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Too bad most of the reporters on that gig are just as dirty as the assholes they’re covering. So I get to watch and report on celebs. But it pays the bills, so here I am lusting after the mark I’m following in preparation to expose all of his dirty laundry to readers who circle like vultures. Sometimes, I feel sorry for people like Keith. He’s not into drugs or acting like a jackass, and I’ve even listened to his music. It’s music to make you feel good. And make my panties wet, but that’s his voice. He could read his grocery list and I’d be all ears.
Knowing his routine, I start to gather my things, ready to follow out a few seconds behind him. As he walks out the door, questions run through my head, mental preparation for what’s coming. Where are we going today, Keith? The recording studio? Maybe the quiet spot at the gastropub you like to write at that has those bacon cheeseburgers that I have no idea how you eat and still have a six-pack? No jelly there. Or maybe just some errands? I could really use some errands so I have more to complete your picture.
He doesn’t answer, of course, but I carry on the conversation with myself as if he does. Sounds good, I can learn more that way. Maybe after your errands, you can take me home and fuck me stupid? Make that tight ass of yours good for something . . . pounding into my needy pussy. How’s that for a plan, Keith?
God, I need a man.
It’s been months since my last boyfriend, the bastard. While I’m known for being a spontaneous, up for anything kinda girl, I don’t sleep around and have pretty discerning taste. Which, of course, is how I find myself fantasizing about Keith’s ass as he walks down the street, sort of looking down as he walks, maybe to hide his face from the public or maybe because he’s got his own internal dialogue going. It’s too much to hope he’s thinking about the sexy brunette in designer jeans and sunglasses he saw in the corner of the coffee shop and how he’d like to take her home and make all her dreams come true, but fuck it, I’m allowed to fill in the blanks here.
He pauses in front of a store and looks back, so I step over to a potted plant in front of a store as cover, jostling the sidewalk traffic flow as a younger guy on rollerblades yells at me, “Watch it, bitch!”
I scowl, not wanting the attention, and quickly bury my face in my phone but sneak looks out the side of my sunglasses as I catch my breath.
Focus, Elise. Get your brain out of the gutter and do your fucking job!
Suitably chastised by my own more responsible half, I continue on, following Keith into . . . a grocery store?
Wouldn’t have expected Mr. Fancy Country Singer to be buying his own food. With online delivery and personal assistants running rampant around this town, I just never imagined him buying his own jars of basil pesto. Still, the fact that he does is cute, sweet, and maybe even a bit humble. I like this down-to-earth potential tilt to my story, so I sneak a few pics of him pushing his cart around the store, an old-fashioned piece of paper in his hand as he goes over his grocery list.
Following at a distance, I grab a few things totally at random as cover while I try to scope out what he’s buying to see if there’s anything interesting that’ll tell me his secrets.
Bread . . . boring, it’s not even fancy, just plain old wheat bread. Steaks . . . no surprise, although I wish I could afford a nice rib-eye every now and then. Speaking of USDA prime beef, God, I could take a bite of his biceps. Yummy. Milk . . . so 1990. Wait, not milk. He’s buying milks, two different kinds of milk . . . skim and whole, a half-gallon each. And the skim milk is that special type for people who are lactose intolerant.
That’s unusual, right? I mean, if you drink milk, you’re not likely to go for two drastically different fat contents. Unless he cooks? Maybe the skim is to drink and the whole is to cook?
Hmm, could be. But then, why the lactose intolerant one? I’ve tasted it myself, and no matter what the makers say, it’s crap compared to the real thing.
I keep following as he walks . . . into the feminine hygiene aisle. Jackpot.
Why would a notoriously single man, one whom women literally throw themselves at and are routinely rebuked, be buying tampons and pads? Because he’s not single anymore! The little news ticker in my brain rolls by . . . Hearts break all across America as Keith Perkins confirms he’s off the market, ladies. News at ten o’clock.
