Stripped (14 page)

I try to fall asleep, and fail for the longest time. When I do fall asleep, I dream of Dawson. They’re erotic dreams, torturous dreams, in which he touches me in places that make me sweat and squirm and pant. He kisses me in the dreams, and I let him, and I kiss him back, and it becomes more than a kiss. It becomes something that makes me ache between my legs.
 

I wake in a sweaty tangle of sheets and stare at the ceiling, unable to forget the dreams. I fall back asleep, and immediately the dreams begin again. Dawson’s hands on my waist, sliding down my hips. Curving over to cup my backside. Grazing beneath my breasts. Delving down and down and down between my legs to touch me in the most sinful way.
 

I see his eyes, blue-shot gray, like lightning-laced storm clouds, and I hear his voice whispering to me: “You can’t resist me, Grey. You are mine, Grey.”
 

I wake again at dawn, hearing his dream-whispered words, and torn between wishing they were true and being terrified that they are.

Chapter 9

I make great money at the club, but financially, I’m still barely making it. My tips just cover tuition, room and board, and books. Barely. I have to scrimp to eat and buy new outfits for the internship. If I leave the campus at all, I walk as much as possible. Even bus fare is too expensive and I need every penny. I hate it though, because USC is in a bad neighborhood, and a girl on her own—even in broad daylight—isn’t safe.
 

I stand in the parking lot outside my dorm room, staring at a brand-new Range Rover. It’s white with black-tinted windows. The keys are in my hand, and I’m warring with myself. I have my driver’s license, but I haven’t driven since leaving Georgia. I Googled Range Rovers, and this model in front of me starts at $137,000. I simply cannot fathom that amount of money. And he just left it here in this university parking lot, on a whim, for me to drive. And then claimed he could buy a dozen of them if he wanted to. Reading about or hearing about twenty-million-dollar movie deals is one thing, but understanding the reality of a man actually having that kind of money, seeing the evidence of it, is another thing. This Range Rover, this $137,000 SUV, is pennies to him. Even the Bugatti, which probably cost somewhere near two million dollars, is nothing. Dawson made four million on the first
Mark of Hell
and sixteen more between the other two. He’s done four other big-budget films since then, none of which were salaried at less than ten million dollars each.
 

It’s unusually hot outside today, and I’m sweating just standing here, debating with myself. It would be prudent to drive the Rover. I click the “unlock” button and open the door. I slide into the driver’s seat, gasping at the blistering heat of the tan leather under my legs and against my back. I start the engine, which hums to life with a low and powerful purr. Within seconds, the A/C is blasting cool air. I breathe in and then out, carefully. I’m terrified of this car. I’m terrified of what it means, that I’m actually doing what he told me to do. I’m going to finish the internship, and I’m going to spend the next few months working with Dawson professionally.
 

He’s seen me naked. He’s touched my bare skin. He’s kissed me, twice. My body responds to him in a way I don’t begin to understand.
 

Delaying the moment of actually having to drive this vehicle, I fiddle with the infotainment center until it turns on. Heavy metal blasts so loud the car shakes. I scramble to turn it down, then manage to turn it to the radio. I flip stations until I find 102.7 FM, the pop station. “Can’t Hold Us” by Macklemore comes on, and I turn it up a little. Not anywhere near as loud as Dawson had it, but enough to give me confidence, dance in my seat. I take a deep breath and put the SUV into reverse, backing out of the spot slowly.

The drive to the office is horrifying. I’m a terrible driver. I’m either going too slow and being honked at, or I’m forgetting how powerful the Rover is and going twenty over the limit. When I change lanes, I cut several people off and then I nearly miss my turn, forcing me to cut across several lanes of traffic. I nearly cause two accidents. By the time I’m sitting in a parking spot outside the office building, my nerves are shot, leaving me trembling and near tears.

And now I have to go in and face Dawson. His Bugatti is parked parallel across three spots, way in the back of the lot. I let the engine idle as I attempt to collect myself. I’m nearly calm when the passenger door opens and Dawson slides in. He’s wearing a faded orange Billabong shirt and khaki cargo shorts with black Old Navy flip-flops. A pair of Ray-Bans cover his eyes, and his hair is spiked with gel, looking prickly and stiff. His jaw is covered with scruff, thick and dark, almost a beard. I want to run my hands over his cheek, feel the stubble tickle my palms.
 

I clench my fists around the leather of the steering wheel and try to breathe through the need to touch him.

“You look tense.” He leans against the car door, legs stretched out in front of him. He’s calm and utterly composed. A small smile graces his beautiful, expressive mouth.
 

I lick my lips and grind my hands around the wheel. “I’m fine.”

He snorts. “Babe, don’t lie to me.”

“Don’t call me that. I’m not your babe. I’m not anyone’s babe.”

“See? Tense. It’s just a word.” He drags the seatbelt across his torso and clicks it in place. He points north. “We have errands. Drive.”

“Drive where?” I glance at Dawson, who has his nose buried in his phone.
 

“First, back to my place. We gotta grab my script. I forgot it. Then we have a meeting with one of the secondary production firms…uh…Orbit something.”

“Orbit Sky,” I fill in.

“Yeah, them. And then back here. Jeremy wants to go over some things with me and Rose. Since you’re my assistant for this project, you’re with me.”

“So we’re going to the Orbit Sky offices?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, it’s a dinner meeting. Spago.”

Even I know what Spago is. “Am I dressed for that?” I give Dawson a once-over. “Are
you
?”

He shrugs. “Does it matter? You look great. We’re stopping at my place, so I’ll put on some jeans or something. It’s not like they’ll tell me I can’t come in, you know.”

“So where do you live?”
 

“Just head toward Beverly Hills,” he says, not looking up from his phone. When I hesitate, he glances up at me. “What?”

“I’ve…I’ve never driven around here. Or…anywhere, really, before today.”

“You what?” Dawson frowns at me. “How have you never driven before? You have your license, right?”

I nod. “Yeah, I got my license, but I never drove. I never had to, or got to, depending on how you look at it. My mom or dad just drove me where I had to go. Here I take the bus, or I walk.”

Dawson seems like he’s fighting laughter. “And I gave you a Range Rover Autobiography?”
 

“A what?”
 

He does laugh then. His teeth are white, and the laughter transforms his face, makes what is already beautiful almost unbearably so. “This? This is a 2013 Range Rover Autobiography. It’s…” He sighs and shakes his head. “You know what? It doesn’t matter. It’s just a car. Come on.”
 

He reaches over me and yanks the keys out of the ignition. His forearm brushes my chest, and electricity zaps through me at the contact. He doesn’t notice, just slides out of the car and strides toward his Bugatti. I researched his car this morning during class. It’s a Bugatti Veyron 16.4 Grand Vitesse, and by all accounts it’s the most expensive car in the world, especially since he ordered some kind of special features that make it one of a kind. There was a whole magazine article on the fact that Dawson bought one, and there was also an article on his other cars, since he apparently has several super-luxury sports cars, including an Aston Martin Vanquish, a Bentley, and a Maserati. I had to look up what each of those were.
 

I grab my purse and follow him to his car. He’s waiting for me, holding the door. I slide onto the leather seat, and he closes the door after me. It’s a gentlemanly gesture that confuses me. I buckle up and clutch my purse on my lap, refusing to watch Dawson as he folds his frame into the seat and brings the car to life. We’re gone with a squeal of tires and a lurch of my stomach. He weaves the car through traffic, disregarding traffic laws left and right. He blows through at least one red light, carving the wheel to the right to narrowly avoid a cube van. I’m breathless, terrified.
 

I seem to spend a lot of time terrified around this man.
 

He squeezes the car between lanes, fitting into spaces I wouldn’t have believed a car could go. Having just navigated the streets of L.A. myself, I realize the mastery he has over his vehicle. He makes it look effortless, as if hurtling through the congested traffic of Hollywood at sixty miles an hour is totally normal.
 

His phone chimes and he pulls it out, tosses it to me. “Can you see who that is?”

I hold the unfamiliar phone in my hand and stare at it. I don’t have a cell phone, since I can’t afford one and don’t have anyone to call. I have an iPad that I use for the internship, though, and it’s just like that. I slide the little green icon across the screen. “It’s from…Ashley M.” I start reading the text aloud. “She says, ‘You should come over tonight. I have an eight-ball and some Blue Label.’”

His faces contorts. “Shit. I thought it was from Jeremy.”

“Who’s Ashley M?” A thought strikes me. “And why just the first letter of her last name? Do you know so many Ashleys that you have to differentiate between them?”

“Shit,” he says again. “She’s…a friend of mine.”

“A friend.” It’s not really a question.

He grabs the phone without looking at me and shoves it between his thighs. “Yeah. A friend. And yeah, I know lots of Ashleys. And lots of Jens. Last names…aren’t usually necessary.”

“So should I answer her for you?” I know exactly what the message meant. Well, maybe I don’t know what an eight-ball is, but Blue Label is high-end whiskey. I’m guessing an eight-ball is drugs of some kind, which means sex. Ashley M is probably glamorously beautiful and sophisticated and knows how to please him in ways I don’t.
 

My heart clenches. I force myself to remember that he’s my boss. I work for him. He can do drugs and drink and have sex with anyone he wants. This has nothing to do with me.
 

He shifts gears, and grabs the phone, spinning it idly between thumb and forefinger. Then he tosses it to me. “Yeah. Answer her for me.”

 
I take the phone and bring up the message from Ashley M. “What do you want me to say?”

“Just tell her no, thanks, that I already have plans.”
 

I type the message into his phone and send it, and within seconds, a response pops up in the gray bubble. “She says, ‘Awww, are you sure?’” I choke a little and set the phone on his lap. “I’m not reading the rest.”

My heart clenches, and my stomach flips. It’s none of my business. I don’t care. I don’t care. But…as much as I tell myself not to care, I do. I shouldn’t, and I don’t have any place feeling possessive over Dawson, but I do. The rest of the message said,
If you come over, you can put it in my ass again.
 

My eyes blur. Dawson pulls the car to a stop at a red light, and on impulse I throw off my seat belt, shove the door open, and get out. I’m wearing heels, so I can’t run, but I slam the door behind me and start walking as fast as my precarious sense of balance will allow. I’m not looking where I’m going, and I don’t know where I am. It doesn’t matter. I hear Dawson’s angry voice behind me, calling my name. I don’t know what I’m feeling. Angry, sick to my stomach, jealous, confused. Lost. Loss, like some sense of possibility has been taken away. He likes anal sex. He has random women, whose last names he doesn’t even care about or know, texting him for a night of meaningless sex, drugs, and booze.
 

He’s a star. A celebrity. He lives a celebrity life, and I know nothing about that.

I hear honks and shouts from behind me, and I ignore it. I keep walking, fighting the stupid tears and losing. I don’t even know why I’m so upset about this.

I’m lifted off the ground, spun in place, and pinned against the plate-glass window of a storefront. Dawson’s arms are around me, under my backside. One of his hands is on my cheek, forcing my face to his. He’s breathing hard, sweat dotting his forehead and upper lip. His eyes are blue-gray, the color of his anger.
 

“Damn it, Grey. It’s not what you think.”

I writhe in his grip. It’s too much, like this. I’m wrapped up in him, held in place by him. I can’t get away, can’t move, can’t breathe anything but his scent and his power. “Let me go.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because you don’t understand.”

“There’s nothing to understand,” I whisper. “You can do what you want, with who you want. And it’s exactly what I think.”

“She’s—”

“She wanted you to come over for sex. It’s simple.” I suck in a deep breath, close my eyes to block him out. He sets me down and I shove him, hard. “I’m an intern. That’s all. You don’t owe me any explanations.”

“But what if I want—”

“It doesn’t matter!” I’m yelling, and I’m still crying through it, for some reason. I strive for calm, especially because a crowd is gathering. “Just…God, just stop, Dawson. Just stop.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry you read that, but…look, you’re right, it doesn’t matter. I’m done with her. I have been. She was a one-time thing. That’s it.”

I start walking again, and he catches up with me. We’re being followed by clicking and flashing cameras. “I don’t know what you’re trying to convince me of. It doesn’t matter.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re the one crying.” His hand catches mine and his other goes around my waist, drawing me to him. Once again, with a mere touch, I feel as if I belong to him. It’s wrong, and it’s right, and it’s confusing. “Stop running.”