Bootycall Page 2

  She pauses, and I hope she’s getting back in the zone. “Still, it’s…”

  “You’re rationalizing this, but I know for a fact your body’s telling you something different,” I soothe. “We’re both consenting adults, right? Come out and meet me.”

  I don’t want to push her too hard, but there’s something in her voice that’s practically begging me to take her out of her comfort zone and give her a night she’ll never forget.

  I tuck my cock back in my pants and get up from the couch.

  “I…” She hesitates, still breathing hard. “I want to, but I can’t…”

  “Take a shower and come and meet me at my place. I live in the hills. Trust me, you’re gonna love it. If not, you can turn around and go home. No harm, no foul.”

  She giggles a little, and I can still hear how her nerves are unsteady.

  “This is…so unlike me.”

  I start making my way around the den, picking up the empty bottles that I’ve left around there throughout the day. I’ve made up my mind: this is the girl I’m going to fuck tonight, even if I have to clean up to do it.

  “It’s pretty out of character for me too, which is why it’ll be perfect.” It’s partially true, at least. I’ve never had one of these booty-callers come directly to my house before. But for some reason I trust this girl.

  “This is crazy…”

  “Come on. If I can make you wet with my voice, just imagine what I can do with my hands. I can be gentle, too.”

  She laughs again. The anxiety falling away piece by piece. I know she’s not trying to play hard to get, but I have to admit I’m kind of enjoying the chase.

  “And what happens, exactly? We fuck, and then, bye?”

  “Put a little emphasis on the fucking part.”

  “That doesn’t sound like it would work. I’ve never done the whole one night stand thing.”

  I bring the bottles into the kitchen and make my way back to the den, where I settle on the couch again.

  “Call it a ‘greasy pancake fuck,’ then.”

  “A what?”

  “A ‘greasy pancake fuck.’ You’ve never heard of a ‘greasy pancake fuck’? Don’t tell me I have to explain what a ‘greasy pancake fuck’ is.”

  “Would you stop saying ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”

  “Sorry.”

  I let the silence hang in the air.

  “Ok,” she says, giving up. “What’s a ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”

  “I’m glad you asked,” I say, with a smile she can probably hear. “Well you’re single now, and soon enough you’ll be dating again; seeing what the world has to offer beyond that ex of yours – who sounds like a real scumbag by the way. You’ll be meeting guys, living life, and having sex. Well, if you come over tonight, it’ll be the ‘greasy pancake.’”

  “The ‘greasy pancake,’” she repeats, unconvinced.

  “Right. The first pancake you make of a batch, the one that’s just there to soak up all the grease. You’re probably angry at your ex right now. Maybe depressed. Maybe lost. You could spend weeks getting over him. Flicking through the photographs, reliving the arguments in your head, throwing out the fluffy stuffed animal he bought you for your birthday that you thought was cute but was actually just a last-minute purchase at the gas station.”

  She laughs. “It was a keychain, actually. And some wilted flowers.”

  “Or, you can come over here, and just fuck all of that shit away. A big blow-out. Just let yourself loose, and cut yourself off from the past. Mentally, emotionally.”

  “Physically,” she adds.

  “Exactly.”

  She pauses, and I hear her inhaling deeply as she considers my argument.

  “You make it sound pretty easy.”

  “Because it is.”

  “I barely know you though. We’ve spoken for – what, twenty minutes?”

  I glance at my phone and realize, to my shock, it’s been almost forty. “What’s the difference if it’s twenty days? The only thing that happens when you wait too long is you miss out. You’re frustrated, I’m bored – the stars are aligned right now. And I like you.”

  “There you go with the astrology again.”

  “Like you said – it’s fate.”

  She sighs.

  “If you feel uncomfortable at any moment,” I say, “you have my permission to kick me in the balls and run away. Just don’t steal any of my stuff, please.”

  I wait for what feels like years until she answers again.

  “Ok. But I don’t even know what you look like.”

  “Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

  I give her directions to my house, and we break the call. I toss the phone onto the table and lie there for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is still echoing in my mind, that colorful laugh, and the stuttering gasps. I’ve been called a superficial bastard many times in my life, but if those people could see how turned on I am right now by nothing but a disembodied voice and a snappy wit they’d retract their statements. Ok, maybe it’s still true, and maybe I’m still hoping she’ll be a knockout, but frankly, even if she isn’t, I’m ready to put in a prize-winning bedroom performance on her.

  I get up and shake my limbs like a prize fighter getting ready for the fight of his life. My balls are aching from how fucking hard she got me, and it’s all I can do to save myself for when Miss Mysterious shows up.

  “Shit,” I mutter to myself, as I take out a bottle of nice wine and some glasses, “what if she doesn’t even show up?”

  I stamp the thought all the way into the back of my mind – like I do most things these days – and jog on up to the second floor to change.

  I get dressed and go back downstairs. I put a little music on in the den, something slow, but edgy – none of that sugary shit. I like a little dirt in my music. Then I proceed to walk around the room, checking my watch as I pace like I’m scared of getting stood up in my own home.

  I stop as soon as I hear a sound, not sure if it’s real, and too involved in my own imagination to hear it properly. Was that a car door slamming? I hear footsteps on my porch.

  And there goes the fucking doorbell.

  Chapter 2

  Gemma

  I maintain the illusion that this isn’t really happening as I walk towards the double doors big enough to drive a bus through.

  Then I press the doorbell, and the sound of it hits me like a truck, sending me flying back into reality – back into a ‘what-the-fuck-am-I-doing’ terror. For some reason I quickly reach out and press it again, as if it’ll work the other way around and turn everything into a daydream again. I debate running. Then I freeze. I know I should just go, but part of me needs to see who’s behind this door. I am never going to criticize those dumb cheerleaders who investigate basements in horror movies ever again.

  Over the next few seconds my mind races through all the possibilities. Most of them involve a basement filled with the body parts of naïve women, or serial killers wearing clown masks.

  The door opens. My hands shoot to my face, and I scream.

  “Holy shit!” I hear the soothingly droll Irish accent say after my blood-curdling shriek leaves the air feeling cold and dead. “My hair’s not that bad, is it?”

  Slowly, I drop the hands from my face and allow my eyes to open. The man standing in front of me is tall, grizzled, and so fucking beautiful that if he does in fact turn out to want to murder me, I’d pretty much let him. There’s something familiar about his face, but I can’t put my finger on it. I’ve probably just seen him at Gelson’s market or the gym or something.

  “Sorry,” I say, finding all the blood is rushing to my head for an entirely different reason now, “I thought you’d be wearing a mask.”

  Fuck. Did I just say that? I try to think of something witty to follow up with, but it’s taking pretty much all of my effort to keep my knees doing their job holding me up.

  He raises his eyebrow a little, and I wonder
if it’ll look weird if I hold onto the door frame to keep myself from falling backwards.

  “A mask? Why would I wear a mask?”

  “Like a…it’s a…murderer’s…thing…”

  Take me now, Lord. It may require a few reincarnations before I get over this kind of embarrassment.

  “Right,” he says, his smile broadening across his ridiculously chiseled jaw line, “because I must be some kind of murderer, and you’re crazy for coming here?”

  “Yes?” I say, feebly.

  He nods, like this conversation is one he’s used to having. “Well, you know, I did used to wear a mask, but I sort of struggle to see where I’m putting the chainsaw when I have it on, so I prefer it this way, if you don’t mind.”

  I laugh a little, and he looks at me like I’m a long-awaited main course.

  “There’s that laugh again,” he says, as if to himself. “Anyway, this is going way too fast. I like to get to know someone before I hack them to pieces. Come on in and have a drink.”

  “Thanks,” I say, stepping past him slowly enough that I catch the full force of his aroma. It’s like a drug that gets you horny instead of high.

  I hear him close the door behind me and spin around. He’s just standing there, green eyes sparkling like sun on a rock pool, that smile carved into the rough stubble on his face.

  “Sorry,” he says, “I was just admiring your dress.”

  “Oh…” I say, immediately noticing how high-pitched my voice sounds. “Thanks. It’s…uh…new.”

  “Blue’s your color. Brings out your eyes.”

  I blush, look down, and swipe a lock of hair back over my ear. He reaches out and tugs at my ponytail, just rough enough to make my scalp tingle, and the sensation goes straight between my legs.

  “I’d love to see you with your hair down,” he murmurs.

  “Maybe you will,” I reply, finding my rhythm.

  He laughs quietly, and I can hear the dirtiness in him. The edge. It sounds like a prelude to something, an announcement, and though I’m still finding my way, I have a pretty good idea of what he’s planning. My new dress isn’t going to be on me for much longer.

  “Come on,” he says, walking past me. I follow him over to the couch, a little way towards one end of the den.

  I’m studying this guy’s walk so intensely I could write a PhD on it. His shoulders roll to a beat of pure sex, and the way his shirt tightens over his sculpted sides with each step is making me think thoughts that would put me in jail if someone could read them.

  I suddenly remember I should be following him, and step closer as he picks up a couple of filled wine glasses from the table. He frowns, looks at each, then hands one to me.

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the one with the pheromones in it,” he says with a wink.

  “But won’t that just make me even more irresistible?” I smile back, taking a sip. “You’re putting yourself at a disadvantage. Though that certainly makes me feel a lot less nervous.”

  “Nerves are good,” he says, taking a sip without removing his eyes from me, “they heighten your senses.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Not really. I don’t get nervous. And you’re already as irresistible as you’re gonna get.”

  I laugh at his line, enjoying his easy flirting despite myself. “No nerves, huh? Always gotta be in control, right?”

  He shrugs, and I wonder if I’ve hit a nerve. But the playful smirk quickly returns. “Something like that.”

  We both drink, gazing at each other over our glasses. Maybe the alcohol brings a little clarity, or maybe it’s just taken this long to get over the knock-out blow of this man’s magnetism, but I feel that familiar twinge nag at the back of my mind again.

  “You know,” I say, “something about you is very famil-i- Oh shit.”

  He nods and smiles, a little bashful. I bring a hand to my mouth as I realize who he is.

  “You’re—”

  “Yes, I am,” he says, opening his arms wide. “Tell the young lady what she’s won.”

  “Dylan Marlowe,” I gasp.

  “Guilty,” he says, dropping his arms to take another drink.

  “You were, like, one of the biggest actors in Hollywood!” I squeal, like a teenage fan.

  His smile drops, and I realize how deeply I just placed my foot in my mouth.

  “Uh… No, I mean…I don’t mean…were…you are still…I just saw you in a magazine last month and—”

  “It’s cool,” he says, raising a hand to stop me from burying myself deeper. “I was a hot actor…and now I’m pretty much just hot.”

  He smiles weakly, but the sparkle in his eyes and the music of his voice is gone, leaving the joke to fall flat into an awkward silence. We both sip our drinks, and I pretend to notice the room. And it is a nice room.

  “I swear there was some music on a minute ago,” he says, leaning over and picking up a tablet from the coffee table. He looks at it from a distance, like a caveman who was just given a Rubik’s cube. “I fucking hate computers. Give me some vinyl and a record player any day.”

  “Give me that,” I say, holding my hand out for the tablet.

  Dylan eyes me a little before handing it over. I take it with a smile and start messing with it. Within a few seconds I have Led Zeppelin’s Going to California blasting in surround sound, something mellow and relaxed – more for myself than to set the mood.

  Dylan nods and smiles at me, appreciatively.

  “Good choice,” he says.

  “I know my music,” I boast.

  “And I know how rare it is to find a woman with good taste these days.”

  I laugh a little and tuck that loose lock of hair behind my ear again.

  “You should really get something simpler,” I say, waving the tablet at him before tossing it onto the couch. “Something you at least know how to use.”

  “I have a pretty good record collection,” he says, “I just can’t find it.”

  I look around me. “That’s understandable. It’s a pretty big house.”

  “Too big,” he says, with a note of sadness in the rhythmic swell of his accent. His eyes land on me, a new kind of admiration in them. “You want the tour?”

  “Sure,” I shrug.

  He grabs the bottle of wine and fills up both of our glasses again.

  “Follow me,” he says, leading me out of the room.

  “Wow,” I say, as I step through revolving doors into a gigantic space full of metal surfaces, polished granite, elegantly-designed appliances that look like they’re controlled by telepathy, and a stainless steel fridge with three doors. “I used to work in a restaurant, and even that didn’t have as much space as this.”

  I trail my hand across the glossy countertops as I make my way around the island.

  “You must be quite the chef to have such a pimped-out kitchen,” I say, with a smile.

  “I have a few specialties,” Dylan says, though I can’t tell if he’s being serious. “Tortilla chips and salsa with a side of beer. Any kind of cereal you can imagine. And I can open the hell out of a pizza box.”

  “Well if you’re ever looking for someone to show you a few new things sometime, I might be able to help you out with that,” I blurt, before realizing that not only am I flirting shamelessly, I’m also implying some kind of future between us. Stupid. This is a one night stand, no strings attached, and I’m already fucking it up before we’ve even taken our clothes off. Hot actors like Dylan probably do stuff like this all the time, so the chances of me seeing him again are very likely nonexistent.

  “I think I would like you to show me a few new things,” he says, eye-fucking me so slowly and deliberately that I actually shudder under the heat of his gaze.

  “Come,” Dylan says, and then he starts walking to the side doors, drawing me to follow him with a smile. I’m flushed and my steps are a little shaky, so I’m relieved that his back is to me as I try to recover.

  Suddenly we’
re outside in the LA night. An oval pool lit up from the bottom with turquoise lights shimmers like something out of a fairytale in the pitch-black night. Beyond it, the lights of LA seem to extend away down the hills and into the horizon. With this view, it feels like we’re on top of the world, and it nearly takes my breath away.

  “So? What do you think of the view?”

  “It’s…amazing…” is all I manage to get out. I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly conscious of the way my nipples are pebbling against the thin fabric of my dress.

  “Are you cold?” Dylan says, when he turns to me. “I can get you a coat.”

  “No,” I smile, “I’m fine.”

  Dylan smiles back, before turning once again to face the skyline.

  “So…” I mutter, softly, “What do you think of the view?”

  He rubs the stubble along his jaw and shrugs, the motion drawing my eyes to the tightly sculpted muscles of his brawny shoulders. “I don’t know. It’s nice, but…distant. I guess I prefer to be in the middle of the action, rather than watching it from the outside.”

  “I have heard you’re a bit of a party animal.” That’s the most tactful thing I can think to say, because the truth is, I’ve heard a lot worse than that. And seen the photos online. The whole world probably has. This is not a guy known for taking it easy, in the bar or the bedroom.

  “Yeah, well. There are a lot of fucking bores in Hollywood – not hard to be the life of the party when you’re surrounded by stiffs. Back in Ireland they called me ‘the Monk’ ‘cause I was so quiet.”

  I laugh. “I will bet that is bullshit.”

  Dylan laughs and looks at me, his dimples adding another layer of inhuman perfection to his astonishingly well-built face.

  “You’re right. But it’s rare to find someone who calls you out on your bullshit in Hollywood.”

  “Well, I’m definitely not a part of ‘Hollywood.’” It’s mostly true, anyway. Dylan’s world of celebrity friends, partying, and shooting movies is nothing like mine.

  “No,” Dylan says, his eyes penetrating me so fiercely again that for the second time I almost feel like he’s fucking me, “you’re way too real.”