Chapter 21 Aria
ARIA
I’m generally not a person who worries or panics.
My mom started teaching me to surf when I was ten.
I’ve been surfing for over fifteen years and have never once worried about sharks.
I drove from New York to LA all by myself in my car, with all of my most treasured belongings in the trunk, and never considered that I might get robbed or murdered at rest stops.
I’m having a secret thing with a single-dad lawyer who represents my ex-boyfriend and also happens to represent everything I hated about Hollywood, and I’m not focused on how it will end.
But I’m three weeks out from the world premiere of the first musical I’ve ever written and directed, and much of my cast is not off-book yet.
I keep losing volunteer tech crew to other productions.
And my lead performer still blames me for the fact that Lewis Carroll named a character something that rhymes with farts.
I’m stressed. I don’t get stressed. I get adrenaline rushes. But I’m stressed.
It doesn’t even make sense that I am physiologically capable of being this stressed.
The aforementioned single-dad entertainment lawyer has been overcompensating for being a gross Hollywood guy by feeding me pasta like I’m carbo-loading for a marathon and tending to my nether kitty like a crazy cat lady.
And yet, I’m still anxious and wondering how I’m going to support myself after this shit show closes and I’m laughed out of the tiny world of Southern California children’s musical theatre production.
Macy is staying with her mom this weekend, but instead of spending the night with Miles yesterday, I returned to my guest house, only to fall asleep on my sofa and have nightmares about performers who just stand on a bare stage complaining about the rhyme schemes of my songs.
I dreamt about an opening night with a full house audience and no music cues, lights that don’t work, unpainted set pieces that were left backstage.
So, when I walk into Miles Brodie’s garage at seven thirty on a Sunday morning to get something that I left in my car...and my entire car is not there, I freak the fuck out.
I just stare at the empty space where my car was parked last night.
I haven’t had coffee yet, so it takes me about sixty seconds to register that there’s a small envelope on the floor, in the middle of my parking space.
I pick it up and open it, fully expecting to find a ransom note from an autonapper.
That’s a thing, right? Kidnappers of automobiles?
What I find is a fancy personalized note card from Miles Brodie, Esquire.
It says,
Text me when you get this and then grab your bikini and wetsuit.
You need a break. ~ Miles
ME: If you wanted to see me in my bikini/wetsuit you just had to ask. You didn’t have to steal my car. I need something that I left in there.
MILES: I have what you’re looking for. And what you need. Meet me on the sidewalk in front of my house.
ME: I have to work!!!
MILES: Not at 7:30 on a Sunday morning!!!
ME: Where is my car?!?!?!
MILES: I’m not comfortable with all of these exclamation points. Meet me out front with your bikini and wetsuit and I’ll tell you. Calmly and quietly.
I go to meet him out front, with my bikini and wetsuit, quietly but not exactly calmly.
Until I see Miles leaning against a vintage Volkswagen camper van that’s parked at the curb.
My surfboard is attached to the roof. I didn’t even notice that it was missing from my patio.
Miles is wearing a tank top, joggers, and his aviators.
He doesn’t quite look like a dude who’s about to get high and follow the Grateful Dead across the country, but he also doesn’t look much like the Miles Brodie who wears Italian suits and drives a spotless BMW either.
He’s holding a notepad. It’s the one I left in my car.
“Hi. I was told to meet Miles Brodie here. Have you seen him? Or more importantly—have you seen my car?”
“I am the Miles Brodie you seek, little girl. And I took your car to my repair guy.”
“On a Sunday?”
“Yes. I’m paying him extra.”
“You took my car without telling me?”
“Yes. And I’m paying to get your bumper fixed without asking for your permission because you no longer have my permission to drive around with a bumper that’s been duct-taped to your car.
I’m sick of worrying about that thing falling off or scraping your tire or dragging along behind you while you’re driving. ”
“Aww. Is that why you kept telling me to fix it?”
“I kept telling you to fix it because it needed to be fixed.”
I flutter my eyelashes at him and place my hand over his heart. “And?”
“And because I care about you.” He reaches around to smack me on the butt with my notebook. “Here’s the notebook you left on the passenger seat. He’ll have your bumper fixed by early afternoon. I’ll drop you off on our way back.”
“On our way back from where?”
“Ventura.” He slides open the door to the back of the van. “I’m driving you up the coast so you can go surfing. You’re too stressed out. Get in.”
I take the notepad from him. “I have to call and email this list of tech people to see if they’re available.”
“And you have the list with their contact info now, so you can do that on your phone. From Ventura. Although, that’s actually your stage manager’s job.”
“Yeah, but it’s her daughter’s birthday today. I can do it.”
“Get in. I want to get on Highway One before the traffic slows down.”
I climb into the back of the van. It’s glorious.
Sage green privacy curtains to match the exterior paint.
Green and yellow plaid upholstery, wood grain paneling, kitchen area, convertible bed.
“Just to clarify...” I say, “What’s happening here is—you’ve purchased a VW van, and you’re insisting that I take a break because you think I’m working too much? ”
“Partially correct. I’ve rented this van for the day.
We’ll be back hours before rehearsal, and you’ll be all refreshed and ready to handle whatever comes at you in the next week.
Also, I have some news for you. But first—get up in that bunk bed and take a nap while I drive.
No negotiations. Come on. Get up there.”
“You’re forcing me to take a nap, and you want to watch me get up there so you can stare at my butt in these jean shorts?”
“One hundred percent correct.”
I shrug. “Okay.”
It’s been about seven years since I surfed this break at Rincon.
It’s crowded, but I caught a beautiful swell and held my own with all the guys out there.
I don’t know how Miles knew this was exactly what I needed or how Miles has suddenly become a guy that I need and want in my life, but I’m still not questioning it.
I’m grateful. I’m eager to show him just how grateful I am when we get back to the van.
This beach is mostly rocks, so he hasn’t even been able to go for a jog.
He’s been wandering around or sitting on a log, shirtless, keeping an eye on me from the shore.
He’s carrying my bag and towel with him.
When I bring my board back to the beach, I pull off my wetsuit about twenty feet from him and just let him watch.
He’s got his sunglasses on, but I know he’s watching me.
His jaw isn’t even clenched. He’s just smiling.
He brings my towel to me and says, “Hey. Are you okay?”
“I am now.”
“Good.”
I towel off and then throw my arms around him. “Thank you. Thank you for this.”
“You’re welcome. Hopefully now you’ll be less of a poopiehead.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Miracles do happen.”
We stroll back to the parking lot, and I let Miles carry my board because he insists. “What’s the news you were going to tell me?” I ask. “Has Macy finally learned how to say Queen of Hearts?”
“Not yet. I’m still working on that.” He nudges his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose with his free hand and then wraps his arm around my shoulders again. “Have you updated your mailing address with your former agents and lawyers?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Did you have Barry look over the paperwork you signed with the producers of Tyler’s indie film? The one you invested in?”
Barry is my former lawyer. I never told Miles that, but I guess they all know each other. “No. I’d already sort of quit the business at that point, so I just did all of that myself.”
I can’t see him rolling his eyes behind those shades, but I know he’s doing it. “That makes sense.”
“What?”
“Well, I thought it was strange that you still hadn’t made a profit from that film, so I decided to look into it.
Turns out those guys were pretty shady and their accounting was opaque.
I initiated an audit. I didn’t tell them it was on your behalf, of course.
I did it as Tyler’s attorney since he’s been owed money on the back-end too.
It usually takes a while, but I put a lot of pressure on them. ”
I’ve got the butterfly-flutters in my belly, and it doesn’t even have anything to do with the way he’s absentmindedly stroking my upper arm or how the warm skin of his waist feels beneath my fingertips.
Well, it doesn’t have everything to do with that, anyway.
I have a feeling he’s about to tell me something awesome that will make it impossible for me to continue to be even mildly repelled by his job.
“They owe you money, Aria. It’s not a huge payday, but you’ll have savings for at least half a year. As long as you don’t blow it all on beach parking meters.”
This is so unexpected, I don’t even know what to say. I don’t say anything.
He glances over at me. “You’re mad, aren’t you? You don’t want me messing with your business. I get it.”
“No. You don’t get it. But you’re about to.”
When we get to the van, he gets my board up on the roof rack, slides open the door to the back, and gestures for me to hop in.
“You get in there first,” I say. “Have a seat. Make yourself comfortable.”
He does. He sits on the edge of the back seat and looks pretty darn comfortable as I close the door and the curtains. He stretches his arms out, sets his legs apart, feet flat on the floor. It’s almost as if he knows what’s coming for him.
I stream a Miguel song on my phone because that’s how much he’s gonna get it.
I get on my hands and knees on the carpet, toss my hair over one shoulder, and crawl toward him.
I kneel between his open legs and pull his jogging pants down to his ankles.
Then I pull down his boxer briefs and bite my lower lip when his cock bounces up to greet me. But I don’t touch it yet.
I press his knees apart a little farther, slide my hands up the inside of his thighs, lick and nip and kiss at the flesh around the crown jewels. I take him in my hands, lick up his shaft, and say, “I just want you to know that I was going to do this even before you told me about the money.”
His eyes are hooded. His lips parted. He sucks in a breath and says with a grin, “I want you to know that I only looked into the money so you’d do this.”
It’s nice to know he can still be sardonic when I’m cupping his balls.
I’m not interested in bantering with him right now, though, because this is what I’ve always wanted.
To shut him up and make him feel good by introducing the tip of my tongue to that sensitive spot just beneath the head of his cock.
By twisting the palm of my hand around the tip and then stroking all the way down the shaft, up again, down again, my hand leading the way for my warm, wet mouth.
By holding him tight around the base as I take him in and out and in, to the back of my throat.
By humming when he’s at the back of my throat, so he can feel the vibrations.
Because I love the way he groans and hisses.
I love the way he combs his fingers through my hair, giving me a little scalp massage at first. Then he loses all pretense of being affectionate and just cups my head in his hands, encouraging me to go deeper, to be more vigorous.
I love looking up at him when I’m licking him like an ice cream cone and finding him struggling to keep his neck straight and his eyes open so he can watch me.
And then I find a rhythm and stick with it.
I let him fuck my mouth and I let him lose control and I tell him how good he tastes when I swallow every last drop of him, because this makes me feel good too.
I still haven’t had any coffee yet today, but I am awake and stress-free, and soon I won’t have to worry about money.
I never wished for a knight in shining armor, and I certainly never wished for a lawyer who tucks his pant legs into his socks. But I do like having someone look out for me, for once. I feel almost as relaxed and grateful as Miles looks right now.
Except that I’m suddenly realizing how sad I’ll be if this is just a showmance. Now it’s not opening night I’m dreading. It’s not the cast or the crew or the audience I’m tormented about. It’s the final show I’m not prepared for.
When Miles drops me off at the auto body shop, I check my phone and see a text notification from Tyler.
TYLER: Hey. I’ll be in LA in a few weeks and I got a Google alert that the opening night of your show is coming up. I wish you’d told me. I would have helped out. It says tickets are sold out, but I figured you’d have house seats for your guests. I want to be there to support you. X
Well, maybe it’s still opening night I should be worried about after all.