I’m not sure how he manipulates people so well, but he does. It’s a gift, I guess.
Hanging up, I look at myself in the mirror, making sure my disguise for today is in tip-top shape. I’m not famous, but my face is known enough that I want to be sure I’m not recognized. My blonde hair is tied up under a dark brunette wig that falls down in perfect mermaid waves, my usually slightly made-up face is fully done like I’m some YouTube makeup tutorial, and I’m dressed in casual clothes that scream money in quality, not flash. I’ve got on the one pair of designer jeans I own, a perfectly slouchy tee, and a fluffy soft hand-knit cardigan.
With the addition of my huge sunglasses and heeled booties, I’m off . . . looking just like one of the other millions of twentysomethings, out for coffee and to run errands. Which is exactly what I need, nondescript from the masses.
It’s nowhere near my normal look, but that’s what makes it a great disguise. Glancing at my watch, I realize I’ll need to take a cab if I’m making my first observation point on time. At least I can turn the receipt in for reimbursement because taking cabs all over the city is definitely above my pay bracket.
I hope Donnie isn’t going to be a prick on the expense report this time.
After a quick ride, I order a coffee and a blueberry muffin before sitting down at what’s become my table over the last week, taking out a notebook full of scribbled notes. To an interested observer, I’m working on a movie, or maybe a TV show, or something similarly vapid. I assume an aura of ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ and pretend to work, which makes a great cover because I am actually working, just not on what it seems.
Keeping my head still behind the shades, my eyes move left and right, not missing a thing. From the obviously morning-after coffee date, to the mom juggling two kids while bribing them with muffins that look just like mine and will put those two into sugar overload in ten minutes, to the old man reading the paper. I’ve worked long and hard on these skills. They’re more vital to my career than the ability to type quickly.
It’s not long before my target appears. Keith Perkins, the country music star who’s topping charts and winning awards left and right. He walks in to order his morning cup o’joe. He’s not really in disguise, just wearing jeans and a t-shirt, but the missing cowboy hat and tennis shoes instead of boots seem to be all the disguise he needs to go about unrecognized in this town. Then again, this isn’t a big country town. I bet he couldn’t pull this off in Nashville without getting mobbed.
He tells the barista his name is Kevin instead of Keith, but I don’t think she even looks up. In fact, I know she doesn’t look at him, because if she did, she’d be drooling like I’ve been for the last five days since I started my assignment.
There’s something about the way he moves, like coiled power waiting to spring into action, that makes me hum with anticipation. Combine that with a build that’s tall and wide-shouldered, with powerfully built arms and a tightly muscled waist that’s so narrow that he can’t wear normal jeans without squeezing his thighs and leaving his waist baggy . . . the man’s walking sex on a stick. He’s infused with energy in such a way that you can’t help but wonder what he could to with it.
Or what he could do to me with it.
I shake my head, a small smile tilting up one corner of my mouth. As if. That’s never gonna happen. I’m not the sort who gets wooed and swept off her feet by handsome stars who then proceed to wine and dine me before making my toes curl. No. With my job, I have a better chance of my name ending up pinned on a voodoo doll than my body being pinned to a bed.
My job is to follow Keith and watch that fine ass and dimpled smile as much as possible to find out his secrets. Once those secrets are in hand, I’ll write a damn good story for the online gossip rag I work for. It’s not my dream gig. Hell, I’ve hated it at times, but it’s interesting and pays the bills. I wanted to be a real investigative reporter. I wanted to follow in the steps of Woodward and Bernstein, exposing the back-alley machinations and dirty laundry of those who really deserve it. Those in power who are trying to fuck the average Joe.
Too bad most of the reporters on that gig are just as dirty as the assholes they’re covering. So I get to watch and report on celebs. But it pays the bills, so here I am lusting after the mark I’m following in preparation to expose all of his dirty laundry to readers who circle like vultures. Sometimes, I feel sorry for people like Keith. He’s not into drugs or acting like a jackass, and I’ve even listened to his music. It’s music to make you feel good. And make my panties wet, but that’s his voice. He could read his grocery list and I’d be all ears.
Knowing his routine, I start to gather my things, ready to follow out a few seconds behind him. As he walks out the door, questions run through my head, mental preparation for what’s coming. Where are we going today, Keith? The recording studio? Maybe the quiet spot at the gastropub you like to write at that has those bacon cheeseburgers that I have no idea how you eat and still have a six-pack? No jelly there. Or maybe just some errands? I could really use some errands so I have more to complete your picture.
He doesn’t answer, of course, but I carry on the conversation with myself as if he does. Sounds good, I can learn more that way. Maybe after your errands, you can take me home and fuck me stupid? Make that tight ass of yours good for something . . . pounding into my needy pussy. How’s that for a plan, Keith?
God, I need a man.
It’s been months since my last boyfriend, the bastard. While I’m known for being a spontaneous, up for anything kinda girl, I don’t sleep around and have pretty discerning taste. Which, of course, is how I find myself fantasizing about Keith’s ass as he walks down the street, sort of looking down as he walks, maybe to hide his face from the public or maybe because he’s got his own internal dialogue going. It’s too much to hope he’s thinking about the sexy brunette in designer jeans and sunglasses he saw in the corner of the coffee shop and how he’d like to take her home and make all her dreams come true, but fuck it, I’m allowed to fill in the blanks here.
He pauses in front of a store and looks back, so I step over to a potted plant in front of a store as cover, jostling the sidewalk traffic flow as a younger guy on rollerblades yells at me, “Watch it, bitch!”
I scowl, not wanting the attention, and quickly bury my face in my phone but sneak looks out the side of my sunglasses as I catch my breath.
Focus, Elise. Get your brain out of the gutter and do your fucking job!
Suitably chastised by my own more responsible half, I continue on, following Keith into . . . a grocery store?
Wouldn’t have expected Mr. Fancy Country Singer to be buying his own food. With online delivery and personal assistants running rampant around this town, I just never imagined him buying his own jars of basil pesto. Still, the fact that he does is cute, sweet, and maybe even a bit humble. I like this down-to-earth potential tilt to my story, so I sneak a few pics of him pushing his cart around the store, an old-fashioned piece of paper in his hand as he goes over his grocery list.
Following at a distance, I grab a few things totally at random as cover while I try to scope out what he’s buying to see if there’s anything interesting that’ll tell me his secrets.