7. Chapter 7
7
Sophie
Lost in my book–a paranormal romance about a demon and a very stressed-out woman in need of a good fuck–I don’t realize that we’re descending until the plane jostles, hitting the ground in Burbank. I’ve been reading for six straight hours with no pause. Not even to drink water, I realize with guilt.
Even with a layover in Chicago, it’s still early in the day. As the plane slows and we taxi to the gate, I lean forward to pack up my book and my headphones. I turn off airplane mode and send a quick text to Natalie that we’ve landed so she can hop in the car. Flying into Burbank instead of LAX means that Natalie and I live a whole lot closer, making it significantly faster to get checked in and through security as well as home at the end of a long trip. Driving all the way to and from LAX would take half the day.
Without my headphones, I’m forced to listen to the sounds of the plane. A kid a few rows behind me is asking their mother why they have to remain seated. Mom says it’s because it’s not safe to get up until we stop, just like in a car. A man a little further away is already on his phone and it sounds like a business call. I roll my eyes, but at least he doesn’t have it on speaker for everyone to hear.
Most of the window shades are up, allowing in more light than when we were in the air. I reach up to turn off the overhead light and open up the air vent. I can see the heat rising from the asphalt outside. I didn’t check the forecast, but it’s a safe bet that it’ll be ninety degrees or more today. August in LA or August in New York City. They’re both sweltering, but one’s a dry heat. That means it’s not as bad, right?
I’ve never understood that. Yes, it’s ninety-five degrees, but it’s a dry heat. Ok, so the humidity isn’t sitting on you and suffocating you. But it’s still hot as balls. Why did I move here again? Oh right, I had no choice.
I’m not the first to reach the baggage claim carousel for our flight. The metal slabs are still, taunting me with their serious lack of luggage. I try to block out the sounds around me as the crowd grows. I’m too tired to listen to the screaming children or the one teenager who’s complaining to their parents about something inane.
The red light over the carousel finally spins, telling us that the metal slabs will begin to move and our bags will soon arrive.
When I finally have my two very large suitcases in hand, wishing I wasn’t traveling alone, I make my way out to the arrivals area where cars are driving in circles, waiting for friends and family. Stepping over to one side so I don’t trip anyone, I pull my phone from my pocket once more and call Natalie.
“Hey, where are you?” I ask when she answers.
“Two minutes. You out?”
“Yeah, I’m wearing gray sweats and a hot pink tank top, about halfway down. I’ll wave when I see you.”
“Cool, stay on the line just in case.”
“You got it, dude.”
We’re silent for a moment while I scan the approaching cars with my eyes. No, that red sedan isn’t her. Neither is that one. Or that one, although the pink dice make me do a double-take.
“I see you.” I wave at the red sedan with the fuzzy pink handcuffs hanging from the rearview mirror.
“Gotcha! I think I see a spot just a little further down.”
I follow Natalie’s car until she pulls up to the curb a few spots away. She opens the trunk with the push of a button and I quickly shove the suitcases in. I slam the trunk and set my carry-on bags in the back seat before sliding into the passenger seat.
Without speaking, Natalie pulls away, glancing back to check for oncoming cars. I fasten my seatbelt and wait for her to get us out of traffic, knowing that she’ll snap at me if I speak too soon.
“So,” she says when she finally feels at ease, “how was the trip?”
“It was amazing!” I exclaim, startling her with my enthusiasm. “Vera Connor and Penny Pepper want you to text them if you’re in New York any time soon. They’d love to work with you.”
“Wait, really?” Natalie’s eyes go wide, but she keeps them on the road. “Those girls are goals . I’d love to get my hands on them.” In the space behind her glasses, I can see an impish gleam in her warm, brown eyes.
“Yeah, you want their numbers?”
“Are you seriously asking me that?”
“On it, boss.” I salute and quickly send her their contact information before sending hers to them and letting them know she’s interested in working together. Natalie’s phone makes a noise I haven’t heard before and I frown. “Did-did you change your ringer to someone moaning?”
Natalie’s pale, freckled face splits into the widest grin and she giggles.
“Yeah!” She full-on laughs as we pull to a stop at a red light.
“Who’s voice is that?” I barely get the question out, caught between shock and amusement.
“Mine, obviously. Sophie Larson, are you telling me you don’t recognize it?” She feigns shock and disappointment as the light changes to green.
I burst into laughter alongside her, rocking back in the seat as we surge forward.
“Why? Why not make it, I don’t know, someone you’ve worked with? Or your dream girl?”
“I am my dream girl.”
“Fair enough.” I wipe a tear from my eye before it can spill down my cheek and take a deep breath. “If I ever lose an ounce of confidence, remind me to come straight to you.”
“I won’t let it get that far.”
Natalie reaches over and pats my thigh before turning onto our street. Less than a minute later, we pull into the driveway between two townhouses. The path leads to two more nearly identical structures behind the first row. She pulls her car to the side, next to mine. There’s just enough space between our townhouse and the one in front of it to park two cars with room to get in and out. Rather than using it for its intended purpose, we converted the garage on the first floor into a second studio space.
Natalie helps me with my bags and we haul them to the front door. I find myself once more annoyed that we rent a place with stairs as soon as you walk in. There’s another small bedroom and bathroom on the first floor that you can access from the garage, but it’s too small to be an adult's room. I lead the way up the stairs, hauling the first large suitcase while Natalie carries up my smaller bags.
“So, tell me about this podcast.” She says, breathing heavily.
“ Hide the Sausage ?”
Natalie snorts.
“Yeah, that.”
“It was fun. Did you know Sara Sitwell has her guests try three different sausages as part of the episode?” I reach the top and roll my suitcase out of the way, pausing to catch my breath.
“Really?” Natalie laughs as she reaches the final stair and sets the bags down to one side. “What did you try?” She backs away to allow me to return to the car for the second large suitcase.
“I can’t remember all three,” I say as I breeze past her, still out of breath, “but one was a bratwurst with pockets of Swiss cheese.” My mouth is watering just thinking about it, but when I glance back up, I see Natalie scrunching her nose.
“Ew, no thanks.”
“You’ll have to warn her about your aversion to Swiss if you’re ever on her podcast,” I chuckle, standing a third of the way down the stairs.
“ If ? You think she wouldn’t invite me?”
I shrug and retrieve the last piece of luggage from the car.
“Home sweet home,” I mumble, rolling my suitcase across the floor when I reach the top.
I shiver as a thin layer of sweat dries on my forehead and back. Natalie and I like to keep the apartment fairly cold, even when we aren’t filming.
My unpacking is methodical and I take an hour to separate clean from dirty clothing, replace my toiletries, and put my toys and accessories back in their storage spots. When I finally open my bedroom door again, Natalie is tossing a few of my things into the washer.
“I was just about to do that.” I swipe the maid costume she’s reaching for from the pile of clothes I left and toss it in a mesh bag.
“I’m allowed to help.” Natalie crosses her arms over her chest and leans away.
“You are,” I acknowledge, nudging her to the side with my hip so she no longer has access to the clothing. I add the remainder of the costumes and lingerie. Everyday clothing will get its own cycle .
“You wash mine sometimes,” Natalie points out. “You should let people do things for you.” She turns and heads toward the kitchen as I reach for the detergent.
“You picked me up from the airport.” I fill the machine and start it up, then find Natalie around the corner making a peanut butter sandwich.
“I have to run to the grocery store later,” I say, opening the fridge even though I’m probably just going to imitate her late lunch. “Care to join?”
“Nope, I went yesterday.”
Natalie leaves the peanut butter, bread, and a plastic food storage container of broccoli florets on the counter and sits at the table a few feet away. It’s an old, hand-me-down dining room table from her parents. The current tablecloth is floral with colorful plants and bright green leaves covering it. It’s one of those waterproof ones and just looking at the material, I can hear the sound it makes when someone scratches it with their nails. At the end of the table are chairs that match and there's a backless bench on each side.
“You couldn’t have waited a day?” I ask, shutting the fridge.
“Nope,” she says through a mouthful of sandwich, shaking her head. “We were out of peanut butter.”
“Rude.”
My phone chimes from somewhere in my room. I ignore it for a few minutes while I prepare my lunch, but after setting my plate on the table, I return to where the phone sits on the bed.
It’s a message on KinkRink .
Literally.
It’s not the chattiest conversation and it doesn’t really show me who he is, but it was sweet of him to reach out, given how little we’ve spoken so far. I wonder when I should send him a photo of my face. My body is visible on my profile. There aren’t any photos of me that are fully nude. I don’t show my face because I don’t really want to be identified that easily. I’ve never felt like my tattoos would be the thing that someone would recognize. I suppose if anyone is truly obsessed and memorizes every single bit of ink, they can figure out it’s me, but that would be insane. I doubt Caleb ever paid that much attention to the artwork I put on my body.
I chew on my bottom lip, still staring down at my phone. I take a deep breath and let it out in a loud raspberry, my lips vibrating loudly.
I send the text and then share a photo. It’s a selfie with Vera from dinner the other night, but I cut her out. I posted the full thing on my social media profiles the same night, but unless he does an image search, he won’t know that.
I wait with bated breath. I know I’m beautiful. I’ve been told a million times and even I find myself staring at my amber eyes when they catch the sunlight in photos. I get the draw. I still feel my heart pounding when I see the notification on the screen that he’s typing a response.
My jaw goes slack. If I’m gorgeous, this man is… well, I suppose beautiful is at the same level, but good god. His brown hair has streaks of gold that catch in the sunlight and his green eyes, which stand out against his tan skin, are shining as he looks off to one side. His hand, attached to a heavily tattooed arm, is up near his mouth, but it doesn’t hide his full lips. I’d love to know what they feel like on mine. To top it all off, there’s a hint of dark stubble on his cheeks and chin. I wonder if that’s his usual look or if he likes to be clean-shaven.
Handsome chap? What am I, a British socialite in the fucking Victorian era? That’s enough time on my phone for the day. I don’t wait for a response, sliding my phone into my pocket and searching out the sandwich I made.
“Who was that?” Natalie has finished her sandwich and is dipping her broccoli in a puddle of ranch on her plate.
“Just a boy,” I reply in a silly, singsong voice.
“Oh, really?” Natalie plays along and I chuckle at her raised eyebrows.
“Yeah, we have a date Monday. He was just wishing me safe travels. Didn’t know I was already home.”
“Where’s the photo?”
I pull up the app and show Natalie. Her jaw drops just like mine did and she looks from the phone to me and back before settling her eyes on me once more.
“Girl, I’m strictly for the ladies now, but that man is foine . Just be safe when you jump his bones.” She winks and bites into a piece of broccoli.
“Good to know you’re not about to cock-block me,” I chuckle.
“Why would I need to when you’re so good at it on your own?” She pauses and thinks for a minute. “Are you really being cock-blocked if you make porn?”
“I guess not.”
“Love-blocked,” Natalie muses. “Love-cock-blocked.”
“As if I need reminding of how unlucky I am in love. Thanks.”
“What are best friends for?”
“Best friends are supposed to be uplifting,” I argue. “Like non-sexual fluffers.”
“Someone’s gotta bring you down to earth. Your adoring fans sure won’t.”
She’s got a point there. With thousands of followers on social media, it’s a wonder I don’t have a huge ego. I’m confident in my body, but I don’t think that confidence is overinflated. Perhaps it’s the struggle with my weight that I’ve dealt with since puberty. Perhaps it’s the mother who encouraged me to lose weight by saying when I did so I’d have to “beat the boys away with a stick”. Whatever the reason, I try not to let my popularity go to my head.
When I don’t respond, Natalie grins.
“You can’t stay mad at me, boo.”
“I can when you call me boo.”