Kiptyn

When I wake this morning, I lie there for a minute, wondering what or who I had done last night, and feeling the emptiness on the other side of the bed, I struggle to figure out where ‘she’ had gone. Then I remember that I didn’t go out last night. I have a date tonight, a real fucking date.

I can’t remember the last time I went out on a date. Maybe when I was fourteen? Yeah, I think I remember taking someone to the movies, hoping to get a kiss afterward. I can’t remember if I did, in fact, get the kiss. It wasn’t long after that when I discovered what an easy girl was. Now, I usually just pick up a willing girl at whatever bar I'm at, in whatever city we’re playing.

I jump in the shower, excited to get a start on the day. Hopefully, it will fly by and tonight will be here before I know it. Shoving my hands through a tee, I stop with one arm in and one halfway. I didn’t get her fucking number.

“Shit.” Pulling the shirt on the rest of the way, I leap on my bed and grab my phone.

Please let there be something. I type in my name and hit search and then wait for Google to pull up the most recent articles. A picture of Skila graces the front page, along with a small article detailing my willingness to interview with her. It lists the paper she works for at the end, and I almost jump for joy.

Clearing the search, I type in Los Angeles Daily Home and press the highlighted call button. A scratchy-voiced receptionist answers on the second ring, and I ask her to patch me through to Skila Parker.

“She isn’t taking calls today.” I could hear her popping gum across the line.

“Well, can you take a message or patch me through to her boss? Is he taking calls?” I ask, getting angrier by the second. This one person is not going to stand in the way of me and my date.

“Sure. What’s the name?” she asks, bored.

“Kiptyn. Kiptyn Price,” I say.

It’s amazing how quickly her entire demeanor changes when she hears my name. “Oh, Mr. Price. I’m sure I can transfer you. Hold, please.” I don’t reply.

Fuck that.

I make a mental note to contact her manager about her shitty people skills. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. Like she has any right to be nasty to regular, everyday people? I’m famous, so I get special treatment? That’s not cool. No one has the right to be an asshole just because. Fuck that.

“Skila Parker speaking,” she answers, and her voice alone soothes my temper. She sounds irritated, exasperated, and yet she answered the phone cordially.

“Sky, its Kiptyn. I’m sorry to call you at work, but I forgot to get your number last night,” I say. I don’t know why I’m apologizing, but it seems right.

“Oh, it’s ok.” She rattles off her number and I tell her goodbye. The phone is resting in my lap, discarded and forgotten, while I sit on the edge of my bed and smile off into space. Five seconds. I spoke to her for maybe five seconds, and it wasn’t nearly long enough. I pick my phone back up and dial her cell this time. She answers on the third ring.

“Hello?” It sounds like she’s whispering. Shit. I didn’t think she might get into trouble for my calling her at work.

“Hey. It’s me again.” She laughs into the phone, and the worry I feel for calling her melts away. I would do it all over again and again if it meant I got to hear that laugh one more time.

“Did you need something, Kiptyn?” she asks when her laughter dies down.

“No, I just wanted to hear your beautiful voice again, and I need your address to pick you up tonight.”

What the fuck? I don’t talk like this.

This.

Is.

Not.

Me.

I don't compliment women. At least not anymore. The old me might have, but the new me suggests, quite provocatively, that they strip or suck me off. I've never had to be the one to pass out compliments to get what I wanted, and so I don’t do it, period, until now. Until Sky. She sighs on the other end of the phone.

“I know what you’re trying to do, and it’s not going to work.”

“What? What am I trying to do?” I ask. I’m truly curious to hear what she thinks I want from her.

“To seduce me, and it’s not going to work. I mean it. I’m . . . I’m not available.”

Not available? What the fuck does that mean? Is she married? I rack my brain, conjuring images of her, and then relax. She wasn’t wearing a ring either time I saw her, so no husband. She might have a boyfriend, but that won’t last long.

No. Not after seeing the way her body reacted to my touch last night. If she does have a man, I would be doing her a favor by stealing her away from him. She needs someone to show her what it means to be treasured.

“You’re wrong. I’m not trying to seduce you . . .” I let my sentence trail off. Let her wonder what I mean by that. It's true, at least. I’m not trying to seduce her. I'm going to tonight.

She may have denied me once, but she won’t get the chance again. I’ll make sure of it. I plan to pull out all stops for this date. Wine and dine.