I've been out here on the beach, the sun begins to rise. I start to get this prickling sensation all over my body, the someone-is-watching-me feeling. I look over my shoulder and see Tyson sitting at a table on Blu's patio. The bar is closed and all is quiet on the beach, for now. With the sunrise will come guests to enjoy the beach, so I get up and walk toward him. As I get closer I realize that his back is to me, and I still have that feeling like someone's watching me.
My eyes instinctively scan the beach and the area surrounding the hotel. I don't see anyone or anything that is out of the ordinary. I look up at the hotel. It's beautiful in the fading moonlight. Almost white, though it was more of an orange stucco in the daylight. As my eyes scan the west-facing side of the hotel, they skip past the lower levels and shoot toward the top.
In the middle of the building, a floor below my own, there is a faint light and the silhouette of a person. A woman. A breeze kicks up and I see her hair flare out off her shoulder. Through the pale backlight I catch a hint of blue.
"Cami."
PART EIGHT
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Busted," I mutter to no one in particular. For the last fifteen minutes, at least, I've been out here watching Tristan from my balcony. His dragon's wings brilliant against his pale skin. His shoulders tight, head bowed, and his entire upper body hunched forward. His head on his knees. I sit like that sometimes when I'm deep in thought or worried about something. He'd been in that position when I'd gone to bed two hours ago.
He looks up at me a second time, and in the light coming off of the deck I can see he's smiling. I wave, and he waves back. Then he just stands there staring up at me.
"I wonder if he can see that I’m standing here in my birthday suit," I muse out loud. If he can see me, then he'll see I'm blushing at the thought; thinking about Tristan seeing me naked has the warm, ever-present wetness growing hotter between my legs.
After what seems like half a century, he breaks off his staring and looks sharply down toward the bar's deck, like someone’s called his name. I can see that he's talking to someone, but I can't see who it is.
I gradually back up toward the door, slipping further into the shadows. All while keeping my eyes on Tristan.
After a very long, hot shower, I towel off and put on a t-shirt and the pair of boxer shorts I love to roam around the house in. While I work the brush through my hair, I pick up the phone and order room service for breakfast.
I'd hoped that something good would come of last night, but the reality has taken me completely by surprise. Tristan Michaels is staying in the same hotel as me. He bought me a drink. He talked with me on the beach.
What in the world was with the magnetism of the evening? I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It took everything I had not to turn around and go back to him. I was desperate for his voice, for more conversation, and I'm hoping that we will see each other again tonight. I can't get a grip on the desperation I feel to be near him, for reasons I can't even begin to imagine. All I know is that all night I wanted to be down on the beach sitting with him.
While I wait for room service I decide to pick up my iPad and head for the sitting room. The overstuffed, oversized chair that could probably put me to sleep if I sit still long enough is calling my name. With the iPad in hand, I sit and stretch my legs out to the table and pull up Safari and Google. I enter two words into the search line: Tristan Michaels.
Ten minutes later I realize I've been staring at various images of Tristan. There is a beautiful combination of posed and candid paparazzi shots. The ones of Tristan on the red carpet at various premieres and award shows are stunning. It appears that he doesn't even have a bad side to be photographed.
What I find to be oddly painful are the images of him with Layla Brook.
My eyes instinctively scan the beach and the area surrounding the hotel. I don't see anyone or anything that is out of the ordinary. I look up at the hotel. It's beautiful in the fading moonlight. Almost white, though it was more of an orange stucco in the daylight. As my eyes scan the west-facing side of the hotel, they skip past the lower levels and shoot toward the top.
In the middle of the building, a floor below my own, there is a faint light and the silhouette of a person. A woman. A breeze kicks up and I see her hair flare out off her shoulder. Through the pale backlight I catch a hint of blue.
"Cami."
PART EIGHT
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
"Busted," I mutter to no one in particular. For the last fifteen minutes, at least, I've been out here watching Tristan from my balcony. His dragon's wings brilliant against his pale skin. His shoulders tight, head bowed, and his entire upper body hunched forward. His head on his knees. I sit like that sometimes when I'm deep in thought or worried about something. He'd been in that position when I'd gone to bed two hours ago.
He looks up at me a second time, and in the light coming off of the deck I can see he's smiling. I wave, and he waves back. Then he just stands there staring up at me.
"I wonder if he can see that I’m standing here in my birthday suit," I muse out loud. If he can see me, then he'll see I'm blushing at the thought; thinking about Tristan seeing me naked has the warm, ever-present wetness growing hotter between my legs.
After what seems like half a century, he breaks off his staring and looks sharply down toward the bar's deck, like someone’s called his name. I can see that he's talking to someone, but I can't see who it is.
I gradually back up toward the door, slipping further into the shadows. All while keeping my eyes on Tristan.
After a very long, hot shower, I towel off and put on a t-shirt and the pair of boxer shorts I love to roam around the house in. While I work the brush through my hair, I pick up the phone and order room service for breakfast.
I'd hoped that something good would come of last night, but the reality has taken me completely by surprise. Tristan Michaels is staying in the same hotel as me. He bought me a drink. He talked with me on the beach.
What in the world was with the magnetism of the evening? I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. It took everything I had not to turn around and go back to him. I was desperate for his voice, for more conversation, and I'm hoping that we will see each other again tonight. I can't get a grip on the desperation I feel to be near him, for reasons I can't even begin to imagine. All I know is that all night I wanted to be down on the beach sitting with him.
While I wait for room service I decide to pick up my iPad and head for the sitting room. The overstuffed, oversized chair that could probably put me to sleep if I sit still long enough is calling my name. With the iPad in hand, I sit and stretch my legs out to the table and pull up Safari and Google. I enter two words into the search line: Tristan Michaels.
Ten minutes later I realize I've been staring at various images of Tristan. There is a beautiful combination of posed and candid paparazzi shots. The ones of Tristan on the red carpet at various premieres and award shows are stunning. It appears that he doesn't even have a bad side to be photographed.
What I find to be oddly painful are the images of him with Layla Brook.
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