I lean forward and point. “Pull in there.” The man hesitates, and I see the problem. The lot is packed, and there is no place to park or even pull over. As we slow, a car honks angrily behind us when we don’t make the light. Stopped on the red, I grab the door handle. “Circle the block,” I instruct him. “I’ll be right back.”
“But, ma’am—” he starts, but I’m out of the car before he can finish. No one will recognize me in the three minutes it will take. I’m jogging across the lot when I realize my wallet and any money is still in the car.
“Fuck,” I say as I turn to go back, only to see the car whisking away with traffic. This is great. Now I have to wait for him to come back around. All to go in and get a bottle of undoubtedly cheap and therefore nasty scotch. A memory of my younger days reminds me I was not always rich and powerful. I come from poor roots. Iowa. Someplace I never go. The minimarket is too much a reminder of the shit I put up with growing up a butch lesbian in a map-dot town in the middle of nowhere. Reconsidering my decision, I turn to go wait on the curb when a car horn blasts. I look up in time to see an old, two-door Nissan sedan bearing down on me. I only have time to raise my hands before it bumps into me and sends me sprawling on the pavement.
For a moment, I am disoriented, but when I open my eyes, two things are clear. I have the worst headache of my life, and I am looking into the face of the most gorgeous blonde I've ever seen. “I'm going to make you a star,” I mumble. She really is breathtaking with large, slightly alarmed looking blue eyes, and full lips so desirable I suddenly want to kiss her.
“What?” I hear her say. “Are you okay? Oh my God, I didn’t see you,” the blonde babbles. “I’m so sorry.” I try to sit up, but it hurts like hell. She puts her hand on my shoulder, and I am astonished by the amount of heat I feel from her touch. I don’t understand how I can be turned on right now when I was just run down by a car. “Just stay there,” she continues, a sob in her voice. “The ambulance is coming. God, I can’t believe I hit you.”
“You hit me?” I am not sure what to think. Is this accident good or bad luck? Regardless, other people gather around me, and I hear a siren. The last thing I want is to go to the hospital. Social media would go crazy over it. This time when I try, I do sit up. She tries to stop me, but I grab her arm for leverage. “Help me up.” My words are a demand, and she doesn't hesitate. Even with a concussion, I still know how to make people do what I want. As we stand, I notice her outfit. A yellow waitress uniform. Her name is on her breast. Claire. I like the name. I like everything about her and am about to tell her so, when I see the driver of the town car coming at a jog. The car is up on the sidewalk, the flashers going.
“Get out of my way,” he growls and in a second has me by the arm. Even though my vision is blurry, I see the woman, Claire, following me with her eyes. Concerned, but something else too. As I wonder if she recognizes me after all, I am half helped, half shoved into the back of the car and then the door slams. I slump against the seat, my head pounding. Closing my eyes, I feel the car rolling, bouncing off the curb. I let out a yelp of pain, and then I remember nothing else.
4
Five days, seven hours, and fourteen minutes. That is how long it took me to find out everything about her. There are two reasons why I had to wait that long when I usually could have insisted the information be delivered to me within hours.
First, a concussion. I probably should have gone to the hospital, but there is no way I will sit in an emergency department for hours. Instead, I went back to the International Towers, rented the penthouse for another month, and slept for four days. My personal physician arrived eventually, but there was not much for her to do. I don’t take drugs. Legal or otherwise. I like to maintain complete control of myself at all times. I’ve seen too many rich and powerful people fuck up their lives just to get high. That won’t be me.
Second, I wanted complete discretion. The search for Claire needed to be handled delicately. No one, and I mean no one, could know I am interested in the woman. One slip-up and the paparazzi would be all over her. I keep a man in my employ just for this sort of work. He’s expensive but highly effective, thorough as hell, but the old school methods he uses are slow. Still, they leave no trace of my hunt, so I was patient. Barely.
Every waking moment, the woman is on my mind. But the dreams… They are amazing. I undress her from her waitress uniform and lead her to my bed. Her nakedness is splendid, and I feel a twitch between my legs in wanting her. Yet, even in my fantasies, we don't fuck. I want it to be special and real. In my dreams, all I do is kiss her, because the look of her mouth burns in my memory. A sexy mouth, full lips, perfect. I cannot wait to take it with my own. To kiss her hard until she gasps with first surprise and then moans with passion as my tongue conquers her mouth to claim her as my own. I lightly bite her bottom lip teasing at the edge between pleasure and pain, wanting her to know one of the many things I have in store for her. I stop the fantasy, and even control my dreams, to keep from going further. If I kiss longer, deeper, I will not be able to contain myself. I want her that badly.
Especially now, as I sit with my private investigator and listen to his report about Claire. Claire Hathaway. Thirty-seven. Divorced five years before from her high school boyfriend, a deadbeat ex who ruined her financially. Thankfully, no children. I process the information turning the glass of ice water in my hand as I relax in the armchair across from my investigator. “And does she like women?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.
“A gay brother,” he answers without bothering to consult his notes. “Attended Chicago Pride with him and his boyfriend. Not experienced, but I would say favorable.” I can’t keep the smile from my face, not at all daunted by the fact she does not already identify as a lesbian. At least she is aware of the lifestyle. Less I will have to teach her.
All my life, I have been lucky. Although my success is a result of hard work clawing my way to the top, I know part of it is luck. The right place at the right time. Meeting the right person when it matters. Moments in time aligning in my favor. Just like now. I need a woman to make me honest and to settle down with. A sweet girl-next-door type not tainted by the glitter of fame or hunting for fortune. Again, a twist of desire low on my body threatens to distract me as I consider how I will seduce her. Claire Hathaway could not be more perfect.
After my investigator departs leaving every shred of notes behind him, I pick up a photo of Claire and study the image. She is more beautiful than I remember, extremely photogenic to look so good in a candid photo taken with a telephoto lens. I really could make her a star if things were different. Her body is too curvy for a supermodel, but the overall appeal she radiates would no doubt hop off any silver screen. I wonder for a moment if she has ever acted and then scold myself. She is going to be my special project, not a celebrity for the whole world to fall in love with, although a glance at the next photo tells me they would. This one is taken through the slightly parted curtains of her second-story apartment. I suppress a growl at the knowledge my investigator saw her like this. He’s a professional, yet anyone would be aroused by this photo. She is in a towel, wrapped around her torso, and her long blonde hair is wet from a shower.