Confessions of a Bad Boy (2 page)

I
start taking
off my clothes as soon as I’m through the door of my apartment. Shirt on the floor, kicking my shoes off, down to my underwear. I go into the bathroom and splash some water on my face, glaring at myself in the mirror.

There’s a rush that happens when I’m about to make a video. Not the cock-stiffening hotness of seducing a woman, not quite the intellectual satisfaction of closing a six-figure deal for work that I had no right to – it’s something else. Something I still can’t figure out. It’s a catharsis and a comfort, a deep feeling of fulfillment I’ve never quite gotten from anything else.

I boot up my laptop and sit on the edge of the bed while I wait, taking out the candles my female fans love and lighting them so they cast an incandescent hue over my body, the lines of my chest coming alive in the flickering black shadows.

I’ve asked myself a million times why I carry on making these videos. I don’t need the money, and all it would take is for a girl to recognize me, or for a slip to happen, and I’d be discovered. If that ever happened I’d probably enter a world of problems. Work would suck – if I could even keep my job – and I’m still not sure if it would help or ruin my sex life.

But something brings me back, something deep inside of me. It’s not quite the ego-boost – I’m self-aware enough to admit that - and it’s not even the idea of helping people – I’m not that altruistic. Again and again though, whatever it is still compels me to sit here, stare into that lens, and talk. And it’s not the kind of bullshit I roll with at work- it’s the truth. Maybe that’s the part I’m addicted to. The part where there are no boundaries, no rules. Where I can tap into the deepest, darkest part of what it means to be a man, to lust and to hunt and to conquer. All amid the liberating joy of anonymity.

I set the angle right with focused precision, just below my mouth, nothing visible in the frame but my chiseled torso, the waistband of my Calvin Kleins, and the blank wall behind me, and then I press record.

C
onfessions of a Bad Boy
#234: The best one-night stand I’ve ever had

I
t’s
the Bad Boy here. Bringing you more illicit confessions from the steamy shadows, tales of torn panties and roving tongues. I’ve got to say, some of the messages I’m getting from you guys are out there – especially the women. I’m sure I’ve met a few of you out in the wild before. Just keep ‘em coming, as I like to say.

A bunch of you keep asking me to tell you about the best one-night stand I’ve ever had, since I’ve got my method down to a science. It’s a tough question. One-night stands are always good if you know what you’re doing. Each one is unique, different, its own little adventure. That’s why I keep coming back, why I keep doing it. That’s why I’ve made so many videos on the topic. But that’s no answer, and you know I hate to leave you hanging…

So I’m gonna tell you about a one-night stand that might just be the best – it was definitely the most unexpected, the most unplanned, and the most dangerous. The one that I still think about sometimes, however much I try not to…

T
here’s
something about a rooftop party that brings out the wilder side in women. Maybe it’s the stars overhead making them feel that nothing really matters. Maybe it’s the warm LA breeze against their bared skin reminding them of what it feels like to be touched. Shit, maybe it’s just the dizzying altitude. Either way, I never turn a rooftop party down. I like my women wild.

I lean back against the railing, take a long sip of beer, and let myself drink in the scene. It’s a big rooftop, big enough for a dance floor, a drinks bar, and a small glassed-in area. Beyond the railing around its edges, the city reaches out in all directions, outlined in places by the dusty orange glow of a sunset. There are colored lights set around the rooftop, shimmering off the giant pool at its center and the toned thighs and glossy hair of the women around it. It’s a typical Hollywood crowd. Everyone looks young, but only around half of them actually are – the rest artificially so. Producers, actors, even a few directors and talent agents like me. All here to network, schmooze, and make empty promises.

The DJ in the corner puts on the latest hit and turns up the volume. Like a war cry it compels some of the girls around the pool to stand up and start moving. I take another sip of beer and watch the parade of beautiful bodies, feeling like a lion thrown in the deer sanctuary. One of the girls catches my eye and I smile as she turns around to show me her best side. I watch her for a while before a tall blonde in a shiny dress struts past me, and puts a little swing into her hips as she does it – just enough for a guy like me to get the message.

It’s almost enough to make me forget that I’m here to meet someone: Kyle. My best friend since childhood, and the only person who I’d stand at the edge of a party doing nothing for. Even though all I want to do right now is get my hands on whatever that blonde is hiding under her dress. As an ex-linebacker with a short temper, though, Kyle’s not the kind of person I’d disappoint even if he wasn’t my friend.

I check my watch – he’s almost an hour late.

“Nice watch,” comes a voice a few feet away.

I look up, taking my time, eyes lingering on a perfect pair of olive-toned legs, a little black dress that emphasizes the ‘little,’ and a pair of large, brown eyes that make you feel like someone turned a spotlight on you.

“I like things that are built well,” I say, smiling at her.

“It’s nice to meet a man with good taste.”

I take another look at her figure, leaning on one leg, a hand against her hip, her other holding up her martini. Time’s up, Kyle.

“Men need to have good taste,” I say, stepping a little closer and bringing my voice down, “after all, we’re not lucky enough to be as beautiful as women.”

She giggles a little, her pink lips parting softly in a way that makes my balls ache.

“I dunno,” she says almost in a whisper, “you’re kinda cute.”

“Then we’ve got something in common,” I say, moving in even closer and putting a hand against her waist.

“I’m Sophia.”

Just before I can tell her my name, I hear it called out in the last voice I want to hear right now.

“Nate!”

It’s a husky, energetic voice that I know much better than I ever wanted to. I turn towards it, only because I can’t really believe it’s
her
.

“Jessie?” I say, as she marches towards me.

“Where’s Kyle?”

“I don’t know. He should have been here already. Traffic?”

“Ugh!” Jessie groans, slumping her shoulders. “I’ve been texting him all night and he won’t respond. Can you try?”

“Jessie,” I say, controlling my impulse to throw her over the railing only because it wouldn’t look good in front of Sophia, “now’s not a good time. Why are you even here?”

“Who’s this?” Sophia whispers in my ear, her eyes darting over to Jessie.

Before I can explain that she’s just a friend, Jessie senses the opportunity to screw me over – a thing she’s always been happy and willing to do.

“Who am
I?
” she says with mock-bitchiness to the beautiful girl in the tiny dress. “Who are
you?
I’m his wife of fifteen years. We have three children together. And he sold one of them to afford that suit he’s wearing.”

“What?” Sophia sputters, jerking her hand away from my arm.

“No. She’s not – I can explain,” I say, looking at Sophia pleadingly. Begging has never been a good look for me though. Before I can get anything else out, she shoots me a look of utter disgust before walking away far quicker than you’d expect in heels that high.

“Wait, Sophia! She’s not my wife, she’s just—” But she’s gone, and I turn back to Jessie. “Just my best friend’s annoying kid sister who hasn’t matured in the fifteen years I’ve known her.”

Jessie grins, snatches my beer out of my hands and swigs from it.

“What the hell are you doing here, Jessie? Besides ruining my night?” I snatch my beer back from her, and realize that it’s empty now.

“I told you, I’m looking for Kyle. I’ve got a feeling that he’s avoiding me.”

“He’s got the right idea. How did you even get in here dressed like
that?
”

I nod at her outfit. Jean cut-offs and a plaid shirt tied in a knot over a torn-up old band t-shirt, just short enough to tease the line of her hips, just soft enough to fall over the gaze-stealing teardrops of her breasts. Her dark, wavy hair makes her look like she just rolled out of bed, and her wrists are stacked with the kind of bangles and bracelets that you’d get in the kid’s section of a dollar store. It’s the kind of edgy-sexy, rocker chick look I normally can’t resist, but Jessie is, after all, like a sister to me. Which is why I drag my eyes away from her body and focus on the party still raging all around us.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says sarcastically, “I forgot to bring my Tiffany dress with the push-up bra. Am I not slutty enough for your Hollywood parties, Mr. Big-Shot Talent Agent?”

“No. It’s just that unless nineties grunge music is going to make a comeback in the next ten minutes, you look ridiculous. And for future reference, Tiffany sells jewelry – not clothes.”

“
I
look ridiculous? Look at you! That
suit!
Everything’s so…meticulous. Not a thread or a hair out of place. And so
clean!
It’s psychopathic. You look like a piece of furniture.”

I look up at the night sky, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.

“Well, thanks for scintillating conversation, Jessie. It’s always a pleasure. Take care of yourself.”

I start walking.

“Hey!” she calls out as she quickly catches up to me. “Where are you going?”

“First, I’m going to get myself another drink. Then I’m going to select one of these astonishingly beautiful women to come back to my apartment. And then I’m going to drink a Red Bull or three because lord knows I’m gonna be up all night long having fantastic—”

“Ew! Stop!” Jessie says, covering her ears dramatically for a second before grinning and punching my arm. “What about my brother? Where is he?”

“I already told you I don’t know,” I say, as I pretend not to inspect whether she’s damaged the sleeve of my suit. “I’ve been waiting for him for nearly an hour.”

“But I really need to talk to him. He said he’d be here.” The worry on her face is real, and I slow my pace and turn towards her.

“Look, it’s Kyle. He probably had a load of work dumped on him at the last minute. I’m sure he’s fine. Let me know when you find him. You still have my number, right?”

She nods. I move to go again. “Wait,” she says, tugging at my sleeve. I turn back to look at her. “I came all the way downtown by myself.”

Then she hits me with the full puppy dog eyes. I’ve seen that look a million times since we were kids. Usually it came when Kyle and I were going out and Jessie wanted to tag along. Sometimes it came when Jessie did something bad and needed me and Kyle to cover for her. Whatever it was, when Jessie made her eyes big and her lips pouty, as if she were about to cry, like she was the most vulnerable thing in the world – she always got her way.

“Let me guess. You’re low on cash, right?” I say, defeated.

She shrugs, looking a little embarrassed. “I spent what I had coming down here. I don’t get paid til next week.”

“Okay,” I sigh. “One drink. Then, if your brother still hasn’t shown up, I’ll get you a cab home. After which I’m definitely going to—”

“Go back to being a douchebag, I got it.” But her grin’s so wide now, I can’t even get mad that she’s teasing me again.

We enter the glass enclosure that houses a few couches and the bar. It’s nearly empty, everybody preferring to stand out on the roof and have their drinks delivered. I pull out a stool for her like a gentleman – and yeah, I can act like one when the situation requires it.

“Two beers please,” I call to the barman.

“And a couple of shots,” Jessie adds, without even looking at me for approval. I stifle a grin. She’s still a little troublemaker.

The drinks are in front of us within seconds. Jessie picks up her blue shot glass and raises it, waiting for me to do the same. She smiles, winks, clinks her glass against mine, and we down them.

“So how’s the talent agent-ing going? Taken advantage of many actors this month?”

I snort and take a long drink of my beer. “I don’t take advantage of actors.”

“Sure you don’t,” Jessie grins behind her beer bottle. “You just let them do all the work and then take a nice slice of what they make.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Right.” She rolls her eyes as she wraps her lips around the opening of her beer bottle to take a swig, a sight I have to force myself to look away from. “You’re totally not a leech at all.”

“Jesus,” I grin, taking her abuse with good humor. “You should know how it is, Jessie. You work in a costume department. You think actors can negotiate their own deals, set up meetings and networking opportunities, not to mention vet contracts and make career decisions? They can’t even dress themselves!”

Jessie laughs. “Truth,” she says, pointing out our empty shot glasses to the barman. “Maybe you’re not so bad after all.”

The bartender slams a couple more shots on the bar. We repeat the clink and drink again. “How about you?” I ask. “How’s the TV gig going?”

“Honestly? It’s a shitty job,” she says, suddenly sounding a bit empty.

“What do you mean? I thought you were living the dream.”

My tone is light, with no sarcasm in it, but still she pauses for a long time before answering. I don’t even notice the barman replace our empty shot glasses again.

“Well, when I left UCLA,” she says, peeling at the label of her beer bottle, “I thought I’d be working on period dramas, interesting TV shows, sci-fi projects…I don’t know. Something
creative
. And now I’m just stuck doing detective dramas. I mean, they’re great shows, steady gigs, but a police uniform is a police uniform. I feel like my job right now is to be as least creative as possible. Like a robot could be doing my job.”