Stalk me. (The Keatyn Chronicles) Read online

  “Oh gosh. Am I going to be embarrassed by them? Are my friends going to see you naked?!”

  “Not completely naked. But the scenes are very graphic, pretty erotic. Although they couldn’t show everything and keep the R rating, it’s still pretty obvious what’s going on. I don’t know what will end up in the final cut, but what I saw showed my boobs.” She stops and laughs. “Well, they were stunt boobs, and then pretty much everything except the actual vajayjay.”

  “Ohmigawd, Mom, I am not four. You can say vagina. Hell, someone already taught Gracie that word.”

  Tommy laughs and raises his hand. “That was me. She walked in as I was getting out of the shower, and we had to have the whole boy- and girl-parts talk. I’m sorry, but I couldn’t bring myself to call it a vajayjay. Plus, I read in some parenting magazine that it’s best to tell them the proper names.”

  “You’ve read a parenting magazine?” I ask.

  “There was one left on your mom’s set. I was bored. Flipped through it.”

  “Back to the subject at hand,” Mom says. “You may be a little embarrassed by them, Keatyn. Like I said, they’re pretty graphic. There’s even a shot of a penis nearing the backside. Although, once again, it was a stunt penis and a stunt backside; but it doesn’t look that way.”

  I cringe. “Oh. God. You better win an award for this is all I’ve got to say.”

  “If you decide to act someday, you’ll have to make decisions like this. Tommy says he’ll support me and the kids if everyone hates it.”

  “Everyone will love it,” Tommy says.

  Mom laughs. “Even that fan of mine has been encouraging.”

  “What’d the creeper say this time?” I ask.

  “Nothing really. Just that he’d heard I was probably going to win awards for the role. Wished me good luck.”

  “I guess that’s kinda sweet,” I say. “So you’re sure it won’t hurt your image?”

  Tommy puts his hand on his chest and pretends to be serious. “Honestly, I’m a little worried it might hurt my image.”

  Mom and I laugh. Tommy used to be the man in Hollywood who always had a different girl on his arm.

  Tommy says, “So how’s your life going, baby? Heard the Lambo rumbling in at four this morning.”

  “I had to drive, because Sander got drunk. Again. I’m thinking about breaking up with him, honestly.”

  “Really?” Mom says with surprise. “You’ve been together for so long, and you’re just the cutest couple.”

  “I know. I mean, I can’t do it now. Prom is next week. I have my dress. We have plans. But after prom, I think I might. So, hey, good talk. I’m gonna change, go to the dance studio, then run over to Cush’s for a while.”

  Mom looks at me with a shrewd eye. “Is there something between you and Brandon? You go over there a lot without Sander.”

  “That’s because Sander thinks he’s too good to have to clean up, and I don’t think Cush should have to do it himself. Besides, Cush is a player; not really my type.”

  “It’s very sweet of you to help him, honey, but I gotta say, players can be fun.” She gives Tommy her sexy smile and kisses his neck.

  “I know all about your love affair and don’t need to see any PDA, thank you very much.” I roll my eyes again as Tommy pulls Mom onto his lap.

  I shouldn’t roll my eyes, though. I totally wish someone wanted to play me.

  Like maybe my boyfriend?

  I start to walk out of the kitchen, but I stop. “So I don’t get it, Mom. You always warned me about players. About how all they want is to get in your pants. About how I should wait until I’m in love. So what do you do when a guy loves you, but he doesn’t want in your pants?”

  “What do you mean?” Tommy asks. He looks very confused. “That makes no sense. All guys want in girls’ pants.”

  “Not Sander. He wants to wait until he’s married.”

  Tommy scrunches up his nose like he just smelled something bad, but Mom clutches her chest and says, “Oh, that’s so sweet. He’s such a sweet boy.”

  “Mom, you had sex in high school.”

  “Yes, but I told you that as a cautionary tale. A don’t-get-drunk-and-do-it-in-the-backseat-with-some-jerk tale. A don’t-follow-in-my-footsteps tale. Besides, you’re sixteen. You’re so young.”

  “You were fifteen, Mom!”

  “I was seventeen,” Tommy grins.

  “Really? You?” Tommy had the reputation of being quite the ladies’ man. The year before he met my mom, he was named The Sexiest Man Alive. The article adamantly stated that no woman would ever tie him down. Obviously, they were wrong. Now he’s got Mom, me, and four daughters under the age of five.

  Tommy shrugs. “I didn’t always look this good.” He flexes a bicep for us.

  Mom giggles and kisses his arm.

  I decide to leave before I have to see any more PDA.

  I’ll lick you all over.

  1:30pm

  I unlock Cush’s front door and let myself in. The alarm beeps, so I punch in his code. I don't bother to check the guest bedrooms and the couches downstairs. If the alarm is set, it means everyone is gone. All’s clear.

  I drag my tired ass up the stairs to his room. He is sprawled sideways across his king-sized bed, and has one foot sticking out from under the covers. He says his foot has to breathe at night, which cracks me up. His blinds and blackout curtains are tightly shut, and the room feels cool.

  I could so go to sleep right now.

  I gently sit down on the edge of the bed.

  Cush's arms shoot out from under the covers.

  “Ahhhh!!” I scream as he rolls me onto the bed and slowly opens his big blue eyes. “You scared me half to death!”

  He laughs out loud. “Ha! I knew I’d get you!”

  His arms tangle around me and he throws a leg on top of me to pin me down.

  “Admit it. You've been dying to get in bed with me.”

  My face breaks into a grin, and I sass back, “Thought you didn't do that stuff in your own bed?” Cush locks his and his Mom’s bedroom doors during parties. When Cush hooks up, even he uses a guest room.

  “I might make an exception for you.”

  His eyes glisten at me, making my insides feel warm and my stomach feel like it's just spun itself into a knot.

  “Doubtful,” I say, but I don't think I'm very believable because I can't help but grin. I know it’s just Cush, but I like the idea of being wanted in bed.

  Our eyes meet, and my grin fades as I get lost in his pretty blue eyes.

  “You smell salty,” he says. “Like the ocean." He leans closer to me and licks up the side of my face. “You taste salty too. Maybe I should grab a bottle of tequila and we should have some fun.” He moves his eyebrows up and down. “What do you say? We’ll do some shots and I’ll lick you all over.”

  “I’d say I had dance class for an hour after I surfed. The salt isn’t all from the ocean.”

  “Gosh, aren't you tired? I'm tired just hearing about it.”

  “I’m running on about two hours’ sleep, so yeah, I’m tired. We should probably go clean while I still have the energy.”

  “I think you need a nap.”

  “A nap does sound good, but . . .”

  His face is still hovering just above mine. “That or I get the tequila out.”

  “And lick me?” I say, like it’s the most disgusting thing I've ever heard. But I’m so lying. The thought of someone like Cush licking me everywhere makes me feel very hot.

  He puts his elbow on the pillow behind my head, props himself up, and looks at me seriously. “Are you happy with Sander?”

  I sigh.

  “Tell me the truth,” he says.

  “Most of the time. He’s sweet, and he treats me well. I just—I don’t know . . . lately, I’ve been thinking maybe we should take a break. But Prom is next week, so it’s not like I can do anything about it right now.”

  “You said he treats you well but, from what I can
see, you’re always taking care of him. When does he take care of you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Like last night. When you went in the bedroom.”

  “I don't know what you mean.”

  “I probably shouldn't say this.”

  “Cush, just tell me.” I pretend to be calm, but inside I’m panicking. Does he know? Did he figure out that we aren't doing it? That we never have? Should I tell him? Do I dare tell him the truth I’ve been hiding from everyone?

  “You always come out looking just as perfect as when you went in. I mean, everyone knows you're doing it.”

  I blow out a big breath of air. Thank goodness. He doesn’t know.

  He continues. “I just wonder if it's any good.”

  “Any good?”

  “Yeah, shouldn't your hair be messed up because his hands were in it? Shouldn't your lips be red from too much kissing? Shouldn't your mascara be smudged? Shouldn't your legs be weak because you've been thoroughly fucked?”

  I swear to God, I think my panties just melted off my body. How can Cush just talking about sex make me hot? Something is seriously wrong with me. I just need to do it. Go to prom with him. Break up with him. Then tell Brooklyn how I feel.

  Except I told Vanessa I was considering it, and she got pissed. Told me I was stupid. How we’re the perfect couple, and how it would adversely affect my status.

  I bite my lower lip. “Um . . .”

  “He doesn't do it for you, does he?”

  “Do what?” It’s very hard for me to concentrate when he’s this close to me. He’s still leaning over me. Those lips just above mine. Teasing me with their every move.

  “He doesn't make you hot. I've never heard any noises.”

  I push my head deeper into the pillow to back away from him. “Do you listen at the door?”

  The tops of his cheeks turn slightly pink. “No, I just . . . sometimes you hear.”

  “You’re right, kinda. He doesn’t really do it for me, so I am going to break up with him after prom.”

  Cush's eyes sparkle. He has gorgeous eyes. And adorable dimples.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, there’s this guy I’ve kinda had a crush on for a while. He’s one of the guys I surf with. It’s probably useless though. I don't think he’s ever going to think of me as anything more than a friend.”

  Cush plops his head down on the pillow and sighs. “Yeah, I know what that feels like. Hey, so I’m going back to sleep.”

  He closes his eyes and seems distant all of a sudden.

  Is he mad at me? Did I say something wrong?

  While I try to figure out the answer, I close my eyes and immediately fall asleep.

  I wake up with that feeling. That feeling someone is staring at you. My little sisters do it all the time. I’ll wake up, and their little faces will be four inches away from mine, and I’ll wonder how long they’ve been there.

  I open my eyes and see Cush. “Tell me I wasn't snoring.”

  He grins sweetly at me. “No, you looked peaceful. You ready to tackle the cleanup?”

  “Not really, but I suppose we better.”

  We go down to the laundry room, grab a couple of big, black trash bags, and start cleaning up. We work our way through empty beer bottles, empty pizza boxes, and random half-eaten pieces of pizza.

  An hour and half later, I wipe off the bar, throw away a few stray empties, fluff the pillows, and look around.

  “We’re a good team,” Cush says.

  I smile at him and nod in agreement.

  “You have any plans tonight?” he asks.

  “Not really. Sander has something going on, and Vanessa and RiAnne are going to some benefit with RiAnne’s parents. The nanny took the girls down to Sea World today, so they’ll go to sleep early. I was just gonna do a little homework, relax. Maybe watch a movie.”

  “Any chance you'd wanna hang out with me? I just got a text from my mom. She changed her plans—some fashion emergency—and now she won't be home until tomorrow night.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Cool,” he says. “So, what do you want to do?”

  I realize there is something I’d rather do than just hang out, and Cush might be just the guy to do it with.

  “Don’t laugh, okay. But would you want to go dancing? The guys I surf with only go to dive bars. Sander took years of dance lessons, but he won’t go to clubs with me. And when we dance, he actually gets pissed at me if I dance too close or like grind on him.”

  Cush shakes his head in disbelief. “If it weren’t for the fact that he dates you, I'd think he was gay.” He bows to me like I’m a princess. “Miss Douglas, I would be honored to have you grind up against me all night. You have a club in mind?”

  “Actually, yeah. There’s this place I go . . .”

  He interrupts me. “Who do you go with?”

  “Oh, um, well, this is gonna sound weird, but I sorta go by myself. Every Thursday night. This guy I know, Troy, is the DJ there. He invited me on opening night and I had so much fun I’ve gone back every Thursday since. I just go and dance. You still have your fake ID, don't you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I don’t think we’ll need it. I always drive Tommy’s black Ferrari, and the valets and the doormen all know me, so I never get carded.”

  “I know your parents are cool, but I’m sorta surprised they let you go.”

  “They know Troy. He’s in that band with my friend, Damian. Tommy talked to him before he let me go the first time and made him promise to look out for me. They also know that I just go because I like to dance. I don’t get drunk or make bad decisions or anything.”

  “Bet you don’t wait in line either.”

  “Well, no, but it’s because I had a connection, and now I’m a regular, I guess. Although Troy always gives me shit about not bringing my friends.”

  “You seriously go by yourself? Like all by yourself?”

  “Yeah. Sometimes it’s nice to get away. To not worry about taking care of Sander or my friends. Who’s drunk? Who’s doing drugs? Who’s leaving with a guy she shouldn’t be? Who’s going to hook up with some random guy in the bathroom?”

  “See. Just like I said. Who takes care of you?”

  “I guess I do.”

  He smiles at me. “Do you drink while you’re there?”

  “I have a little routine. As soon as I get there, I down three shots. Then I drink water the rest of the night and dance my ass off.”

  “Let’s do it. Where is this place?”

  “Most people call it the Side Door, but it doesn’t have an actual name. It's in a crappy warehouse area, and you enter from this little rusted metal side door. But it’s huge inside. Three levels. Lights. Girls dancing in cages hung from the rafters. Great music. I’ve always heard Saturday nights are insane. I’m so excited to go. But I should warn you, I look different when I go there.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, I wear lots of makeup and usually put my hair in a high ponytail.”

  “I see you in a ponytail at soccer all the time.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the makeup. The super short slinky little dresses. The sky high heels.”

  Cush gives me the look. The look I’ve seen him give so many girls right before they fall into bed with him. He can be quite charming even when he’s not trying to be.

  “You’re making me hard,” he says.

  I punch him in the shoulder. “Shut up.”

  “So not to sound like a girl, but what am I supposed to wear?”

  “I don’t know. Let’s go find something.”

  We run up to his bedroom, and I start digging through his closet. Cush dresses pretty much the same way every day. His school wardrobe consists of athletic shorts, fitted t-shirts that show off his toned chest, and brightly colored tennis shoes.

  I survey his walk-in closet and notice a pile of boxes in the back. “What’s all this?”

  “It’s the stuff my mom brings home from
her trips.” Cush’s mom is the president of a large textiles conglomerate. They sell fabric to all the major luxury brands, so she travels the world and is rarely home. “She tries to make herself feel better about being gone all the time.”

  I start digging through the pile and quickly realize it’s literally a treasure trove.

  “Cush!! Ohmigawd! This is a Prada backpack. Do you know how expensive these are? We’re throwing away the red Nike backpack you’ve had since seventh grade, and you’re gonna start using this.”

  He nods his head in a half yes, half no direction. “Fine.”

  I continue to open one box after another and get more and more excited. “Oh, cashmere sweaters from Harrods! Ahhh!! Look at these Jimmy Choo loafers! They’re incredible!! And a Louis Vuitton carryon. Gucci. Burberry. Hermes. A Rolex!?” I turn around and hand him a small box. “You’re letting a Rolex sit in here? Are you freaking nuts?”

  “None of that stuff looks like me.”

  “It does now. Bye, bye, boring basketball shorts. Hello, international Cushman.”

  He shrugs. Rolls his eyes at me.

  “You’re trying this stuff on. All of it. Like, right now.”

  He gives me a sly grin. “You just wanna see me naked.”

  “Yes, Cush, that is all I ever dream of. You in a closet with a pile of designer clothes all around you.” I stop. Have a flash of déjà vu and realize that does sort of sound familiar. “Actually, I have had a dream like that, but it was just me in the closet with every designer shoe ever made. And they were all lined up in glass-front cases in this massive two-story closet . . . ”

  He raises a hand to halt me. “Fine. Fine. I’ll try them on if you will stop talking about shoes.”

  I lie on my stomach across his bed and throw out orders of what to try on with what.

  “Do you not wear this stuff because it pisses your mom off?”

  He walks out of the closet looking smoking hot. He’s got on an expensive pair of straight-cut, dark-washed jeans, a blue paisley button-up shirt that was custom made by a London tailor, and the Jimmy Choo loafers.