Finding Love's Wings (7 page)

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Skin, the bottom of her dress nearly exposing the round, beautiful, tight ass sticking up in the air. Begging to be touched, caressed. And an opening begging to be filled. My cock twitches again. She strides across the deck and to the door. Her beautiful body on display, wanting. She's trouble personified.
 

Her black hair with electric blue streaks tells me right off the bat: this girl is different and probably not to be messed with.

Until she came outside and convinced me to turn around, I hadn't yet faced the beauty that is Cami. The tattoos she has on her shoulders are beautiful on her skin. The color contrast is amazing. Both of them have the same hearts and stars mosaic with tribal-style fairies in the center. One is very obviously an angel, or a representation of an angel. The halo and feathery, rounded wings are what make the angel stand out. A good fairy.
 

Her other shoulder, the right one, is the opposite in color: reds, oranges, and some yellows resembling flames, but without the fire. The center contains a fairy with horns and a pointed tail. The wings are sharp, pointed at the top and bottom. The bad fairy.
 

And those wings! Like me, she has wings on her back. Fairy wings, done in black and purple. The back of her halter top cut the wings in half, so I'm unsure how far down they go, but after tonight I'm determined to find out.
 

My eyes shift around the dark deserted beach. My body is casting a very long shadow in the moonlight. The scenery around me is inconsequential when compared to my thoughts about Cami. What forced me into buying her drink was the way she leaned against the bar. Back to the bar, elbows up, with her breasts pushed out. God, she was like a goddess standing there. The finishing touch, the thing that forced me into ordering her a drink, was when her nipples hardened. And popping up on either side of her full, plump, deliciously suckable nipples was hard evidence that her ears aren’t the only things she has pierced. My God! Barbells...right through her nipples. AMAZING! I feel the excitement stir in my shorts at the thought of finding what other secrets she holds beneath her clothes. Granted, that dress left very little to the imagination...

She's right upstairs, you idiot, go find out.

I shake my head, trying desperately to clear the images from my mind in a vain attempt to calm down. "Stop it! Stop thinking about it," I start to beat myself up. What exactly would a beautiful woman like Cami want to do with me?
 

Obviously something, I realize. She followed me onto the beach and gave me her room number. Not to mention the fact that she made a very pointed attempt to get my attention while putting her shoes back on. I feel the smile spread across my lips just thinking about her bent over. Ass in the air, unsheathed from her dress and panties. Nothing but raw naked skin and suspenders from her garter to her thigh highs. Should she keep the shoes on? Yes, yes she should. With her bare back exposed, begging my fingernails to run firmly but gently along her spine. Burying myself deep inside her wet, waiting pussy.
 

My knees give out and they crash into the sand. Sitting on my haunches, my hands fist, nails digging into my palms as I try and regain some sense of control. She is right upstairs and all I have to do is knock.
 

Something about this gorgeous girl screams to me that I can't just bed her. She's better than that. She deserves far better than me fantasizing about her on a darkened beach.
 

I continue to toy with the idea of going to her room, but I know that if I do, it will only end one way - horizontal. That's something I know that I don't want, not yet.
 

Believe me, I want Cami. But am I really ready to sleep with someone I've just met? I know the answer to that question: no, I'm not.
 

I've been with women before, and it always seems to end badly. I like to believe in karma, but I can't seem to fathom anything I've done in my past to warrant Layla’s betrayal. I trusted her with everything, told her everything. She made me feel like I was really important, that we were made for each other. How wrong was I?

I've never felt so out of place and lost in my entire life. These last few days have been a complete disaster. I ended up in Tarah on a whim because I had to get away and get into hiding before the storm starts. This morning when I checked my email I had six different emails from Trinity, my public relations representative at Bold International, desperately wanting to know where I was, why my voicemail was full, and why I hadn't appeared at the meeting with them on Wednesday. The answer, to me, is obvious: I’m in Tarah and want nothing to do with anything pertaining to Hollywood.
 

There was even an email from Vincent, which surprised me. He's my agent, in charge of selling my image to perspective buyers in Hollywood. That means directors, producers, and studio executives. I'm quite sure that his email was in response to Trinity’s requests to track me down. Though Vinnie and I get along really well, I'm not sure that it extends beyond a professional level.
 

Turning around to face the moon, I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around my shins. Staring up at the bright white of the moon and the deep blue of the ocean makes me feel so small and alone. But I know I can't hide here forever. Eventually I'll need to face the music. Trinity can be relentless when it comes to me, my actions, and my decisions. I've come to understand from other actors that Trinity is pretty calm in comparison. She doesn't get worked up over little details, and she doesn't do anything to try and control my life. I'm pretty sure this has more to do with the fact that I make a point of keeping my nose clean and out of trouble. I generally don't have to go running to her with every little thing that doesn't go my way.

Jesus, she is going to fly over the top with this story. When Layla told me about this story, my instinct was to stop it. To call Trinity and put a stop to it. But what would that accomplish? Saving Layla's skin? I'm certain I'm no longer responsible for her, her career, or the outcome of this story.

I was concerned momentarily about the impact this story was going to have on my career. Then, in an instant, I realized that I don't care. While I love acting, I'm certain that I could find something more to do with life than answer to directors and the pretentious actors and actresses on set. Is acting really something I want to do with the rest of my life? That's one of the dozens of questions I need to answer.
 

I'm concerned about Layla, but how can I help her at this point? She really needs help – rehab or psychiatric help. Neither one of these options are things that she will willingly do on her own. I have no grounds to stand on in making her go. The thought of threatening her or bribing her has crossed my mind more than a few times, but in the end, it will accomplish nothing. It is no longer my battle to fight. She needs to make those choices on her own. About the only thing I can do is get in touch with her dad. Get him involved, and he can take care of her.
 

I know that eventually I’ll need to reply to Trinity, and eventually I need to fill her in on what's going down. Oh, that is going to be a joyful conversation I'm not eager to have.
 

Before I can register what time it is, or even how long I've been out here on the beach, the sun begins to rise. I start to get this prickling sensation all over my body, the someone-is-watching-me feeling. I look over my shoulder and see Tyson sitting at a table on Blu's patio. The bar is closed and all is quiet on the beach, for now. With the sunrise will come guests to enjoy the beach, so I get up and walk toward him. As I get closer I realize that his back is to me, and I still have that feeling like someone's watching me.
 

My eyes instinctively scan the beach and the area surrounding the hotel. I don't see anyone or anything that is out of the ordinary. I look up at the hotel. It's beautiful in the fading moonlight. Almost white, though it was more of an orange stucco in the daylight. As my eyes scan the west-facing side of the hotel, they skip past the lower levels and shoot toward the top.
 

In the middle of the building, a floor below my own, there is a faint light and the silhouette of a person. A woman. A breeze kicks up and I see her hair flare out off her shoulder. Through the pale backlight I catch a hint of blue.
 

"Cami."

PART EIGHT

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"Busted," I mutter to no one in particular. For the last fifteen minutes, at least, I've been out here watching Tristan from my balcony. His dragon's wings brilliant against his pale skin. His shoulders tight, head bowed, and his entire upper body hunched forward. His head on his knees. I sit like that sometimes when I'm deep in thought or worried about something. He'd been in that position when I'd gone to bed two hours ago.

He looks up at me a second time, and in the light coming off of the deck I can see he's smiling. I wave, and he waves back. Then he just stands there staring up at me.
 

"I wonder if he can see that I’m standing here in my birthday suit," I muse out loud. If he can see me, then he'll see I'm blushing at the thought; thinking about Tristan seeing me naked has the warm, ever-present wetness growing hotter between my legs.
 

After what seems like half a century, he breaks off his staring and looks sharply down toward the bar's deck, like someone’s called his name. I can see that he's talking to someone, but I can't see who it is.

I gradually back up toward the door, slipping further into the shadows. All while keeping my eyes on Tristan.
 

After a very long, hot shower, I towel off and put on a t-shirt and the pair of boxer shorts I love to roam around the house in. While I work the brush through my hair, I pick up the phone and order room service for breakfast.
 

I'd hoped that something good would come of last night, but the reality has taken me completely by surprise. Tristan Michaels is staying in the same hotel as me. He bought me a drink. He talked with me on the beach.
 

What in the world was with the magnetism of the evening? I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It took everything I had not to turn around and go back to him. I was desperate for his voice, for more conversation, and I'm hoping that we will see each other again tonight. I can't get a grip on the desperation I feel to be near him, for reasons I can't even begin to imagine. All I know is that all night I wanted to be down on the beach sitting with him.

While I wait for room service I decide to pick up my iPad and head for the sitting room. The overstuffed, oversized chair that could probably put me to sleep if I sit still long enough is calling my name. With the iPad in hand, I sit and stretch my legs out to the table and pull up Safari and Google. I enter two words into the search line: Tristan Michaels.

Ten minutes later I realize I've been staring at various images of Tristan. There is a beautiful combination of posed and candid paparazzi shots. The ones of Tristan on the red carpet at various premieres and award shows are stunning. It appears that he doesn't even have a bad side to be photographed.
 

What I find to be oddly painful are the images of him with Layla Brook. "Dammit! I forgot that he's with her," I grumble. But if he is still with her, then why buy me a drink? Why would he say some of the things he said to me on the beach? I start trying to rationalize the emotions I'm feeling toward Tristan and how I'm going to manage the fact that he's with Layla.
 

"What am I thinking? There is no way that Tristan Michaels is even slightly interested in me." I'm talking to myself again. "The only reason he bought me that drink was to see if I would reject it like I rejected every other man that tried to buy me a drink. Dammit. Why in the world would he be—"

Just then the high-pitched ring of my BlackBerry shrieks from the bedroom. I jump up and mutter, "Bloody hell."
 

I take long, slow strides across the room, silently hoping that I will miss the call because the BlackBerry means business – Bold business – and its ringing usually means something is going on and not in a good way. As I reach the phone it falls silent once again. Not looking at the display to see who I missed, I grab it and return to my chair.
 

As I pull my iPad back onto my lap, I decide that looking at images of Tristan and Layla are doing me no good. So I click on “Web” and look for recent articles instead.
 

I find Tristan's IMDB profile and am surprised by his short filmography.
Love is Burning
is his only released work. He has a release coming up in three weeks for
Conjure
, a fantasy about a girl who casts a love spell on the man of her dreams, but a different man falls in love with her. Seems kind of cute, but there’s nothing else listed.

"Based on his level of fame and Trinity's obsession with him, it seems as though he's done pretty well for himself." I wonder why, prior to the
Love is Burning
movies, he has no history and why the bio portion of the biography is limited and incomplete. I should ask Trinity about it.

Just as I'm about to go back to the search page to look for news articles about him, the wretched BlackBerry starts to ring again. This time I pull the BlackBerry off of the cushion and read the display. It's Trinity. What the hell?