jaw, thumb on one side, long fingers on the other, then angles my head to the side. I open my eyes enough to see a white collar, tan skin, and dark hair that’s shining with the lights of the club. Before I know it, he’s biting my bottom lip then sucking it into his mouth. He releases and immediately sticks his tongue in my mouth. I was right about the tongue ring. When it clashes together with mine his finger grip tighter, and he kisses me deeper. He tastes like alcohol, maybe scotch or something, and mint.

I curl my hand around his neck and pull him closer. He’s so tall. He pulls away suddenly and straightens, grabbing my hand. He pulls me down the stairs, and I take in his white collared shirt and black dress pants. He does have dark hair, I was right about that too.
Where the hell am I going with someone when I don’t even know what they look like? Didn’t I already do this?

As we leave through a side door, I see people exiting an elevator at the end of the hall. He starts pulling me faster so that we’re both jogging to get to the doors before they close.

We make it, barely. I feel the doors shut inches from my back. I walk to the back of the small space as he pushes a button. As I’m turning, he pushes me back against the wall putting a hand on the back of my head so it doesn’t crash into it. I think absently that it was a sweet gesture before his tongue is in my mouth again. He rolls his body against mine, and my breath stutters. It starts with his head connecting with mine, then his chest, stomach, hips all the way down to his knees. One of his knees is wedged between my legs and there’s pressure right
there
.

He tightens the hand on the back of my head to tug at my hair, just as the door dings signaling our floor. He’s gone in a flash, and I’m jogging behind his long legs as they rush down the hall. He gets the door open before I get around him to see his face. I’m becoming alarmed that this is going to happen and again, I’m not going to know who I slept with.

I follow the guy from the sitting room into the bedroom, mainly because he hasn’t let go of my hand yet. At the foot of the bed he spins, puts his hands under my pits, and tosses me on the bed. I land on my back and bounce. Managing to keep my legs closed, I quickly look up at my Don Juan. If he’s gross I’m out.

But when I do look up and finally catch his features, I feel my skin turn pale and my stomach sink. I look all over him for confirmation, and that he’s not just a look alike, or that in my drunk state I’m projecting or something. He undoes a few buttons of his white shirt with one tattooed hand and one un-inked. Then he yanks both that and the undershirt over his head.