Trashed (Stripped 2)

“I love how horny you are, baby.” I didn’t mean to use that word, but she doesn’t freak out.

I feel her smile against my chest. “What can I say? I love the way you fuck me, and I can’t get enough of it.”

“It’s not just fucking, Destiny.”

She tilts her head to look at me, her eyes deep and knowing. “I know. It’s a lot more than that.” She touches my lips with her finger. “But let’s save that for later. For now, focus on getting ready for me again.”

Holy shit am I in deep with this girl.

Chapter 17

“Quit fidgeting, Des,” Adam says to me. “You look breathtaking.”

But I can’t stop fidgeting. It’s the premiere, which means it’s my first public event with Adam as his girlfriend. My heart is in my throat and refusing to beat properly. And I can’t breathe.

He’s effortlessly sexy in a custom Brooks Brothers suit, black slacks, white button-down with a bowtie the same shade as his eyes, and a black jacket with the sleeves pushed up past his elbows, the cuffs of the button-down tugged out and wrapped around the edge of the jacket cuffs. His hair is a little longer than usual, per my request, swept back and loosely gelled. He’s got two days worth of beard scruff going, which gets me all hot and bothered every time I look at him—roughly every six seconds, since my nerves are on high-alert.

I’m wearing a Betsey Johnson dress in the same pastel green as his bowtie and his eyes. It’s strapless, showing off the tattoo between my shoulder blades. It’s chiffon, flowing to floor length with a slit up my right thigh, sweetheart waistline. It’s been sized and tailored to fit me, donated to me by the designer for the premiere.

Hair and makeup? Rose lent me her stylist, which was…surreal. Having my hair and makeup done for professional reasons was fun the first few times, but it became routine. Sitting in Rose’s elegant loft apartment, having my hair fussed over, sipping something sweet and fruity and stiffly alcoholic to soothe my nerves? That was incredible.

But now we’re in a rented Bentley, sliding to a stop outside the theater, and I can’t breathe. The two drinks I had are roiling in my stomach.

The vehicle halts, and a body appears on the other side of the window—it’s a guy in a tuxedo who is preparing to open the car door. Adam is curbside, so he’ll get out first. Flashes pop and pop and pop, blinding. Even through the acoustically soundproofed interior, the noise beyond the car is loud.

Adam grabs my hand, squeezes. “Destiny. Look at me.”

God. He’s got a thing for using my full name when he wants my attention. It’s effective, though.

I glance up at him and crush his hand with mine. “What?” My voice is shaky.

“You can do this. We can do this. You’ve done this before, okay?”

“Not…not like this. This is different.” My voice falls to a whisper. “What if I embarrass you somehow?”

He shakes his head. “You won’t. I’ll be right beside you. Now just breathe, smile, and stay calm.”

And then he’s tapping on the window with a knuckle, the door is opening, the chatter of voices and click of camera shutters washes over me. Adam unfolds from the Bentley with easy, enviable grace, pivots away and extends a hand to me. I slide across the seat, place one wedge heel on the red carpet, and pull on Adam’s hand to stand up. A brief glance down to make sure everything is in the right place, the black Prada clutch purse Adam gave me as part of my twenty-third birthday gift in my hand, and I move into Adam’s waiting arm. He wraps his hand around my waist, tucks me to his side, and then we’re facing the crowd of photographers.

My smile is automatic. I relax, and move with Adam naturally as we pivot slightly to give the photographers a different angle. And then he’s twining my fingers in his and we’re moving down the carpet toward the backdrop where Rose and Dylan are posing. They move off toward the theater, and it’s Adam’s and my turn. He has my hand in his, and we stand side by side, hands down and clasped, smiling, turning this way and that, more smiling. I ignore the fact that the flashes have blinded me so I’m seeing spots in front of my eyes.

And then Adam is stepping away from me, gesturing to me with a wave of his hand, smiling at me reassuringly. Oh god. Oh god. I’m standing alone, now, facing what feels like a firing squad of photographers. This is nothing like modeling. That was arranged, composed, one guy and a camera, directing me. I have to do this on my own. I stand with one hand on my hip, a knee popped, lift a shoulder, turn my head this way and smile. Look into one lens, change the tilt of my lips and look into a different camera, adjust my pose, turn and give them a look at the back of the gown, and my tattoo, which is scary. The ache for home lives in all of us…

It’s a statement, and I chose it to make one, but having it be public, photographed and talked about? Oh god. Panic is bubbling up. The tattoo was always ’shopped out in the shots that went to the clients. That’s out of the question now, obviously. It’s out there and the conjecture will begin, the questions, the requests for interviews. They’ve already come, starting when Adam announced me as his date for the premiere.

“What’s your tattoo mean, Des?” The question comes from my right.

I face the man who asked it. “Adam is the only one who knows the answer to that,” I say, and offer a coy smile.

“He’s a lucky man, then,” the reporter says with a grin. “In a lot of ways.”

Adam steps close to me. “You have no idea, pal,” he says, a playful smirk on his lips.

And then we’re moving, Lawrence and his wife coming up the carpet toward us. Adam guides us into the foyer of the theater, where dozens of couples mill about, talking, laughing, smiling for yet more photographers, posing, doing impromptu interviews. We mingle, and I find myself dazzled by the easy manner with which Adam moves from conversation to conversation, greeting everyone by name, the men with a handshake, the women with a friendly hug. They all look at me, introduce themselves, and include me in their conversations.

This goes on for what feels like an hour, and at one point we’re cornered by a photographer and a young woman juggling a notepad, a cell phone and pen. She touches the screen of her cell phone and rests it on the top of the notepad and prepares to scribble. She asks Adam a series of questions about the film, which he answers confidently, and then she glances at me.

“So tell me about yourself, Des. How did you meet Adam? What made you quit modeling?”