Page 20 of Out of the Gold

Chase

I stand stillwhile my fastidious dresser sews me into the Doctor Manipul8 leggings. Damn, this is a long, slow process. And for the first time in days, we’re the only two people in my trailer.

Picking up my phone, I click on social media accounts but nothing catches my eye. Huffing out a sigh, I toss the phone onto the sofa.

I look down at the woman on her knees, who’s concentrating on my left knee. I count the ceiling tiles. Even though it’s a smooth ceiling.

The silence is killing me.

Mocking me.

Making me wish for things I don’t have.Can’thave. I rake my hand through my hair. Unable to move, I weigh the possibility of jumping out of my skin. I glance down again. Maybe she can do me a solid with her dad? “So tell me. What was it like growing up as Braxton Hunte’s daughter?”

Her needle pauses inches away from my knee for a few moments, then continues her stitch. Without looking up, she replies, “He was a great dad.”

Wanting to fill the dead air as well as possibly get intel for the Hunte movie, I press, “Was he around a lot? Or was he out with his band mostly?”

Her expressive eyes flick to mine. I thought they were straight-up hazel, but they actually are a much deeper amber, rimmed with browns and greens. Her tits push out as if she inhaled deeply.

Why did I notice them?

“Actually, he tried to schedule his concerts around my school vacations so I could go with him on tours. It was a very exciting life, being able to see all different cities as a kid.”

She focuses her attention on sewing the leggings, mouth clamped shut. Her childhood certainly was charmed—especially compared to my absentee parents. Several stitches later, she claps her hands together and vaults to her feet. “Please walk around so I can check the fit.”

“K.” Suddenly lighter, I take a few steps. Crossing the trailer twice, I try to ignore the odd feeling of flapping material on my right leg. Shit. The left one feels looser than usual near my crotch. “Melody, I’m not sure this fits me as tightly up by my, ah, junk.”

Frowning, she nods and examines my gait. “You’re right.” She motions for me to return to my spot.

Standing with my legs on either side of her pillow, she falls to her knees and undoes a few of her stitches near my most sensitive area. I hold my breath as the scissors come near my dick, releasing it only when she puts them down. Soon, she motions for me to walk around again.

I do. The legging is right now. “Feels good.”

My pronouncement interrupts her mid-stretch. Dropping her arms, she replies, “Great. I agree. Give me a minute to get the circulation going, and I’ll tackle your right leg.”

“Sounds good.” I do a couple of deep knee bends. Still just us two in here, I bring up an innocuous subject to steer our conversation back toward enlisting her help with her father. “So, which was your favorite city that Hunte visited?”

She smiles, a twinkle I never noticed before lighting up her eyes, causing my breath to still. “I actually enjoyed visiting almost every place. My favorite, though, was New York City. One of the reasons I went to college there.”

My thoughts drift to my few trips to the Big Apple. “I love New York City, too. Although I haven’t spent all that much time there.”

“You should definitely visit. There are so many great restaurants, plus the theater district is amazing, of course.”

Her two choices to extol are like punches to my gut. Restaurants mean food, which is something I’m not allowed to enjoy unless it’s broiled fish or chicken. God, if I didn’t have to maintain this ridiculously low body fat, I’d be all over the pasta in Italy. And that’s nothing compared with New York City’s theater. A twinge of longing lands in my heart, which I erase by running my hands up and down my legs.

Knowing I left her hanging, I reply, “I’ll put it on my list.”

She makes eye contact with me, causing a zing to zap.What the?Before I can process the reactions racing through my body, she cracks her knuckles in an impressive show of dexterity. “Okay, I’m ready if you are.”

I kick my legs to eradicate the zinging and zapping, and return to my spot next to the pillow on the floor. She sinks to her knees and for a fleeting moment, I picture her doing something very different in that position. Her next words erase that pleasant image. “Okay, Mr. Movie Star. Let’s get this done.”

Silence descends again. Ihatethat nickname with a passion. I maybea movie star—the leading actor here and in all the films in recent memory—but I’m much more than that. Dammit, I am a classically trained actor. The empty air reminds me I’d like to do something with that training.

To shift my thoughts, I pick up the thread of our conversation from before. “I bet all the kids envied the traveling you were able to do.”

She laughs, but it rings hollow. “Hardly. I was singled out as a target by the school’s mean girls.” She pauses. “Too many kids wanted to get close to me so they could either meet my dad, or use him for his connections.”

“Shit. I didn’t realize.”

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