If it was for a repeat performance, I’m disgusted to admit I would.Dylan Drake didn’t break my heart when he revealed to the world he was gay, but he’s doing it now by curling his fingers around mine.I know it can’t be between us.I know that he’s gay, and I’m the hired muscle.There are a million reasons to leave, and not a single good one to stay.
“I really should leave.”
“That’s probably best.”His gaze pulls away and fastens on something in the middle distance, only to sweep back to my face a moment later.“Unless you think…that is, unless you want to stay.”
“You don’t want me to stay.”
He shakes his head.“I’m not altogether sure what I want.”
Whereas I know precisely what I want, and exactly how impossible it is.There’s no sense in imagining an alternative truth.I’m not going to start lying to myself.
“Then it’s probably best if I leave you to puzzle it out.Make sure you lock the door behind me.”
***
All week, I tell myself not to think about Dylan’s mouth on my pussy, his fingers inside me…us, fucking wildly.I tell myself not to do these things because there’s no happiness to be gained from it.All I do by reliving those moments is torture myself, and torture isn’t something that actually gets me off.
I make endless lists of reasons why we’re completely unsuited, and pin them up next to the shopping list on the fridge.
He’s gay.
He’s a movie star and I provide security.
Flightiness, insincerity and promiscuity make my blood boil.
Even with other guys, his relationships don’t last longer than a day.
Then of course, my mind insists on making a pros list too, ’cause you can’t have black without the flip side of the equation.
He has a well-honed sense of social responsibility, and doesn’t sit back and let anyone dictate his life for him.My curves obviously flipped some switch or other in his head, because he made a point of worshipping them, and there’s definite attraction of some kind between us, else that frantic tumble would never have come about.
Plus, he fucks like a god.
Or at least how I hope a god would fuck, as I have no direct knowledge of celestial beings.
This week is comprised of endless tedium, so there’s ample time to rehash everything a dozen times a day.Before I know it, we’re eight days post-Dylan, and I’m babysitting a nine-year-old who won some Saturday Night show or other.She’s all gap-toothed sass, but it’s true the kid’s got a knockout voice.They have her auditioning for some top-secret remake of a musical classic.I think the secrecy is because as soon as the title gets out, there’s going to be a collective groan of, “What the fuck!Why?”Why indeed?Why not be innovative instead.
Livia, the kid’s chaperone—she made a point of introducing herself—has blanket banned all confectionery and fast food, so we end up in this bohemian café for lunch that serves beetroot swirls and goji berry drizzled tofu.Unsurprisingly, girl child has swirled the food around on her tiny plate making pictures.Not a single mouthful has made it past her chops, even though I can hear her stomach grumbling.
“I want a milkshake, Livia.Mum lets me.Why can’t I have a milkshake?They’re not as bad as Coke.”
It doesn’t seem like much of an ask to me.It’s not like she’s demanding we hit the burger joint.What’s so bad about a glass of milk?At that age, they need the calcium and calories.
“Milk will coat your throat.You want to be able to sing your best, don’t you?Right, if you’re not eating, we’ll head back.”
The poor mite sucks her lips into a pout, and screws up her button nose.I’m expecting a full-on scream, leading to a world-class diva tantrum, but somehow she manages to hold her emotions in check.“I need the toilet first.Can I go, please Livia?”
“I’ll take her,” I offer.I’m on my feet anyway.“That way you can finish your walnuts.”Leastways, I think that’s what the wrinkly brown brain-shaped things are that Livia’s cutting into microscopic pieces before spearing them on her two-pronged fork.
“Oh, would you.That’s kind.”
“She’s awful,” the kid confides as we troop upstairs.The facilities are right at the back of the place.“She’s only doing it because she thinks the casting people will remember her, or that they might find her a part too.”
“The evil queen,” I suggest.
She cackles with amusement, making no attempt to hide her smile.“I wish you could be my chaperone instead.”
“Then who would run the bad guys down for you?”
