Chapter Twenty
Aiden
We observe the Hollywood sign from the Griffith Observatory. I don’t really get the allure of staring at a sign, but whatever. We go to Madame Tussauds. The wax figures are cool. I discover Emma is crushing on Hugh Jackman, or at least his character, Wolverine. She makes me take at least ten pictures of her posing with the statue. As funny as I find it, I’m a little embarrassed that I’m jealous.
We tour the USS Iowa. Her idea. I think she suggests it because she notices the way I keep flipping to that page in the brochure. I always wanted to explore a WWII battleship. Then she insists on taking ten pictures of me at various spots of the self-guided tour.
But that isn’t my favorite part.
My favorite part is the Hollywood Walk of Fame, if for no other reason than the photo I’m staring at now. She’s sporting these obnoxious sunglasses with her hair parted in two braids. She wears a white tank top and cargo shorts. These are the cute kind of cargo shorts they make for girls that are completely impracticable, because you can’t carry any damn cargo in them. But they give me a very nice view of her long, long legs. Her toes are painted pale pink and she’s got on kryptonite—or at least my kryptonite, which, it turns out, is a sexy sandal. Who knew? I always thought the female body was beautiful in the most obvious way, but with Emma I’m noticing all the subtle, intricate nuances. She poses in front of Marilyn Monroe’s star, one hand resting on her bent knee, the other blowing me a kiss while sticking her ass out with exaggeration.
Get off it. You’re more Norma Jean than Marilyn any day. And it really sucks for me because I have a mad crush on Norma Jean.
Now we’re here at yet another club. It’s smaller with a more refined crowd. Emma’s in the fucking red dress again. She had it dry-cleaned and pressed back at the hotel this morning. I swear that dress is taunting me.
I almost drop my phone when Emma comes back from the DJ station.
“What song did you request? Is it about boners and douche?”
She laughs, swigging back the rest of her drink. She’s a fucking sailor, this girl. Truthfully, we’re both too buzzed for our own good. “Shut up and Dance.”
I shoulder bump her. “You shut up and I don’t dance.”
She cracks up harder. “That’s the name of the song. It’s by Walk the Moon.”
“Oh, gotcha.”
“So you really don’t dance?” she asks.
“That’s right.”
“Will you dance with me?”
“No.”
“You can just stand there.”
“Emma, I don’t dance.” Especially not with you. I can’t control my dick around her as it is. It’s already growing at the thought of being close to her.
“Because we could—”
“Emma, you can do whatever the fuck you want, but leave me alone.”
Shit.
She straightens her shoulders and stands. “Aiden, your random acts of dickishness are really getting on my nerves.”
She gives me a wounded look before walking off. I could blame it on the bourbon, but bourbon only enhances the asshole, it doesn’t create it.
A girl slips into Emma’s vacant seat. Her knees rub up against mine.
“Can I buy you a drink?” she asks.
“I’m good,” I say, staring as some dude spins Emma around. She’s not into it. I wonder if that’s because I’ve upset her.
“I’m Pandora,” she says.
“You’re kidding, right?” I ask, but my eyes remain on Emma. The guy’s hands are on her hip. What are you doing, Emma? Tell him to get off you.
“Yeah, damn hippy parents.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hey, are you into her? You keep staring at her, which is sad because I’m worth a good stare or two myself.”
I turn my head to Pandora. “Sorry.” The girl is sexy with long blonde hair, and enough makeup to keep a third world county employed. Just my type. “I’m not with her.”
She gives me a onceover, obviously pleased with what she sees. She talks a lot. Apparently, she’s been in a hair color commercial. She says a lot of other things, too, but I don’t really retain them. My eyes keep darting back to Emma.
“Ten minutes with me and you’ll forget her name.” Okay, now that I hear.
“Does that line usually work for you?”
“Every time.”
“It would be a shame to break such a perfect record.” After all, masturbation isn’t working for me. I need a stronger distraction from Hurricane Emma. She surrounds my every thought.
The girl keeps talking. Her voice is pitched so every other syllable is higher than the last. It gives me a headache. I hear about half of what she says, but at least I can rip my eyes away from Emma. At least I can have a reprieve.
“I have the keys to the manager’s office upstairs. No one will bother us.”
“How did you get those?”
“She’s my best friend. Actually, she saw you before I did. We were thinking maybe you might want both of us. She’s a brunette, and I already know you have a hard-on for brunettes, the way you were looking at that other girl.”
I almost correct her and say that Emma’s hair is threaded with many colors, but, well, apparently I speak fluent Dick, so I decide to limit my conversation.
“You’re a fighter, aren’t you? I thought I saw you once.”
“Just a guy in a bar.”
She laughs. “Strong, shy type, I get it. It doesn’t matter, I’ve already got confirmation.”
“How?”
She holds up her phone, enlarging the text on the screen with her thumb and index finger—my stats page.
“This is why God invented the internet,” she says proudly.
I start laughing. She doesn’t. Oh…not a joke.
“I want to fuck your brains out,” she says.
Oh good, then we’ll be a matching set.
“I’ll be right back,” she says before I can tell her I have to pass.
I finish my drink, but I don’t see Emma. Where did she go? I need to stop searching for her. Maybe I should just fuck someone else’s brains out to try to get my head on straight.
The only reason I’m into Emma…fuck, infatuated with her even, is because we’ve spent every waking second on this road trip together. But as soon as I grasp that thread of reasoning, it unravels on me. I’m into Emma because I like her. Because she’s thoughtful, funny, sentimental, intelligent, and beautiful in every way a person can be beautiful. She makes me feel like I can be a better man.
Somewhere in the midst of my mental chaos, the blonde returns with her friend the brunette. She introduces me. They make no qualms about what they want. They start making out with each right at the table. This…isn’t this every man’s fantasy? Hell, it’s my fantasy. Okay, I am a red-blooded American male and girl-on-girl action is not something I would ever pass up. So I’m surprised when I feel nothing. Nada. Zilch. Zero. All I can think about is how annoyed I am that they are blocking my view of Emma.
I’ve pushed Emma away, telling myself it is for her own good. But even though it hasn’t been that long since she came into my life, I feel a deep emptiness when I imagine a life without her.
What the fuck am I doing? These girls are going at it so hard other dudes are gravitating toward our table. My dick gives me the silent treatment. In fact, the only thing growing is my conscience. But it’s my heart that starts beating out of my chest with fear. Fear of losing her. I don’t want anyone else.
I stand. They stop groping each other and make a beeline for me. “Oh, we didn’t mean to ignore you. You’re the main attraction.”
I back away. “Ladies, I’m flattered, but I’ll have to pass.”
“Oh, come on,” the blonde says, pouting. “Let’s go upstairs for a private party.”
“Excuse me.”
“Don’t bail on us,” Panchea or Panda or whatever says. She jerks her head toward the dance floor. “She doesn’t mind if you have some fun.”
A cold dread sinks into the pit of my gut. “What do you mean?”
“I ran into your friend in the ladies’ room.”
I feel sick. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“What did you say to her?”
She is silent.
“What did you say?” I repeat, my voice eerily calm even though my blood is boiling and my heart feels like it might just rip though my chest.
She shrugs. “Just that we were going to have some fun. I invited her to join. She is pretty cute, after all. She wasn’t interested, but she said she didn’t give a fuck what you did. See, you don’t have anything to feel guilty about.”
Shit.
I walk with quick steps in search of the one girl who makes me feel everything. The crowd has grown. Waves of people block me. I hear lyrics that can only be to the song Emma requested. But where the fuck is Emma? I’m tall, but people are jumping. No matter how much I scan the area, I do not see her. I run though the whole place twice, even standing on the raised platform of the DJ area, but she is nowhere. I head toward the bathrooms and ask a girl to check if she’s in there. It feels like half-past forever when the girl finally comes back out. No Emma.
The DJ plays another track. “Iris” by the Goo Goo Dolls. It mocks me how much it reminds me of her—of us.
Did I just gamble away the best thing that’s ever happened to me?