Sadie keeps her eyes on us for most of the night. I can feel them on the back of my neck when I fight through the crowds of well-wishers to give Linda her congratulatory hug. I feel them when I walk around with Blake at my side. Blake, for his part, plays the perfect boyfriend—aloof, but attentive—and good enough I can imagine we’re actually together, and he’s not just attentive because it’s his job to jump in front of any bullets heading in my direction.
But there are no bullets. Only smiles and camera flashes.
The more I watch Sadie, the more I see what Blake must have meant when he’d said that fame had changed her. She seems, on the surface, to be wonderfully engaged with everyone around her—she hugs and kisses and laughs at all the right jokes and signs autographs for her fans. But she seems to be drawn to the fans that are near cameramen, turning her head just so to smile in the cameramen’s direction even as she moves her Sharpie over the fans’ notebooks and posters.
Plus, the smile never reaches her eyes. She seems to be going through the motions and making well-practiced movements designed to make her look great. How long must it have taken her to practice this?
“Has she come to see you?” I ask Linda as she and I pose for selfies with some fans at the very end of the row.
“Who?” Linda’s beautiful long braid, a tribute to her Indian heritage, is swept over her shoulder, and she’s dressed in a sparkling rainbow dress that would have looked gaudy on anyone else.
“Sadie Hawks?”
“Sadie Hawks is here?”
“Yeah,” I point toward a batch of paparazzi who are excitedly taking her picture. “I wasn’t expecting mainstream Hollywood to be here. You must be doing well!”
Linda squints at the paparazzi and shrugs. “Weird. I’ve never even met her.”
So it really is just a photo op for Sadie.
Blake and I take our seats, and my leg brushes up against his as we sit. My dress is thin enough I can feel the smooth material and the crease in his pant leg. When I glance over, I see Blake’s eyes on me. It’s dark in the theater, and his expression is difficult to discern. Blake’s hand trails over the armrest between us, and, unthinking, I reach up and run my fingernails over his arm. There are goosebumps in the wake of my touch, and I stare at them, wondering if they mean what I think they mean.
“Everything all right?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he says. He leans back in his seat, so the light casts onto his face. I can see the crease between his brows and his lips tilted just slightly upward. “You’re doing really well.”
“Thanks,” I say. It means a lot coming from him—he would know, after all. “I’m glad you’re here, you’re good arm candy.”
It’s supposed to be teasing, but there’s a little too much truth in the statement. He seems to catch it because he leans over a little bit, and his eyes are cast into shadow again.
“I’m nothing on you. You make that dress look like something from a dream.”
What kind of dream? I want to ask. But I don’t because that way leads to bad, bad thoughts.
Bad Natalie.
But it’s hard not to think about that when his eyelids are lowered, and he licks his lips while he’s looking directly at me.
“Do you… ah… did you miss being on the carpet?” A fucking stupid question that the moment it’s left my lips, I want to punch myself in the face.
Blake doesn’t react too much. Before he can answer, the lights fall, and Linda comes onstage to introduce the movie, and the crowd starts shushing each other after a brief round of applause.
“No,” Blake says decisively. Then he leans over, so his lips are right next to my ear, whispering, “But you make it better.” His lips brush against the shell of my ear, and I feel a swooping in my belly and a sudden rush of heat I wouldn’t have expected from such a small gesture.
By the time the movie is over—it was amazing, Linda deserves all the hype, and I tell her that before the after-party starts—and the after-party is winding down, it’s nearly 2:00 a.m. and my feet are killing me.
Magnus guided me through the after-party and introduced me to dozens of producers and other men and women in the industry to the point where their faces and names began to blur together.
Blake never left my side.
Sadie Hawks disappeared before the after-party even started, but Blake still stayed with me.
“Well, Natalie, I think tonight was a success,” Magnus says, finally deciding that I’ve schmoozed enough. “Blake, can you get her home? I’m going to stay for a while longer.”
“Longer?” I ask. I wonder if even Shane could turn up for as long after an evening of networking. “When do you sleep?”
“Sundays.”
“I’ll take her home,” Blake says, catching my hand and curling it over his elbow. I try to ignore the way his fingers feel—the pads of them are remarkably soft considering his work must be hands-on. “Try to get an early night,” he adds to Magnus.
Early night? It’s already morning!
Blake guides me toward the red carpet again where the limos are waiting. I can’t pick ours out—I haven’t had a lot to drink because Magnus had stressed getting knocked out on my first red carpet will do irreparable damage to my reputation—but Blake seems to recognize it easily moving quickly as though he’s attached to a homing beacon.
He shows me into the limo, then climbs in himself. I’m so dazed from the lights and the crowds and the amazing evening I’ve had, I hardly even notice when Blake tells the driver my address. It’s the same driver, isn’t it? Maybe he’s used to taking people to hotels instead of student dorms.
I rest my head on the seat as the car rumbles to life. I close my eyes. At the moment, I just want to bask in the warmth of Blake’s body at my side and the memories I’ve made.
The radio is on playing the soft music of Little Mix’s ‘Touch’ in my ears and lulling me into an almost meditative state.
“How did you like your first red carpet?” Blake asks, pulling me back to reality.
That’s unusual, he doesn’t usually start our conversations.
“It was… overwhelming,” I say, realizing belatedly my throat is sore from screaming into the ears of the people Magnus kept introducing me to because I’d had to make myself heard over the music pumping in the room. “Honestly, I could do without the networking. But I’m so proud of Linda, she really deserves all the success.”
Opening my eyes, I realize Blake is watching me shrewdly.
“Networking is important,” he says. “You won’t make it far without it.”
I shrug. My shoulders rise and fall with such lackluster energy I wonder whether it’s possible to take a quick nap here in the limo before I get back to the dorm.
Would Blake carry me into the dorm?
God, I would hate to sleep through that.
“I guess. But I mean, it’s like what Magnus said, fame is a side effect of doing well in the industry. I just want to act and make music, and be on Broadway one day. People can spend their whole lives on Broadway and never walk a red carpet.”
“But don’t you like it?”
I think about it for a moment. The whole time I’m thinking, he’s watching me. “I liked signing autographs for the fans. That’s cool, and most of them are really sweet. And I loved seeing how excited Linda was with all of this.”
He watches me for a little while longer, and I wonder what he’s looking for.
“Good,” he says, finally. “Hang onto that.”
Oh, I think. He’s worried that I’m going to sell out.
I lean over and pat his hand, hoping it comes across as reassuring and not… me wanting to touch him. “It would have been more fun if they had napping pods.”
He smiles. Or, he comes as close to a smile as he usually gets. His lips quirk up, and I stare at them a little too long, and by the time I realize I’m doing it, I notice he is staring at my lips. I remember the feeling of his lips on my ear and the sight of goosebumps left when my fingernails ran along his skin. My mind starts running over all of the possibilities imagining the other places I could touch, and the other places I could make goosebumps rise.
Blake’s eyes are dark, and even in the low light of the limo, I can see the way his pupils have dilated. I realize I’ve shifted my body almost completely toward him. My knee is pressed against his. My fingers are drifting toward his seat aiming toward his pants. My heart is pounding, and the longer he looks unblinkingly at my lips, the more I want to surge forward.
I shouldn’t.
But why the fuck not?
Because… reasons? Honestly, I don’t even know.
But there’s something in the heat of his gaze that makes me think crossing the invisible barrier between us—crossing the last few inches between our lips—is just too much for me to manage right now. It’s like staring at a piece of sheet music and knowing it’s too complicated, and so I delay the beginning out of some misguided desire to procrastinate. I feel my whole body shudder when his eyes flicker from my lips, to my breasts, to my eyes.
“Hey, does that sunroof open up?” I ask quickly.
Blake’s eyes shift up. His expression doesn’t change, but his eyes dip a little bit when he looks back down at me. “I think so.”
“Cool!”
After fiddling around the panel for a while, Blake finds the button that opens the sunroof. As soon as it’s open, I’m mounting the seat and climbing to stick my body through the gap.
It’s a surreal experience, driving through the New York streets standing in the sunroof of a limo. My hair cascades behind my back and whips around after me in the wind, and my red dress lights up as the lights around me shatter the color over and over. We’re nowhere near Broadway, but there are ads for some of the shows—Wicked and Hamilton, in particular. I imagine what it would be like to be driving away from a show, maybe the premiere of my first headliner.
Leaning my elbows on the roof, I gaze around and breathe in the polluted New York air.
I feel a hand on my ankle and nearly jump out of my skirt.
“Jesus,” I mutter. The word is lost to the streets of New York.
I flinch, but fingers curl around the sensitive skin on my ankle, right above the strap of my shoe, holding me. I want to duck back down into the limo, and at the same time, I want to freeze and see where this goes.
What is Blake up to?
Did he think I was about to fall out of the sunroof?
I would have thought that if he weren’t running the pad of his thumb over my skin slowly raising his hand up to the calf.
“Oh shit,” I say, and this time I don’t even hear the words in my ears, only the vibration in my throat told me that I had spoken.
The hand runs up further to the back of my knee, and I feel shivers creep up my leg and settle into my groin. Blake can’t be doing this by accident—this is a deliberate movement, a deliberate touch. Is he serious? Again, I think about ducking back down into the cabin and kissing him, wrapping my legs around him, doing any of the dozens of things I’ve been thinking about since I first met him. But at the same time, I don’t want to move because his hand is moving higher and higher, and if I stay still, then maybe I won’t break whatever spell has fallen over this limo.
People are walking on the streets as we drive. They wave at me, and I know that we’re moving too fast for them to really know who I am. They’re probably just excited to see a girl dressed up and standing through the roof of a limo. If only they knew what was happening beneath the roof out of sight of the pedestrians’ eyes.
Finally, I feel Blake’s hand curling around the top of my thigh, toying with the edge of my panties, and I feel my breathing start to speed up as he slowly dips a finger into them.
“Fuck.”
My skirt is riding up. I wonder if he’s holding it up, but then I feel my panties slowly lowering, and I don’t care what’s going on with my skirt because I’m more concerned with what’s happening underneath it. His thumb brushes over the edge of my bikini line, and I think I might actually explode.
I spread my legs a little, thanking every god I can think of that I had thought to shave this morning. Apparently, I wasn’t just getting ready for a red carpet when I was running my razor over my skin.
A thumb brushes over my slit and my hands grip at nothing. The roof is too smooth for me to hold onto, and I don’t want to lean forward too much, or else people might realize something’s not quite right at the moment. Even if no one can see what’s happening, I know, and I’m too paranoid not to think about it.
Blake’s thumb runs over me a few times before breaching my clit to rub against my pussy in slow circles. Although it is amazing to think that Blake is doing this, it’s not getting me off any faster than just the thought of him would. But then I feel something firm and wet press against my clit, and I gasp.
He’s … oh, holy shit.
Blake’s tongue laps slowly at my clit while his thumb keeps rubbing gently but constantly, as though he’s worried he might hurt me by going too hard.
I try to grind down on him—not enough to push it, but enough so he can tell I need more. It’s tough to do when I’m standing up, and I can’t see what’s happening below the sunroof, but by spreading my legs a little and thrusting enticingly against his exploring tongue, Blake seems to take the hint and press harder.
He’s circling my clit, his thumb is replaced by two fingers, and now he’s slowly fucking me with them. The street lights of New York City create a surreal landscape that passes me in a series of blurred half-noticed images. I keep my face straight while my entire bottom half is worked to within an inch of my ability to handle it.
It’s good. I sense the slow burn creeping up my legs, and I can feel my orgasm building steadily. Even so, the entire time he’s doing this, just the thought of climbing down into the cabin and feeling his strong arms wrap around me, his body heat pressing against me, his lips, so pink and sweet-looking that most likely taste like the popcorn we just had, gets me off.
He keeps pushing his fingers into me, pressing his tongue more earnestly against me, and the pressure in my lower half steadily builds until a shuddering orgasm envelopes me. It’s not a crashing wave, more of a gentle, invigorating shock of pleasure that takes over my entire body.
Blake must be able to feel it when I climax. He pumps his fingers into me a few more times, gives me one more lick that makes me jerk enough to make my arms slip on the roof. The limo pulls up to a set of lights, and Blake pulls my panties back up. I slide back into the cabin.
I land in his lap and pull him into a kiss.
Blake’s tongue is immediately in my mouth, and I can taste myself on him. That, and popcorn. It’s weird, but the feeling of his arms wrapping around me and pulling me close enough to press his entire body against mine excites me. I feel the bulge in his pants, and I reach for it.
He pulls away.
“Sorry… wait, no. I… I shouldn’t have done that.”
What the fuck.
“What?” I say, keeping the ‘fuck’ to myself.
“That was… out of line. I’m so fucking sorry,” he says.
That’s an understatement, but wasn’t that the point?
“I don’t mind,” I say, trying to pull him back into a kiss.
He picks me up as easily as if I were a paper doll and puts me in the seat next to him. He adjusts himself in his pants—the bulge is impressive, and all I want is to address the issue, but he’s already crossing his ankle over his knee and scooting over, so his entire side is pressed against the window.
“I should know better,” he mutters, looking out the window and avoiding my eyes.
I stare at him. I’m still warm and tender from the orgasm, but my high is already gone, fizzled out thanks to the cold shoulder he’s now sending my way.
“Blake…”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Why did it happen in the first place?” I demand. I try to get closer, but he has closed himself off, and he looks like he’s willing to move across to one of the facing seats if it means getting away from me. “Why? Blake, you can’t do that and then pull away like this.”
“It was a lapse in judgment. I won’t do it again.”
“Blake…”
His lips are thin, and he shakes his head at me. “Just drop it, please.”
A lapse in judgment.
That’s what he calls it, as though he hadn’t just gone down on me while we drove through the streets of New York City. If he’d thought it would be a lapse in judgment, why start in the first place? He’d clearly enjoyed it. Wanted it.
I cross my legs and cross my arms over my chest, and I’m horrified to realize there are tears rising in my eyes. But I will not cry. I refuse to cry just because some guy won’t fuck me.
I am not that girl.
I tell myself that even though I know the sex thing isn’t even half of the reason. It’s the fact I’d felt him running his hands over me, and he’d never even asked permission or tried to check in to see whether it was okay to touch me, but I’d felt completely safe. I was more concerned with the thought someone might see than I was with the thought I hadn’t consented to anything, because Blake makes me feel safe. And he’d made me feel great for a few minutes, only to throw a cold bucket of water over the whole thing.
I’d thought…I’d hoped…
We don’t speak for the rest of the ride to my dorm.