Catching a Fallen Starr Page 4

  I pick up where we left off, telling him, “Massage.”

  “Massage?”

  “Don’t laugh. I’ve always wanted to be a massage therapist.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes really. Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You’re gorgeous and you love giving massages. Will you marry me?”

  I blush and completely ignore his joke. His phone vibrates again. He reads whatever message came through and after, seems distant and semi-interested in our conversation.

  “What were you saying,” he says trying to get us back there, but it’s awkward and forced.

  “I want to offer the entire package: hot stone massages, organic lotions, handmade jewelry...classy, not trashy.” I lift the pedant off my chest showing him the amber stone.

  “You made that?”

  “Amber wards of negative energy.”

  His damn phone vibrates again. He chuckles. Reads his newest message while saying, “I hate to be the one to point it out but...you just got fired?”

  “Okay. Maybe the stone doesn’t work.”

  “I’ll buy the necklace for a hundred bucks,” he says.

  My hands go to the amber stone. “You want to buy my necklace.”

  He shrugs. “You said you need the money. Do you want to sell it or not?”

  “You’re serious?”

  “Completely.”

  “A hundred dollars?”

  “Right now. The offer expires once we leave this table.”

  I reach underneath my hair and undo the clasp. Coil the chain in the palm of his hand. He inspects the stone that now belongs to him. I already feel naked without it. Digging out his wallet, he pays me the cash. “Best investment I ever made,” he says, staring directly into my eyes.

  My cheeks heat.

  His cell phone vibrates. He breaks eye contact to check it. “I hate to do this, but I need to go.” He abruptly stands and carries his trash over to the garbage can. When he comes back to the table he hands me a business card with his home and cell number. “I would like to see you again,” he says.

  ***

  “Ricin Carter” I mutter staring at the business card.

  Mr. Cute Guy bailed me out by paying me twice what the boots were worth, as promised. He’d said he wanted to see me again. Right after he asked me to marry him. I laugh. I haven’t felt this good in a while. My shoulder nudges the exit door open.

  I’m off in fantasy land not paying attention to what’s ahead of me. If I’m completely honest, I am thinking more about all the hundreds I saw in the guy’s wallet then I am the actual guy. Money talks. His said he likes to share. Wait. No. He said he don’t like to share.

  The sudden shift from the mall lighting to the bright sunshine causes me to squint, and I slam right into a hard chest coming in the door I’m leaving through. I’m sure my face scrunches up with displeasure. “Sawyer?” the name has always left a vile taste in my mouth.

  Sawyer has that expression on his face, you know the one: the “why do I always run into someone I haven’t seen in years when I look like crap” expression. Ha!

  Good. I caught him on an off day. Last time I saw Sawyer—what was it? Two years ago but who’s counting—I had thrown myself at him. And he’d turned me down. I’m still recovering. For the longest time I was horrified by the thought that he would mention what happened to his brother. I imagined the two of them sitting around comparing notes: All the ways Starr misses the mark. Tragic! Please keeping walking. Please don’t try to speak!

  “Star!” He says my name like I’m the best surprise in the world. His hand carelessly brushes my elbow. Shit. Please don’t want to have a real conversation. “How long has it been?” he asks, using the hand on my elbow to steer us to the sidelines, out of the way of the people hustling in and out the door.

  Seeing him ignites my dislike for him.

  Immediately I notice that he is taller than I remember. His muscles are more toned. That is the only nice things I can say about him. The rest, well, for starters: his brown hair looks like it hasn’t been combed in a couple of days. Stubble darkens his jawline and not in the sexy way; his is more like I-might-actually-be-trying-to-grow-a-dumbass-beard stubble. He is wearing a T-shirt, black gym shorts, and tennis shoes… without socks!

  It’s all I can do to contain my laughter.

  And to top it all off he is wearing wire-rimmed reading glasses.

  I mean, this is Sawyer Bentley. My ex-boyfriend’s always so well-pull-together, arrogant younger brother. The guy loves to boast on his attributes. Seeing him at his obvious worst…is a comforting surprise. It makes me feel better about him turning me down. Okay. I will admit it. Sawyer’s body is nice. But the rest of him, today anyways, looks like shit.

  “Almost two years,” I say as if it is a shame, when it’s not. I force a smile.

  He scratches his jaw, thinking. “That long, huh?” Yea, I didn’t notice either. “How you been?”

  I do notice something is different about his voice. It’s scratchy sounding. I ask, “Are you sick?”

  “Yeah, this cold is about to whoop my ass in a big way.” He suddenly turns and sneezes into his hands. “Sorry,” he says, but then immediately does it again.

  Whatever he’s gotten hold off, I don’t want it passed to me. I take a couple of steps back and aim at the parking lot. “Sounds like you might have the flu.”

  “Maybe.” He is staring and smiling. It makes me uncomfortable.

  “Well, it was good seeing you,” I say. “I should probably—”

  “Sterling and Victoria flew out this morning,” he says.

  Shit. He wants to chitchat.

  “Yep, I know. I talked to Sterling before they left.”

  “Oh?”

  “Well, see ya…” Walk away, Starr. Walk away.

  A hand on my arm stops me. “Hey!?”

  I pause. “Yea?”

  “I was about to rent a movie and put my sick ass in bed.” He gestures at the Redbox machine right inside the entrance to the mall.

  “Why not just rent pay-per-view?” I ask. “Keep from spreading your germs.”

  “I forgot.”

  “Forgot what?”

  His lips twitch. “How funny you are.”

  “Gee. Thanks.” A man walking by accidently bumps into me, pushing me toward Sawyer. Sawyer’s hand on my arm keeps me from being knocked off the sidewalk. Sawyer is explaining how he had to take his dog for a walk anyways, and then he had to go pick up medicine, and then…he keeps talking, but I zone out. “You’re bored, huh?” I suddenly interrupt.

  He gives a short laugh. His brown eyes sliding over all of me. The smile remains on his face. I want to ask: What the hell are you thinking? The smile looks good on him and makes me forget for a second that he is wearing fucking tennis shoes without socks.

  I hate that.

  Seeing a man’s ankles.

  “Yeah. I guess I am bored,” he finally admits. Then Sawyer Bentley shocks me by asking, “Do you wanna come over and watch a movie with me?” The way he says wanna is funny. I laugh even though I try not to.

  “You have to be real fucking bored if you’re asking me over.”

  “Is that a yes?” To entice me, or at least try to entice me, he adds, “I’ll make popcorn.” At the obvious wrinkling of my nose, he asks, “How about skittles? Your aim still as good as it used to be?”

  He can’t be serious. He’s just messing with me. Nothing could be weirder. Although. I study him for a moment…he seems serious, even a little bashful about asking which makes me leery as hell. This is the same guy that during our first introduction showed me his abs and tried to make me touch them. The same one that got me naked and then didn’t follow through. “No,” I tell Sawyer. “I don’t want to come watch a movie with you.”

  There is a flicker of disappoint in his eyes but then he quickly recovers, stepping back. He shoves a germ covered hand through his messy hair, glancing over my shoulder. I turn my he
ad to see what or who caught his attention. There’s a cute girl by the Netflix machine. Ah. His next victim. “It was good seeing you,” I say as I slip past him.

  He pretends to be surprised by my walking away. “Sure you won’t change your mind,” he is saying as I step down off the curb into the parking lot.

  “I’m sure,” I throw over a shoulder. “I would rather have my toenails yanked off by a pair of tweezers,” I mutter under my breath.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Grooming

  My apartment complex is a block from the mall. It’s low-income housing. Most of the tenants walk where they need to go which is the reason for renting so close to everything. Accessibility. On the walk home I debate what to do with the money cute guy gave me.

  Just so you know: I buy pills.

  When I finally make it back to my apartment building, I immediately notice my apartment door is cracked. I know for certain that I locked it. Either someone has broken in or the landlord has helped himself…the door across the way opens.

  “You got what you owe me?” his voice is hoarse from chain smoking.

  I pull the door to my apartment shut sensing the landlord watching. Last thing I need is another reason for him to get all up in my business. I decide to not tell him someone broke in to my apartment. He’ll want to check his shit out to make sure no one ran off with the toilet plunger or a lightbulb. Those things are impossible to come by. He would then linger and stare at my boobs.

  “Give me a week,” I say over a shoulder.

  He presses his lips to the crack in his door. “That’s what you said last week and the week before. I need someone who pays on time. I’m not running a goddamn shelter, you know.”

  “I said give me a week and I will get your money.”

  “I’m giving you twenty-four hours to vacate. After that I call the law to have your trashy ass removed.”

  Trashy. I loathe that word.

  “Okay look,” I turn and stalk toward him. “I have no way to find a guy with a truck to move my stuff, by the time I do “find a guy” you will have your money and all the trouble...yours and mine...will have been for naught. To get me out…you will have to take me to court. It will be weeks before you can evict—”

  “Twenty-four goddamn hours! Then I’m changing the locks. Get your shit together and get out!” He slams the door in my face. I bang on the wood separating him and me with my palm, my heart racing. “Don’t you have a heart? I have nowhere else to go. I’ve lived in that piece of shit you call an apartment for over two years and never once complained when your lazy ass never came to fix what was broken. Cut me some slack here…I’VE HAD A BAD DAY!” I draw a breath. “A bad year...if we’re going to get technical.”

  He yells from inside his apartment, “Not my problem. You want free handouts go wait in line like everyone else.”

  I slap the door one last time. “Creep! I hope your dick rots off, you pervert.”

  My apartment door, or what used to be my apartment door, shivers with my every kick. The door across the hall opens. “Break that door and you pay for it.”

  I lunge and shout, “Jerk off.”

  “Whore.” His door slams.

  I sling the door to my apartment open to find a guy stretched out on my sofa. His fingers are threaded behind his head, his boots up on my coffee table. Ricin Carter. He grins. “Bad day, hun?”

  “How did you get in my apartment?” I glance from him to the door wondering if he picked the lock. “Should I get out my mace now, or later?” I ask noticing no sign of forced entry. I’m cautious, staying near the door. “You do realize this is creepy…you in my apartment on my sofa.”

  Ricin removes his feet from the table and stands, coming toward me. I move closer to the door, one hand out on the doorknob in case I’m forced to run.

  He stops. My eyes never leave him. He lifts a hand, waving a cell phone out between us. “Have you missed anything?”

  “I’ve missed a lot.” I relax. Obviously, cute guy is not here to kill me or he wouldn’t be causally giving me back my phone. “How did you get it?” I ask.

  He holds up the bag with the boots. “You must have dropped the phone down in your bag without thinking and forgot.”

  “So you’re only being helpful by returning it? I still don’t understand what returning my phone has to do with you being in my apartment?” I take the phone. “But thank you. You returned it. Now, I would like it if you would leave.” I open the door to the hallway and gesture for Mr. Cute guy to exit through it. “Wait, one question before you go… how do you know where I live?”

  “First off, I’m sorry if I spooked you. I was waiting outside until “the Grinch” assumed I was your boyfriend and asked if I would make sure your shit’s out by tomorrow. Assuming I was here to help you “pack and move your shit”…the Grinch then proceed to unlocking your door so I could get a jumpstart on “relocating” you.”

  I slam the door with cute guy still inside and collapse onto the sofa, my face buried in my hands. “Oh my God, that is so embarrassing.” I glance up. “I’m sorry for yelling at you. This is not your fault, and it’s definitely not your problem to solve. I bet you are really regretting ever sitting down across from me in mall?”

  He sits on a long exhalation of breath. “I could go pay that creep—”

  “No. You have already helped enough!”

  “You didn’t let me finish. I can pay him off, but I have a feeling he is still going to ride your ass like Zorro every day. Making you feel like you owe him is the only bit of power the cockroach has.” He gives a sideways glance, “Eventually, your landlord is going to approach you with creative ways for you to pay off your debt. You do know that, right?”

  I shudder. The thought too disgusting to even think about. “Scary thing is…I would probably take him up on his offer just to get him off my back.”

  Ricin leans forward, his elbows on knees; his expression is dead serious. “Why don’t you come stay with me?” he says.

  My eyes widen. “What? So you can ride my back?”

  He laughs. “It’s not like that. Not at all. It may appear that way, but honestly…I just want to help you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I like you, and not like that.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  He laughs harder and shakes his head. “Man, I am digging a deep hole here. Yes. You are a gorgeous girl. Yes. I wouldn’t mind taking you to dinner sometime. But right now what you need more…is a friend. You happen to be in luck. This friend has a huge house with lots of bedrooms that have their own private bath. As an added bonus I work from home, so models are constantly coming and going so you will have plenty of other friends. You’re not the first girl I’ve offered a place to stay, and you probably won’t be the last. When you have as many spare rooms as I have, it’s crazy not to loan them out. I won’t charge you a cent if you promise that when you find a job you will save your money. Then when you’ve saved enough money for a fresh start, I get my room back. Deal?”

  He holds out a hand to shake on it. A fresh start sounds too good to be true.

  I tell him, “You make it sound so simple.”

  “It is.” He gestures at my apartment. “This is hard. I’ve been where you are. I know what it’s like to struggle and eat fucking pork-n-beans from a can every night because it’s all you have.”

  “Peanut butter,” I say. At the lift of his brow I explain, “All I have left is peanut butter and half a loaf of bread. I don’t like pork-n-beans.” They make you fart.

  “See,” he smiles, “I can feed you better than that.”

  “So now you’re offering to feed me as well?”

  “Room and board and all that entails.” He grins. “I would hate to see you get taken advantage of by the Grinch, so why don’t you let me move your stuff over to my place?”

  “There’s not much to move.” I comb a hand through my hair and glance around at the crap-hole I can’t even afford at the moment. It’s path
etic. I can do better. I just need to re-group. I mumble under my breath, “I can’t believe I’m even considering moving in with a guy I met less than four hours ago.” It’s an attractive idea. Saving money. Without the financial pressure I could get a grip on the pill problem. I really would like to get my life straightened out and start over. Fresh. Like he said.

  “I have a pool,” he adds.

  I laugh. “Either you’re a real prince or a good ass manipulator.”

  “Is that a yes? C’mon. You deserve to be pampered.”

  “I don’t expect to be pampered. All I need is a place to stay for, a couple of weeks max. It has to stay purely platonic. For now.”

  “I can do platonic. Is it a yes? The suspense is killing me.”

  I take a deep breath. Do I have any better options? “Yes, but I do my own packing,” I tell him.

  ***

  "You didn't tell me your place was beachfront?” I say strolling out onto the upper balcony. My breath catches at the view of the shimmering-blue Pacific Ocean.

  “You didn’t ask,” Ricin replies. I can feel his presence behind me. “Stunning, isn’t it?” He points off into the horizon, drawing my attention to a boat. The warm sun strokes my face and the salty air cools my skin simultaneously.

  Ricin hadn’t been lying about having the space. He’d picked me up in a silver Ferrari and surprised me by driving out to Manhattan Beach—known for its beautiful people, shiny cars, and big sunglasses.

  His home has three levels and over four thousand square feet. It’s modern. Clean. All straight lines with chrome fixtures. Light Bamboo floors throughout. So much more than I expected. I guess photography pays very well. Everything the guy has said up to this point has been the truth. On the second floor, in the main area of the open floor concept, sets his camera on a tripod. There are props. A cold, expensive leather sofa and track lighting. Double sliding doors push all the way open to this gorgeous view—a backdrop for his models. No wonder the guy makes a killing. It’s a perfect setup. I’m almost regretful I turned down his offer to take my picture. It would have been cool seeing his work in action and being the center of it.