Текст книги "Brando: Part Two"

Автор книги: J. D. Hawkins

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 8 страниц)

BOOTYCALL

Chapter 1

Dylan

Movie reviews are bullshit, but I like to think the one that said I have the 'eyes of a man before the kill and the smile of one who enjoys it' got it right.

At least tonight, anyway.

I’ve spent almost the entire day working out, and though there’s a dull ache flowing through my body, there’s also that tingle of electricity I get whenever I stand still for too long. A twinge in my muscles that makes me want to move, to find some action. Luckily I know all the right places to find it.

I step out of the shower and towel myself off as I walk into the bedroom, grabbing the beer I left on the desk and downing all of it. It’ll take a lot more than beer to cool off the energy that’s gathering momentum inside of me though. There’s a song with a slow beat and a growling guitar playing, and the dusty light of a dying LA sun highlighting parts of my room through the blinds. I grab my phone as I settle on the edge of the bed and spin through the contacts.

I pause before hitting dial on a friend. I could dress sharp and head out to the bars of Los Angeles, get plenty drunk, and see where my instincts lead me – most likely my place or hers – but that’s not what I want tonight. I love the thrill of the chase, but I’m ready for action right now.

Then there’s ‘Hot Ass,’ ‘Kinky Blonde,’ ‘Finger Sucker,’ ‘Leggy Redhead,’ and all the other girls with talents memorable enough to give them a special place in my contacts, but even that won’t cut it.

Tonight I want something dirty. Something new. Something a little dangerous. My body’s thirsting for a new taste.

I walk through the long hallway and down the staircase that runs to the gigantic den of the mansion, big and empty but for the expensive toys and random beer bottles lying around. I open the BootyCall app on my phone and it presents me with a big green button, the word ‘chat’ written across it like a big understatement. I swipe it with my thumb and hold the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” comes a dark, husky voice on the other end. Now this is more like it. I pour myself some of the whiskey I keep on the coffee table and stretch out on the couch.

“Hello there.”

“So. What you looking for?” she says, making it clear what she’s looking for herself.

“I’m not sure. But I’ll know when I find it.”

She laughs, and it sounds like she’s making love to the phone.

“I like your accent,” she says. “Where you from?”

“I’m Irish.”

“Ooh,” she coos appreciatively. “You got money?”

It’s not my favorite question, but hey, this is Hollywood after all. If I didn’t fuck girls who said stuff like this I’d be a monk here.

“Yeah,” I say, smiling, “I’m fucking loaded. You got a nice rack? Since we’re asking personal questions and all.”

“Thirty-four double-dees. As good as money can buy.”

Again, it’s a weird turn of phrase, but I’ve heard worse.

“So what are you offering?” I ask.

She laughs a little, and I can hear her tongue rolling around her lips as she does so. The combination of a husky voice and my imagination is pretty cock-pulling, and I’m pressing the cold whiskey glass against my boxers to keep my dick from bursting out like something in a monster movie.

“I’m offering a whole night of the dirtiest, nastiest stuff you could ever imagine,” she says, breathing into each word like her body’s so hot even she can’t handle it. My imagination is running wild. “We can do it slow…or we can do it fast…I’ll be like hot chocolate in your mouth…”

“How can I refuse…”

“…for only three grand.”

A cold shower could not have crippled my hard-on more. “What?! Are you fucking kidding me?”

Her voice is all innocence now. “What’s the matter, honey?”

“I thought this was a hook-up app, not a hooker app.” That’s one thing I don’t do.

She giggles. “It’s worth it, sugar. If I like you, I’ll even give you a discount.”

“Yeah, thanks, but no thanks. Paying for sex kinda kills it for me, you know? Good luck.”

I cancel the call and let it show me the big ‘chat’ button again. I take a healthy swig of the whiskey in my glass and decide to give it one more go.

I push the big button, bringing the phone to my ear. Someone picks up on the other end, but for a few moments all I hear is silence.

“Hello?” I say. Another quiet beat. I’m about to hang up when—

“Um…hello?”

The voice sounds quiet, feminine, definitely over the age of consent, and too nervous to be a hooker. So far so good.

“Well hello there.” It’s not my best line, but her hesitation tells me she’s new at using the app, which means I’ll have to take it slow so she doesn’t hang up before the fun even gets started.

“Hi,” she finally replies back. There’s an awkward silence.

Wow, we’re off to a great start.

“So…” I say, trying to sound friendly. “What’s your sign?”

She laughs, and it sounds nice. Genuine, soft, real – the kind of laugh that you don’t get in Hollywood too often. I laugh a bit too.

“Truthfully?” she says. “I’m…a Scorpio.”

“Oh really,” I reply, drawing out the word, insinuating this actually means something.

“Why does everyone always say it like that? I don’t even know what it means! It’s the sign of revenge, right? And jealousy? But that’s not me at all.”

“It’s also the sign of sex, death, and reinvention,” I tell her. “You know, like rising from the ashes. Big emphasis on the sex part, as it were.”

“Oh.” She giggles nervously, and I can practically hear her blushing over the phone. “That explains a lot, I guess.”

“Does it, now?” I’m intrigued. “Explain it to me. I’m all ears.”

She huffs out a breath, exasperated. “That’s not what I meant! I meant, it explains why people assume things about me, not that I’m some kind of nympho or something. I mean, it’s garbage, right? Nobody really believes in this stuff.” She laughs again, and I can feel the warmth in it. Or maybe it’s the drink, because at this point I’ve lost track of how many in I am.

“How very sensible of you,” I say.

“I don’t know if I’m sensible. I mean, I’m talking to a stranger on a booty-call app.”

“Booty-call app? I thought this was for ordering pizza.”

She giggles again, letting her nerves out, and something about it makes me smile.

“Sorry, this is my first time using this. Have you done this before?” she asks.

“What? Spoken to a woman with an incredibly cute laugh? Sure. Not that often, though.”

“Haha! Very charming. But I meant used this app.”

“A couple of times,” I say, figuring the white lie will help increase her comfort level. “You? Any internet dating, or—?”

“Never. It’s not really my…thing. I guess you’d say. This is pretty out of character for me.”

“Oh yeah?” There’s just something so undeniably appealing about breaking in an uninitiated new booty-caller, I’m happy to listen to her talk about her lack of experience.

“Yeah. I just saw something about it on TV and figured I’d give it a shot.”

“People still watch TV?” I tease.

“Haha! Yeah…I dunno. It was kinda like…fate. The timing was just a little too…perfect.” She sighs. There’s clearly something upsetting her, and although normally I’d do a 180 at the first sign of baggage in a woman, right now it’s nice to know I’m not the only one having a rough time.

“So signs are garbage, but fate is a thing?”

“Haha, I know. I’m a mess.” She tries to laugh again, but I hear a tremor in her voice.

“Maybe. Aren’t we all?”

“I don’t know. You sound like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“Believe me, I really don’t.” For some reason, being honest with her is coming to me easily. Partly it’s the whiskey, but she’s just shown me her vulnerability, too. Normally I’d put on my game face and flirt my way past anything heavy, but with the anonymity of this app I can actually just be…myself.

“Oh yeah?” Her voice is genuinely curious, coaxing more out of me. And I realize: I want to tell her more. Some part of me needs this.

“Yeah. Right now I’m all alone in a house that’s bigger than the neighborhood I grew up in, I’ve drunk an entire bottle of whiskey since I got up this morning, and if this booty-call app thing doesn’t work out, all that’s left for me to do is hit the gym for the sixth time today.”

“You still sound better off than me,” she says. “My roommate just kicked me out and I had to move into a studio apartment that’s about the size of my parents’ bathroom, I’m drinking something that’s supposed to be alcohol but which I’m sure is some kind of tractor fuel, and I don’t even know if I’ll have a job to go in to tomorrow. So…yeah.” Her voice catches on this last line, and then I hear her sniffle and take a sip of something.

“Sounds rough,” I say, meaning it. “But things could be worse.”

“How?”

“You could have been connected with somebody else, for one. Rather than this charming drunk Irishman with an absolutely out-of-this-world six pack that you’ll just have to take my word about, unless you’d care to see it for yourself.”

She laughs, and I can hear a rustling as she adjusts herself. The nerves are gone.

“Confident, aren’t you?” she says, a little sultriness entering her voice.

“You’ve got to be, in my line of work.”

“And what is that?” she asks.

Shit. If I blow my cover, the fun is over. Sure, being a celebrity has its perks, but I want to keep my anonymity intact. I just want to be a regular guy talking to a regular girl – a girl who’s turned on by the person I am, not the person she thinks I’m supposed to be.

“Um…animated chicken?” I blurt.

“Ha! Right. Don’t ask, don’t tell.”

I relax and don’t speak, letting the silence gather some weight. I listen to her breathing, until she breaks it.

“So you’re Irish, you said?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought this app was supposed to connect with local people?”

“Well, I’m in LA. They haven’t banned us from America. Not yet, anyway.”

She laughs again. “Sorry.”

“I can do an American accent, if it makes you more comfortable.”

“Ok. Sure.”

I put on my worst Southern impression.

“Gurns. Jayzus. Cowbuwoys.”

“Enough!” she says, laughing. “Now I’m the one who’s offended.”

“Welcome to my world.”

This time she’s the one who leaves the silence, and the tension that rises in it is starting to get me going. I’ve been trying to have a proper conversation with people all day and ended up feeling like a chump for it, but this girl has me feeling like I could spend the whole night just listening to her laugh. My mind races trying to put a face to that voice.

I don’t even realize it, but my hand is on my cock, massaging the increasing stiffness that’s responding to this girl’s voice even faster than my brain.

“I…oh Christ…I probably shouldn’t say this…” she says, after a while.

“Say it,” I say, softly.

“I…just got out of a relationship. I don’t know what I’m doing…”

“Why did you break up?”

She pauses, debating whether to reveal the reason. “He cheated on me.”

“Ouch.”

“With my roommate, my best friend – well, ex-best friend.” Her breath hitches.

“Fucking hell,” I say. “That’s cold.”

“Hence the lavish new apartment with a dripping sink you can probably hear in the background.”

“I thought that was you.”

She’s silent.

“Sorry, crass joke.” So much for trying to lighten the mood.

“No. I liked it. I’m smiling.”

“Good, ‘cause if that offends you then we may as well end the conversation now. It only gets dirtier.”

“Does it now?”

“It does if I have anything to do with it.” I set my empty glass on the table and exhale, slow and deep.

The breathing on the phone gets louder.

“Tell me what you look like,” I say, my voice low, as if I’m whispering into her ear.

“What do you want to know?” she says, her words getting drawn out by her fluttering exhalations.

I swallow. My hand goes to my crotch. I’m already way too hard to be wearing boxers still, but I wanna take this slow. And I don’t want to scare her off either.

“What color are your eyes?”

A pause. “Blue. My turn.”

“Green,” I say. “And how tall are you?”

“Five six. You?”

“Six two.”

I listen to her breathe for a moment more and then take the plunge, keeping my voice strong and steady to keep her in the game.

“Tell me what you’re wearing.” I’m not asking– this is a demand. But one that’s as respectful as I can make it sound. Because right now she can either hang up on this call or stay on the line and see just how far we can take each other. I wait.

She’s got the phone so close to her mouth I can hear the gentle wetness of her lips as they part, the soft smack of her tongue in her mouth. I can almost visualize her red lips, open and round as she struggles to control her breathing.

“I’m wearing…a pink tank top…”

“How’s it fit?” I prompt her.

“Um. It’s tight…”

“Anything underneath?”

“No bra.”

“Good girl,” I say, and I hear her hiss a little.

“Touch your tits, and tell me how they feel. Go easy.”

“They’re…” She shifts the phone, and my mind goes crazy imagining what she’s doing to herself. “Big, but not too big. A little bigger than a handful…”

“Slowly…”

“The skin is real soft…smooth…just firm enough that they’ve got a good shape, just soft enough for you to have fun playing with them…” She stops to giggle nervously. “Am I doing this right?”

“Shh. Touch your nipples…roll your finger around them…squeeze them…” I hear her inhale sharply.

“Holy shit…” she murmurs. Her arousal is like a lightning bolt to my cock.

“What else are you wearing?” I go on.

“A pair of tight, black leggings.”

“Good,” I growl with approval. “You lying down?”

“Yeah.” I hear a rustling sound. “I am now.”

“Put your hand down there.”

Her response is immediate, a small gasp. “Fuck…I’m so…”

“That’s a good thing. Just go with it. Now close your eyes…”

“Ok…”

“Squeeze your hand between your thighs…”

“Yes…”

“That’s where I wanna be. Smelling you. Tasting you. Devouring you,” I whisper, with just enough authority in my voice to let her know how much I mean it. My hand’s fully in my boxers now, releasing my cock, which is so stiff even the tightness of my designer underwear can’t strangle it.

“Fuck…” she pants, and then I hear her gasping for air like she just ran a marathon. “Stop…stop. This is way too much, way too early for me.”

Damn. Game over, and my dick is still hard enough to cut diamonds with. “Ok, yeah. We can take a break. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…nothing’s wrong. That’s kinda the problem.”

“You’re gonna have to explain that to me.”

“I don’t know anything about you. And here I am fucking…wet…just from the sound of your voice.”

I take a second to absorb her words, but they’re not adding up yet. “Ok? I still don’t see where the problem is.” I laugh, trying to put her at ease again.

“I literally just got out of a relationship – like yesterday.”

Though my hand’s still on my cock, even I can’t jerk it to relationship talk. She’s feeling guilty, that’s what it is. I can fix that.

“Exactly. Yesterday – not today. Not now. Right now you’re a single woman who’s looking for some intimacy, and I’m a single man looking for a night of distraction. That’s it.”

She pauses, and I hope she’s getting back in the zone. “Still, it’s…”

“You’re rationalizing this, but I know for a fact your body’s telling you something different,” I soothe. “We’re both consenting adults, right? Come out and meet me.”

I don’t want to push her too hard, but there’s something in her voice that’s practically begging me to take her out of her comfort zone and give her a night she’ll never forget.

I tuck my cock back in my pants and get up from the couch.

“I…” She hesitates, still breathing hard. “I want to, but I can’t…”

“Take a shower and come and meet me at my place. I live in the hills. Trust me, you’re gonna love it. If not, you can turn around and go home. No harm, no foul.”

She giggles a little, and I can still hear how her nerves are unsteady.

“This is…so unlike me.”

I start making my way around the den, picking up the empty bottles that I’ve left around there throughout the day. I’ve made up my mind: this is the girl I’m going to fuck tonight, even if I have to clean up to do it.

“It’s pretty out of character for me too, which is why it’ll be perfect.” It’s partially true, at least. I’ve never had one of these booty-callers come directly to my house before. But for some reason I trust this girl.

“This is crazy…”

“Come on. If I can make you wet with my voice, just imagine what I can do with my hands. I can be gentle, too.”

She laughs again. The anxiety falling away piece by piece. I know she’s not trying to play hard to get, but I have to admit I’m kind of enjoying the chase.

“And what happens, exactly? We fuck, and then, bye?”

“Put a little emphasis on the fucking part.”

“That doesn’t sound like it would work. I’ve never done the whole one night stand thing.”

I bring the bottles into the kitchen and make my way back to the den, where I settle on the couch again.

“Call it a ‘greasy pancake fuck,’ then.”

“A what?”

“A ‘greasy pancake fuck.’ You’ve never heard of a ‘greasy pancake fuck’? Don’t tell me I have to explain what a ‘greasy pancake fuck’ is.”

“Would you stop saying ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”

“Sorry.”

I let the silence hang in the air.

“Ok,” she says, giving up. “What’s a ‘greasy pancake fuck’?”

“I’m glad you asked,” I say, with a smile she can probably hear. “Well you’re single now, and soon enough you’ll be dating again; seeing what the world has to offer beyond that ex of yours – who sounds like a real scumbag by the way. You’ll be meeting guys, living life, and having sex. Well, if you come over tonight, it’ll be the ‘greasy pancake.’”

“The ‘greasy pancake,’” she repeats, unconvinced.

“Right. The first pancake you make of a batch, the one that’s just there to soak up all the grease. You’re probably angry at your ex right now. Maybe depressed. Maybe lost. You could spend weeks getting over him. Flicking through the photographs, reliving the arguments in your head, throwing out the fluffy stuffed animal he bought you for your birthday that you thought was cute but was actually just a last-minute purchase at the gas station.”

She laughs. “It was a keychain, actually. And some wilted flowers.”

“Or, you can come over here, and just fuck all of that shit away. A big blow-out. Just let yourself loose, and cut yourself off from the past. Mentally, emotionally.”

“Physically,” she adds.

“Exactly.”

She pauses, and I hear her inhaling deeply as she considers my argument.

“You make it sound pretty easy.”

“Because it is.”

“I barely know you though. We’ve spoken for – what, twenty minutes?”

I glance at my phone and realize, to my shock, it’s been almost forty. “What’s the difference if it’s twenty days? The only thing that happens when you wait too long is you miss out. You’re frustrated, I’m bored – the stars are aligned right now. And I like you.”

“There you go with the astrology again.”

“Like you said – it’s fate.”

She sighs.

“If you feel uncomfortable at any moment,” I say, “you have my permission to kick me in the balls and run away. Just don’t steal any of my stuff, please.”

I wait for what feels like years until she answers again.

“Ok. But I don’t even know what you look like.”

“Believe me, you won’t be disappointed.”

I give her directions to my house, and we break the call. I toss the phone onto the table and lie there for a few moments, staring up at the ceiling. Her voice is still echoing in my mind, that colorful laugh, and the stuttering gasps. I’ve been called a superficial bastard many times in my life, but if those people could see how turned on I am right now by nothing but a disembodied voice and a snappy wit they’d retract their statements. Ok, maybe it’s still true, and maybe I’m still hoping she’ll be a knockout, but frankly, even if she isn’t, I’m ready to put in a prize-winning bedroom performance on her.

I get up and shake my limbs like a prize fighter getting ready for the fight of his life. My balls are aching from how fucking hard she got me, and it’s all I can do to save myself for when Miss Mysterious shows up.

“Shit,” I mutter to myself, as I take out a bottle of nice wine and some glasses, “what if she doesn’t even show up?”

I stamp the thought all the way into the back of my mind – like I do most things these days – and jog on up to the second floor to change.

I get dressed and go back downstairs. I put a little music on in the den, something slow, but edgy – none of that sugary shit. I like a little dirt in my music. Then I proceed to walk around the room, checking my watch as I pace like I’m scared of getting stood up in my own home.

I stop as soon as I hear a sound, not sure if it’s real, and too involved in my own imagination to hear it properly. Was that a car door slamming? I hear footsteps on my porch.

And there goes the fucking doorbell.

Continue reading Bootycall by JD Hawkins

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