Catching a Fallen Starr Read online

  “Come upstairs and I’ll show you your room,” he says from behind me. He carries a bag and so do I. It’s sad that my life can be summed up in so little. At the top of the stairs Ricin sets my bag down and points to the last door on the right, explaining, “I’m going to go down and whip up something to eat. Take your time. Check the room out and make sure you’re okay with it.”

  “I’m sure I will be,” I say.

  Ricin pauses on the stairs. He turns, seeming a bit nervous and unsure of how this works. So am I. “You’re welcome to come down to eat,” he says. “If you want. Or you can stay up here…take a hot bath or whatever. It’s your call.” He descends of few more steps before pausing again. “Think of it as your place for the next couple of months, do what you normally do.” He holds out a palm. “You know what…ignore me.”

  “Okay.” I laugh, leaning against the doorjamb.

  “Pretend I’m not here.”

  “Okay. I will.”

  “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m going to shut up now and go cook.”

  I lose sight of him and go to the top of the staircase, looking over to below. “Hey YOU!”

  He tilts his head back, his bright blue eyes lifting to where I am standing. “You don’t like the room?”

  “Stop being paranoid. I wanted to say…thank you.” He waves me off. “No…really…this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

  He smiles. “You are welcome.”

  The room is gigantic with its own set of glass doors that lead to a private balcony. Sheer white curtains billow out from the sides of the open door; caught in a tussle with a warm, salty breeze. The King sized bed is dressed in the same white sheer fabric. More light bamboo flooring leads into a tiled bath that offers a sunken jet tub.

  I decide it would be too weird to go straight down to the kitchen. Ricin is not a boyfriend. Basically he is renting me a room, although right now I am broke. He’s a nice guy but I definitely don’t want to give off the impression that our daily lives are going to surround one another. Yes, they may intersect but that’s it. My plan is to distance myself and to look for a job so I won’t have to stay longer than a month. That’s the plan anyways.

  I decide on a hot bath. He wasn’t lying about lending out the room to other women. The bathroom is stocked with everything a woman needs: expensive razors that mold and bend to the contours of your legs, deodorant, shampoos and conditioners, perfumes, exotic smelling lotions: coconut, mango, pineapple…I slather the silky coconut oil over my damp body and inhale. No more odor of pepperoni’s and garlic. I could get used to this pampering.

  Tying a towel around my body I nose around a bit more seeing what else useful has been left behind. The bowl of the sink is one of those that sits on the granite counter top. Rectangular glass with elegant nickel faucets. The decor screams: a woman’s touch.

  I open doors to cabinets.

  I’m not sure what possesses me to lift the toilet lid, but I do and immediately drop it. A chill runs through me. I open the toilet lid again peering in like something is going leap out and drag me down into the sewer. Another chill. Floating on the surface water in the bowl…is a condom.

  “Ew!” I put distance between me and the toilet. “Oh wow! Floating condoms. Floating used condoms!” I could fish that sucker out and have me a genuine, mystery sperm donor. STARR! You think the weirdest shit. Sperm donor? Where the hell is your head at? I stretch out an arm and quickly strike the flusher. “That’s just nasty.” The condom circles the top of the water and then gets sucked down. The neck of the toilet makes a gurgling sound, then the condom is burped back up.

  Water rises. “No. No. No,” I tell the water level. “Oh man, don’t do that. Go down. Go down!”

  The water doesn’t listen. It pours over the sides. The condom skims the top, caught in the overflow drenching the expensive tile. The beige condom swims through the puddle of water seeping near my bare toes. I squeal!

  There is a knock on the bedroom door. “Everything okay in there?”

  I rush out and unlock the bedroom door. Breathing hard.

  Ricin leans in the doorway. He has removed his shirt.

  If I didn’t have a dilemma: I could spend a few minutes admiring his beautiful abs. But who gives a shit about his abs when there is a spill in the bathroom getting worse by the minute?!

  Ricin’s gaze lazily slides down over me, over my towel. “We don’t have time,” I tell him, dragging him. “The toilet…I’m so sorry…it overflowed.”

  I push him into the bathroom in a gesture of “You go get it!”

  “Oh…ok….” he says, eyeing my mess.

  “I’m so sorry,” I keep repeating. He grabs a plunger and pauses at the sight of the condom lying on his tile. “It’s not mine,” I point out.

  He raises a brow. “You sure?” His eyes slide over me suggestively. “What have you been doing up here? Did you sneak in some guy?”

  I cross my arms over the towel. “Looks like your last roomie was…active.”

  “Not with me. Don’t even go there.” Keeping his bare toes away from the line of toilet water Ricin bends and turns off the valve. He picks up the condom with the tips of his fingers as if the idea of touching it is no more appealing to him than it is to me and drops it in the trashcan by the toilet.

  “Now there’s a thought,” I say. “Why didn’t your roomie think of that?”

  “Didn’t give a shit. That’s what I get for trying to be generous. Hand me a couple of towel out of the cabinet, would ‘cha.” He lays the towels on the water. “I’ll clean this up later. You look like your freezing in that towel.” He pauses at the bedroom door just before leaving me to get dressed. “Try not to break anything else.”

  “Ha. Ha.”

  Making double sure the bedroom door is locked, I stoop and rummage through my things for something quick to slide on. I dig out a rumpled black slip dress and pair of panties. Dropping the towel to the floor I pull the dress over my head and wiggle the soft fabric down over my boobs and butt.

  What now?

  Should I unpack?

  Yes. I can’t live out of a bag for the next couple of weeks.

  I move my things into the walk-in.

  What now?

  I stand in the center of the huge bedroom feeling lost and out of place. The bed screams: naptime! Surrendering I crawl onto the king-sized bed and collapse into its incredibility soft center. The white down comforter puffs up, swallowing me like a fluffy weightless cloud. “Shit. I hope he changed the sheets.” I put my nose to them and inhale. “Smells fresh. I’ve slept on worse.” I get comfortable.

  A warm breeze comes in through the open glass doors.

  Waves crash and roll.

  Hugging a pillow to me I shut my eyes. I would be lying if I didn’t admit this all has a pretty woman feel to it. Ha. But I am no Julia Roberts.

  And I am not going to fall in love.

  My eyes crack open to the sound of laughter beyond the glass doors, down on the beach. Kids are playing. They giggle and shriek. I smile. They’re probably building a sand castle or splashing in the surf. Their skin tomato-red from too much UV exposure. I can’t wait to get out there. To have the sun heat my flesh turning it a bronze color. Tomorrow, I think. Tomorrow.

  The next time I open my eyes the room is pitch black.

  Was it a dream?

  No. I can still hear the waves crashing. See a glint of the pale moon shining into the room.

  The walls vibrate. What is that? Music? I roll over and push up to an elbow, listening. Yes. It’s music. I know this song. It’s Artic Monkeys. R U Mine:

  “…And I can’t help myself,

  All I wanna hear her say is “Are you mine?”…”

  There is more. Voices. Female. Male. Laughter mixed with the music. Pushing up I go to the door and crack it. Light seeps in. Slowly I take the stairs down. Ricin was right about the models.

  The room is full of pretty women in barely-there clothing. I
mmediately I turn and quietly go back up the stairs. I pause at the top, my barefoot resting on the next rise. There is a pull toward the small crowd gathered. The pull is luring and captivating, like the music playing. It grips you by the throat and demands you come closer. I fight it. A part of me longs to be good, but then there is this other part that I’ve never had much will-power over. The part that’s bad.

  Glancing over a shoulder I stare down with longing, wanting to be a part of something. Giving up the fight I pad quietly down to the base of the stairs and rest my chin on the banister, watching Ricin’s guest have a goodtime.

  There is an ease about the way they lounge as if nothing is more important than what they are doing at this moment.

  Soft laughter tickles my ears.

  Cigarette smoke rises in seductive coils, almost like a dancing cobra charming me in. There is a pleasing odor to the smoke, reminding me of hiding out in the bathroom during high school—being a part of the cool it crowd.

  Two beautiful leggy girls set next to Ricin on the leather sofa. The sofa is a buckskin color. Another girl is in his lap. Across from them is yet another gorgeous girl laid out in modern chair. A guy kneels next to her feeding her vein with what I can only assume is Smack. The girl’s eyes shut and I know the rush she is experiencing is a decent one. I envy her. I want to be her.

  Ricin looks up then, his startling blue eyes capturing mine. “Ah, there she is,” he says extending a hand for me to come on in.

  I should leave.

  This scene is not me.

  They’re too pretty.

  Too rich…!

  But then again, I’m familiar with the charm of shedding your shit and just being in the moment. And these people do it. They do it well. Nothing matters right now but our selfish needs and I don’t see a single one of them rushing to apologize for the state they are in. A blissful state. An unapologetic state. I want it. I crave it. I go toward Ricin as if I am in a trance. My body already shakes with the hunger for what he can easily supply.

  Ricin pushes the woman off his lap. “Here, sit with me,” he instructs me. Wearing the wrinkled slip dress I took a nap in I lower into his lap sitting prim and proper on his leg when it makes no sense.

  I am not prim.

  I am not proper.

  I am who I am, and I can no longer fight it.

  Not when it is dangled before my face.

  It’s like a dog gnawing bloody, raw meat: you can’t take it away.

  Seductive, otherworldly music continues to play. I receive accepting smiles. No condemnation. Why not smile at me? Here I am. Sitting in the scary tattooed bad boys lap, and I can already feel his erection poking my ass every time I shift.

  Ricin’s heavy-lidded eyes drop to the baggie passed to him.

  He is all solid muscle and ink. A cigarette dangles from his sexy lips. He pinches the filter and turns the cigarette around putting it in my mouth.

  I suck.

  He watches.

  Watches my lips with intense eyes until I reach up taking over the holding of the cigarette.

  Pitch black hair falls forward into Ricin’s blue eyes as he returns to the bag of pretty pills. Oxycodone. OxyContin. Roxicodone. He works on fishing a couple out. I wait to be persuaded to join the party of pills. I’m overlooked and grow desperate…begging.

  Ricin leans forward a bit, carefully working around me. He sucks the film off one of the pretty pills and covers it with the clear wrap from the Marlboro box. The pill doesn’t amount to much of anything crushed. Using a credit card he forms a line out of the crushed pill and hands me the rolled up hundred telling me to: have at it.

  The hundred is for show.

  A way of stating: money is not a problem.

  I lean forward. I’ve gotten so used to snorting shit up my nose that I’ve resorted to snorting Tylenol a couple of times just for the feel of it. There is a rush of warmth and a tingling sensation. Oh yeah. That’s nice. “Good girl,” Ricin says. He pops another Marlboro in his mouth and lights up, claps his hands together, rubbing them to create friction. “Alright,” he says around the filter, “let’s get this party started.”

  That’s when I realize the good guy is just a front. The light blue eyes are a lie. There is nothing good or safe about this guy. And you know what? At the moment…I don’t really care. He’s pretty to look at. Sexy feeling under my roaming hands. And he gives me what I want.

  Like my mother says all the time, I have the worst taste in men. I like bad boys with foul, vulgar mouths. I like them tough, rough and damaged. Or at least that is what I tell myself.

  Ricin makes Sterling look like a goddamn choirboy.

  A glass of red wine suddenly appears in my line of sight—the attractive guy that helped the girl take a trip. I drink huge gulps of the wine.

  Ricin grabs the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the star tattooed over the bone behind my ear. His lashes lower as his gaze slowly travels down my body. He leans in, his hot tongue sliding over my throat. He laps at me.

  I shut my eyes and get caught up in a world I’m sure the devil controls.

  My judgment clouds, hell what am I talking about, at this point…

  There is no judgment.

  Only a good time.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Who am I?

  It doesn’t take long to see Ricin is all about partying and having a good time. That is ALL he is about. He loves to socialize. He loves to be the center of the attention. And more and more I feel obligated to be the girl on his arm.

  It's late one evening. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Heavy mascara coats my curled lashes. Red lipstick calls attention to my lips. I’ve gone from crack house whore to rich-and-famous whore living beachside. I’m moving up in the world. I can almost smell the tanning oil but it is all a pretty illusion: I haven’t made it out on to the beach once. In the daytime I can’t even stand seeing my reflection in the mirror.

  I don’t recognize this girl.

  Who is she?

  What are her interests?

  Her desires?

  Somewhere along the way I’ve lost sight of…me.

  Tonight is an important party for Ricin. Or at least that’s what he has repeatedly told me. “Dress to impress,” he’d instructed. I decide on a white dress. There is conflict between its simplicity and purity and the girl wearing it. It should dazzle, the dress, I think. Or at least turn some heads.

  I swing open the bathroom door and walk out, meeting Ricin in the hallway. “I need more pills,” I tell him immediately. Standing with his hands buried in his pockets he stares at me with mild interest. I lift a hand and comb it through my hair. He has gone from attentive to barely there. Nice. My hand visibly shakes. I feel like shit, dealing with cold flashes and goose bumps. It’s not necessary. Not when there is something to quench it within reach. One of my palms goes to his chest and slowly moves up. I will do whatever necessary to get what I want.

  Ricin stops the progression of the hand letting it drop. “Did you hear me?” I ask. “If you want me to be able to get through tonight, then I need something.” My insides jerk even as I tell him this. Every nerve in my body feels attuned, raw, and exposed. Every breath that forces movement, hurts.

  Ricin continues to ignore my plea; always, always, always being the one that decides how much and when. He lifts my arm, inspecting the bruises. Track marks. He drops the arm. “Look at you. Such a bad girl. Who wants someone so fucked up and needy?” His hand goes to my throat, his thumbing stroking over my flesh.

  “Please,” I mutter.

  It’s the first time in days that he has touched me so intimately. It’s always either a tongue caressing my earlobe or my throat. A quick touch that suggest more is coming. But never, and I do mean never, does Ricin take it any further. I’m confused by all the mixed messages. Is he interested, or is he not?

  He angles my head as if to study the star tattoo, but then he angles it the other way, his eyes seeming to slide over every part of me.
His expression is one of disapproval.

  “What is it?” My voice cracks.

  “You look amazing but….”

  “But what?”

  Ricin drops the hand away from my neck and wraps my hand with his, leading me to the master suite. Leaving me standing confused by his King-size bed he disappears into the walk-in returning with a tiny red dress on a hanger. “Change into this,” he tells me.

  I blink. Stunned. I’m not sure I’ll feel comfortable in something so…tiny. Ricin is dressed in a suit for the party but didn’t bother to shave, his scruffy jaw a contradiction to the rest of him that seems so clean and well put together tonight. I ask, “I thought you said we were going to be late?” Something else is different. He grabs my chin. Not hard but with authority. “Perfection,” he says in a deep masculine tone, “Cannot be rushed.” His hand drops. “Wear the red.”

  I study the dress for a moment. Part of me wants to tell him “you squeeze your ass into it” but then there is a small part of me that needs to please him.

  “I almost forgot,” he suddenly says, bending over by the bed and bringing up a perfectly wrapped box with a gold elaborate bow.

  “What’s this,” I ask.

  “It’s for you. Open it.”

  “Did you wrap it yourself?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Not really. Carefully I tear the wrapping to find my boots, the ones he bought from me. Ricin reaches in and pulls the leather boots out placing them in my arms. I take the dress and step into the master bath, right as I am about to shut the door he adds, “I prefer your hair down also.”

  I’m nervous as I check my reflection in the mirror. I prefer your hair down. Taking a deep breath I open the bathroom door and smile when his eyes widen.

  “Tonight,” he says coming up and gently kissing my cheek, “you will be the most beautiful girl in the room.” He places pills in my palm and smiles.