Fiona Love

Fiona Love

Sherrod Story

Fiona Love

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Fiona Love Copyright © 2013 Sherrod Story

Co
ver art by Travis Rothe

P
ublication December 2013

Warning: Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is completely coincidental. All characters are products of the author’s imagination as this is a work of fiction.

Chapter o
ne

“Those in the know make it seem like Fiona Love sprang fully garbed in silk Valentino couture from an ocean of fans and a boat full of money, but she’s worked for more than a decade as a model, lately as an actress and most successfully, as a singer.”

“Are you gonna read the whole article?”
Cleo asked.

Fiona
rustled the magazine’s pages irritably. “Maybe.”

Her cousin rolled her eyes. “What do I have to do to get a drink around here?”

“Stop muttering and call the waiter,” Netty told her, doing just that. “Corona no lime, two lychee mimosas and a fuzzy navel, strong but not nasty.”

He bowed slightly and melted away. The service
at Japonais was fabulous. It was the only reason Fiona agreed to come. God knew she had no great love for sushi.

“Lemme read
, Fifi, I was listenin’,” Sugar picked up the paper her boss put down. “Fiona Love is no dummy,” she read. “She has built a cache of work other starlets envy. Of course, they envy more than her work. There’s her creamy skin,” – Sugar grinned over this part, since she was the beauty girl. “Worth at least a score of angry phone calls to agents inquiring why she won the role they were perfect for. Then there’s her height…”

The article
went on to chronicle Fiona’s supposedly meteoric rise to fame with a pictography. By turns smooth or smart or sweet, in each photo she retained this seething undercurrent of, something. Sexy was too simplistic. Hypnotic smacked of the surreal, and Fiona had an earthy sensuality. Whatever it was, most of the great female entertainers had it. That hodgepodge of flaws and virtues that draws the eye like a crash on the expressway. There was a hint of Audrey’s frailty, a whiff of Marilyn’s desperate need for love and a bucket full of Josephine’s unique talent.

And like all of those great entertain
ers, Fiona took her appeal for granted.

             
“Some of the best ass the city has to offer, not to mention the outta towners, and I’m goin’ home with a bunch of girls,” she said.

“
We’re here to celebrate you taking a well earned vacation,” Cleo reminded. “Besides, you hate industry men.”

Fiona grunted.
Her cousin was right, but a woman still had needs. It had been a long time since she’d had sex. Like damn near her daughter Flora’s conception long time. To quote Carrie Bradshaw, she missed the weight of a man on her.

“You see somebody here you
wanna take home?” Cleo teased.

“No. Wait. Who’s that?” Fiona said gesturing to the tall, dark man who’d
just walked in.

“Isn’t that the model from the Ferragamo window on Michigan Avenue
? Dane C-something,” Cleo said. “He’s picking up some food looks like. He was at your New York premiere.”

“Yeah?
He’s a model?”

Her cousin’s eyes narrowed. “He’s more than a model,” she said, and regrette
d it.

“Go a
sk him if he wants to join us.”

Cleo rolled her eyes
again. “What are we, in high school?”

“Fuck you.” Fiona rose gracefully from her seat and raised her hand.

Half the restaurant craned around to see who she was waving to; the other half was already facing that direction. One of the nosy, helpful patrons got up to tap Dane on the shoulder.

“What else does he do?” Fiona asked, watching him approach on long
denim-clad legs and handmade black Italian leather shoes.

“He was in a movie a while back. And he was in that perfume commercial you liked the
last time we went to the show.”

“
That was him during previews?”

“Where do I know that guy from?” Netty asked, catching up. She’d been engrossed in the menu wit
h Sugar.

T
hey all watched him come to a stop before them.

“Hi,” he rumbled.

“Hi,” Fiona answered.

My, my gran
dfather.
What a deep voice, stubbled jaw, and sparkling green eyes you have.

H
e had full, bubble gum pink lips too. The upper was slightly bigger than the lower. It added a little bit of oomph to an already sensuous face.

“You’re not from Chicago.”

“Nope. Just workin’ and visitin’ friends. You the welcome wagon I shoulda got at the airport?”

Fiona laughed.
His New York accent was delicious. “Sure. Have a seat. Me and my girls will see what we can do to make you feel at home.”

He motioned to the
ir waiter and handed off his takeout to be made into table food. Cleo took over the introductions.

“Dane Craig,” he said, shaking hands around the table. Fiona never introduced herself, and her girls knew better, but there wa
s never any doubt who she was.

Fiona Love was
a star.

People stared. Some
discreetly, others avidly. The restaurant manager checked on their table frequently, and their waiter didn’t seem to have any other tables, he was that attentive as Fiona picked at a small salad. She ignored most of the tiny plates the chef sent out to tempt her. She didn’t like eating in restaurants. Who knew what they did to your food? Once she’d eaten Chinese food in a popular new restaurant and woken so bloated from salt she’d had to fake sick and cancel a photo shoot.

After she began to eat some baked fish dumplings with sesame sauce, the waiter slid into the back, and Dane saw the chef peek out to watch the food disappear
into Fiona’s big, pouty mouth.

N
ext the man offered two tiny, sardine-like fish that had been pan-seared and rolled in a dusting of lightly seasoned bread crumbs. He presented them on crisp romaine lettuce leaves with an elaborately carved lemon garnish. Fiona daintily ate these too.

A fist-sized dish of
rice appeared. Tinted yellow with saffron, it held slivers of chicken so aromatic everyone at the table sniffed in appreciation. Fiona ate it all, patted her stomach and laughed while Dane watched.

And watch he did.
Not only did her lush brown skin shimmer under the restaurant lights, he couldn’t actually recall seeing another female celebrity enjoy her food. Fiona was so thorough about eating each morsel he wanted to take a bite out of her.

S
he told the waiter, “Tell the chef I need another hit of those last two to take home. And please tell him I appreciate the size of the portions. He’s obviously very sensitive, judging by the flavor of his food and the care with which everything was presented.”

T
he chef came out personally to deliver the takeout, thank her, and kiss her hand – as a discreet photographer snapped a single picture – Fiona just laughed, then engaged the man in such flattering conversation the manager had to pry him away from their table to get back to work.

W
hen the chef had finally been led away smiling, Dane entertained them with funny tales from an earlier meeting, imitating one of the city’s most fabulous and unabashedly gay designers with shameless flair.

Fiona wa
tched him charm her girls. She knew exactly what each was thinking. Sugar, used to a steady diet of Black men from the south side, was enthralled by his looks, and Dane’s presentation was faultless in excellent quality casual clothes.

Cleo assumed everyone who got near her wanted something. She was usually right.

Netty assumed that anyone who got close either wanted something or was crazy and potentially dangerous. She was right more often than Fiona liked.

N
either had to worry. Dane would be a temporary distraction. The stick with which she scratched a very annoying itch. She was looking forward to it. He was something new, and she hadn’t had a one-night stand in years.

Much
later Fiona realized she half fell in love with him that night when he didn’t call his boys for backup. He ordered several rounds, held it down at a table full of women for more than two hours and reveled in it. He quickly picked up on some characteristic of each to play to. Then, before the last laugh had a chance to fade, he slipped the waiter a black card and paid for everything.

“C
lass,” she whispered to Cleo.

H
is baritone and New York twang were hilarious and hypnotic, and the girls hung on every word of the rich, full sentences he offered like they’d never heard a man speak before. For Fiona his phrases were short and choppy. Rumblings from a handsome lone wolf sizing up its prey with large, crystal green eyes. She just smiled, her own voice a soft purr, her occasional touch on his arm, easy.

She asked him if he wanted a ride to his hotel. He accepted. She asked him if he wanted to ride to her place. He said yes again. Then took her keys and drove the
Benz home without asking permission. She fucking loved it.

Cautious Cleo tried to cock block a
nd ride in the back, but Netty shepherded them all into the Range she and Sugar arrived in and deliberately took a long time getting home. She even stopped for gas, God bless her closet-romantic heart.

“Next one’s on me,” Fiona said and let
him pull her out of the car. Dane shifted from foot to foot impatiently while she unlocked the front door and said nothing. “You don’t believe me?” she asked.

His head lowered, and h
e kissed her like her mouth was an exam he had to ace. “‘Course I do,” he said, still nibbling her lips as they made their way up the stairs. “Don’t care though. I like spending money on you.”

Their hands clasped na
turally outside her bedroom.

“I wasn’t offering ‘cause you boug
ht dinner,” Fiona teased, clicking on the light.

“Please,” he laughed, and gently bit her
neck. “I grew up in a two-bedroom apartment with a French mother and three sisters. No father. If you were all raging bitches you still couldn’t scare me.” He led them straight to her bed.

Fiona would
trip later at how closely attuned their thoughts were, but for now she was too busy salivating over the pale, well muscled feast before her.

When she lifted her legs and wrapped them around his waist, his arms flexed easily to take her weight. She
rubbed her cheeks against his chest, her hands on his back, up into his thick, good smelling hair. She pressed breasts, belly and hips against his in a restless rhythm that pushed the breath from his lungs in an equally impatient rush.

Groaning
he pulled her more firmly into the cradle of his hips. He released her legs to stand her up on top of the bed, giving him better access to her body. He was a little rough as their push and pull continued, but Fiona just laughed at his eagerness and hurried him along.

A man who made his living from
women’s fascination with style, Dane spared a thought for her gold silk pants and tossed them onto a nearby chair.

“Thanks,” Fion
a smiled. “I like those pants.”

“Me too. They
make you shine.”

“It’s a trick.
The sheen of the fabric is supposed to distract from my post-baby chub.”

Dane rolled his eyes. “Please don’t pretend like you’re fat. I get enough of that bull
shit from the toothpicks I work with all day.”

Fiona tut-tutted and wagged a finger. “Hold ‘em up, gym shoe. I never said I was fat. I said the dress was designed to hide
the lil’ bit of junk I’m still carrying since I gave birth.”

“I like this more lush y
ou. I like your bed, too,” Dane said, large hands exploring her warm, naked ass. “Very chinoiserie.”

Fiona laughed
as he lay down and immediately pulled her onto his broad chest. He had wonderful arms. Big, carved in hard, hot lines, and he tasted divine. He seemed made for her hands and mouth, and she kissed and licked thick shoulders and warm slabbed abdominals until he growled and squeezed her hard.

“That’s a big word for a model. Was it the low-slung
, feng sui lines of the bed frame or the spare details of my embroidered cream linens that you liked?” she asked against his lips.

He nipped her
in retaliation. Not enough to hurt, but hard enough to send her sex a sharp, wet jolt.

“T
he low-slung lines,” Dane said, nuzzling in the open neckline of her shirt. “I have all your CDs.” Inhaling deeply he gave the skin between her plump breasts a lick as he dealt with the buttons. “I love that song where you sing, ‘I warned you not to lie. Now your heart’s low and your mind’s high. Your wallet’s tired, and you wonderin’ why.”

She raised her head from leisurely kissing his nec
k, ran her nose up to where throat met ear and took her own deep breath. He smelled divine, like he’d been rolling in man-scented laundry detergent.

“You know my early lyrics.”

“I’ve had a crush on you for years. Never thought our paths would cross though. I watch your videos on YouTube sometimes.”