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I grimace at her labeling me an artist. I used to think I had a special talent, but the more years I spend working within the tattoo industry, the less certain I feel about my place within it. I read somewhere that it's called imposter syndrome. Clay tells me I’m crazy for lacking confidence when I have so many happy customers, but what meets one person’s standards isn’t enough for someone else. I produce work that’s good enough, but it’s nowhere near where I want it to be. Sometimes, when I’m alone at night, I can’t sleep from the panic I feel, anticipating that the next customer I ink will hate what I’ve designed.
“Better find someone else to finish this,” I respond, the fear about my skill with tattoos now bleeding into my confidence with cooking.
“No way,” Jimmy says. “You’ve been chopping those ingredients like a professional. Yougottastick with it.”
I blow out a long breath, trying to expel the anxious hollowness in my chest. As I turn to stir the paste, I catch Allie watching me with a furrow between her brows.
Great.
That’s just what I need.
Maybe she’ll include this in her article under the subtitle ‘Having a big dick doesn’t make a confident man.’
I can show her how confident I can be. In the bedroom, I have no doubts about my abilities. If I turned my mind to it, I could make little Miss Allie scream with pleasure. I could show her just how much of an artist I can be with my tongue and my fingers and my cock.
“Maybe you guys should stop leering all over Carson and go watch some TV,” Allie says, stepping in to be my savior. “Sorry, Carson. I know what it can be like when people are watching what you’re doing. I’ll take the peanut gallery over there.”
When Allie stands and beckons my observers with her finger, making her way to a low tan leather sofas, my eyes follow her like they're magnetized to her ass. Seriously. I think she’s trying to kill us all, walking around in her bikini all day, and now rocking a pair of cutoff jean shorts that barely cover her ass. The bright green top she’s wearing, dotted with tiny little holes, isn’t exactly hiding anything either, and it’s one of those blouses that ties around the neck and hangs open at the back revealing a stretch of skin I want to lick.
Jimmy’s gaze does the same thing, and he turns to me, saying nothing but passing on his shared appreciation. A sharp stab of jealousy penetrates just under my ribs as Allie is surrounded by Jimmy, Theron, Gabe, and then more men as they begin appearing freshly showered from upstairs.
I thought offering to cook dinner would be a good way of proving something to Allie, but instead, I’m left out of the group, missing what’s being said to make her laugh and whose comment has her twirling a lock of chestnut hair around her finger.
Forcing myself to focus on the task at hand, I chop the lean chicken breast as the sharp aroma of herbs and spices fills the kitchen. The sizzling intensifies as the chicken hits the heat of the pan, and I add vegetables and coconut milk before leaving the curry to simmer on a low heat.
The rice will take around twenty minutes to cook, and while it’s absorbing the lightly salted water, I have a little time to join the group.
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” Oliver asks Allie. He’s reclining on the sofa opposite her, dressed in slacks and a pressed white shirt, his arms spread over the back of the sofa.
“Well, I want to interview some of you one on one. And maybe we could head down to the beach. I have a task that could be a fun icebreaker.”
“You think there’s still ice that needs to be broken?” Jonas asks.
“I think we cracked the ice when we handed you replicas of our cocks,” Theron comments dryly.
I check the table outside and find it clear. “Where are our cocks?”
“I took them upstairs,” Allie says softly.
“Oh, yeah?” Jimmy leans closer. “Planning on finding out if size really does matter all by yourself?”
“I volunteer my purple plastic cock as tribute,” Tom says.
“Closet Hunger Games fan over there,” I laugh.
Tom raises his hands, grimacing. “I have sisters. It’s impossible to miss all that teen girl stuff.”
“That’s my excuse too.”
“The walls are thin in this place,” Oliver says. “I’ll hear the buzzing if she does.”
Russell stands, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he strolls away from the group. Allie watches him go, her pretty shadow rimmed eyes taking in his disquiet at the conversation. Of all the men here, I don’t get why Russell signed up for this assignment. Everything about his body language and lack of involvement in the conversation screams that he hates the sexual nature of the conversation. It’s like he feels Allie shouldn’t be subjected to gutter talk, and I get that. These kinds of discussions usually happen in flirty situations when people are drunk and on their way to hooking up, not over a coffee table with ten other near-strangers.
“I’m not going to be testing out your dildos,” Allie says. “I think they’re going to be used as photographic material for the article.”
“Is that it?” Jonas scoffs. “My poor dick did not enjoy being stuffed into a cold mold. And if it’s just going to get tossed away, it wasn’t worth it!”
“Maybe you can take it home as a keepsake?” Stefan suggests. “Something to remember your time here.”
