Stinger sol-3, Page 2

  Okay, now he was just trying to get a rise out of me. And why? What exactly had I done to this man? I narrowed my eyes further, even angrier at the fact that his words were turning me on–again. My traitorous body liked his damn, deep sugary voice and purposefully titillating words. Stupid body! I might never have sex again, just to punish her and her non-sensical, whorish reactions.

  “Let me buy you one,” he said, the corners of his lips rising. "Seriously. Just one drink my way. You can do a taste test and see who's right. We can get to know each other a little better." He winked.

  I turned my body, facing him fully now and taking a deep breath. Before I started, I smiled sweetly. "I'm going to lay it out straight for you here, Carson. And the reason that I'm going to do that is because I have every confidence that it will scare you off badly enough that I can then finish my drink in peace, and we can part as acquaintances who simply have nothing in common."

  He raised one eyebrow and I joined my hands in my lap, tilting my head as I continued.

  "I'm the kind of girl who wants to get married in a big, white dress, wearing my grandma's pearls. I want a husband who loves me and is faithful to me. I want him to come home to me every night, and I don't want to have to worry if he's doing his secretary, because he's the kind of man who has too much honor to do that. I want to wait a year and then I want to start trying for the two kids that we'll eventually have, a girl and a boy. And when we have those kids, I do not want, one day, to have to look in their little faces and explain why their daddy is on the internet having relations with everyone from College Honeys to Cougars Gone Wild for money. I want to throw a cartoon themed birthday party at a jump house for my six year old, not mark the occasion by explaining what a "money shot" is. I have a feeling your life goals are somewhat different than mine. And by 'somewhat,' I mean, utterly and completely. Does that explain why it would be a waste of time for both of us to continue being in each other's presence?"

  He was thoughtful for a minute, turning back to the bar and taking a drink of his beer. Finally, he turned to me. "How did we make those two kids?"

  My brow furrowed. "Uh, you might want to re-think your career choice if you don't know–"

  "What I mean is, what position did we make our two kids in? Doggy Style? Backwards Cowgirl? The Garfield? Flying Circus? Butterfly? Table Lotus? Bended Knee?"

  My mouth fell open. I put my hand up and said, "Stop! Okay, first of all, I have no idea what some of those are, nor do I want to know. But secondly, what does that have to do with anything?"

  "Oh, believe me, you want to know. Why it matters is because someday when Princess is screaming at three in the morning with a loaded diaper, or Junior gets expelled from preschool for punching his classmate, I want to be able to think back to the moment that we created them, and I want to smile and remember why it was the best fuck of my life, and why whatever shit–literal and figurative–I have to deal with later on, is worth it."

  My mouth dropped open against my will. "You're disgusting."

  "You're the one who had my baby. Twice."

  "I did not, nor will I ever have your baby. That was my point."

  "So you're just going to abandon Princess and Junior? Nice mom."

  I stood up, throwing a ten-dollar bill on the bar. "Done. You enjoy your drink, Carson Stinger. I look forward to seeing you again, um, never." And with that, I grabbed my purse, turned tail and started walking away as Carson called out, "Also, babe, you play hot secretary for me when I get home at the end of the day, and I'll have no need to do my real one."

  I raised my arm and flipped him off. I heard his throaty chuckle from behind, but I kept walking.

  * * *

  Carson

  I heard the slap of her flip-flops fade away and took another swig of my beer. Uptight, little brat. Hot, uptight, little brat, but a brat nonetheless. I knew her type. She could get all indignant, stick that haughty little chin in the air, tell me why she was better than me, and walk away, but I saw the way her body reacted. She wanted me. Most women did, if I was going to be honest. Everyone was given one gift or another–mine was a smile women creamed their panties over and a body to match. Why be humble about it? It's not like I could take any credit–I just knew how to use my God-given assets. The girl though, Grace Hamilton–I'd seen it on her luggage tag–she'd never let herself indulge, not knowing what I did for a living anyway. But just the fact that her body responded should have been enough for me. So why didn't that thought make me happy? It usually did. So what was different here? I downed the last of my beer and frowned at the display of bottles behind the bar, trying to solve the riddle.

  It had been the strangest thing. I was walking to the front desk to leave a message for my agent who was flying in from L.A. the next morning, and I had crashed into someone, her blonde head colliding into my chest, just under my chin, and I was able to smell her clean, flowery-scented hair, gathered up in one of those twists.

  As she had looked up at me, flustered and breathless, my own breath almost hitched in my chest at the beauty of the heart-shaped face gazing back. She had the biggest, blue eyes I had ever seen, a cute little nose, and the prettiest damn mouth–full, light pink lips with a pretty bow shape on top. Sure, she was pretty, beautiful even. But I saw pretty girls all day long. Why did one glance at this one have me staring, trying to memorize her face like a lovesick schoolboy? I had no damn clue. We had both paused before moving back from each other, and I took in her slim body in a fitted, black skirt and a silky, white blouse. I loved that look. Hot schoolteacher. I had looked into her face and I could see a slightly confused warmth shining from her crystal clear eyes. In that gaze, I had almost forgotten who I was. Almost. And that never happened.

  But then her eyes had moved down to that stupid nametag I had forgotten to take off, and I saw the disappointment and judgment fill her expression. And so I had purposefully made her uncomfortable, and I had enjoyed the look of disgust and then anger that filled her pretty face. I had enjoyed the way she stomped away from me, shaking her sweet, little ass. I had just done it again in the bar for the same reason. It meant I had won, so why didn't I feel like a winner? Why was I still sitting here actively thinking about it? About her? It was completely pissing me off. What I needed to do was fuck that feeling away–whatever that feeling was. The one I'd had since I'd run into her in the lobby. I should probably go and find some willing female to come back up to my room with me for an hour or two. Yeah, that sounded like a plan.

  My phone rang as I was putting the money for my drink on the bar and I looked at the screen. "Hey, Courtney," I said, walking out.

  "Hey Carson, love, you all set for Monday morning? I have the address of the shoot and some details. I'm gonna send them to your email. Can you pull it up on your phone?"

  "Yeah, that's fine. I'll let you know when I get it."

  "Okay, good. It's at the Four Seasons in Beverly Hills. A balcony shoot, followed by a shower scene."

  I groaned. "Shit, Courtney, I'll only have done five films, and two of them have shower scenes? I told you I hated the first one."

  "Oh please. Am I supposed to feel badly for you that you get to do Bambi Bennett in a shower? Poor thing." I could hear the sarcasm dripping from her voice.

  "Shit, it's awkward–there are two cameramen and a mic in that tiny space. From where I'm standing, it's not hot. Also, Bambi Bennett? Christ. Am I fucking a deer?"

  "I know. It's a stupid name. She's new to the site. Look her up. She's all kinds of gorgeous. Lucky you. Kisses! Text me when you get the info." And with that she hung up.

  Courtney owned the site I had recently signed a contract with–ArtLove.com. It was supposed to appeal mostly to women, the largest growing porn-watching demographic. Most of the shoots were in exotic locations and we were encouraged to look like we were really into each other–different than the wham, bam, thank you ma'am type of porn that men tended to like. The first shoot I had done was in Belize in an outdoor shower and despite what i
t might have seemed like to the viewer, I was just hoping I could stay hard through it. A film crew of sweaty dudes all up in your business wasn't exactly a wet dream come true, no matter how gorgeous the girl was.

  Apparently, though, after only a couple films, I had a small fan following. And so my agent had all but insisted I show up this weekend to make an appearance. I had stayed at the meet-and-greet bullshit for as long as I could stomach, and then I'd snuck out and run straight into Miss High and Mighty. It wasn't that I didn't appreciate my fans… or rather, I guess I tried not to think about my fans too much because let's be honest, they admired me for reasons that made me think it was better that I not shake their hands.

  I started toward the elevators, intending on going up to my room and changing for the pool. It was the easiest place to pick up a girl, one who didn't care to know who I was or what I did–and the feeling would be mutual.

  "Whoa, hold the elevator," I called as I spotted one going up, doors just starting to close. I flashed my room key to the security guard standing at the front of the alcove.

  An old woman stuck her purse out, and the doors bounced back open and I jogged to it, thanking her and turning toward the front.

  "The Lord is testing me," I heard a quiet voice whisper under her breath. I glanced to my left and two people over to see who had muttered those words, and there stood Grace "White Wedding" Hamilton. Go figure. I chuckled softly to myself at her tight expression over the fact that I was even sharing her space.

  I leaned forward and grinned at her. I could tell that she saw me in her peripheral vision by the way her spine straightened, but she continued to stare straight ahead at the door in front of us.

  The old lady standing next to Grace leaned around her and grinned back at me, waving a flirty, little wave. It was cute and so I laughed and waved back. Grace's head swiveled to me and her eyes widened as we made eye contact, me still smiling. Then just as quickly, she turned to look straight ahead again.

  The elevator stopped at several floors and began to empty out, and pretty soon, it was just me and Grace and the old lady. We all stood quietly, staring straight ahead.

  At the next floor, the old lady moved to the front and Grace and I both automatically stepped backwards to let her pass. As the old lady walked out the open doors, she turned and winked at me and then turned and winked at Grace too. I looked over at Grace, and her head was tilted, a small smile on her pretty, pink lips as she watched the doors close again.

  Then she glanced at me, and the smile was replaced with a frown.

  "You know…" I started to say, but my voice trailed off as the lights in the elevator flashed, and we felt a huge jolt, to which Grace let out a small squeak and I let out a "Holy shit!"

  The elevator slammed to a stop, groaning loudly, and the lights flickered. I looked across the small space into wide, terrified eyes. We were stuck.

  CHAPTER 2

  Grace

  As the elevator groaned to a stop and the lights flickered one more time, I felt fear wash over me. I didn't like small spaces. Not at all. It stemmed back to–well, it stemmed back to something I didn't like to think about. I took a deep breath and practically threw myself at the phone cubby, yanking open the small metal door and pulling the handle off the phone. I pressed zero and as it rang, my eyes darted to Carson who was standing in the corner, leaned against the wall, watching me carefully.

  "Maintenance," a gruff voice said.

  "Hi, hi! Yes, hi, this is Grace Hamilton. I'm a guest here this weekend. We're stuck in an elevator. It just stopped suddenly and…" My words trailed off as I heard the phone reception crackle and then die. I made a panicked sound in my throat and took three big steps over to my large purse, abandoned in the corner. I pulled out my phone and looked at the bars at the top of the screen. No service. Shit!

  I looked over at Carson again and he was still staring at me, unmoving, just watching me with an unreadable expression on his face.

  "Don't just stand there! We're trapped! Do something!" My breath hitched in my throat and I could feel my heart beating harshly in my chest. I lifted my fingers to my throat and felt my pulse racing wildly. I attempted to take a deep breath, but my throat suddenly felt as if it was swelling shut. I couldn't breathe. Oh God, I couldn't breathe.

  I stumbled back against the wall, making eye contact with Carson who now had his brow furrowed as he moved toward me. I gripped the bar on the wall behind me, knowing I was about to die of asphyxiation, here in this elevator, the last eyes I saw those of Carson Stinger, Straight Male Performer. Oh no, no, no, no. Not like this.

  "Hey, calm down, Buttercup," he said calmly, gripping both my arms just like he did when we collided in the hotel lobby. "Deep breath, take a deep breath. You're okay. They're going to get us out of here, all right? Just take a deep breath. Keep your eyes on me."

  My eyes blinked rapidly as his face swam in front of me, my breath now coming out in raspy exhales as I fought to take in oxygen.

  "Shit, Buttercup, come on, you're not going to pass out on me in this elevator. Deep breath."

  For several minutes we both stared into each other's eyes, the worry in his deepening as he watched me struggle.

  Oh God, Oh God, air, air!

  He stepped away from me and started looking around the elevator, eyes wide, panicked now, searching for what, I didn't know. He flew over to the phone and picked it up and listened for a second, and then slammed it back in its small box and kicked the door shut. "Shit!"

  I'm dying. Oh God, please, air.

  He turned back to me, and my eyes were tearing up in my effort to take in what little oxygen was making it down the tiny passageway that was now the inside of my throat. I was sure I was turning blue.

  "Sister Christian, oh the time has come!" Carson suddenly belted out.

  Even in the midst of my panic attack, I startled. What the–

  "And you know that you're the only one to say, okay."

  He took a step back as my eyes followed him, my breath still sticking in my swollen throat as I struggled to draw in air

  He pointed at me. "Where you going, what you looking for?"

  What the hell is he doing? What the HELL is he doing? Oh! A little air. That's good, that's good, Grace.

  "You know those boys don't want to play no more with you. It's true." At the last two words of the stanza, he lowered his chin and gazed into my eyes.

  Better, better. More air, better. Okay, okay. I'm okay. Why is he singing while I'm almost dying here? He actually has a really nice voice–deep and slightly throaty. Figures he'd have a really nice voice. Figures he'd have a SEXY voice. Ah, air. Okay, I'm okay.

  My breathing slowed marginally and I realized that the instrumental of "Sister Christian" was playing over the sound system. Carson was singing along to the elevator music. And doing it well. To distract me from my panic attack. And it was working.

  I took in a large inhale of air, my vision clearing as I now watched him. He was in the middle of the elevator and as what would have been the drum solo came up, he started playing the air drums furiously, closing his eyes and bobbing his head to the beat, biting his lower lip.

  "You're motoring! What's your price for flight? In finding Mister Right? You'll be all right, tonight."

  I couldn't help it, I let out a very small laugh. When he heard it, his eyes snapped open and he looked up at me, and relief washed over his features before he grinned. It was the same grin that had almost knocked me on my ass when he gave it to the old lady. It was real. And something inside of me knew that that was rare.

  His smile turned serious and he walked toward me singing slowly, "Babe you know you're growing up so fast. And mama's worrying that you won't last to say, let's play."

  As he finished the last few words, he held his fist up to his lips, pretending it was a microphone and then he thrust it in front of my mouth.

  I blinked at him for a minute, but now adrenaline was racing through my body at the sweet relief of air flowing fr
eely into my lungs, and so I did something I'd never, under ordinary circumstances do–I grabbed his fist and sang into it, "Sister Christian, there's so much in life. Don't you give it up before your time is due, it's true." Then he leaned in and we were both singing together, "It's true, yeah!" He jumped back and played more air drums before jumping forward again and singing into his fist with me. "Motoring! What's your price for flight? You've got him in your sight. And driving through the night."

  Our faces were mere inches apart now and I could smell his minty breath as he sang with me, "Motoring! What's your price for flight? In finding Mister Right? You'll be all right tonight."

  He stepped away from me again and this time, mimicked the electric guitar solo, moving his hips forward with every pretend riff, swiveling them to the chords as I watched, laughing out loud now at his ridiculous antics.

  He grinned back at me as he continued singing the chorus, a couple times over. Then as the song slowed, he started walking slowly to me again singing, "Sister Christian, oh the time has come. And you know that you're the only one to say, okay. But you're motoring. You're motoring, yeah." He trailed off as we both stood staring at each other, his breathing harsher than mine now from all the furious air playing. I was breathing steady and even as his chest quickly rose and fell. The bizarre nature of the situation hit me and I burst out laughing, and then so did he. As our laughter faded, he tilted his head to the side and said, "If you wanted to hear me sing, Buttercup, you could have just asked."

  I smiled and nodded and then looked at him seriously. "Thank you for that. Who knew Night Ranger could cure a panic attack? But it worked. Thank you." I took a big, deep breath.

  He nodded at me, smiling too.

  Then both of our heads swiveled to the phone as it started ringing.

  * * *

  Carson grabbed the phone. "Hello!"