Lovegame by Tracy Wolff
Prologue
Bedroom eyes.
Fabulous ass.
Mysterious smile.
Great rack.
Epically fabulous ass.
Legs that go on for miles.
Bee-stung lips.
Fuck me hair.
Fuck me tits.
Just f*ck me, baby. Just f*ck me.
Best ass on the planet.
Best body on the planet.
Most beautiful woman in the world.
A perfect ten…maybe an eleven. Maybe a fifteen…
Fantasy woman.
I mean, who wouldn’t want to tap that?
Who wouldn’t want to tap that.
Who wouldn’t want to tap that…
These are only a few of the things that run through my head as Veronica Romero climbs out of the black stretch limo that just pulled up in front of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre in L.A. Everything I’ve ever read about her or heard about her or yes, even thought about her floods my brain as she waves to the crowd before starting her long trek down the red carpet.
In my (very) meager defense, I was a red-blooded American graduate student when topless photos of her on a yacht in the South of France leaked and nearly imploded the Internet. The epic horniness of the twenty-four-year-old male is a cliché for a reason.
I like to think that if the same thing happened now, I wouldn’t look, considering it was a total invasion of her privacy. But that’s probably a lie. After all, I’ve spent too much of the last year as close to obsessed with her as I can get and still stay on the right side of the law. Then again, watching her now in her natural habitat, dressed in a white gown that is anything but innocent and diamonds that rest in just the right spot to draw attention to her perfect breasts, who could blame me?
Certainly not the guy behind me who keeps telling his friend how much he wants to ram his cock down her throat.
Or the guy to my left who really, really wants to f*ck her “perfect peach of an ass.”
Not her. Just her throat. Just her ass.
No, they wouldn’t blame me and it’s no use blaming them, not when all they’re doing is giving voice to the things that are written about her pretty much every day, pretty much everywhere. The tabloids. Wikipedia, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr. The hundred and one unauthorized biographies that have come out about her through the years…
No, no one can blame them for the filthy things they’re saying. Or for all the dirty, disgusting, depraved things they’re thinking.
But I do it anyway. Fuck, yeah, I do. I blame them and myself and every other person on the planet who sees only what they want to see when they look at her.
The goddess.
The whore.
The “perfect ass.”
The fact that after all these years it’s all she lets them see says as much about them as it does about her.
Her walk down the red carpet is painstakingly slow, her heels high and the demand for attention nearly crushing with its expectations.
I move along the rope line with her, shadowing her from the crowd. When she pauses, I pause. When she walks, I walk. When the fans call her name, I watch her eyes, her smile. The set of her shoulders. Everyone has tells, little breaches in their own personal defenses that give away more than they want to share.
Everyone has secrets.
I’ve spent the last year learning hers.
A reporter stops her—one of many—and asks a question that makes her laugh. That makes her pat his shoulder and then slide her hand down his arm in a slow, lingering caress. His eyes glaze over and she blows him a little kiss before going on her way.
Idly, I wonder what he said to get himself into that much trouble…
A group of girls chant Veronica’s name from the crowd and she holds a hand out as she moves toward them. She signs their autograph books, smiles for their selfies, takes their hands and their hugs and their words. She takes all their expectations, gathers them like a bouquet—or an army—and gives out pieces of herself in exchange.
She moves on before they’re ready to let her go, but there’s always another reporter to talk to. Another picture to pose for. Another autograph to sign or fan to greet.
So many pieces to give out that I wonder how she has any left. If she has any left.
And still I keep pace with her. Still I want her attention—and the piece of her that comes with it. My own little piece of her to add to everything else.
It will never happen, I tell myself, as she gets closer and closer to the building and to the freedom away from prying eyes. She doesn’t know to look for me, doesn’t have a clue that I’m right here, watching her every move.
I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m not disappointed. That I didn’t come here—to the craziness of this movie release—because I want anything from her. Because I don’t. I really don’t.
At least not until she turns unexpectedly, her eyes skimming the crowd until her gaze slides over my face. Locks on.
In that instant, all my best intentions disappear. Everything does but her and me and the millions of battered, broken moments that stretch between us.
And when she blows me a kiss—all red lips and wide eyes and smoldering sex appeal—I know I’ve f*cked up beyond all repair.
Chapter 1
It’s a sunny Wednesday afternoon in L.A.—just one more perfect day if you don’t count the heavy blanket of smog hanging over the city like acid-tinged perfume. In the distance, the Hollywood sign that is ubiquitous to this small section of Southern California is nearly obscured by the cloying, smothering stuff, but no one on the patio where I sit, waiting, even seems to notice, any more than they notice the goddess—no, strike that—the legend,—no, not that either—the siren—yes, that works—any more than they notice the famed siren who weaves her way between the cramped and crowded tables.