Bootycall 2 Read online

  After a few seconds in which Dylan barely moves the sponge over the fork he’s cleaning, he speaks.

  “That’s understandable,” he says slowly, before his eyes catch mine like mirrors and light. “Maybe the fear of getting hurt trumps the pain of being alone for most of us.”

  I lose myself in his expression, and it’s as if all the sorrow he’s ever felt has risen to the surface and displayed itself in the clench of his jaw and the brooding darkness of his eyes. I gaze back into them like they’re an abyss, feeling like I’m being overwhelmed by the two galaxies, until I’m just a speck of dust falling deeper into Dylan than anybody’s ever gone.

  Something smashes, and I come hurtling back to reality so hard I jerk backwards.

  “Shit!” I say, looking down at my feet, where a thousand jigsaw pieces which once formed a plate have arranged themselves.

  “It’s ok, I’ll sweep it,” Dylan says, handing me the sponge. “Here, you wash.”

  “The broom is next to the refrigerator,” I say, and he moves instantly to grab it.

  I focus on the washing, recovering from the void that our momentary connection has left inside of me. Dylan diligently crouches next to me, sweeping up the broken plate. I try to use the respite to gather my senses.

  I can’t do this. I can’t start developing real feelings for Dylan. Lust was one thing. What I’m feeling now is a whole other ball game. As nice and as sweet as he seems, as good with my father and as caring as he’s been today, he’s still Dylan. Still the guy who left me trembling with nerves in the Vegas hotel, still the guy who abandoned me at a biker bar, who did everything he could to jeopardize my career. Even if I forgive him, there’s the very real fact that Dylan is a self-absorbed, irresponsible playboy who treats fucking like it’s a part of his workout routine. Falling for a guy like that would be the worst relationship decision I could ever make - and I’ve already made plenty of bad ones. I need to let this go.

  I try to calm myself, putting all of my mind onto the task of scrubbing the plates. Dylan finishes off the sweeping then stands up beside me so quickly it makes me jump. When I spin around to look at him, he’s smiling mischievously, with that glint in his eye that always indicates something unexpected is about to happen.

  “What?” I ask, slowly and cautiously.

  “I have an idea.”

  “Hold that idea until the shoot is over. M’kay?” I’m not sure if I’m telling him or myself.

  Dylan shrugs. “You can have a raincheck, then. But just know, you’re not getting out of this.” His smile tells me this is far from over, and if I’m honest with myself, I have to admit that whatever it is, I can’t wait.

  Chapter 5

  Dylan

  “What are you looking at?” I say as I pull away the tablet that Gemma was staring at while standing in the middle of the lot.

  She smiles in that guarded way that makes her pretty little face even cuter, the kind of smile that makes me want to shake her up a little.

  “Your schedule.” She mock rolls her eyes at me.

  “So then you know that now is the perfect time for a break. I’ve got the afternoon off. No more scenes for me ‘til tomorrow.”

  “I know,” she says, nodding, “but I figured you would use the time to work on the script or speak with the director.”

  “Or,” I say, “We could go somewhere together and enjoy a break that we both deserve for all our hard work.”

  “Or, not,” she says, her hand slowly reaching out for the tablet.

  I decide to ignore her. “Let’s go then,” I say, taking her hand and leading her to where my bike’s parked. I notice the grin she’s trying to hide and realize I made the right choice in forcing her to take a little vacation from work for the rest of the day. She picks up the spare helmet and tucks it under her arm, quirking an eyebrow at me before moving to put it on.

  “So are you going to tell me where you’re taking me? Or is this a mystery ride?”

  “We’re going shopping,” I tell her, enjoying the combination of surprise and excitement that lights up in her.

  In a few minutes we’re riding full throttle towards Rodeo Drive, only this time Gemma isn’t digging her nails into my chest like she’s trying to rip my ribcage apart, this time she leans her head against my back softly. I make sure I brake slowly so I can enjoy the way her body presses up against mine, her legs squeezing my own.

  Something’s happening. I don’t know what it is, but something’s definitely happening. I realized that when I had the afternoon off, and my first thought was that I wouldn’t get to see Gemma until tomorrow. Lately it seems like that annoying babysitting arrangement is a reward, rather than a punishment.

  I’ve never been one for thinking things through, and I’m still not. I’ll never be anything other than an animal of instinct, but this time my instincts are a slow burn, rather than a hot wave. I know how to sweep a girl off her feet, make the grand gesture minutes after meeting her, batter her defenses and ravage her like a whirlwind, but something inside of me is telling me to take it slow with Gemma.

  I’m not even sure what it is that’s drawn me to her so relentlessly. It was easy just a few short weeks ago. All I could think about was her round ass, the way her tits bounced and moved, how her neck tasted like the finest delicacy. I still think about those things – how could I forget how hot she is? But it’s different now.

  The things she’s said to me are what I think about the most. And it’s the captivating way she reacts to me that makes me want more of her. The fact that despite being an absolute fucking mess for half the time I’ve known her, she’s retained a dignity and strength that’s made me admire her.

  I slide the bike into a private parking lot, the booth officer nodding me through – I’m easily recognizable; there aren’t many high-profile stars who ride motorcycles with hot chicks on the back.

  I step off the bike and look at Gemma. There’s a soft breeze blowing her skirt against her legs, giving me little fleeting reminders of how sensational her body is.

  “You ready to spend some money?” I ask.

  “Dylan…” she says, with a voice that sounds like someone taking back a gift. “I don’t actually have much money right now. I mean, I had to pay a deposit on my apartment when I moved, and I had to buy a bunch of new stuff for it, and then—”

  “Whoa!” I say, putting my hands on her shoulders. “Stop it, before I get any more offended. Did you really think you’d be paying? It’s on me.”

  “Oh—but I can’t do that,” she says, shaking her head. “Thanks, and everything, but…it wouldn’t be right. I know it’s nothing to you, but I was raised to think nothing comes for free. Maybe we can just have a coffee or something? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  I take a step back so that I can appreciate the full length of Gemma’s humble integrity. She couldn’t get much hotter if I lit her on fire.

  “Could you be any more noble? I thought people like you only existed in movies – and even there I didn’t believe it.”

  She laughs, then kills me with that little thing she does; the pushing-her-hair-behind-her-ear thing. I know I’m gonna replay that gesture the next time I’m alone in bed.

  “I just don’t want to feel like I’m taking advantage.”

  “You’re not, ok? This isn’t free.”

  She raises an eyebrow, raising that guard again. “Oh? What am I going to have to give you for it?”

  “You already have,” I say. “You’ve been amazing to me, Gemma. Since the shoot started I haven’t had to think about anything except the film. I’ve never had it so easy. Don’t think I don’t notice how much you’re doing for me. Whatever they’re paying you is not enough, and I want to really show you how much I appreciate it.”

  “I don’t know…” she says, but I can see her reluctance seeping away, see that she knows exactly how honest I’m being.

  “Plus, I owe you for putting up with me. Not many people would stick around with a guy
who treated them as badly as I did you.”

  Gemma nods, considering. “That’s very true.”

  “Frankly, I deserve a good punch in the eye for doing all of that. Taking you shopping would be a lot better for me, personally, though.”

  “Is the punch in the eye out of the question, then?” she teases.

  I rub my chin thoughtfully while Gemma grins. “Well at least let me show you the shops first before you make up your mind,” I say, taking her by the hand and leading her toward the elegant storefronts that line the sun-baked street of Rodeo Drive. “Because makeup will be furious with me if I show up tomorrow with a black eye.”

  I notice the way Gemma goes quiet as we pass by some of the shops, a little part of her still feeling like these kinds of places are out of her league, so I decide to give her the superstar treatment. I take her to a boutique that carries high-end designs, expensive stuff, glamorous stuff – and I’ll be honest here – sexy stuff that I’d eat my arm to see Gemma in.

  “Hello, Mr. Marlowe. It’s been a long time since your last visit,” the impeccably dressed sales assistant says as we enter.

  “I’ve been busy working,” I tell him.

  “Oh that’s very exciting,” he says, nodding.

  “Tell me about it.” I try not to sound sarcastic. I fail.

  The sales assistant just offers a smile. “The usual then, sir?”

  “I’m actually looking for something for my friend here,” I say, gently nudging Gemma forward.

  The assistant looks her up and down, then smiles a good old-fashioned milky smile.

  “Wonderful. Follow me.”

  The assistant leads us into a back room with multiple mirrors and a luxurious couch, then leaves. I sit down while Gemma stands awkwardly in the doorway.

  “What is this? What’s going on?” she whispers, as if we’ve just walked in on a cult ritual and not a boutique shop.

  I shoot her a confused look.

  “This is…shopping.”

  She shakes her head and looks back into the shop as if suspicious that somebody will find us in the back.

  “This is not shopping. Shopping is pushing and shoving with other women who are either extremely mean, or intimidatingly beautiful, realizing that you’re a bigger size than you thought you were, then finding out all the good stuff’s gone, and then buying something you never have an occasion to wear. Is that champagne?”

  I pause, mid-pour.

  “Yes it is. Take it. You look like you need it.”

  With a sigh she steps towards me and takes the glass, downing more than half of it. The assistant returns, pulling a rack of clothes behind him.

  I look at Gemma, whose eyes are so wide I can see more white than blue. She stands up slowly and steps toward the rack in a zombie-esque trance.

  “These…are…beautiful,” she mutters, gently pulling aside the dresses, jackets, and skirts to get a good look at them. Suddenly she turns to the smiling assistant with a suspicious glare. “How did you…these are…just…how?”

  The assistant shrugs modestly. “I simply looked at what you were already wearing, your hair style, make-up, body type, and made an educated guess. It’s really not that extraordinary when you’ve done this as long as I have.”

  “Don’t believe him,” I say, stepping toward the rack once I’ve poured a glass of champagne for myself, “Greg’s a psychic. He just pretends to be human to avoid being burned at the stake.”

  He laughs, and Gemma turns back to the rack.

  “If none of these are to your liking, I can bring another selection, or you can just browse the sales floor.”

  “’Not to my liking?’ I would sell a kidney to have just half of one of these.”

  I pull a slinky dress off the rack.

  “What about this?”

  She looks at it and smirks.

  “I think that’s very much your style, but I doubt you could fit in it, Dylan.”

  I laugh a little.

  “You should try it on,” I say.

  She takes a longer look at the dress, tenderly fingering the fabric like it’s a fragile antique.

  “It’s beautiful. But it would never fit me.”

  “Ah, if I may,” Greg says, raising a polite finger. “That dress should fit you quite well. It’s a very fine silk, which will hug the body and perfectly complement your figure, madam. The plunging v-neck will draw attention to your qualities, while the knee-length skirt will reveal your shape with finesse, whilst retaining a chic modesty.”

  “Shit, Greg,” I say, “I bet you could talk a nun into bed with that mouth. Jesus. All that just to tell her she’s hot enough to wear a trashcan.”

  “Shall I fetch her our finest trashcan, then, sir?” Greg deadpans.

  Gemma giggles at our banter and grabs the dress, before moving behind the curtain to change. I swap a raised eyebrow with Greg, before settling down on the couch in anticipation of the greatest show I’ll see all fucking year.

  It doesn’t disappoint.

  I was never one for fashion. It’s one of the only industries I think is more full of baloney than movies, but as I watch Gemma wearing clothes like a fucking art form I’m ready to change my mind.

  All I can think about is getting her out of that dress. Throwing her on a bed, ripping off her panties, and tasting her. Her pussy is so sweet and I need to eat it again. I feel a bulge in my pants and I try to stop it.

  “Let me see the back.” I say as I try to gain control over my semi.

  She smiles shyly, but does as I say.

  Oh that ass. What I wouldn’t do to fuck her from behind right now, my dick deep in her, while I play her clit like a harpsichord.

  She turns back around and her smile melts my heart. I was going to say something dirty, but instead the words that come out of my mouth are pure.

  “You are so beautiful.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ear, my favorite gesture of hers and a clear tell that she’s nervous.

  “Thank you,” she whispers, ducking back into the changing room.

  Since I started depending on her I’ve begun seeing Gemma as more than just a collection of curves that I wanna play with all day long. But that doesn’t mean those feelings aren’t still raging within me.

  I suck down glass after glass of champagne, doing my best to douse the flames that are beginning to burn inside me once again. After a while I just stop lavishing Gemma with compliments – what can you really say when you’re witnessing something this special? The only true way I could show my appreciation isn’t with words.

  As she spins around in a new skirt that flutters around her legs teasingly, a blouse on top that’s so tight I can see the faint trace of her perfect-for-biting nipples, I stand up, unable to hold it in anymore. If we don’t get out of here soon, Greg’s about to get a front seat for a show of his own – only this time the clothes will be coming off.

  “We’ll take it all,” I say.

  “Excellent, Mr. Marlowe.”

  Gemma looks between me and Greg with confusion and surprise.

  “What?”

  “It’s ok,” I say, “I know your address. I’ll have them sent to you.”

  “Wait. No. This is way too much. I can’t, Dylan. Thank you, really, but—”

  “Listen to me,” I say, grabbing Gemma’s arms again, and using every last drop of willpower not to bring my hands around to grab at the sexual roundness of her breasts, “we can spend twenty minutes arguing about this, after which I’ll pretend to give in, and just have these clothes sent to you anyway, or you can not argue, agree to take the clothes, and we can go grab lunch. What’s it gonna be? Lunch or pointless argument?”

  Her blue-eyed gaze rolls over my face, first with defensiveness, then with defeat.

  “I…you’re so stubborn, Dylan,” she says, shaking her head.

  “I am when I know what I want.”

  “Let me change, then.”

  “No chance. I’ve been wanting to see you wear som
ething worthy of you for weeks. Now that you’re wearing it, I wanna enjoy it. Come on,” I say, grabbing her hand and leading her out of the changing rooms. “See you, Greg.”

  “Have a wonderful day, Mr. Marlowe.”

  We check out more stores, loading ourselves with bags. Gemma never stops telling me the prices of things, but frankly, I’ve spent ten times as much for things that gave me only half as much pleasure as seeing just how beautiful she can be. It’s not even the clothes, it’s the way her face looks when she gazes at herself in the mirror while wearing these things. As if she’s only just realizing what I see when I look at her.

  We take a break in a nice little restaurant, ordering the chef’s choice off the seasonal menu and sipping on a couple of cocktails while we wait.

  “Shit,” Gemma says in the middle of a story about her college days. She turns suddenly, hiding her face with the palm of her hand. Her jaw tenses.

  “What?” I say, turning to the place in the restaurant she’s obviously hiding from.

  “That guy over there, in the leather jacket, that’s my ex. Robb.”

  “Gemma!” comes a voice from the direction she’s discreetly pointing at. I look up to see the guy in the leather jacket she just mentioned. All smarmy self-assurance and too-tight jeans and over-gelled hair. “Hey, Gemma! I haven’t heard from you in ages!”

  “Hey Robb,” Gemma says, dropping her boxer-like defensive pose.

  “Oh, hi!” he says, when he notices me. “You’re…”

  “In the middle of lunch. So if you don’t mind.”

  “Dylan Marlowe! Wow!” he turns back to Gemma. “Wait a minute…”

  “Robb,” Gemma pleads, her voice coming out small and begging, in tones that don’t sound right for a woman like her. “Not now. Please.”

  Robb looks between me and Gemma, his excitement at seeing me turning into a bitter understanding.

  “I see,” he nods to himself. “So this is why you’re not returning my calls. This is what you’ve been doing since you walked out on me.”

  “I didn’t walk out on you, Robb,” Gemma grinds out. “You cheated on me.”