I grabbed hold of his cock, and I didn’t just suck it. I fucking worshipped it.
~
After the shower, we steered the food trolley over to the round dining table in the front room, and quietly ate the now-cool breakfast. Dalton offered to order up more food, or take me out, but cold food was better than waiting.
My mocha tasted like a regular coffee, then I found all the syrup at the bottom, in one surprising slurp. (Ah, the unmixed beverage. The bane of the mocha drinker.)
Dalton did a funny thing before he got dressed. He took five pairs of pants out of his suitcase (why he’d brought five pairs for a weekend stay was anyone’s guess) and he smoothed them all out flat on the bed. He took out five shirts and did the same with them, pairing them up with the jeans, then mixing and matching.
I stepped out onto the balcony for a minute in my robe to check the weather. It was sunnier than the previous day—short-sleeves weather, but not too hot—a perfect day for sightseeing.
I came back into the bedroom to find him with his fist held to his lower lip, still studying the mix-and-match outfits.
“Are we still trying to look like tourists today?” I asked.
“Right!” He grabbed the fanny pack from the previous day and started trying it on top of the flat clothes.
I left him to his big decision of the day and got myself dressed in the spacious bathroom. I chose a short denim skirt, with a pair of pale gray footless leggings underneath. The weather was warm enough for bare legs, but my inner thighs chafe like crazy if my skin gets damp, and I had a feeling Dalton would be saying and doing things to make my temperature rise.
I put on ankle socks and lace-up sneakers, and wore a loose blue tunic on top with a green belt. The green belt had a carved wooden closure, but it also had a tendency to suddenly spring open without provocation, so I had to use a hair elastic to keep it fastened. The things we do for fashion!
Dalton was putting on his shirt when I walked back into the bedroom. He’d chosen dark gray pants and a black T-shirt with a graffiti print, sun-bleach lines, and a dozen tiny holes in it—the kind of shirt a charity shop would just garbage directly from the donation bin.
“Dalton, tell me the truth. Did you get that shirt from a designer shop, or off the back of a hobo?”
“I’ll never tell.”
I struck a pose at the doorway. My blond hair was swept back in two pigtails, like a little girl.
“What do you think of my outfit? Do I look like Chelsea?” I asked.
“Who?” He blinked a few times.
“Chelsea. The girl who lived next door.”
“Right. Ha ha. No, you look like an adult, which is a good thing.”
Something felt off, so I decided against the pigtails and quickly pulled out the elastic bands.
We gathered our things from the room and headed out to the elevator. I wore my brand-new watch and kept admiring it every time it caught my eye.
“Wow, it’s noon already,” Dalton said. “We completely missed our cake appointment. I’ll tell them it’s all your fault.” He gave me a devilish grin.
My mind wasn’t on what he was saying, because I was still thinking about the pigtails, and Chelsea.
We got down to the lobby, where I found out he’d rented a scooter for the day, and Vern wouldn’t be joining us until later.
A scooter? I wasn’t thrilled, but decided to politely give it a chance.
Even as we donned our helmets and climbed onto the scooter, I kept troubling my mind over what he’d told me about Chelsea.
Could I ever trust anything that came out of the smooth-talking actor’s mouth? Or his motivations?
The big fight that broke us up initially was over his indie movie—specifically, the fact he’d started dating me as acting research into dating a bigger girl.
This new story of his, about having his first love be a chubby neighbor… well, it seemed awfully convenient. Why hadn’t he mentioned her earlier?
Also, his story about the family next door had been rather detailed, as though constructed. My heart sunk. He’d probably made the whole thing up to win me over. Why else would he have not known who I was talking about when I said Chelsea’s name? It’s not that common of a name.
And let’s not forget about the wardrobe. Was it normal for a man to spend so much time on his appearance?
Sitting on the back of the scooter, trying not to feel self-conscious about the view of my roundness ballooning out the sides, I wrapped my arms tighter around Dalton’s lean torso. I could hold on to him as tight as I could, but he was liable to slip away in the light, like San Francisco’s fog.
I had to ask myself those questions—the ones so many women in LA must ask themselves daily.
Can you ever truly know an actor? Can you ever trust him?