“You became a rock star.” She filled in the blank.
“Yeah, that.” I gave her what I hoped was a charming smile.
“So, no college degree?”
“What, do you have a problem with that?” Whoops, that sounded sharp and defensive.
“No, no, of course not.” She patted my arm like I needed reassurance. I had to admit, it felt good. “I’m just trying to get to know you. And I’ve met your family. They seem like the kind of people who would, you know, want you to—”
“Be exactly like my older brother, Colton, who went to Yale undergrad and then Harvard Business School, yes.”
“Wow. That’s a tough act to follow.”
“I never even tried.” Why was everything I said sounding bizarrely raw and vulnerable? Where was Mr. Cool?
“Is it that you don’t like studying? Or school? Or reading?”
Oh shit, a librarian asking me if I didn’t like books. This wasn’t going well. “I’m not good at it. I can’t sit still. And I don’t know, reading’s never exactly been my thing. Takes me too long to get through it all.”
“Maybe you’re dyslexic?”
I shrugged. I’d had a lot of labels thrown at me over my younger years and even I had figured out that some wires in my brain must be crossed when it came to making sense of all those jumbled words. But I’d moved around a bunch and switched schools and it hadn’t even occurred to me to think about it in years.
“You know, there’s nothing to be ashamed of about that,” she reassured me. “A lot of people are dyslexic. Charles Schwab was dyslexic.” She looked up, hope for me shining bright in her gorgeous eyes.
I had to smile. I was so used to people falling over themselves impressed with me, feeding my larger-than-life ego. I loved that she thought I might need some encouragement. “Do you think I have a chance to make something of myself?” I teased.
She laughed. “I don’t mean that, Ash. You’re obviously crazy talented. I loved watching you last night.”
“You did?” I loved hearing her say it. But she returned to her former subject.
“I just mean, books are a joy. And you might love reading if you learned some strategies.”
“Are you going to be my reading tutor?” I leaned down, nuzzling her hair. Near her ear, I whispered, “I’ve always been hot for teacher.”
She laughed again, though this time it sounded a bit more breathy.
“Do you have a pair of glasses you could wear? So you could look at me all stern?”
“And then fling them off?” She smiled up at me.
“Or I’d fling them off. That would be the first thing to go.” My gaze swept down her body, her lush curves. I could practically see her naked, spread before me on my bed.
A flash shone from behind a tree. Click. The moment had been captured. Right. We were putting on a show. I saw it in her face, too, that reminder. Enough with this public PR bullshit, I needed to get her alone.
“Let’s get you a hot chocolate and then head to my place.” I brought my hands up to her shoulders and rubbed her, warming her up. It definitely warmed me up.
“Do we have time?” She pulled out her phone, concerned. “You have a show tonight. I wouldn’t want to make you late.”
“We have time.” What I had planned would happen hot and fast. Then later, after the show, we could go slow, see how far I could take her before she screamed in pleasure like she’d never known.
Baseball cap pulled down low, collar of my jacket up high, we entered into a small, gourmet warming hut without too much notice. No angry mobs, just a few eyes following us, but I was used to that. I got Ana her hot chocolate with whipped cream on top—I’d like to lick some whipped cream off of her top—and myself a cappuccino.
She’d fallen silent, and when I looked down I saw why. Underneath the counter ran a long display of magazines. Us Weekly had leapt first into the fray, but People and Entertainment Weekly and followed suit, and pictures of the two of us took space on all of their covers. The Rock Star and the Librarian. The press loved it. But there were also a couple of rags, the type that claimed alien abductions and paired celebrities with fake long-lost children. They weren’t as kind to Ana. One had somehow found an unflattering photo of her scowling and wrapped in a long, bulky coat. “Short, fat and ugly!” Their headline yelled. “How did she get Ash? Is it black magic?”
She turned tail, fast. I paid almost as fast and ran after her, catching her marching toward the street.
“Ana, wait. You can’t pay attention to that crap.”
“I know.” She nodded her head, but she avoided my eyes and her cheeks had turned a deep, embarrassed shade of pink.
“Come on, tomorrow they’ll be saying that I had a baby with the ghost of Audrey Hepburn.” That brought out a smile, but it looked weak. “I’ll get us a car and we’ll head up to my place.”
The ride was short, not much traffic mid-day on a Thursday, and we weren’t going too far. I wrapped my arm around her and tried to keep her mind off it, telling her about all the outrageous stories I’d seen printed about me over the years. I’d been romantically linked to people I’d never met, accused of parenting children with people I’d never touched. One rag had even declared that I was the secret love child of Sean Penn and Madonna. I kind of liked that one.
I’d learned to laugh it off, but just then I felt like an asshole. I’d dragged Ana into this, exposed her to those hyenas, offered her up on a platter knowing full well the kind of shit that would get thrown around. And I’d never considered, not even once, the effect it would have on her. I wasn’t a good person.
“You know it’s not true,” I murmured into her hair, silky and smooth. “You’re gorgeous.”
She gave a puff of a laugh, more like a fast exhale. “I’m burning that coat.”
“I don’t know.” I lifted up her hair and dropped my lips to her neck, kissing her light on her warm skin. “I can see some appeal. If you showed up on my doorstep wearing that coat and nothing underneath.” Dipping lower, I licked her neck, giving her a kiss, a teasing nip and suck. She tilted her head back, so natural at surrendering, her instinct to give herself over to the pleasure. I’d do everything I could to give her ample opportunity to experience it.
Starting now. The driver pulled up, we got out and climbed up the stairs of my home. A classic San Francisco Victorian, it was smaller and less modern than what I could afford, but I’d loved it the second I’d seen it. Built in 1920, it had withstood earthquakes and fires and the living room overlooked the bay, golden in the morning and flushed red at sunset. It couldn’t be beat.
And now I’d get Ana to myself, for a least a couple of hours before our show.
I let her into the entryway, high-ceilinged and bright with light. “Would you like a glass of wine?” It had to be around three o’clock. Regular people started drinking that early, didn’t they?
“Sure.” She followed me in, taking in the details in the woodwork, the framed rock memorabilia. I’d had someone decorate it for me, of course. I wasn’t going to take the time to line shit up and mess around with a hammer and nails. But I’d personally collected each and every piece.
“You like Joni Mitchell?” She stopped in front of a framed, signed copy of Blue from 1971.
“Yeah, that’s a great album. James Taylor plays guitar on it.”
“Oh yeah?”
“And Stephen Stills. They used to live here, you know. Crosby, Stills and Nash.” I was rambling now, sharing nerdy rock history facts. How did this girl make me nervous?
“They lived here?” She looked around my place, surprised.
“No.” I realized what I’d said. “Not here here, but near here.”
“You’re such a rhymer,” she teased me.
I smiled down at her, forgetting all about the wine. She made me feel like such a kid. No one teased me. They sucked up to me, too aware of my power and wealth. Ana didn’t seem to care. I loved it.