“What about all the shots of stars leaving their gyms or going to yoga? Is that the same thing? They want to be seen being fit and healthy?” I asked, rattling through some of the questions James had said he wanted answered for his PR client.
“A lot of photogs and their agencies just keep a running list of who goes to which gym,” she said, then named the locations of the most popular gyms for the famous. “Then photogs just camp out and wait. Some of the regular guys who shoot all day—they just have these spots they go to and kind of lie in wait for stars to come by. A lot of personal trainers tip us off too. Trainers are the biggest gossips in the world. They also know their stock rises if they’re outed as the trainer of someone famous.”
“This is great,” I said, mentally filing away the juicy info.
“And then there are some trainers who might not be tipsters yet, but you still see them in so many pictures with so many different stars that you start to recognize them as well. Like Nick Ballast's trainer,” she said, and I arched an eyebrow in question. The name felt vaguely familiar, and it tripped on the edge of my tongue as a name J.P. had mentioned once.
“He’s on The Weekenders. With Riley. Former child star, had a weight problem for a bit, now works out like crazy. His trainer has this goatee,” she said, stroking her chin. “They’re always together now because Nick is Mr. Exercise and Healthy Eating these days.”
“Gotcha.”
“And I suspect Nick wants to make sure those pictures get out,” she said, and her voice sounded slightly strained when she talked about Nick.
“What about the pictures someone doesn’t want out? The meltdown shot, the yelling at the front desk clerk shot, like Jenner Davies? Because you couldn’t miss that video. It was everywhere.”
“Sometimes, those are just dumb sheer luck. Or a series of tips and you keep whittling them down, and following someone ‘til you finally get the money shot.”
“Speaking of the money shot, I’m guessing we should get going?”
“Yes, but you know how you said they’re going to be checking everyone for cameras at the wedding?”
“Right.”
“I think I’m going to need to check you right now.”
“What? You still don’t believe I am who I say I am?”
“I believe you, but that could be because you’re an incredible actor. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. I need to be the only one getting pictures right now of Riley and her director.”
“You’re going to pat me down?” I raised an eyebrow and grinned, then held my hands up high and spread my feet wide. “Have at it, Doctor Leighton. Have at it.”
She looked at her feet. “I’m just being careful.”
“Please be very careful when you touch my stomach then. As you know, I’m highly ticklish.”
Jess
I started by placing my hands on his shoulders. They were strong and firm. Running my hands quickly down his arms, I felt his biceps and triceps next, and they were so sculpted and toned to perfection, that I did everything I could to catalog the proper names of the muscles so that I would only think about him scientifically, and not about the way he felt under my hands.
Because he felt fantastic. He had the kind of body I could hold onto all night long. The kind I wanted to explore with hands, lips and tongue.
Moving quickly over his chest, then down to his flat belly, I pressed my lips tightly together, so I wouldn’t make a sound, or release a breath, or even utter a word because his abs were so trim, defined, and neatly lined. If I wanted to, I could have traced the edge of each one, lined the contours of his smooth body. I closed my eyes for a second, inhaled sharply through my nose, and patted his hips, outer thighs, and down to his calves.
“There, done. You’re good,” I said as if I were a TSA agent finishing a pat-down.
“You didn’t get my inner thighs, Jess,” he said in a totally serious voice, egging me on.
“I trust you.”
“Are you sure? You don’t want to check my thighs? Just to be safe. I could be hiding something,” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Are you? Hiding something?”
“Honestly, right now, it’s not very hidden.”
I bit my lip, and tried so hard to resist. But I couldn’t help myself. I cast my eyes downward and caught a glimpse of the bulge in his pants. Restraint flew out the window. “You liked the pat down?”
“I did,” he said, his eyes darker, wilder. His voice was huskier. “Is this all clear now?” he gestured to his crotch. “I’m not using you. I meant everything I said in Italian, and everything I said in English too about you being sexy, funny and smart.”
Sharp, hot tingles took my body hostage. They demanded squatter’s rights in my heart. My brain was commandeered by a heightened desire that flooded every damn cell in my entire system. I wanted to climb on top of him and kiss him. Then strip him down to nothing and touch him all over. I wanted to lick him up and down. Hell, right about now I simply wanted to feel him against my body, clothed or unclothed. I craved contact, connection, and the purity of the chemical reaction we had. We were science, we were two substances in a lab that mixed perfectly, whether it was the banter or flirting or the way we seemed to want to pounce on each other.
Whatever it was, I found myself letting go of my worries over control, balance, habits. Gripping them less tightly the more time I spent with him.