Chapter Six
Derric
Not in Oz Anymore
“Bloody hell,” I mutter, seeing the inevitable clusterfuck of media relations people ahead, thwarting my chance of a clean getaway through JFK airport and to the sanctity of my hired vehicle waiting outside. Beyond the reporters and cameramen is a writhing mass of human bodies waiting for their glimpse of me. Gannets. They’re the same in every country, it seems. Circling for any piece of info-garbage they can snatch up in their rotty beaks.
The TV and screen paparazzi are bad enough, but they don’t even come close to the unscrupulous predators of the newspaper business. They systematically hunt their own kind. Just days before I left Sydney I had an hour-long interrogation from my dad about certain headlines splashed in nearly every tabloid in Oz—badly photoshopped, compromising images splicing Belle Luna and me together to look like we were in the same room, or bedroom, or beach. But even blurry and overexposed, pictures still paint a thousand words; most of them lies.
Belle Luna’s Aussie Millionaire. Belle Luna “down under” the sheets with Faris Media golden boy? Pure bullshit. Sure, I’d met the songstress when she was on tour last year, had a few laughs, hit the beach. Then went with her to some awards galas we’d both been invited to, but a full-fledged romance? Not a Buckley’s chance. That was a near impossibility with her kind of celebrities; temperamental, image-obsessed and working all the effing time. Not that I was in the market for one, but what kind of relationship can you build with that?
I’d told Steve as much. That I was not—repeat—was not, having an affair with Belle Luna and, in fact, hadn’t seen her in months. That I’m a happily-single bachelor with no romantic attachments whatsoever, and I like it that way. I further pointed out that he of all people should know how the gossip-rag industry works, and not to believe everything he reads.
He conceded my point, but if I don’t come out squeaky clean on the other side of this media gauntlet directly ahead, he’ll have my goddamn nuts. I know the drill. Smile, give them a few non-committal comments, ignore anything personal and elbow my way to the street. It’ll be over in no time.
Immediately, one TV reporter snares me and peppers me with questions.
“Mr. Faris, how long will you be in New York?” she asks.
“I reckon six months or more. We have a lot of work ahead of us,” I reply.
“When does ROO-TV go on the air?” asks another.
“Our first broadcast is scheduled for September 1.”
A tittering wave of competing questions ensues. “Do you plan to formalize your relationship with Belle Luna now that you’ll be staying in New York?” shouts the loudest one. “You and she have been an off and on item for several months. Any plans to pop the question?”
I flash them all the Cheshire cat smile I’ve perfected over years of being in the public eye. “Just here to get a new network off the ground, darlin’,” I say, giving them nothing. Not the smallest keyhole to peer through into my private life because they’ll be on it like a croc on a ... well, anything. Crocs are fucking ruthless.
I manage to temporarily placate the entertainment news zealots and bull my way to the exit. My travel liaison ushers me to a shiny, charcoal gray Escalade parked at the curb. Strewth! This rig’s got more power under the hood than I’ll ever need, but what the hell. They did everything to extremes out here. I’m just going with the flow.
I’m relishing the challenge of navigating the biggest city in the world while remembering to drive on the other side of the road. Foolhardy, most likely; Dad would have a fit, but what Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And that goes for any other personal indulgences I take while I’m here, like who I choose to keep company with, where I eat and what I drink and how much excess of each. The paparazzi be damned. I’ll stay under their radar; I’ve had plenty of practice.
The GPS, among the other myriad sensors and controls on the Escalade’s high-tech dash, tells me that I have about an hour and a half drive to my destination, an apartment tower in Central Park West where I’ve leased a penthouse for the next six months, dependent on traffic. A smile spreads across my face. Frame and utility-wise, the vehicle isn’t that different from the bush-wagon jeeps I’d driven countless times in the outback. This is going to be fun.
The giant, urban metropolis of New York City sprawls before me as I leave the airport, easily following the route indicated by the navigation system. While it’s nothing like ripping around in the Aussie wilderness, the streets here are not that different from Sydney. I’m comfortable in either environment.
I take in the sights and landmarks, picturing where a certain start-up graphics company might choose to locate in this swarming behemoth of a city. Some trendy neighborhood in an artsy district, I reckon. That would suit Mila. Trendy. Bohemian. Free-thinking. I wish I could remember the damn name of her company; I’d stop in and check it out. I’m going to need a good design team behind this network launch. Promotions, ads, billboards. Branding and set design. It’d be a plum contract for any design firm and the equivalent of a miracle for a small enterprise.
Truthfully, I’d want to stop in just to see Mila again. See if she even remembers me. There’s something about her that refuses to let go of me; I’ve not been able to get her out of my mind for nearly two months, and it’s damn irritating. Am I just pissed? My ego bruised that she hasn’t tried to reach me? Or is it something more? Being my usual cocky self, I never bothered to get her number, and I regret it now. I’d left the ball in her court and, apparently, she wasn’t playing. Unless I’d misread the game completely.
Visions of her smooth, full tits flash in my mind… The feel of her silky thighs as I spread them apart, her glorious pussy on full display… The heady, forbidden scent of her arousal… The taste of her quivering tissues as I feasted on her wet, molten woman’s core… Then heard her screams of unbridled pleasure. She wasn’t faking; I know she wasn’t. And when I entered her, felt her welcoming walls pulsing against my bursting cock, taking as well as giving, I exploded in a white storm of pure ecstasy, pure surrender.
It was bloody heaven, and it made me want more, much more. I’d felt a freedom being with her that I hadn’t with other women. I got the sense that she accepted me for what and who she knew me to be at the time, and accepted herself and her own desires without shame or remorse. No apologies. I know she enjoyed it as much as I did. So why the closed door? The deafening silence I can hear from across an ocean?
Street after street flows by my windows as I’m lost in thought, but I snap to attention as I almost blow a red light. I slam on the brakes, and a symphony of car horns blast from the knotted mass of vehicles all around me. I exhale a tense breath as the Escalade’s tires squeal to a stop. Pay attention, Faris. Get yourself killed your first day in America. That would get a laugh from the old man. Save him the trouble of doing it himself.
My fingers drum on the wheel as I look around the intersection while waiting for the green light. On one corner stands a bank, and on another is a petrol station. Kitty corner from them is a church; not a big, ostentatious one, but a gable-roofed, community sort of church with a brick exterior and a tall spire sprouting a simple cross from its peak. I can’t quite make out if it’s Methodist, Presbyterian or what. More horns honk as the light turns green. Oi, keep your knickers on, mates.
I hit the accelerator and cruise through the intersection when suddenly a light bulb goes on in my head. Church. That’s it. Church and something—wait—it was a play on words—Church and State. Uh, no. Church & Strait. I smile as the revelation unfurls, and my mood takes an unexpected upswing. I have a way to find Mila.
When I get settled into my new digs, I intend to look up the design firm of Church & Strait. Mila may or may not want to see me but, either way, I plan to make her an offer. Hopefully one she can’t refuse.