The sound of the ocean roars to my right. Wave after wave crashes and cascades against the shore, close enough to spit at. The winter wind whips the scent of salt and seaweed straight into my face. I’ve only been here five seconds, but already I love it.
Santa Monica is amazing in so many ways. The buzz. The restaurants. The nightlife. The movie stars. Sometimes I forget I’m one of them. The time I saw Sandra Bullock in my local Starbucks, my feet stuck to the spot, my mouth flooded like a tsunami and I turned into a stuttering idiot, equally starstruck as any other fan.
But this?
Here right now?
It feels like solitude.
Sanctuary.
It feels like I can drop the tough guy act and just be me for the first time in years.
A Mini Cooper is parked to the side of the villa. Weird. Maybe they rent the car with the house? It’s a woman’s car, if ever I saw one. Most men wouldn’t fit in it for a start.
Thank God for the Audi. Imagine pulling up on set in a fucking Mini. I snort. Though, at least it’s German. Fuck it, Jayden’s right. I need to shed my predictable ways. Starting with banging a brunette, one who looks nothing like the last one I was with, and buying a Ferrari from the next shipment from Italy.
The sensor light illuminating the driveway is blinding, but the real warmth stems from the inviting glow beckoning from the huge glass panels only half visible behind the pot plants punctuating either side of the solid, duck-egg coloured front door.
Hauling my case out of the boot, I carry it up the front steps and drag my biker boots over the welcome mat. My hand yanks the door handle. Typical Ireland, it’s unlocked. Coming here is like going back in time twenty years. That’s probably half the appeal for some people. It just didn’t occur to me that I might be one of them.
A niggle of unease slides over my skin as I step into the hallway. The faint sound of music travels from further inside the house.
Mariah Carey’s iconic Christmas song.
But it’s not Mariah’s honeyed voice I hear belting out those familiar lyrics.
Well, crucifying them.
Striding through the hallway, I barely take in my surroundings as I gravitate towards the sound.
In a modest sized open-plan living and kitchen area, a five-foot brunette twirls in circles, barefoot on a royal blue crushed velvet couch, clutching an empty wine bottle which she’s doubled up as a microphone. She doesn’t so much as flinch, blissfully oblivious to my arrival.
A tiny nightdress dips low on her chest, barely covering full, round breasts. The same crimson material skims her thighs, revealing inch upon inch of satiny, smooth skin.
A cute button nose tilts upwards, but not in a snobby demeanour. No, her stance is more like an expression of liberation. Like she’s just burnt her last bra in protest or something.
Perfect, pouty cherry-red lips brush the neck of the bottle as she wails into it. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut. She’s utterly lost in the moment.
Oddly enough, so am I.
Transfixed might be a more accurate description.
Dark, loose, glossy curls brush her bare creamy shoulders.
Why have I been avoiding brunettes again?
Something about the way her limbs sway with sheer inhibition is utterly captivating.
My eyes refuse to budge from this bewitching sight before me.
If only she sounded as good as she looked.
Am I so jetlagged I’m seeing things?
It’s been a long couple of days.
No. Not even my warped imagination could conjure up this karaoke queen before my eyes.
