Read Online Finding It by Leah Marie Brown - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Leah Marie Brown
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stop this.”
“I wish you would have told me that before I opted for this mini-dress!” I joke, giving my dress a little shimmy and shake. “I don’t wish to imprison you with my sequins.”
“I surrender.” Bishop presses his wrists together. “Perhaps a sequins-encrusted prison is just the fing.”
A cocktail waitress bearing a glass of iced water with a twist of lime appears, pasties pointing. She squats gracefully and hands Bishop the iced water.
“Fank you,” Bishop says.
“You’re welcome, Mister Raine.” She arches her back until her pasties nearly poke Bishop in the eye. “Can I bring you anything else?”
The implication is as clear as the glass of iced water. Forget the lime twisted water; I’m the tall glass of something you’re looking for, Mister Funny Man. My cheeks flame with heat and I look away, pretending the action on the dance floor is suddenly all-absorbing.
“Does it bother you?” I ask, after the waitress leaves.
“Wha’?” Bishop’s eyes are wide with feigned incomprehension. “The notion of being imprisoned within your sequined dress? Not a’tall.”
Poppy and her posse laugh. Bishop laughs, but shards of pain glint behind his sparkling eyes.
The bobbleheads roll their eyes at me and change the subject by asking Poppy a question about Délais. While Poppy and the bobblehead bitches chat, the rest of the posse hit the dance floor.
Bishop looks back at me, piercing me with his laser gaze. “Does wha’ bother me?”
“That people work so hard to grasp something that is not real.”
“Wha’? Are you saying I am not real?”
“No,” I say, suddenly sober and sad. “You are real, but your rock star, sex machine, celebrity persona is not.”
“Wha’? Are you saying I am not a sex machine?”
He focuses a two-thousand-watt grin on me, and the champagne-induced warmth spreads from my cheeks to my thighs. His flirtatious manner and approachable sex appeal really discombobulate.
Just when I think he’s not going to answer me, Bishop launches into a rapid-fire monologue, blitzing me with a barrage of archaic words and revolutionary notions on the vacuous world of celebritydom.
“The phenomenon of celebrity exists to fill a void created by an appalling lack of morals. A pantheon of over-valued, over-paid, over-worshiped celebrities exists because the populace craves fame. They crave fame because they feel lost in the monotony and pointlessness of their existence. They feel lost because the world feels vast and empty. Fame, their brushes with fame, makes them forget we are essentially alone, moving through the universe without purpose or aim. Someone meets a celebrity, a celestial body who has been lifted far above their tiny world, and for a moment, they feel a flicker of purpose, passion, and connectivity.”
He pauses, takes a sip of water, and fixes me with a probing, questioning stare.
“Yes,” I say, fixing him with an equally probing stare. “But how does the vacuousness of celebritydom make you feel? How do you feel when a desperate being moves into your orbit just so they can feel less alone?”
“Are you interviewing me? Is this for public consumption or merely your own edification?”
Holy Sheisterburger! Bishop Raine just called me out.
“I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t give my right breast to land an interview with you, but that’s not what this is about. I’m genuinely interested in your answer. Me,” I say, pressing my hand to my heart. “Vivia Grant the woman, not Vivia Grant the writer.”
“Sacrificing your right breast in the pursuit of knowledge is a trifle extreme, luv,” Bishop says, grinning again. “How would you like to make a bargain?”
“A bargain?”
“A barter, trade, swap, quid pro quo…”
“Yes,” I say, laughing. “I know what a bargain is. What did you have in mind?”
He leans in close and his whiskered lips brush against my ear. “Here’s the fing. I will answer your question and grant you
“I wish you would have told me that before I opted for this mini-dress!” I joke, giving my dress a little shimmy and shake. “I don’t wish to imprison you with my sequins.”
“I surrender.” Bishop presses his wrists together. “Perhaps a sequins-encrusted prison is just the fing.”
A cocktail waitress bearing a glass of iced water with a twist of lime appears, pasties pointing. She squats gracefully and hands Bishop the iced water.
“Fank you,” Bishop says.
“You’re welcome, Mister Raine.” She arches her back until her pasties nearly poke Bishop in the eye. “Can I bring you anything else?”
The implication is as clear as the glass of iced water. Forget the lime twisted water; I’m the tall glass of something you’re looking for, Mister Funny Man. My cheeks flame with heat and I look away, pretending the action on the dance floor is suddenly all-absorbing.
“Does it bother you?” I ask, after the waitress leaves.
“Wha’?” Bishop’s eyes are wide with feigned incomprehension. “The notion of being imprisoned within your sequined dress? Not a’tall.”
Poppy and her posse laugh. Bishop laughs, but shards of pain glint behind his sparkling eyes.
The bobbleheads roll their eyes at me and change the subject by asking Poppy a question about Délais. While Poppy and the bobblehead bitches chat, the rest of the posse hit the dance floor.
Bishop looks back at me, piercing me with his laser gaze. “Does wha’ bother me?”
“That people work so hard to grasp something that is not real.”
“Wha’? Are you saying I am not real?”
“No,” I say, suddenly sober and sad. “You are real, but your rock star, sex machine, celebrity persona is not.”
“Wha’? Are you saying I am not a sex machine?”
He focuses a two-thousand-watt grin on me, and the champagne-induced warmth spreads from my cheeks to my thighs. His flirtatious manner and approachable sex appeal really discombobulate.
Just when I think he’s not going to answer me, Bishop launches into a rapid-fire monologue, blitzing me with a barrage of archaic words and revolutionary notions on the vacuous world of celebritydom.
“The phenomenon of celebrity exists to fill a void created by an appalling lack of morals. A pantheon of over-valued, over-paid, over-worshiped celebrities exists because the populace craves fame. They crave fame because they feel lost in the monotony and pointlessness of their existence. They feel lost because the world feels vast and empty. Fame, their brushes with fame, makes them forget we are essentially alone, moving through the universe without purpose or aim. Someone meets a celebrity, a celestial body who has been lifted far above their tiny world, and for a moment, they feel a flicker of purpose, passion, and connectivity.”
He pauses, takes a sip of water, and fixes me with a probing, questioning stare.
“Yes,” I say, fixing him with an equally probing stare. “But how does the vacuousness of celebritydom make you feel? How do you feel when a desperate being moves into your orbit just so they can feel less alone?”
“Are you interviewing me? Is this for public consumption or merely your own edification?”
Holy Sheisterburger! Bishop Raine just called me out.
“I would be lying if I said I wouldn’t give my right breast to land an interview with you, but that’s not what this is about. I’m genuinely interested in your answer. Me,” I say, pressing my hand to my heart. “Vivia Grant the woman, not Vivia Grant the writer.”
“Sacrificing your right breast in the pursuit of knowledge is a trifle extreme, luv,” Bishop says, grinning again. “How would you like to make a bargain?”
“A bargain?”
“A barter, trade, swap, quid pro quo…”
“Yes,” I say, laughing. “I know what a bargain is. What did you have in mind?”
He leans in close and his whiskered lips brush against my ear. “Here’s the fing. I will answer your question and grant you
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