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I sit on the stool and watch her as she slides behind, her fingers already reaching for a glass as her eyes scan the bottles weighing up her options.
“Either. It’s my day off tomorrow, I can have one. Or, I can stick with no alcohol if you prefer.” I’m surprised to see the spirits lined up. For many alcoholics, it would be a trigger but she seems unfazed. She must have read the confusion as I take in the bottles.
“Oh, I’m not an alcoholic. It’s just something my manager tells people in case he ever needs to explain away a situation. God forbid I break the rules sober. Much better if I did it while intoxicated. Then he can whisk me away to some spa under the ruse of rehab until the whole thing blows over. I haven’t had an alcoholic beverage in public in six years, but I keep my own bar well stocked for occasions such as these.”
She begins to make us a cocktail and I watch her with interest. She has a flair, a casualness to knowing exactly how she likes it and has no need to deviate from that method. Her nails are short but perfectly painted, which I like. Many women opt for long nails these days, and whilst they look chic, they are hazardous. Particularly for fucking women, which is where I want this to go. I want her fingers inside me, and short neat nails are reassuring that she might know what she’s doing with her elegant fingers.
I don’t follow what she is adding to the drinks. I just watch her move, seeing how her wrists turn inwards as she twists the shaker. Her fingers point on the metal tongs as she takes ice from the bucket and adds it to the glasses. She is mesmerizing and I am enthralled. I can smell her, dusky roses and sweet cinnamon tones that would taste like Christmas on my tongue. I want her.
“Here.” She smiles as she hands me the glass, and I’m oh so careful to make sure we don’t touch, keeping my fingers steady as I accept the drink and take a deep sip. It’s nice, too sweet for me really, but drinkable, and I would have put a good bet on the fact that if you had more than three you wouldn’t be walking home in a straight line.
I settle it back on the bar, glancing up to watch Dahlia drain her glass and place the empty one beside mine. She seems nervous, there is an edge to her usual confidence. I guess she is taking a huge risk having me here. I could be anyone. I could sell her out to the press and even though I know myself and know I wouldn’t, she doesn’t know that. It’s as if she read my thoughts.
“I want to let my guard down with you, Alexa, but I have learned that trust should not be given easily and even though you may say right now the things I want to hear… inevitably those feelings can change like a turn of the tides and I leave myself open to being vulnerable. A place I can’t afford to be. I think that we both know I desire you. As you desire me, but before I can act on those feelings, I need to protect myself and my reputation. Do you understand?”
I am receiving a speech. I can tell by her tone, the words do not flow naturally but instead are thought out, rehearsed, and recited from memory. I wonder how many have heard them. How many have done what I am about to do? I suppose that this is the risk when you want to experiment as a famous person, and it is the draw for someone like me, to fall into a secretive high profile luxury world with a celebrity.
I look up and meet Dahlia’s deep green eyes. I hold her gaze, reading the messages I choose to see rather than the ones she’s actually giving me.
The truth is, I want her and I am willing to play by her rules to have her.
“Yes. I understand.”
3
My worries about shaving and clean underwear turned out to be very premature. I finish my drink and whilst we flirt a little longer, it is clear that we aren’t going to move any further forward tonight. Instead, she asks me to come by her room tomorrow at eleven to discuss our situation further.
On one hand, I am pleased to leave; it makes me look better on the hotel CCTV, and I definitely want to take my time in preparing for alone time with Dahlia. But on the other hand, discussing details of the possibility of our fucking seems cold to me.
I don’t know if it was the adrenaline crash or what, but the moment I got home and laid down I passed out waking groggily at six the next morning feeling completely out of it. I decide to get up and head straight over to grandmamas to drop off my washing. She won’t be concerned about the early time; she is used to me leaving them on the doorstep with a note if an early morning run fits my schedule.
It is my turn to fuck up the shower routine, but I try to time it the best I can and work in super-fast time, meaning my rushed work with the razor leaves me with a cut on my ankle that won’t stop bleeding.
I’m not a really girly girl. I’ve always spent all of my non-working time in sweats, joggers, running gear, and Lycra. I own a few nice outfits for the times when I need to make an effort, but I’m not exactly sure what someone should wear to an eleven o’clock meeting with a celebrity who they want to hook up with.
I opt for branded, tight-fitting black joggers that make my ass look good with sneakers and a tight-fitting black tee; I want to feel comfortable and like myself. I run the brush through my hair and let it down, dark and shiny waves around my shoulders. I consider makeup but it just isn’t me, and if Dahlia wants a woman like that, she could find a million of them, so I’m happy to push indecision to one side and just be confident in myself and who I am.
I debate between the front and back exits of the hotel and opt for the front. I am, after all, a friend of a guest, and not an employee today. I don’t know if it is the shades, the confidence, or my hair being down, but no one even notices me. They let me straight through as though I belong, and as I ride the lift up to the 85th floor I realize that it’s because I feel like I could belong.
I don’t even need to knock; the moment I approach, Dahlia is already there opening the door and welcoming me inside.
I’m thankful I opted for casual, as she has done the same. In black yoga pants and a loose shirt, she looks warm, feminine, and soft. Her hair is still down but a little messy, slept in. She looks less perfected, which in my eyes makes her infinitely sexier, and I wonder how often she ever gets the chance to let her hair down and just enjoy life without worrying how she looks.
My bet is not so often.
I enter and am surprised to find us not alone. On the sofa area sits an older, balding man; his shirt looks expensive but ironed poorly and he has an air about him that I find off-putting. A detached coldness. I feel his gaze and know he is trying to fit me into a box. Judging me based on only my appearance and choice of clothing.
“Take a seat, Alexa. Would you like some tea?” Dahlia asks.
I begin to answer, but Mr. Suit cuts straight through me.
“Let us get this out of the way first, shall we, Dahlia?” It’s posed as a question but it is anything but, and Dahlia nods, sitting down in the armchair between us as though she is now the mediator.
Mr. Suit pulls out a leather document holder and opens it slowly before letting his thumbs work through the paperwork.
I eye him suspiciously.
“As you know, Ms. Sharpe, my client is a very famous and very successful celebrity who has a high level of public scrutiny. I am aware that neither of you has had any physical interaction but that you may intend to, and it is for this reason we have scheduled this meeting today. In order to protect my client’s reputation, you will need to sign these documents.” He slides a wad of paper over to me that has my name, number, address, and tax information plastered all over the front, which instantly makes me feel uncomfortable.
