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Almost instantly, my phone rings.
“Why are you at school at ten o’clock at night?” His smoky voice floats across the invisible phone lines that separate us.
I’d hang up if I wasn’t so intrigued about what this guy wants with me. If he wants a booty call, he better think twice about asking me for one. That damn black dress…
“Why are you calling me at ten o’clock at night, Bordeaux?” I meet his question with my own.
“I want to talk to you about what happened with your ex at the shop. Are you really at school?” He doesn’t give me time to answer. “I’m on my way.”
* * *
Twenty minutes—and two texts asking me for my exact location—later, he’s walking into the studio. I’m sitting the same way, with the same expression on my face as when he hung up the phone.
“Relax, I’m not a stalker, Isla.”
Why does he have to be so hot, and why am I so annoyed that he’s so hot? He’s a damn rockstar. I’ve never heard of a rockstar who wasn’t hot.
His dark denim jeans are paired with a plain white T-shirt. His look is beyond effortless and undeniably cool, allowing his tattoos that decorate both arms to be on full display. He reminds me of the James Dean picture I got off eBay when I was younger and obsessed with all things James Dean. If James Dean had a beard… God, that beard is sexy.
“The thought of you stalking me didn’t even cross my mind. So you relax, Bordeaux,” I quip, doing my best to act like I’d rather him be anywhere but here. “What do you want to talk to me about in regards to my ex?” The only thing that’s really weirding me out is the fact that this dude is driving to my school so late at night when he could probably be out groupie-ing it up or at the very least, having women, and probably men, drooling all over him, inflating his ego all night.
I take him in as he runs his fingers through his hair and looks down at his worn, black, half-laced combat boots. “I shouldn’t have done what I did, and I’m sorry about that.”
You mean to tell me this guy came all the way to my art studio in the dead of night to apologize for being my fake wedding date?
I just stare at him. I really, honestly, have no words.
“I’ve been feeling like an ass since it happened. I shouldn’t have just taken it upon myself to do that, but if you haven’t noticed in the couple of times of meeting me, I’m kind of used to just doing things my way, and—”
"Listen, that was really annoying and super uncalled for, but I’m kind of growing used to the idea," I cut him off, not allowing him to continue to apologize. His genuine, somber tone tells me that he clearly feels like shit for inserting himself into my crisis. I give him the smallest of smiles, feeling bad that he feels bad.
I’m still incredibly unsure about Bordeaux Daniels, but I decided after the record store debacle that having him as a date might be a good thing. Showing up to your ex’s wedding with a fucking rockstar... well, that’s pretty priceless. While I don’t care about Bordeaux’s fame or status, Manuel sure seemed to be enthralled by his very presence—at least, until he realized that the two of us are an item… a fake item.
Bordeaux smiles, bright white teeth beaming at me. His mouth turns upward at the corners and my eyes fall to the constellation of small stars he has tattooed where his neck meets his chest.
I allow my eyes to linger for a beat too long before looking away. When I meet his eyes again, I can tell he noticed my curiosity. "Oh, really?" he rebukes, looking intrigued himself.
“You said it yourself... it’s no big deal. So, you’re right, it isn’t. It won’t be so bad showing up with a rockstar that people are obsessing over.” I’m sure a smartass comment is about to be hurled in my direction.
Instead, he cocks his head to the side and squints his ocean blues.
I pick up my paintbrush but, thinking better of it, I rest it back in the water. Looking him dead in the eyes, I tell him, “I’m not sure if you’ve been made aware of this, but girls, mothers, teenagers, boys, people all over the place... they are quite literally obsessed with you.” I pause for a beat. “Showing up to my ex’s wedding with someone like you will really fuck them all up.”
The perplexed look on his face doesn’t dissipate. “Someone like me, huh?” An even larger, mischievous smile stretches across his annoyingly handsome face. “Then fuck them up, we shall.”
Nine
Bordeaux
Scintilla (n.) a tiny, brilliant,
flash or spark
___________
I’ve seen Isla Robles in a skintight black dress, jeans that hug her ass perfectly, and a number of other drool-worthy outfits. However, I think this graffiti-style apron is my favorite. She looks like she’s in her element right now, and she’s never looked hotter. Her deep, mocha locks are pulled away from her face, revealing dangling, gold star earrings. I like the way tiny wisps of hair spiral down and around her face, framing it like they were meant to be there.
She wipes her face with the back of her hand, dragging it across her forehead from one temple to the other. “I know this probably comes as a gigantic shock to you, but I’ve never really even listened to much of your music. That isn’t an insult; I’m just making sure you know I don’t plan on falling all over you like all of these other people in your life do.”
