Collaboration (15 page)

“Oh, I hear ya. And worst of all, you’re all by yourself in that jar, and you feel like you’re just waiting for the pedestal to get knocked out from under you, which is about a half-second before the jar falls and breaks.” Where the hell did
that
come from? She looks at me curiously, but before she can respond our waiter arrives with the menus.

A quick glance at the offerings tells me this is not the Tex-Mex I’m used to. Well, shit—now I have no clue what to order…not that she needs to know that. I look up to see
Rafael
eyeing my date, not with curiosity but with desire. Even in her disguise, Taryn is a knockout. Well, not while I’m fucking sitting here.

“Hey, señor,” I say, being a dick but not really caring, especially since I got the guy’s attention. The look he gives me is priceless. “Could you get my girl here one of your mango mojitos? And I’ll take a Corona with a lime,” I say, handing him the unopened drink menus. Yeah fucker, you’re dismissed.

He looks back at Taryn once more for confirmation but she’s looking at me, so he walks away. “And what makes you think I
want
a mango mojito, Mr. Alpha-Male
Manning
?” she asks with a smirk. So she likes me being bossy, huh?
Good to know.

I hate the fact that I don’t know something as simple as what she likes to drink so I bullshit her instead. “Well, since they are famous for being super sweet, I just figured that would be the perfect drink for you.”

She shakes her finger at me, “First you’re trying to get me drunk, and now you’re buttering me up. What am I going to do with you?”

Oh, I can think of a lot of things
. “Do you really want me to answer that?” I ask, cocking my eyebrow.

“Actually, forget I asked,” she says with a smile, but the flush on her cheeks is almost the same color as the wig she’s wearing.
Fucking hot
. “I have a better question anyway…is Manning your last name? I was beginning to think that Trace was the only name you have.”

“Actually, Trace is just a nickname. And even that gets shortened to Ace by my boys,” I tell her.

“So what’s your real name?” she asks, not attempting to hide her interest. And for once, I don’t mind saying because I know she won’t go blabbing about me to whoever asks.

“Aster Manning,” I say.

“Really? How did you get Trace from that?”

“Aster Manning, the
third
,” I reply. When she scrunches her nose in confusion, I explain, “You know how in Spanish, the word ‘tres’ means three? Well, that’s where they got Trace.”

“But you’re not Hispanic…are you?” she asks, looking thoroughly perplexed—it’s so damn cute.

“Do I look Hispanic, señorita?” I ask with a playful smile.

“No, but I’ve never seen someone with dark skin and blue eyes either.”

“Yeah, apparently that’s kind of an anomaly. Lucky me,” I say sarcastically. I’ve been teased mercilessly for my blue eyes even more than my lighter-than-most black skin. My mom always said they were just jealous because I had something different that they could never have. Then again, I think mothers are required by law to say shit like that.

“No, lucky me,” she mutters. I give her a questioning look and the flush reappears as she adds, “I get to look at them.”

Thankfully, our waiter drops off our drinks right then because I’m not sure how to respond. Well, that’s a first. While squeezing my lime into my beer, I watch as Taryn daintily—and really, there’s no other word for it—takes a sip of her mojito. Her eyes close and I hear a soft moan of pleasure. Ah shit, if a drink can make her sound like that, I can only imagine the sounds she’d make if I was pumping inside of her.
Back to the menu, Trace.

There’s a whole lot I see listed that I don’t know what the hell it is. I hate deferring to the waiter and his recommendations though; it’s like admitting I don’t know shit about what I’m doing. The smirk on his face as he walks up tells me that he’s confident I don’t know shit either. “We’re going to share…” I start, but before I can finish, the fucker states, “Oh, sharing plates isn’t allowed. We’d have to charge you extra if you want to do that.”

I look at Taryn, who is trying not to laugh, and then I stare back at
Rafael
before saying, “If you let me finish, you would know that we’re going to share about four different dishes. Gives my girl here a chance to try everything, ya know?” He nods and I’m happy to see I shut his superior-sounding mouth. I point out two dishes of each type of cuisine, close the menu, and then taking Taryn’s from her, I hand both to the waiter so he can get the hell out of here.

She and I make small talk about how each of our tours has been going while we wait on the food. We’ve both been visiting half a dozen cities per week and neither of us can easily recall where all we’ve been. The dishes I ordered are a hit, and I’m happy to see Taryn puts away a healthy amount of food. I love it when a girl eats and I was afraid she’d eat two bites and leave the rest for me.

When the next mojito arrives, it reminds me that I want to know more about her, big and little. Taryn’s not completely closed off, but she’s not forthcoming with information about herself either. I ask about a few of her ‘favorites’, finding out that blue is her favorite color, horses are her favorite animal, and
Duck Dynasty
is her favorite TV show.

“Favorite dessert?” I ask.

“Oreos,” she says without pause, and I try to stop from scowling. I’ve hated Oreos since the first day someone called me that name when I was a kid.

“Really?” I ask. “Out of all the desserts in the world, you pick Oreos?”

She nods her head. “Yup, I’ve loved them since before I could remember. My mom wasn’t exactly the baking type, as you can probably imagine, and didn’t allow a lot of sweets in the house. Heaven forbid I gain a pound or two when I was twelve,” she retorts and my heart hurts just hearing her say it. “But every once in awhile, my dad would sneak a package of Oreos he bought at a convenience store and give them to me. I’d hide them in a drawer and eat just one or two in a sitting, wanting to make them last as long as possible.”

What she says reminds me of the way I hoarded and rationed food when living with my uncle, and although it was for an entirely different reason, the rationale is the same—not knowing when you’ll have something again, you want to make it last as long as possible.

Trying to lighten up the conversation a bit, I joke, “I’ll bet you dipped them in milk just like in the commercial, didn’t you?”

“Oh no,” she says and shudders, “then the chocolate part would get all soggy. I always unscrewed the chocolate top to get to the yummy frosting, and then I would lick every last bit of the white part off before eating each of the round chocolate cookies whole.”

And just like that, not only is my dick hard, but I am over my long-standing aversion to Oreo cookies. “How about you, what’s your favorite dessert?” she asks.

Without thinking, I blurt out, “Bluebell.”

“Bluebell?” she asks, arching her eyebrow. “As in the ice cream from Texas?”

Damn
,
I should have thought
that
answer through before I said it. Thinking quickly, I answer, “Hell yeah, that shit is good. Had it when I was there for a concert one time.”

My face must be giving something away because she still looks skeptical when she says, “I wasn’t questioning where you had it. I’ve actually heard that they sell it in quite a few states now. I just didn’t know if we were talking about the same Bluebell.”

“No one could copy that ice cream. It’s one-of-a-kind, that’s for sure,” I say.

“So what’s your favorite flavor?” she asks.

“Oh, that’s easy,” I answer, “It’s one that nobody else could make if they tried. Dos Amigos is vanilla and chocolate with some—“

“Cinnamon flavor,” she finishes for me, “and made with real Mexican vanilla. I love it too…or at least I used to. They haven’t made that one for awhile.”
Shit.
She stares at me for a second but then puts on a smile, although it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, and asks, “You sure you’re not Hispanic?”

“I’m pretty sure I’d know something like that,” I joke.

“Just checking,” she says and then continues, “I’m actually from a town not too far from the factory where they make Bluebell.”

“Oh yeah? What’s it called?” I ask and then quickly add, “Not that I’ve probably ever heard of it before, but you never know.”

“La Grange. It’s in Fayette County,” she adds, as if that might help jog my memory. Fortunately, I don’t have to lie—I’ve never heard of it.

“Must be a small town. What’s it near that I might know?” I ask.

“It’s about halfway between Houston and Austin. And you’re right, it
is
small. My dad loves to tell people that the population of La Grange is a couple thousand, and that includes horses, cows, and chickens,” she says wistfully. I hate seeing that look on her face, but it’s good to know she has a dad. At least then she might have one parent who gives a shit about her because that mom of hers certainly doesn’t. All Taryn is to that woman is a meal ticket, a chance to be in the spotlight that no doubt passed her by in her youth.

“Of course, that’s an exaggeration but you get the idea,” she says, breaking me from my thoughts, and just in time to notice her expression change—not in a good way. “And sometimes the town seems too big.”

Okay, I may not be telling Taryn everything about myself, but if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s got some secrets of her own. Question is, do I want to know what they are?

I decide to let it go, since asking about her past might backfire on me in a big way. “So, all this talk about sweets is making me think it’s time for dessert. Do you want anything?” I ask.

She looks unsure before answering, “No thanks.”

“Hey girl, your mom’s not here, remember?” I joke. You have whatever you want—I promise not to tell.”

“I really don’t, I swear. I’m completely stuffed, but don’t let me stop you.”

“Nah, I’m good,” I say. “Let’s get out of here then. We can walk all this food off, if you want.” I’m not ready for this night to end so I hold my breath, awaiting her response.

“Sounds great,” she says. I may be projecting my own feelings here, but I think I hear relief in her voice—maybe she’s not ready for the night to end either.

After I flag down
Rafael
and pay the bill, we make our way downstairs and exit outside on to the bustling sidewalk. We walk beneath the trees, which are now lit in what Taryn calls “fairy lights,” as we head in the direction of the ocean.

Stepping off the walkway and onto the sand, we’re instantly greeted by the cool ocean breeze. Beside me, Taryn shivers, so without asking if she wants it or not, I remove my jacket and put it on her. She thanks me as I wrap my left arm behind her back between her shirt and my jacket, holding her close. I feel her body shake again, but this time I get the feeling it isn’t from the cold.

We continue to stroll toward the water in a comfortable silence with the wind serving as a soundtrack to our steps. One thing I love about Los Angeles is having the water nearby. I’d never lived by the ocean before moving here, and there’s definitely something calming about it. I’m no surfer—hell, I don’t even get in that water because it’s too fucking cold—but I sure as hell love to look at it and listen to it.

Echoing my thoughts, Taryn says, “I love the ocean. Where I grew up in Texas, we weren’t anywhere close to the water and it’s one of my favorite things about living here.”

“Yeah, same here,” I respond.

“Tell me about where you grew up,” she says.
Which place?
I think to myself. Guess I need to give her something though.

“Ever heard of Cabrini-Green?” I ask. She shakes her head ‘no.’ “Well,” I laugh humorlessly, “let’s put it this way…‘The Green’ practically puts every other housing project in the nation to shame. And not in the good kind of way. It was a fucking war zone. It actually got so bad that they tore it down a while back.”

“So where does your family live now then?” she asks.

“They’ve moved on…you know, greener pastures and all that,” I say.
Much greener,
I think.

“I guess that makes sense. Now that you’ve become famous, they can probably afford to live anywhere, huh?”

“Yup,” I answer, leaving it at that. I’m not lying to her, but I’m not going
there
either. “Speaking of greener pastures, didn’t you say your dad lives on a farm or something?”

“A ranch, actually,” she says, “and as much as I try to help him out, he won’t ever let me. I guess he’s old school like that.” I wish my uncle were ‘old school.’ Dre’s dad never fails to get what he can,
when
he can.

As we approach a hollowed-out log lying on the beach, I remove my arm from around her back before taking her hand and guiding her to the log. She sits down on it, facing the ocean. And although I love how she didn’t even fuss about getting dirty, it’s cold and I want to feel her body close to mine so I sit down, and then pick her up and put her on my lap. “There, that’s better,” I murmur.

She looks at me and doesn’t say anything, which is fine because I’m done talking for the night. I lean forward and press my lips lightly against hers, letting them linger before leisurely licking the seam of her lips. When she opens, I breathe in the sweet smell of the mojito, and when she touches my tongue to hers, I savor the sweet taste of Taryn. Our tongues maneuver like two tango dancers, each giving and taking while tangling passionately with the other. Her hands wrap around my back, clutching onto my shirt as if it might blow away. I glide my hands up her back, over her shoulders, and to her neck. My right hand works its way back down the side of her body, while my left grabs onto her hair, pulling gently.

Fuck—I forgot about the wig. Suddenly, I find I’m holding it in my hand and surprised, I pull back from the kiss. She looks confused until I hold up the wig for her to see. We both laugh…that is, until I see the expression on her face quickly change to surprise and then fear. I turn and look over my shoulder, spotting a guy not fifty feet away with a camera poised and ready.