Chasing Stars (2 page)

The screech of tires skidding on the black asphalt demands my attention. I wrench my eyes away from him and my lips involuntarily cry his name. A car swerves off the road, and like a serpent ready to strike, slithers my way. I want to run, but before my legs receive the brain command, I feel the impact of the cool and hard surface of the car colliding against my body. My vision goes black, erasing all the surroundings. For a brief moment, my mind tries to retain the memory of his lovely face. Then he also disappears and an ocean of black nothingness replaces his vivid green eyes.

I heard once that our days on earth are numbered. I’m not sure what it means or who is keeping tally, but just in case it is true, I’ve tried vainly to live life to the fullest.

Then, one day, I find my lungs trying to inhale that next breath of air and I catch my heart desperately waiting for that beat that sends oxygen through my bloodstream and maintains the delicate balance of what we casually refer to as life. On that day, most of my desires, disappointments, dreams, and goals became irrelevant. Survival became crucial.

Niki, my best friend, has always been adamant that in life we need to
live
to make it worthwhile. Anything else is a waste of a breath. To me it all seemed confusing and too profound.

Long ago, Niki also said that for our life to be memorable we had to either fall in love or die young.

Well, for the length of one second, I held both love and death in my hands. It was a true tragedy. Because when all I wanted was for love to rescue me from not living, the grasp of death tried to rob me of love.

Somewhere in between then and now…

With a shriek of terror, I wrench the covers away, and sit stiffly on the edge of bed. I gasp for air, and my fingers clasp the sheets. My breath comes shallow and labored, and a sheen layer of sweat covers my body.

A dream, that’s all it was, a repeated nightmare. However, the blurred face, begging for rescue, is burned on my mind and I can’t expel it.

Knowing I won’t be able to sleep, I stumble to the kitchen. My hand shakes as I prepare a large pot of coffee. It’s 3:00 a.m. I don’t sleep much. Never have. Sleeping, I found early in life, can get you in trouble.

It’s a warm night, too warm for a May evening, and the place has turned into a boiler. I switch on the AC, but the damn vent has been acting up again and it became so cold, I had to shut it off. Now it is hot as hell. Though I know I won’t bother, I make a mental note to have the AC fixed before summer arrives.

While the coffee is brewing, I trudge to the bathroom and scramble under a jet of cool water. I sprawl my hands on the cold tile, close my eyes, and allow the stream to massage the knotted muscles of my shoulders.

Stepping out of the shower, I barely dry my body, scramble into a pair of faded blue jeans, and fasten a brown leather bracelet to my right wrist. I wipe the steam from the mirror and hastily brush my teeth. I rub my hand over my stubble and decide to shave. It is not every day I work with a famous actress. This morning, Portia McGee, who has won an Oscar, is scheduled for a temp tattoo at my shop. The thought is unnerving.

My mind recalls the Internet and magazine pictures I have seen of her. Celebrities do not bewilder me. But men—including myself—are not immune to this woman’s alluring beauty.

I spread shaving cream over my face and reach for the razor, when I hear the shop’s bell ring. “Shit. Her entourage is here.” I wipe the shaving cream off my unshaved face, and stride toward the tattoo shop.

The actress is not supposed to be here until five, but her people probably came to make sure there are no hidden cameras and to do whatever else they do to accommodate the ridiculous demands of her brand of people.

The bell rings again. It irritates me. “Coming,” I mutter.

I open the door. A warm breeze embraces me, instantly reminding me I am shirtless and barefooted.

Damn it, I am not looking very professional. Double damn. Standing by the door is Portia McGee herself, and she is the personification of a goddess.

“You are early,” I blurt out. I look behind her, but she is alone.

“Sorry?” she mutters. Her vulnerable eyes widened, and then she looks at me.

“Please come in,” I finally say, ushering her inside the shop. I realize I am being rude, but how can a man stare at those rosy cheeks and parted lips and think straight?

For a moment, I examine her and take in the whole of her incredibly magnetic presence. She is so much prettier than she appears in the pictures or movies I have seen. Her long hair, which is pulled in a ponytail and dyed red, contrasts with her cobalt blue eyes. The workout outfit she wears molds perfectly to her proportioned curves. Shaking my head slightly, I try to clear my scrambled thoughts as I close the door behind her.

“I am sorry, I wasn’t expecting you this early.” I point apologetically to my half-naked body. I have the impression that my state doesn’t faze her.

“That’s OK. I decided to jog here, since I don’t live too far. When I realized how early it is, I thought for sure the place would be closed. So I am relieved you are already here.” She smiles and gazes up at me, before shifting her attention to my exposed chest. I think I see a hint of amusement in her stare, but I ignore it.

“I need a few more minutes.” My eyes search hers and the vulnerability I saw earlier is gone.

“There is a pot of coffee in the back. Please help yourself to it.” I gesture to the back door.

“Oh my, a view and coffee.” Her eyes are fixed on my naked chest, “Unexpected treats.” Her luscious lips turn into a sensual and slow smile.

I turn on my heels, and beckon for her to follow me.

Her voice is sexy and smooth as velvet. And, yes. My jeans suddenly get a little snug. Oh shit, this is going to be a long day.

I follow him through the tattoo parlor, where a refreshingly cold air caresses my hot cheeks. I question my decision to jog here. I am in sweaty disarray. I tilt my head and the perfection of his torso mesmerizes me.

Instead of an overly pierced, fully tattooed middle-aged person, I am greeted by a hot as hell guy possessing a dark beauty that makes me flush. Damn, admiring his broad shoulders and narrow hips, I have a load of butterflies flipping around in my stomach. He barely took notice of me.

Surprised much? Yes! Disappointed? Absolutely not.

“I am Will,” he says over his shoulder as I follow him.

“Oh.” I don’t introduce myself. I had never gotten the habit. People usually shout my name before I say it anyway.

“Will?” I am confused, and yes, very, very disappointed.

“Is there a problem?” He raises a brow.

“No, not at all. So, um, James…he’s not here yet?” The info my personal assistant gave me said James would tattoo me. Of course, it is too early.

“I am James, but I go by Will,” he adds dryly.

At the confirmation that his hands will be the tattooing me, a frisson of excitement and relief runs through me. And, yes, I swoon. He opens a door at the back of the shop. I descend the two steps down into a large warehouse, now converted into living quarters. The cool air is gone, but an aroma of coffee mixed with a subtle smell of oil paints makes the room strangely pleasant and welcoming.

Tall and red brick walls give the loft charm and warmth. The place is clean and sparsely furnished. I scan the room and spot an unmade king bed. Convenient, I grin in my mind. In a far corner, I see dozens of easels with blank and painted canvases. I want to examine them, but my need for a caffeine fix dictates the direction of my steps.

He flips a switch and cold air swirls from large vents on the ceiling. He goes to a wood armoire and retrieves a white cotton shirt.

I stroll to the kitchen, tucked in the end of the large room, and open the cabinet to rummage for coffee mugs. From the corner of my eye, I see him pull the shirt over his head and slip into a pair of Converses. It might be silly for me to say this, but I have a fetish for a man’s chest, so it takes a lot of restraint to keep me from asking him to ditch the shirt.

Crap.

I pour the steamy liquid into two cups, and a thrill runs through me when I sense his charged presence next to me. His clean and male scent taunts me. Every fiber of my body responds to his proximity. Does he feel it too? Well, his face doesn’t give anything away. He gathers cream and sugar, and points to a nook where a small table with two seats offers a window view.

I place a cup in front of him. “Coffee is perfect right about now. Thank you,” I say.

He nods. Oh, he is the talkative type. We sit across from each other. I gaze into his brooding eyes and exhilarating thoughts rush through my mind, sending shivers up my spine.

While he pours the sugar in his cup, I examine him. His is handsome with green eyes that remind me of a dark spring day. He has a prominent nose and a three-inch long scar across his left cheek that ends on his upper lip, giving a dark edge to his beautiful features. To top it off, he is about six feet of pure, defined muscles.

“Do you live here?” I ask.

“Nah, I sleep here.” He shrugs.

“Nice place, good location.” I offer. “Are those yours?” I point to the paintings.

“Yeah.” His deep green eyes flicker over to the canvases.

As he brings the cup to his deliciously full lips, I glance at his left hand. Damn. A shiny platinum band adorns his finger. He is married.

Disappointment rushes over me. What the hell? Surprised at the unbidden and unexpected feeling of sadness, inwardly I cringe.

Deep breath. Stop. Refocus.

A surge of sadness continues to weave itself inside me. The hell? I shake my head slightly. I try to square my thoughts and understand the jumbled emotions reeling in my chest. I guess the point is, I am not about to become a prude, but it bothers me a little—OK, a lot—the fact that he is committed.

Marital status has never mattered to me before. Awful, I know. The deal is, I am not cynical, just practical. Married or single, old or young—as long as the chemistry stirs a primal desire, I guiltlessly enjoy every minute of it. No, I don’t wreck marriages; I don’t stay in a relationship long enough for a man to leave his wife for me.

A visible full-blown shiver runs through my body.

“Are you cold?”

No, I’m not. “Heck of a cooling system you have here.” I smile pointing to the tall ceiling.

“Did you walk here?” He frowns.

And yeah, I do clasp my hands under the table to prevent them from reaching up and smoothing the frown.

“Yeah, I jogged. My father’s apartment is about five miles from here.” His face is smooth now.

“Sorry for intruding on you this early.” I offer my slow smile. My eyes trail to his covered chest and I bite my lower lip. Too bad, he had to cover.

“That’s cool. I was just surprised, and unprepared.” He is referring to his lack of clothing.

“On a second thought, no, I am not sorry,” I say suggestively.

He is silent, but the tendons on his neck visibly tighten.

“Are you ready?” The chair screeches as he gets up abruptly.

Suddenly, all thoughts of a boring and depressive stay in New York vanish. Deviant thoughts unveil in my mind, and a wanton desire runs through me. I wonder how he is in bed, if, by a miracle, I can get him there. By a miracle, I am simply referring to my ability to seduce.

In essence, I am not against corrupting a good-looking man, not even a committed one. Luring him to my bed will take away the bitter edge New York imposes upon my soul. Right about now, my imagination knows no boundaries.