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CHAPTER 12
“Is this how it always is?” I asked, slamming the car door shut. I felt out of breath, having trudged our way through the theatre of screaming fans. I could still see the flashing photos outside, muted by the black tinted windows.
“Tonight was a good night,” Alejandro observed. “Wait until my movie comes out.” He reached through the seats, tapping the shoulder of his driver. “We’re set, Charles.” He commanded. The large, pepper-haired man behind the wheel pulled out into the street, chased by following fans. I couldn’t believe my eyes, watching as people ran along the car till we merged with traffic.
“Well I’d hate to see it on a bad night…”
“Let’s hope you do.” He rolled his shoulders.
“And why is that?” I asked confused.
“Seeing the bad night means you’re seeing it with me, and that means I’ve stolen you for even longer than you expected.” He exhaled a cooled breath, “And I’ll take that…”
The mere suggestion of being taken settled in my gut like the first sip of hot tea. He really was a megastar, and his unbridled approach only magnified how truly startling it was to be by his side. The truth was I was in the car with a celebrity, but for me, he was just my boss, an acquaintance at most. I reminded myself of this, combating the awkwardness of his suggestive eyes, which not only observed my body, but possibly dared it to be naked.
Alejandro’s expectations were clear; I was to know him, and he was to know me. Challenging the belief that he had some ability to figure me out only made things worse. This excuse to take me away, the purpose being to benefit the suit, seemed like a front. Did he just want me alone? I wasn't sure what to say, so instead, I focused on adjusting in my seat. I was comfortable but anxious, my hands cupped in the palm of my lap.
“So,” I started, the volume of my voice louder than expected. I cracked my knuckles, not realizing how hard I was squeezing my own hands, “Where are we going?”
He didn’t answer, at least not right away. A brief moment of light leaked through the window, catching a glimpse of Alejandro in the shadows.
“That’s a secret.” He concealed, his face and golden skin illuminated in the hot red flame of his lighter. He cupped his hand around a cigarette, taking a calculated and purposeful drag. I could tell he savored it by the way he exuded a sweetened cloud from his angular unhitched jaw.
“I imagine you’re full of those.” I commented. “Getting to know you feels like a difficult task, probably why others resort to the gossip column.”
He laughed to himself, soaking in the idea. “I could only imagine what they would write about you. But it may not be long before we find out.”
“That wouldn’t happen.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” He continued calmly, taking another puff of his cigarette. He made it a purpose to watch my movements, the ones I tried to conceal, but not even my wayward eyes were safe. He followed my stare, the sly one I trailed along his body and up to the glowing cigarette. He pinched it, concentrating his eyes onto my breasts, as if imaging how hard he could squeeze them until I squirmed.
“Your cheeks are red.” He grinned, pointing it out as if I weren’t aware. The truth being, I felt them burn ever since he sat next to me in the theatre, but now, they were especially pronounced on my porcelain skin.
“Because of the crowds,” I lied, “guess it was a lot to take in.” I collected my poise.
“Have you ever smoked before?” He asked, the tip of his ring finger rested at the bottom of his lip.
“No,” I answered quickly, but looked away, “I don’t like it or the way it smells.” The urge to correct what I said slipped from my mouth, as if not to be insulting, “But not yours. Yours are sweet, contrary to your perception.”
“They are sweet,” he replied, “and soft.” I was left unsure of the topic, if it still remained on cigarettes, or rather, the lip he chewed. I took a moment to adjust, assuming the former.
“And why do you smoke?”
“Many reasons.”
“Well, give me one because I can’t think of any.”
“To stop my cheeks from turning red.” He toyed, playing on my comment about the crowds and how they got me flustered.
“So it’s relaxing?”
“More than that. Yes, I enjoy it, but it helps.”
“Helps with?”
“Stress mostly, but also, nervousness.” He admitted, an unlikely candidness that took me by surprise. Despite his words, he didn't look nervous, in fact, the opposite. His impenetrable stare was a challenge, as if looking too long would catch me on fire. This was not a nervous man.
“You get nervous?” I mused, easing the tension.
