Chasing Stars (7 page)

“Oh, he is the tattoo artist. My guess is that he is here for Jason.” I wrench my eyes away from him.

“Gosh, that’s so typical of Jason. Now, the whole filming will be delayed, and there go my plans for tonight.”

“Yeah, we will be here for a long time. Alex won’t let us go, until we achieve his idea of perfection. I hope, no one decides to murder Jason for delaying the filming.” I shrug.

“You are done,” announces Lena, dabbing red lipstick on my lips.

“Thank you. I’ll look for Bruno to go over the choreography one more time.” I scoot out of the stool.

My mind orders me to go look for my choreographer, but my defiant feet, stomp Will’s way.

“Hey, Will.”

“Oh, hi.” He glances up at me, but returns his focus to assembling his airbrush gun.

“Retouching Jason’s tattoo?” I sit on Jason’s chair.

“Yeah, he managed to tarnish one.”

He is so taciturn, that it almost makes me uncomfortable. “Regardless of the reason, it’s good to see you here.” My lips turn into a seductive smile.

“Well, I could find a better use for my time,” he snaps, and it stings.

Don’t I affect him one bit? Is my mojo impaired? “Oh.” I am flustered and I bite my lower lip.

“Listen, I am sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s just that this is not how I like to work.” He points to the vibrant, noisy set, pulsating its own hectic rhythm.

“Yeah, it is a little chaotic here,” I say.

“Now, that’s an understatement. I don’t know how you do it, but I could never thrive in this environment.” He looks around. “I like the one on one, quietness of the shop. Or better yet, I like the solace of painting my canvases.” He pulls out several small brushes and ink tubes, and lays them on the tray.

“Well, I got used to the commotion.” I shrug. “But, yeah, I can see this could be overwhelming to a brooding artist.”

“Brooding, me?” For the first time, he smiles broadly and I see a dimple on his cheek. It does unfathomable things to me.

“Yeah, brooding, you.” I let out a throaty laugh, attracting the attention of the film crew.

“Maybe I am behaving on the grim side. I am just a little slow to warm up to new people—especially when that new person happens to be a celebrity.” His fingers sweep over his untamed hair.

“Bella!” I hear Bruno calling me from across the set.

“Hi,” I wave to him. “Be right there.” Disappointed by the interruption, I turn to Will.

“Got to go, I’ll rehearse while you touch up Jason.”

“I’ll try to be fast, let’s hope it is not too bad.”

“See you later,” I sigh and walk away with his divine smile carved in my mind.

Exasperated, I wipe beads of sweat from my face. The hundreds of lights in the studio generate too much heat and make it harder to stay steady when inking. Add an arrogant client to the equation, and the result is an exhausted and irritable me.

A man carrying a long microphone bumps my elbow, almost causing me to ruin the tattoo. I exhale a long breath of air. To aggravate my dreadful situation, my eyes constantly—and without my conscious consent—gravitate toward Portia standing a few yards from us.

Trying to squirt ink on the improvised tray, I spill it all over Jason’s lap and, I am pretty sure, in his coffee. Yuck, let him choke on it. What a jerk.

“Hey, watch it.”

“Sorry.”

Portia’s poise demands my attention, yet again. I look at her, she is attentive to the choreographer’s instructions, but she glances my way and offers her seductive smile. Muscles I have been trying to ignore throughout the day clench.

I hear the guy tell her, “You are making love with your eyes, darling. Captivating, lustful, and enthralling. Then, you spin slowly, sensually, and rip off his shirt.” I smile; she does not need directions on how to seduce a man with a mere look.

“She is something else, isn’t she?” Jason comments as he watches Portia rehearsing the scene with the choreographer.

“Huh?” I ignore his innuendo and focus at the inking.

“Oh, don’t patronize my actor’s brain cells, feigning indifference. I bet you screwed her this morning—either before or after the tattooing session. Portia doesn’t waste time, and I see the exchange of glances between you two.” He sips the coffee and—voilà—he spits it out, and in my mind, I smile. It must taste nasty.

“What the fuck?” he coughs. “Who is the imbecile who got me this coffee?” he waves his hands for drama effect. “Can someone get me decent goddamn cup of coffee?”

Regretting that the toxins he ingested were not lethal, I refocus on the tattoo he ruined. Before he left the shop at eleven last night, I handed him instructions on how to care for the temporary tat, with an emphasis on not to use oils. Well, the genius thought lubricant did not apply to the category.

Lauren rushes up and hands him a new cup of Joe. I notice her hands trembling slightly.

“Sorry about your coffee,” she apologizes, her face crimson red. Unable to see her taking the blame, I interject.

“It wasn’t your fault. I accidentally squirted paint on it.”

Jason sticks his face in the new cup, sniffing its content. I wink at the poor assistant, who suppresses a smirk as she leaves.

“Bunch of idiots,” he mumbles, slurping from the cup.

I glance again at Portia as she lap dances on Bruno’s lap. My stomach twists.

Before I wrench my eyes away, Jason the idiot, adds, “She rarely does seconds, you know. So whatever happened was it.”

“Wow, that’s why I detect a hint of resentment on your voice, huh, you are probably waiting for your second round.” I smile. “Oh, well, I don’t do your brand of people, so you don’t need to fry your three brain cells worrying sick about her and me.”

It takes me almost two hours to fix the tattoo on the fidgeting actor who has three bathroom breaks and a rest period of twenty minutes. I can’t help but to compare him to Portia, who endured hours without a single interruption or complaint.

Finally, I stroke the last bit of ink to the tattoo, making a silent vow never to commit to a gig like this, ever again.

Before my betrayer body hauls me toward the stunning woman pulling me with the magnetic power of her presence, quickly I gather my tools and storm out of the busy place.

Frustrated, I hop in a cab and dial a familiar phone number.

“Hey, Dan.”

“Hi, son.”

His voice is like a calming balm. “I just finished my gig. Do you want to get something to eat?” I know Dan often forgoes his meals to care for the need of others, which is one of the many things I admire about him.

“Yeah, sure, I just finished a killer meeting with the new mayor. Let me tell you, he is a cranky one. He acted like he did not want to be there,” Dan exhales. “But we got what we need for the homeless shelter.”

I can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “OK, be at home in about an hour.”

“Oh, I will tell Maritza you are coming, she will be thrilled.” Dan hangs up the phone.

I smile. Maritza is Dan’s wife. She is from Colombia. They met twenty-five years ago when Dan went to South America on a mission trip. It was love at first sight, just as the cliché goes. Dan married her less than a year later.

The cab drops me off at the garage where I keep my Jeep. I hastily pay the fare, anxious to drive to Connecticut.

I moved to Manhattan when I started college, but I always relished the fact that I lived an hour away from home. I used to take the train home every weekend. About a year ago, I decided to keep my car in the city because I go home more often, especially during the summer.

I finished my undergrad earlier this month, and I will start my graduate studies in January. Between now and then, I need to finish the canvases for my upcoming solo exhibit in November, so I divide my time between home and Manhattan.

I spot my red Jeep Wrangler and smile, remembering the day Dan handed me the keys. I had just gotten my driver’s license. To this day, I keep the car, and honestly, I don’t think I can ever get rid of.

It was my seventeenth birthday. I had my first party, my first cake, and my first birthday present. Dan handed me a tiny silver box. I did not think much of it, until I opened to find a small key nested in between tissues. I almost cried, honest truth.

From time to time, I have questioned Dan’s sanity. Today, I know better to accept what is.

I turn the key and the engine roars as it comes alive. I love this car so much, in so many ways, it represents a milestone in my life. I drive through a maze of busy roads until I reach the Henry Hudson Parkway. I roll down the windows, leaving behind the noise and air pollution of the city.

The day is perfect, but my mind betrays me and brings me back to the violet-blue eyes staring hungrily at me. Trying to push the thought away, I focus on the road, remembering all the years it took to develop the self-control I have today.

The lack of composure I experienced today, reminds me of a past I would rather forget. Until I was sixteen, I was a case number at Connecticut Department of Children and Families. In other words, I was a foster child. I lived in Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, bouncing from house to house and to group homes. One day, I guess around the age of thirteen, I learned to run away and desert the system that had failed me in so many ways.

During one of my escapes from a random foster home, I met Jack. He introduced me to the crazy world of drugs and later became my drug supplier and boss. I sold the dope for him and, in exchange, he let me crash at his place and helped sustain my addiction to meth. I was a minor and he was nearing his thirties. He claimed my baby face made me inconspicuous, facilitating the merchandise drop off.

One day, I had a delivery that turned out to be a police sting, which I didn’t realize, and I led the police straight to Jack. We escaped, of course, but I knew better than to stick around to talk it over with him since drug dealers are not known for their forgiving nature. Before I left, I went to the drug hideout, stole some cocaine and meth, and then ran for dear life.

I hopped on the first bus leaving Hartford, and dashed away from the capital, escaping the cops and, most importantly, vanishing from Jack’s reach.

On one of my stops, I traded a few grams of cocaine for graffiti sprays. I had never liked school, but when I went, I gravitated toward art. I never gave it a second thought. Foster kid packages do not come with art supplies or encouragement for individual expression.

Drugged and aimless, I wandered around in a haze for what may have been weeks. One day I spotted a small church. For some unknown reason, I hated the building and the things it stood for. I mean, from the pit of my soul I loathed the small white church with its large red wooden door.

Regardless of the hatred drenching me to my bone marrow, I pushed open the red door and scrambled through the threshold. (Beats me why churches aren’t locked, but they aren’t. Honest truth.)

Once inside, the scent of lit candles and lemongrass permeated the small sanctuary. The strange combination, made the place welcoming, like a home.

I sat in the deserted church bench for hours. When I looked out a window, the sun had set and a blanket of darkness covered the world outside. Though averse to the place, a strange tranquility swamped my soul and I did not want to leave.