Bradley's Whistle (P.ornstars of Romance #2) (4 page)

Wiska

“The haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.” I burst into dance as Taylor Swift’s “Shake It Off” reached the chorus. My iPod was up as high as it could go, leaving me in a world of musical bliss. I twisted and swung my hips in a move I learned at the pole dancing class I had taken with Andi and Leah last month. I moved around the fold out couch, folding my sheets as I went.

Bradley’s apartment was divine. A wide open space with polished wood floors and enormous rugs. The walls were white, and the furniture was mostly grey, but splashes of color had been used to bring life to the place. Like the turquoise cushions I currently rearranged on the enormous U shape, leather sofa that had stretched out to make my huge bed for the evening. A bright red leather chaise in the shape of a wave sat before the floor to ceiling windows, which were blissfully covered by blinds. Some sunlight would have been nice, but it wasn’t worth the nauseating eight story view.

“To the fella over there with the hella good hair . . . Ough!” My teeth snapped together as my butt hit the floor. I had tripped over a pillow and found myself in an ungraceful heap on my ass. “Damn,” I murmured, leaning over to rub my offended rump, glaring at the harmless pillow. As my gaze rose, I felt a curious flutter in my chest when I realized Bradley was standing in the room.

I pulled the buds from my ears as I took a leisurely perusal of his stunning body. Shorts sat low on his hips and the tank he wore showed off his nicely toned biceps, the left one decorated with a tribal looking tattoo. He was wearing a frown, no surprise there; he had worn it yesterday. When I noticed the running shoes on his feet, I smiled and scurried to stand.

“You run?” I asked, unable to hide my excitement. There was no missing the way his eyes roamed over my body, too. It didn’t really bother me; men had always found my body desirable. I was used to the stares, and who was I to criticize when I had been openly gawking at him moments before.

“I do. I’ll be back in an hour,” Bradley mumbled as he moved toward the front door.

“Oh, oh, oh, give me two minutes. I’ll join you. I love to run, but I didn’t want to go off on my own. I’d get lost. I’m not real good with directions,” I called out as I ran down the hall and into his bedroom.

His sheets were rumpled, the quilt shoved to the bottom of the bed. It looked comfy and lonely at the same time. No one should have such a deliciously big, soft bed with no one to share it with. Or maybe he did have someone to share it with. Just because Bradley didn’t live with someone didn’t mean he didn’t have a girlfriend. He had been dating my co-worker, Leah, back in the States, but that was six months ago. A handsome man like Bradley Emerson would surely have moved on.

I pulled on a pair of ankle socks; they didn’t match, but, meh. I slipped on my shoes and ran back into the living room where Bradley stood in the exact same place I had left him. “Ready!” I sang. He didn’t move, his gaze lingering on my body. Okay, his staring was starting to border on creepy now. I glanced down in an attempt to figure out what had him gaping. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s what you’re going to wear?” he asked a little gruffly.

I was wearing my favorite hot pink, lyrca running shorts paired with a navy lycra sports bra that crisscrossed in the back. Admittedly, I purchased it from Victoria’s Secret, but it was most definitely exercise wear; I had the one hundred and twenty-five dollar receipt at home to prove it. It was a cute outfit that I jogged in often.

“Ummm, yeah?” I replied.

Bradley ran a hand over his face and groaned. “You can’t wear that; people here don’t dress like that to run.”

“What the hell do they wear then?” I asked, dumbfounded.

“Normal clothes, normal shorts that cover your ass.” His eyes landed on my breasts. “A shirt.” I rolled my eyes and started walking towards the doorway. “I’m serious, Wiska, every man within a five mile radius will be staring at your ass, and every woman will be looking at you like you are some sort of street walker.”

My entire body tensed at his words, not because he suggested people might stare, but the suggestion that I was a whore. The media had painted me as some sort of jezebel, and now Bradley was suggesting my clothing made me one, too.

“You know what, Bradley,” I snapped, “I don’t care what people think. I’m used to men staring, and as long as they keep their grubby, pervy hands to themselves, I could care less, and those people who assume I sell my body just because I wear an outfit that doesn’t conform to their idea of normal,” I huffed out a breath, “well, they can bite me.” I stormed out of the apartment, and surprisingly, Bradley followed. “Hello, Floyd,” I said as I approached the old man working the elevator. It kind of angered me that he was working like this. At his age, he should be happily retired and puttering around a cute little garden, not slaving over spoiled, uptight assholes.

“Miss,” Floyd said with a big smile. His eyes stayed on my face the entire time, and there was no judgement in his expression.

I gave Bradley a smug smile, and he shook his head with a smirk.

“Sir,” Floyd’s attention turned to Bradley.

“Sir?” I balked loudly.

“Hey.” Bradley held his hands up defensively. “Don’t judge. Every day, for nearly two years now, I’ve tried to get him to call me just plain old Emerson, but he refuses.”

“Probably because people don’t go around calling each other by their last names. It’s just weird,” I muttered. I didn’t miss the fact that Floyd’s smile grew wider. When the elevator arrived, we all stepped in. “Do you have a problem with what I am wearing today, Floyd? Bradley tells me this isn’t appropriate for jogging.”

Bradley coughed down a startled bark of laughter. Floyd’s eyes did a professional and nonjudgmental perusal of my body.

“Not at all Miss . . .”

“Please don’t call me that. I’m not a miss kind of girl. Just call me Wiska.”

Floyd nodded. “You have Ukrainian descendants?”

I smiled; not many people realized the heritage of my name. “I do. My mother is Ukrainian, but she has lived in America for twenty-five years now. She met my dad when she was touring, and it was love at first sight.”

“Ahhhh,” said Floyd knowingly. “That’s my favorite kind of love. Your mother sang?” he asked politely.

“No, she was a ballerina. She was a star; people in her home country would stop her on the street for her autograph. Not so much in America, but she didn’t care for the stardom all that much, anyway. When she met my dad . . . well, she threw it all away for him.”

The elevator reached the ground floor, and the doors slid open. “There is nothing wrong with your outfit, Miss Wiska. If anyone has a problem with it, then perhaps they need to focus more on their own shortfalls rather than trying to point out others. Have a nice run.” Floyd gave Bradley a polite tilt of the head and murmured, “Sir.”

I laughed as Bradley gave a frustrated shake of his head at Floyd’s refusal to call him Emerson. When we hit the street, the cool morning air made my breath catch.

“I like Floyd,” I confessed with a shiver.

“Everyone likes Floyd. You probably shouldn’t have dressed like that because it is autumn; the mornings are a little chilly this time of year,” Bradley said with an arrogant smile.

“That’s okay,” I said, rubbing my arms. “As soon as we get moving, I’ll warm up.”

A woman walked by, a fluffy dog leading the way on an outstretched leash. She gave me an unimpressed glance, not even attempting to hide her distaste over my choice in clothing. Well, if this was hoity-toity-ville, and every stuck up snob in the UK lived on this street, I was going to give them a special show. “Just let me stretch before we start,” I murmured.

A couple, who had been a little less obvious with their disapproving stares, approached, and I bent over at the waist, touching my toes and pulling my head against my knees. I was flexible; my mother had been a prima ballerina, and apparently, flexibility came naturally to us. I heard Bradley groan and the muttering of the couple who walked by, but I didn’t stop; after all, stretching was very important before rigorous exercise. I continued to bend and stretch as the odd person ambled past. For the most part, very few gawked or made comment, but Bradley’s anxious shuffling from one foot to the other at my side was strangely enjoyable, so I dragged out my warm up routine. Obviously fed up with my little performance, he turned and jogged off. I did one last lunge before I followed him.

It was early, and the streets were quiet. Those pedestrians we did pass generally did a double take at my bright, skimpy outfit. Most people were dressed for the office, in suits and dresses with slightly differing and yet very boring shades of navy and grey, and those who were jogging, walking, or being tugged impatiently along behind their dogs were dressed in obvious work-out attire, but a little less risqué than my own. I smiled, nodded, and said hello as we jogged past them, and after a while I began to tune them out completely as I took in my surroundings. We turned a corner, and I could easily make out the lush green parkland at the end of the street. Within a few minutes, we entered a gated garden estate. Tall trees towered over the path and an enormous manicured lawn opened to our right. It reminded me of Central Park back home in New York, and a pang of sorrow stabbed at my heart.

I missed my home. My apartment was a tiny one bedroom, but it was mine and it housed all my stuff. It was like a comfy pair of granny panties that you couldn’t wait to pull on at the end of a long day. I missed my family, and I hated how disappointed my parents had been with me the last time I had seen them. My life in the adult film industry had been discreet, until Kasper came along. There had been no raised voices or harsh words spoken, but their silence and frowns spoke volumes. I had never been the perfect daughter; my independence and stubbornly strong will made sure I was the kind of daughter that kept them entertained rather than prideful. But this career choice had been too many steps in the wrong direction.

“This has surprised me.” Bradley’s voice dragged me from my pity party.

“What?” I asked, genuinely confused.

“Your silence. I assumed you were one of those girls who could talk a blue streak.”

“What’s a blue street?” I wondered out loud.

“Not street, streak. It’s a saying that means someone is a chatterbox.”

“Oh, well, I like to talk, but when I jog, I like to just lose myself. I usually listen to music.”

“What kind of music?”

“I’ll listen to just about anything, but mostly the clichéd pop that most women listen to. I’m adult enough to confess I love Taylor Swift.” Bradley just nodded, an uptight expression on his face that I really wanted to wipe off. “What about you?” I asked, suddenly wanting to know more about this brooding, sexy mystery. Bradley shrugged, and my eyes were drawn to his tattooed, muscled bicep. I wondered what those arms would feel like surrounding me, holding me. DANG IT! That was so not going to happen; I was celibate now.

“Hold up a sec,” Bradley panted, coming to a standstill.

When he bent over, I realized his shoelace had come untied, then I promptly noticed how damn fine his ass was. I barely managed to hide the appreciative moan that wanted to escape my lips. He was sculptured like one of those fancy marble statues they seem to like so much here in the United Kingdom.

“See, two can play at that game,” Bradley said with a wink when he stood.

I blushed—I could feel the heat in my cheeks and ears—and I never blushed! I was perfectly comfortable with my body, clothed or otherwise, and I was perfectly comfortable with other bodies, clothed or otherwise. I was used to saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, I was accustomed to ridicule and jokes, and I DIDN’T BLUSH!

“Rock, some hip hop, but mostly rock.” He finally answered my question about his own taste in music.

“What’s your favorite breakfast?” I quizzed him.

“Huh?”

“Cereal, eggs, or coffee?”

“Lucky Charms,” he said with a confused frown.

“I love Lucky Charms.” I sighed, wondering if he had any back at the apartment. “Oh, my gosh, swans!” I exclaimed, coming to an abrupt stop.

“Nasty fuckers,” said Bradley, and he kept on jogging. When he realized I wasn’t making an attempt to join him, he stopped, his hands impatiently stationed on his hips.

I walked off the concrete path and over the thick green grass, making a beeline for the majestic birds. “No, seriously, Wiska, they are nasty fuckers. Stay back.”

I ignored Bradley as I approached the side of the murky lake in the middle of the park. I stepped out on a rock to get a little closer.

“What are doing? Wiska, get back here,” Bradley demanded.

“Stop being a baby. They’re just like ducks on steroids.” I stepped on another mossy covered rock, and my foot slipped, but I quickly regained my balance.

“Fuck it. If you fall in, it’s on you.”

“I’m not going to fall in.” Hopefully. I wasn’t the most elegant person which was one of the reasons I was never as good a dancer as my mother. I stepped on another rock, and the swans began to paddle away from me. “They are so pretty,” I whispered as I stood and watched. “Can you take a picture of me with the swans? I want to show Casey and Lionel.” I glanced back at Bradley who stared at me like I had grown another head. “Hurry up. The longer I’m out here the more chance I have at falling.”