Stalk Me (12 page)

I can’t believe I’m letting Vanessa’s stupid remark get to me. I should be proud that I want it to be special.

“I’m confused,” Cush says as he sits down next to me. “What did Vanessa mean by lost it to Cush? What did you lose?”

I let out a big sigh and decide to tell him the truth. 

“You were right about Sander not doing it for me. The reason my hair was never a mess, the reason I always looked perfect was because we never had sex. Sander said he wanted to wait until he got married, but it wasn’t just that. We didn’t really do anything. Like, we kissed. That’s pretty much it. I was frustrated about it one day and stupidly told her. That’s what she’s been holding over my head. She threatened to tell everyone that our relationship was a sham and, even worse, that I’m still a virgin.”

Cush shakes his head back and forth, trying to come to terms with my confession.

“But Sander. He acted like you guys did it all the time. He was always all over you. Rubbing your back. Kissing you.”

“I know.” 

“I never had sex with Vanessa,” he admits. 

“You didn’t? She told me you did. Said it was amazing.”

“Yeah, that’s the lie. I, um, well, I couldn’t perform that night. It was one of the few times I got really, really drunk. She got pissed and told me I better never tell anyone.”

“You couldn’t get it up for her? Ohmigawd. That’s so awesome!” 

“I didn’t with RiAnne either. She passed out. So last year before I started sitting at your table, you guys make a card like that for me? What’d it say? Mom never home. Throws a good party?”

“I don’t know. We started sitting there when Sander and I started dating, but I’ve always suspected she only became friends with me because of my mom.”

“Abby Johnston’s daughter. Yeah, that is impressive. Your mom’s . . .”

“Don’t you dare say it.”

“Say what?”

“That my mom’s hot.”

He laughs. “I was gonna say talented.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. Shit. This is a mess.”

“Wanna know something?”

“Probably not,” I say with a laugh.

“I think it’s cool that you’re a virgin. So speaking of big secrets, you do realize tomorrow is Thursday night. You better be taking me dancing.”

I give him a hug. “You wanna chill Friday too? I know you need to get home early, but maybe we can figure out what we’re gonna do next year.” 

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he says and hugs me tightly back.

You definitely have the face.

5pm

I pretended to be sick, so Coach let me leave soccer practice early. I tore home, showered, fixed my hair, and did my makeup. Then I stood in my closet and tried on about 37 different outfits. 

I can’t decide how I want to look. I don’t want to look so young that he thinks I’m too young. I don’t want to look like I’m trying to look older to impress him. I don’t want to be too dressed up, since we’ll be out on the deck overlooking the ocean. But I also don’t want to look too casual. 

I don’t know why I’m so nervous. I guess it’s the whole movie thing. Although I’ve never admitted it to anyone, I do think I want to act, so I want to make a good impression on Vincent. I want him to see me as old enough for the job, but young enough to have that innocent look that my mom had.

I decide to wear my hair down and straight, but at the last minute, I pull my bangs back into a barrette. It’s windy on the deck, and I don’t want my hair flying all in my face while I’m trying to eat. I also decide on an outfit. I’m wearing a sheer, cream lace embroidered dress. It looks sweet and innocent, but the top is very sheer and kinda sexy. I pair it with some cute brown wedges, ivory chandelier earrings, and cream Gucci sunglasses that have tortoiseshell accents. 

I drop my car off with the valet and walk out onto the deck. The deck overlooks the ocean and has great lounge furniture and gorgeous views. I immediately spot Vincent. He’s leaned back on one of the platform lounges that is almost bed-like. There’s a silver wine bucket next to him that’s wrapped in a white napkin so it doesn’t sweat all over. He’s been staring out at the ocean, but he turns, looks at me, and gives me a little wave. Like in case I didn’t see him. 

I smile and slowly walk toward him. He looks very handsome in a white cotton shirt, pale yellow shorts, dark yellow driving loafers, and black wayfarers. 

He stands up to greet me, gives me a couple air kisses, and then takes my hand and sits down.

I perch daintily on the edge of the lounge, letting my feet dangle off the side. 

“I’m really glad you agreed to meet me,” he says.

“I’m glad you asked.”

He holds his index finger up in the air, and the attentive waiter brings us two glasses that he fills with Chardonnay.  

When the waiter walks away, Vincent leans close to me, clinks his glass softly against mine, and says, “To the beach.” He takes a drink then puts his head down slightly. Like maybe he’s saying a silent prayer. 

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” I ask. 

“Yes. Thinking about work helps.”

“Oh, so this is about work?”

He grins, takes a sip of wine, then says, “Now that I’ve found the perfect lead, work is about all I can think about.”

“What are you going to call the movie? Hopefully not something bad like
Another Day at the Lake
or
A Day at the Lake: Part Deux
.”

He laughs. “Those do sound bad. How about
A Bad Day at the Lake
?”

“Or
Just Another Day at the Lake
.”

“I actually like that one,” he says.

“So I don’t really get what my character will be doing besides screaming in a bikini.”

“She’ll kick ass in a bikini.”

“You mean I won’t get a cape and some tights? That’s it. I’m out.”

He laughs again and says, “You’re funny.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I say with a straight face to tease him.

He studies me, so I remove all trace of emotion from my face. Give him my poker face. 

“Remind me not to play poker with you.”

A smile breaks out across my face. “I suck at poker. I always smile when I get a good hand. I can usually do a joke straight faced, but I’ll be honest. I’m not that good of a liar.”

“The key to lying is to convince yourself it’s the truth.”

I tilt my head and think about that. “So you have to lie to yourself first. That’s interesting.”

I drink a little more wine. Neither one of us is talking now. We’re looking at the ocean. Looking at each other. Drinking our wine. It’s a surprisingly comfortable silence. I don’t feel the least bit nervous around Vincent. I look at his expensive clothes, his handsome good looks, and wonder why he chose to be behind the scenes in the movie industry rather than in front of the camera.

“So why aren’t you an actor? You definitely have the face for it.”

“Well, thank you. I guess I’m more fascinated with what goes on behind the scenes. And I’m sort of a Type A personality. Very meticulous, very organized. Grandmother said you need to be very creative to act. I’m much more right brained. Facts, figures, deadlines. I’m good at those. Grandmother taught me a lot about the craft: how to spot talent, about the creation of the story—characters, story arc, plot tension, how special effects should enhance the story line not take the place of it.”

“It sounds like we have a lot in common. I grew up hearing about all those things too.” I take another sip of wine, and he immediately refills my glass. “And I’m pretty creative, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how you’re going to add special effects to
A Day at the Lake
. Are aliens gonna attack? Will I have to fight off a pack of rabid sharks?”

“Aliens. The movie blurb is gonna be,
Saving the world, one bikini at a time.”

At first I start to laugh, but he looks serious. 

“Ohmigawd, it's a spoof movie!? No way I'm doing that!” 

He puts his wine glass up to his lips, and I notice his mouth break into a little smirk. He's got one knee bent up on the couch and I slap my hand down on it when I realize he’s lying.

“Oh my gosh! You’re doing it. You're lying to me.”
 

He laugh and then covers my hand with his. 

It’s at this point I realize that I am touching his naked knee.

And that I probably shouldn’t have done that.

But Vincent doesn’t look offended. Instead he grins and says, “Part of me wants to teach you to lie. The other part of me loves that you can't. I watched four different emotions cross your face while you figured it out. I know you thought it was just a pickup line, but I was serious when I said you have a very expressive face.” 

He’s rubbing his thumb across the top of my hand as he speaks. I don’t think he realizes that it’s making me feel kind of breathless.

He leans toward me. “So, just how old are you?”

I regain my composure and whisper back with a completely straight face. “Twenty-one, of course. Almost twenty-two.” I’m pretty good at this lie, because I tell it often. So often, I almost believe it myself.

He leans back on his elbow and studies my face. 

I notice he has a dark eyelash loosely dangling dangerously close to his eye. I automatically reach out to brush it away. 

“Close your eye.” I gently grab the eyelash when he complies. “Okay, you can open now. You had a loose eyelash. See? Now you have to make a wish on it.”

He leans into my hand, closes his eyes, and blows warm air across my fingers. “I wish you were twenty-one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because then this would be okay." He leans forward and places a little kiss on my cheek. “That’s for being so sweet to me yesterday.”

“What does my age have to do with a kiss on the cheek?”

“Let’s table that discussion for now. So is there anyone special you’d like to work with? Someone to play your boyfriend in the movie?”

“A boyfriend? Do I really need a boyfriend? I’m sort of sick of boys. You’re a man. Do you treat women well? Different than you did when you were a boy?”

He doesn’t answer. Just raises an eyebrow at me and takes a sip of wine.

I look at the appetizers that were brought to our spot a few minutes ago, at the wine chilling in a bucket, and at the platform bed he chose for us to lounge on rather than a booth or the ottomans. I laugh. “Of course you do.” I wave my hand across the spread. “Look at all this. Boys don’t really do dates like this.”

“Are we on a date?” he asks with little smirk.

“Oh no,” I say, embarrassed. “That’s not what I meant. I know this is all business.”

“It’s not all business,” he replies.

My cheeks flame thinking about being on a real date with Vincent. “Okay, then it’s a thanks-for-being nice-to-you thing. Dinner, whatever.”

“Is that what you think?”

“I’m not sure what I think, honestly. I just said that because you’re obviously too old for me.”

“And you're probably not old enough for me.” As he reaches over to grab the bottle of wine, his hand brushes across my knee. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t an accident. “Now, tell me how old you really are, Miss High School Drama,” he says as he refills my glass again.

“You’re serving me alcohol,” I whisper. “Do you really want to know the answer to that? Plus, I can't tell you here; they think I'm old enough.” 

“Then tell me quietly.” 

I look around and notice the waiter is giving me a stare down. I decide it’s best not to say it out loud, so I put my index finger on top of the scrolling Abby tattoo on his forearm and draw my finger down it in a straight line. 

“The first number is a one?” he asks.

I nod. Then I trace an eight and tell myself it’s the truth. 

“Well, that's a relief,” he sighs. “People are already looking at me like I'm robbing the cradle. At least you're legal.” 

Vincent squints his eyes at me, and I think he’s just figured out I’m lying. Damn, I tried to use my most trustworthy look. 

He taps his finger a few beats on one of the pillows. “You’re lying to me. Tell me the truth this time,” he says in a stern voice.

I trace another one down his forearm. Then I trace a six.

“Seriously?” he says, holding my gaze. “You do not look,” and then he takes his finger and slowly traces a sixteen on my forearm.

I close my eyes and let out an involuntary, “Mmhmm,” when his finger glides across my skin.

I should not have done that, because Vincent looks concerned by the fact that he practically made me orgasm just by tracing a number on my arm. 

“When will you be?” He traces a one slowly on my wrist.

I swallow hard and try not to act like a horny, sixteen-year-old boy. But I can’t help wondering what that finger could do to the rest of me. What a man could do to the rest of me. 

Okay, Keatyn. Stop. 

Stop this.

You're being ridiculous. He wants you for a movie, nothing else. Stop with the silly school-girl crushing and be professional. That's Mom’s number one rule. Don't get involved with anyone in your movie. 

When he traces the figure eight, I don’t sigh. I pretend like it didn’t affect me.

“Next August,” I say flatly.

He leans back on his elbows across the platform, and I can tell he’s doing some mental calculations. 

“So, technically, I have fifteen months until you're legal.” 

“I won't tell if you don’t,” I flirt. 

“Unfortunately, you will when you fill out the paperwork,” he pauses. “Assuming you'll want to be paid for the role?”

“Uh, well sure.”

“You have to put your social security number down, and we’ll have to follow child labor laws until you graduate from high school or turn eighteen.” 

Child labor laws? He’s talking about how many hours I can legally work? Oh, I'm so dumb! He’s not the least bit interested in me. He’s not flirting with me. I deserve dumb boys, not this gorgeous man.

I can't hide the disappointment from my face. 

“What’s the little pout for?” he says.

“Nothing,” I sigh. “Just wishing I was older.”

He cocks his head at me. “Are we talking about the movie?”

I just shrug my shoulders and gulp down some more wine.