The Producer, page 12
I have no argument. Since Dakota came into my house, I have even changed my habits. I haven’t been to the club for almost two months, when before they saw me at least two nights a week. The truth is that I often can’t wait to get home so I can spend some time with her. At first, it was an unpremeditated gesture, dictated by my concern that she would get into trouble. Now, it is an obsession.
“Trust me. My blood doesn’t follow that path. It remains much, much lower than my head,” I admit with a sigh as I look up at the ceiling, unwilling to see the sly smile that appears on her face.
“I didn’t take you as someone who likes young women who are all about shopping and selfies.” She laughs, amused, and her comment annoys me a bit.
“The problem is that Dakota is the exact opposite of frivolity.” My serious tone dampens the smile on her face, and she watches me, focused. “When she came to live with me, I was convinced she was one of the many actresses who think more about their celebrity status than everything else. I couldn’t be further from reality.”
“Are you surprised that she’s not vapid?”
“I was hoping she would be. It would have been easier. Instead, I talk to her about politics and economics, and I love how she gets angry about certain topics that fascinate her. Even just talking about romance novels becomes the best experience I’ve ever had. She’s intelligent, and I can’t resist a beautiful brain.”
Tracy tilts her head and studies me. I’ve always had very open conversations with her, even about my private life, but we never got to talk about women. Not because there was no will, but because there wasn’t anyone worth spending more than five minutes thinking about.
“Is it vital for her to stay and live with you? She doesn’t get into trouble anymore. Maybe she understands that she has to calm down.”
I inhale deeply and hold my breath. A single conversation was enough for Dakota to understand the situation and stop behaving like a rebellious teenager, but the mere thought of her leaving my home annoys me. To go home in the evening and not find her sitting by the pool reading is inconceivable.
“No, but I don’t want her to leave,” I admit sincerely. Tracy is the only one who can understand the battle I am carrying to not give in to the temptation to fulfill my fantasies.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hide my clear attraction for her. The other night we were reading on the couch, and I pulled her on my lap, you know? It’s not normal behavior.” I rub a hand across my face trying to drive away the frustration I feel inside.
“And you didn’t do anything about it? I mean, no kiss, no fondling, nothing?” She furrows her eyebrow in a puzzled expression.
“No, that’s the point.”
“And her? Did she react in some way to that?”
I shrug and shake my head. “I had the impression that she expected a move from me, but when she saw that I wasn’t going down that road, she snuggled up on my chest and kept reading.”
It was the most intimate moment I’ve ever had with a woman—more than sex, more than a kiss.
Tracy shakes her head and seems to think about it. The best part of talking to her is that she doesn’t get carried away by the feelings or judgments she carries inside. She analyzes the situation and tries to come up with a sensible suggestion.
“Why don’t you make a move on her? I mean, she is young, but she is of age and, from how you talk about her, she isn’t influenced by the producer’s charm. It is not something forced or seedy if she sleeps with you. She is more than consenting.” Her question is not a reproach. She almost seems to want to understand the motivations that make me stay away from her.
“It’s complicated.”
“Because you live together? The accommodation is temporary. Six months then everyone goes their own way.”
“It’s not that.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should first find out why she differs from the other women you surround yourself with. It has never been a problem for you to sleep with someone and then continue with your life.”
Maybe that’s the point. I am afraid that if I taste the forbidden fruit even once, in the end, I will no longer be able to do without it. But I’m not ready to confess it out loud yet.
“How the hell did we end up talking about my sex life? We were discussing the author of the fantasy books that Dakota suggested to me.”
Tracy pauses to study me for a few moments, perhaps surprised by my sudden change of subject.
“Because after I told you about the bank robbery, the murders, and the exorcism, I realized you weren’t listening to a single word of what I was telling you.”
“Touché”
“However, we were saying that this woman—if she is a woman and not the pen name of a creepy old man—has no contacts. She is an indie author. She has several social networks, including Instagram, TikTok, a Facebook page, and a group, but no way to contact her,” she explains.
“No email, private messages, nothing?” I ask, perplexed.
“No, she disabled the option to contact her directly.”
“Why the hell doesn’t she want to be contacted? From how Dakota speaks of it, she is the author phenomenon of the year. Doesn’t she want to live her moment of glory?” This author is a puzzle I can’t figure out.
Tracy turns her laptop to a website with a list of one-star reviews.
“Maybe because she wants to keep her mental health from going insane? Some of these reviews have nothing to do with the book’s quality. They are just plain insults to the fact that she killed the most popular character in the series, thus destroying the most beloved couple. If I were her and I received such messages privately, I too would remove any possibility of contacting me.”
I take a look at the reviews and realize she’s right. There are even phrases in which they wish her the worst suffering. How the hell can you wish a person an illness because she made the editorial choice to kill one of the characters? Usually, I don’t deal with reviews of our shows or films. There is an office that deals with precisely this. I only get the summary if viewers like or dislike our choices. I am almost in pain for those poor interns who have to sift through all this wickedness to give me the finished result.
“How the hell can you not understand that a book is fiction? These reviews are unheard of nastiness against a real person with feelings. It’s chilling what they write.” I’m stunned by yet another comment that makes my skin crawl.
Tracy shrugs and shakes her head. “The Internet is a den of frustrated people who feel powerful behind a keyboard. But look at her numbers. She has almost one hundred thousand followers on TikTok and about fifty thousand on Instagram. These are huge for an independent author.”
I must admit that her social media management is masterful. Behind this name is someone who knows how to do marketing, how to take care of a brand, and who has managed to build a loyal reader’s following that has brought her to the top of the rankings. She is not someone who has had luck with a book and found herself at the top of the charts by chance. There is hard work behind this product.
“I know. The problem is that we have no way to contact her.” I lean on my chair and stare at the computer.
Tracy gets up and catches my eye. “Give me a few days to investigate more deeply. I’ll see if I can find out something more. Do you think these books are worth all this work?”
I nod decisively. “I think it’s an excellent product that fits perfectly on the small screen. Dakota thought of a movie for every book, but there’s so much material you can adapt it to a TV show.”
“Dakota suggested it to you, eh?” She shows off a smug smile.
“I told you she is a smart person with which you can talk about serious things.”
“She sounds like quite the keeper.” She winks at me before going out and leaving me with an idiotic grin on my face.
Dakota is not a woman you take to bed once and forget about. She is the complete package, one that includes getting up in the morning and having breakfast together. That’s why constantly thinking about her is the worst decision I’ve ever made.
***
I put my jacket on the armchair in the living room and take off my tie. I see Dakota by the pool sitting on the deck chair through the window. In front of her is a tray with something to eat and a basket of bread. On the low table next to her, she has a can of soda and an ice bucket with a bottle of wine and a glass.
Until a few months ago, I would have thought it was for her, that she was getting drunk by the pool, but now I know that is the “table” she prepared for our dinner, that the wine is for me. I walk out with a smile on my face and notice she has her nose stuck in the book. It isn’t until I’m close enough that I notice the sobs.
My heart pumps into my chest when I am on my knees next to her, worried as never before. “What’s going on? Why are you crying?”
She is so desperate that the sobs shake her violently. Who the hell did this to her? The mere thought that someone has hurt her so much that she is almost sick makes my blood boil.
“Who did this to you? Tell me, and I swear that when I’m done with him, even his mother won’t be able to recognize him,” I hiss as I grab her by the shoulders and force her to look at me.
“You can’t. He’s dead, you know? He’s dead, and you can’t do anything to bring him back,” she desperately cries as she shows me the book.
Her heart is so broken that I would like to bring this guy back to life and kill him myself for making her cry like this.
“Who died, Dakota? A friend of yours?” It breaks my heart to see her like this.
She shakes her head and rests the book on the pillow. “No, Drake! Drake is dead. After seven books, he died, you know? I can’t live with this news,” she blathers, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s just a fictional character. He’s just a fictional character, and I wish he were real, so I could beat him until nothing is left. All because he made her cry. I sit on the deck chair behind her and cradle her to my chest until she snuggles up and clings to my shirt. I squeeze her tightly and sink my nose into her hair, inhaling deeply and getting lost in her sweet scent. I kiss her on the head and cradle her until the sobs go away.
“I know it’s stupid,” her voice is a whisper, “but I feel awful, as if a friend of mine has died. I know he’s just a fictional character, but to me, it’s like he’s real.”
“It’s not stupid. You spent seven books living and struggling with him. Your feelings are no less real just because they are directed toward a character who doesn’t exist in everyday life,” I whisper as I hold her in my arms.
“Don’t you think I’m a stupid little girl?” she asks me uncertainly, her nose clogged with all the tears she has shed.
“I think the author has succeeded in what I try to do every day: to involve the reader to the point of making them live the emotions as if they were true.”
“Do you try to make people cry? You’re cruel!” She bursts into half a laugh.
I smile and hold her closer to me, losing myself in the shape and warmth of her body. She is so perfect in my arms I never want to let her go.
“I could not live off my work if I didn’t arouse emotions in the viewer. This leads the person to continue watching a show, episode after episode. Whether it’s joy, anger, grief, or lust, no TV show would survive if it didn’t elicit emotions. No one wants a boring life without jolts, even if it is the fictitious one of a book or a movie.”
“So you don’t think it’s stupid?”
I grab her chin and force her to look me in the eye.
“I have many adjectives to describe you. Intelligent and fascinating are just the first ones that come to mind, but stupid is not really in my vocabulary when it comes to you,” I confess.
I get lost in those blue eyes swollen with tears, her little red nose, her lips bent in a suffering grimace. She is beautiful enough to take your breath away, even when crying. These are the emotions I was talking about, aren’t they? Those that make life appear less dull. The ones that make your heart pump in your chest and turn off your brain from any rational reasoning. The ones that put you on autopilot and let instinct guide you to what you want.
My instinct tells me to kiss her. Hold her in my arms and sink my tongue into her mouth until she forgets all the tears, the suffering, and the death of a character who made her suffer. Yet, the part of me that holds me back is stronger than even my instinct. I clench my arms around her, place my lips on her forehead, and let my rational part take over again.
I observe Serena wandering around the Venice Beach skatepark like a woman studying her surroundings for her next conquest. There are several people out with their skateboards. Mostly males of our age and younger. My friend looks at the shirtless ones as if she’s feasting on their abs. Some of them have noticed us behind the barrier, dressed like we have never seen a skateboard.
I lower the front of my cap over my eyes and put on my sunglasses. I don’t want them to recognize me and start chatting, as often happens when I’m out with her. I agreed to go out with Serena because the idea of staying at home all Saturday with Aaron was embarrassing. After he found me crying the other night and held me close to him until I calmed down, it became hard to hide that I’m attracted to him. We’ve crossed that fine line that divides the working relationship from something friendlier so many times I don’t even know where the border is anymore.
I think he suspects I like him since I was not drunk this time when I threw my arms around his neck and rested my head on his shoulder, inhaling his perfume like my life depended on it. I felt him stiffen when I touched his skin with my lips, but he squeezed even tighter immediately after.
This dance between us, where the attraction is so evident that it can be felt, but neither of us dares to take a step, is exhausting. I know that if we cross that line, it would be impossible to go back, which is why neither of us dares to take that step first. I needed a day away from him to think lucidly again.
“The blond one is mine,” Serena mumbles with a mischievous smile on her lips.
I was so lost in thinking about Aaron that I didn’t notice that two guys are getting closer to us. The blond is shirtless and has sculpted abs, surfer vibes, and a cheeky smile. The other boy, with curly dark hair, seems a little more shy and thinner than his friend, wearing a Super Mario shirt, and seems embarrassed when his friend leans on the railing opposite us.
“I saw that you were interested in my abs, so I thought I’d bring them here so you can also touch them, not just admire them.” He shows off a smile so mischievous that it becomes arrogant. Serena doesn’t seem to notice and reaches out a finger, sliding it down the guy’s skin without ever taking her eyes off his.
The scene is so cringy that I can’t help but look away, annoyed. I glance at the blond’s friend, who lowers his embarrassed gaze like he wants to disappear instantly rather than be here watching them.
“I’m glad you did because I wanted to find out if they were as inviting up close,” Serena meows.
I inhale deeply and bite my tongue so as not to comment on this scene. Most of the time, she is a funny girl who pulls me out of my shell and makes me try things I would never have the courage to do, but there are certain moments when her being over the top goes from being cute to being vulgar. This is one of those.
“So, am I to your liking?”
“You are better than I expected,” she whispers conspiratorially.
The image of Aaron, of his sculpted physique, appears in my mind in a flash, and I can’t help but notice the contrast between the class of the man I live with and this guy. Are all the boys my age so irritating? My face must be disgusted because when I look at his curly friend, he shrugs with a grimace that says, “I know he is an idiot. We can’t do anything about it.” His expression is so embarrassed that I smile.
My reaction seems to attract Serena’s attention, who takes it as my interest in the other guy.
“We were going to eat something at the restaurant over there. Would you like to join us?” she asks, pointing at one of the restaurants whose terrace overlooks the walk that divides it from the beach.
I am glad she didn’t propose going to Nobu in Malibu. It wouldn’t be the first time she suggested something out of her reach and for which I’d have to cover the expense.
“You go ahead. We’ll come in a bit.”
The boy’s smile is so radiant that it begins to annoy me. Serena turns around, winking, and grabs my hand, leaving them there.
“You don’t even know their names. Are you sure you want to invite them to lunch?” I ask when we are far enough away that I don’t make myself heard.
“With abs like that, I don’t need to know his name. And then, you smiled at his friend, don’t tell me you don’t like him.” She throws me a cocky look that irritates me.
“No, he’s definitely not my type,” I burst out, irritated by the turn of the day.
Serena rolls her eyes and dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
“Of course, because you now live with Aaron and you don’t lower yourself to date guys your age. They’re all kids to you, aren’t they?” she asks condescendingly.
I furrow my brows and nail her with my gaze. “What the hell does my living with Aaron have to do with all of this? I didn’t say he’s a kid, just that he’s not my type.”
“Why? Do you fuck Aaron? Is that why you don’t give him a chance?”
I stop a few steps from the restaurant and grab her by the arm until she turns.
“I don’t fuck Aaron, got it? I never did and never will.”
“How can you expect me to believe you? You have been living with him for months. You see him half-naked, walking around the house. Don’t tell me you’ve never taken a ride on that merry-go-round,” she spits annoyed, and it makes me angry.
“Trust me. My blood doesn’t follow that path. It remains much, much lower than my head,” I admit with a sigh as I look up at the ceiling, unwilling to see the sly smile that appears on her face.
“I didn’t take you as someone who likes young women who are all about shopping and selfies.” She laughs, amused, and her comment annoys me a bit.
“The problem is that Dakota is the exact opposite of frivolity.” My serious tone dampens the smile on her face, and she watches me, focused. “When she came to live with me, I was convinced she was one of the many actresses who think more about their celebrity status than everything else. I couldn’t be further from reality.”
“Are you surprised that she’s not vapid?”
“I was hoping she would be. It would have been easier. Instead, I talk to her about politics and economics, and I love how she gets angry about certain topics that fascinate her. Even just talking about romance novels becomes the best experience I’ve ever had. She’s intelligent, and I can’t resist a beautiful brain.”
Tracy tilts her head and studies me. I’ve always had very open conversations with her, even about my private life, but we never got to talk about women. Not because there was no will, but because there wasn’t anyone worth spending more than five minutes thinking about.
“Is it vital for her to stay and live with you? She doesn’t get into trouble anymore. Maybe she understands that she has to calm down.”
I inhale deeply and hold my breath. A single conversation was enough for Dakota to understand the situation and stop behaving like a rebellious teenager, but the mere thought of her leaving my home annoys me. To go home in the evening and not find her sitting by the pool reading is inconceivable.
“No, but I don’t want her to leave,” I admit sincerely. Tracy is the only one who can understand the battle I am carrying to not give in to the temptation to fulfill my fantasies.
“Did you sleep with her?”
“No, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hide my clear attraction for her. The other night we were reading on the couch, and I pulled her on my lap, you know? It’s not normal behavior.” I rub a hand across my face trying to drive away the frustration I feel inside.
“And you didn’t do anything about it? I mean, no kiss, no fondling, nothing?” She furrows her eyebrow in a puzzled expression.
“No, that’s the point.”
“And her? Did she react in some way to that?”
I shrug and shake my head. “I had the impression that she expected a move from me, but when she saw that I wasn’t going down that road, she snuggled up on my chest and kept reading.”
It was the most intimate moment I’ve ever had with a woman—more than sex, more than a kiss.
Tracy shakes her head and seems to think about it. The best part of talking to her is that she doesn’t get carried away by the feelings or judgments she carries inside. She analyzes the situation and tries to come up with a sensible suggestion.
“Why don’t you make a move on her? I mean, she is young, but she is of age and, from how you talk about her, she isn’t influenced by the producer’s charm. It is not something forced or seedy if she sleeps with you. She is more than consenting.” Her question is not a reproach. She almost seems to want to understand the motivations that make me stay away from her.
“It’s complicated.”
“Because you live together? The accommodation is temporary. Six months then everyone goes their own way.”
“It’s not that.”
“So, what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know.”
“Maybe you should first find out why she differs from the other women you surround yourself with. It has never been a problem for you to sleep with someone and then continue with your life.”
Maybe that’s the point. I am afraid that if I taste the forbidden fruit even once, in the end, I will no longer be able to do without it. But I’m not ready to confess it out loud yet.
“How the hell did we end up talking about my sex life? We were discussing the author of the fantasy books that Dakota suggested to me.”
Tracy pauses to study me for a few moments, perhaps surprised by my sudden change of subject.
“Because after I told you about the bank robbery, the murders, and the exorcism, I realized you weren’t listening to a single word of what I was telling you.”
“Touché”
“However, we were saying that this woman—if she is a woman and not the pen name of a creepy old man—has no contacts. She is an indie author. She has several social networks, including Instagram, TikTok, a Facebook page, and a group, but no way to contact her,” she explains.
“No email, private messages, nothing?” I ask, perplexed.
“No, she disabled the option to contact her directly.”
“Why the hell doesn’t she want to be contacted? From how Dakota speaks of it, she is the author phenomenon of the year. Doesn’t she want to live her moment of glory?” This author is a puzzle I can’t figure out.
Tracy turns her laptop to a website with a list of one-star reviews.
“Maybe because she wants to keep her mental health from going insane? Some of these reviews have nothing to do with the book’s quality. They are just plain insults to the fact that she killed the most popular character in the series, thus destroying the most beloved couple. If I were her and I received such messages privately, I too would remove any possibility of contacting me.”
I take a look at the reviews and realize she’s right. There are even phrases in which they wish her the worst suffering. How the hell can you wish a person an illness because she made the editorial choice to kill one of the characters? Usually, I don’t deal with reviews of our shows or films. There is an office that deals with precisely this. I only get the summary if viewers like or dislike our choices. I am almost in pain for those poor interns who have to sift through all this wickedness to give me the finished result.
“How the hell can you not understand that a book is fiction? These reviews are unheard of nastiness against a real person with feelings. It’s chilling what they write.” I’m stunned by yet another comment that makes my skin crawl.
Tracy shrugs and shakes her head. “The Internet is a den of frustrated people who feel powerful behind a keyboard. But look at her numbers. She has almost one hundred thousand followers on TikTok and about fifty thousand on Instagram. These are huge for an independent author.”
I must admit that her social media management is masterful. Behind this name is someone who knows how to do marketing, how to take care of a brand, and who has managed to build a loyal reader’s following that has brought her to the top of the rankings. She is not someone who has had luck with a book and found herself at the top of the charts by chance. There is hard work behind this product.
“I know. The problem is that we have no way to contact her.” I lean on my chair and stare at the computer.
Tracy gets up and catches my eye. “Give me a few days to investigate more deeply. I’ll see if I can find out something more. Do you think these books are worth all this work?”
I nod decisively. “I think it’s an excellent product that fits perfectly on the small screen. Dakota thought of a movie for every book, but there’s so much material you can adapt it to a TV show.”
“Dakota suggested it to you, eh?” She shows off a smug smile.
“I told you she is a smart person with which you can talk about serious things.”
“She sounds like quite the keeper.” She winks at me before going out and leaving me with an idiotic grin on my face.
Dakota is not a woman you take to bed once and forget about. She is the complete package, one that includes getting up in the morning and having breakfast together. That’s why constantly thinking about her is the worst decision I’ve ever made.
***
I put my jacket on the armchair in the living room and take off my tie. I see Dakota by the pool sitting on the deck chair through the window. In front of her is a tray with something to eat and a basket of bread. On the low table next to her, she has a can of soda and an ice bucket with a bottle of wine and a glass.
Until a few months ago, I would have thought it was for her, that she was getting drunk by the pool, but now I know that is the “table” she prepared for our dinner, that the wine is for me. I walk out with a smile on my face and notice she has her nose stuck in the book. It isn’t until I’m close enough that I notice the sobs.
My heart pumps into my chest when I am on my knees next to her, worried as never before. “What’s going on? Why are you crying?”
She is so desperate that the sobs shake her violently. Who the hell did this to her? The mere thought that someone has hurt her so much that she is almost sick makes my blood boil.
“Who did this to you? Tell me, and I swear that when I’m done with him, even his mother won’t be able to recognize him,” I hiss as I grab her by the shoulders and force her to look at me.
“You can’t. He’s dead, you know? He’s dead, and you can’t do anything to bring him back,” she desperately cries as she shows me the book.
Her heart is so broken that I would like to bring this guy back to life and kill him myself for making her cry like this.
“Who died, Dakota? A friend of yours?” It breaks my heart to see her like this.
She shakes her head and rests the book on the pillow. “No, Drake! Drake is dead. After seven books, he died, you know? I can’t live with this news,” she blathers, and I breathe a sigh of relief.
He’s just a fictional character. He’s just a fictional character, and I wish he were real, so I could beat him until nothing is left. All because he made her cry. I sit on the deck chair behind her and cradle her to my chest until she snuggles up and clings to my shirt. I squeeze her tightly and sink my nose into her hair, inhaling deeply and getting lost in her sweet scent. I kiss her on the head and cradle her until the sobs go away.
“I know it’s stupid,” her voice is a whisper, “but I feel awful, as if a friend of mine has died. I know he’s just a fictional character, but to me, it’s like he’s real.”
“It’s not stupid. You spent seven books living and struggling with him. Your feelings are no less real just because they are directed toward a character who doesn’t exist in everyday life,” I whisper as I hold her in my arms.
“Don’t you think I’m a stupid little girl?” she asks me uncertainly, her nose clogged with all the tears she has shed.
“I think the author has succeeded in what I try to do every day: to involve the reader to the point of making them live the emotions as if they were true.”
“Do you try to make people cry? You’re cruel!” She bursts into half a laugh.
I smile and hold her closer to me, losing myself in the shape and warmth of her body. She is so perfect in my arms I never want to let her go.
“I could not live off my work if I didn’t arouse emotions in the viewer. This leads the person to continue watching a show, episode after episode. Whether it’s joy, anger, grief, or lust, no TV show would survive if it didn’t elicit emotions. No one wants a boring life without jolts, even if it is the fictitious one of a book or a movie.”
“So you don’t think it’s stupid?”
I grab her chin and force her to look me in the eye.
“I have many adjectives to describe you. Intelligent and fascinating are just the first ones that come to mind, but stupid is not really in my vocabulary when it comes to you,” I confess.
I get lost in those blue eyes swollen with tears, her little red nose, her lips bent in a suffering grimace. She is beautiful enough to take your breath away, even when crying. These are the emotions I was talking about, aren’t they? Those that make life appear less dull. The ones that make your heart pump in your chest and turn off your brain from any rational reasoning. The ones that put you on autopilot and let instinct guide you to what you want.
My instinct tells me to kiss her. Hold her in my arms and sink my tongue into her mouth until she forgets all the tears, the suffering, and the death of a character who made her suffer. Yet, the part of me that holds me back is stronger than even my instinct. I clench my arms around her, place my lips on her forehead, and let my rational part take over again.
I observe Serena wandering around the Venice Beach skatepark like a woman studying her surroundings for her next conquest. There are several people out with their skateboards. Mostly males of our age and younger. My friend looks at the shirtless ones as if she’s feasting on their abs. Some of them have noticed us behind the barrier, dressed like we have never seen a skateboard.
I lower the front of my cap over my eyes and put on my sunglasses. I don’t want them to recognize me and start chatting, as often happens when I’m out with her. I agreed to go out with Serena because the idea of staying at home all Saturday with Aaron was embarrassing. After he found me crying the other night and held me close to him until I calmed down, it became hard to hide that I’m attracted to him. We’ve crossed that fine line that divides the working relationship from something friendlier so many times I don’t even know where the border is anymore.
I think he suspects I like him since I was not drunk this time when I threw my arms around his neck and rested my head on his shoulder, inhaling his perfume like my life depended on it. I felt him stiffen when I touched his skin with my lips, but he squeezed even tighter immediately after.
This dance between us, where the attraction is so evident that it can be felt, but neither of us dares to take a step, is exhausting. I know that if we cross that line, it would be impossible to go back, which is why neither of us dares to take that step first. I needed a day away from him to think lucidly again.
“The blond one is mine,” Serena mumbles with a mischievous smile on her lips.
I was so lost in thinking about Aaron that I didn’t notice that two guys are getting closer to us. The blond is shirtless and has sculpted abs, surfer vibes, and a cheeky smile. The other boy, with curly dark hair, seems a little more shy and thinner than his friend, wearing a Super Mario shirt, and seems embarrassed when his friend leans on the railing opposite us.
“I saw that you were interested in my abs, so I thought I’d bring them here so you can also touch them, not just admire them.” He shows off a smile so mischievous that it becomes arrogant. Serena doesn’t seem to notice and reaches out a finger, sliding it down the guy’s skin without ever taking her eyes off his.
The scene is so cringy that I can’t help but look away, annoyed. I glance at the blond’s friend, who lowers his embarrassed gaze like he wants to disappear instantly rather than be here watching them.
“I’m glad you did because I wanted to find out if they were as inviting up close,” Serena meows.
I inhale deeply and bite my tongue so as not to comment on this scene. Most of the time, she is a funny girl who pulls me out of my shell and makes me try things I would never have the courage to do, but there are certain moments when her being over the top goes from being cute to being vulgar. This is one of those.
“So, am I to your liking?”
“You are better than I expected,” she whispers conspiratorially.
The image of Aaron, of his sculpted physique, appears in my mind in a flash, and I can’t help but notice the contrast between the class of the man I live with and this guy. Are all the boys my age so irritating? My face must be disgusted because when I look at his curly friend, he shrugs with a grimace that says, “I know he is an idiot. We can’t do anything about it.” His expression is so embarrassed that I smile.
My reaction seems to attract Serena’s attention, who takes it as my interest in the other guy.
“We were going to eat something at the restaurant over there. Would you like to join us?” she asks, pointing at one of the restaurants whose terrace overlooks the walk that divides it from the beach.
I am glad she didn’t propose going to Nobu in Malibu. It wouldn’t be the first time she suggested something out of her reach and for which I’d have to cover the expense.
“You go ahead. We’ll come in a bit.”
The boy’s smile is so radiant that it begins to annoy me. Serena turns around, winking, and grabs my hand, leaving them there.
“You don’t even know their names. Are you sure you want to invite them to lunch?” I ask when we are far enough away that I don’t make myself heard.
“With abs like that, I don’t need to know his name. And then, you smiled at his friend, don’t tell me you don’t like him.” She throws me a cocky look that irritates me.
“No, he’s definitely not my type,” I burst out, irritated by the turn of the day.
Serena rolls her eyes and dismisses me with a wave of her hand.
“Of course, because you now live with Aaron and you don’t lower yourself to date guys your age. They’re all kids to you, aren’t they?” she asks condescendingly.
I furrow my brows and nail her with my gaze. “What the hell does my living with Aaron have to do with all of this? I didn’t say he’s a kid, just that he’s not my type.”
“Why? Do you fuck Aaron? Is that why you don’t give him a chance?”
I stop a few steps from the restaurant and grab her by the arm until she turns.
“I don’t fuck Aaron, got it? I never did and never will.”
“How can you expect me to believe you? You have been living with him for months. You see him half-naked, walking around the house. Don’t tell me you’ve never taken a ride on that merry-go-round,” she spits annoyed, and it makes me angry.
