Until then, I’m here to surf my ass off—and apparently stalk cute blonde artists.
Every day, at least for the last seven days, at just a little after five p.m., Rock Girl walks along the beach, passing by my house, with a bag on her shoulder, usually wearing a pair of ass-hugging jean shorts and a red tank, which shows off her perfectly formed tits. They’re not too big or too small, just the right size to fit my hands, I imagine. And from what I’ve seen, they look to be real—meaning, when I watch her climbing up the rock, they jiggle about.
I can’t remember the last time I saw a hot girl with a real pair of tits, not in the silicone world I’ve been raised in. Everything in my world is fake, even the people, especially the people.
On Rock Girl’s shirt is a logo, covering the left breast, that I can’t quite make out. And trust me, I’ve tried. I’ve nearly gone blind, staring at that fucker, trying to work it out—not that staring at her tits is exactly a hardship.
I’m assuming her clothing is her work outfit. Either that, or she has a really limited wardrobe, not that I’m complaining because her body looks smoking hot in those threads.
She keeps her long blonde hair, which I would really like to get my hands all tangled up in, tied back into a ponytail.
When she reaches the top of the rock, she sits down and pulls a sketchpad and pencil out of her bag. Then, she spends the next hour drawing. At just a little after six, she packs her things back into her bag, climbs down the rock, and leaves the way she came.
And I watch her.
Every day.
It’s not creepy at all.
Okay, maybe it’s a little creepy.
But I just can’t help myself. There’s something about her, something that has captured my attention in a way no one ever has before. And it isn’t just her sexy tan legs, great rack, or tight ass—even though those are amazing.
There’s just something…captivating about her.
I don’t know if it’s the way she seems to put all of herself into her art the moment she presses that pencil to the paper or the way she looks so totally free while sitting up on that rock with the wind blowing through her hair, like nothing or no one can touch her.
For that hour, she’s free.
But when she steps down off that rock, I can see a heaviness falling down on her, like a cloud of responsibility.
And I know what that feels like.
When I’m out on my board, riding the waves, nothing can touch me.
But the minute I’m back on shore, that momentary freedom I felt is gone.
Sure, I have freedom in the sense that my parents haven’t given a fuck about me since the second I was born. So long as I don’t bring disrepute to the Gunner name, tarnishing their smoke-and-mirrors lifestyle, then I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want.
But there has always been an expectation of me.
I’m the heir to Gunner Entertainment, the oldest and largest movie studio in Hollywood.
After this year off—that my parents graciously granted me after I’d threatened to do some seriously crazy stuff if they didn’t give it to me—I’m expected to go to Harvard and graduate with honors. Then, I’m to take my place at my father’s side until the day I take over and become the King of Hollywood.
Sounds like a dream to most. To me, it’s a fucking nightmare.
I despise everything about it and what it represents.
The glitz and glamour cover the lies and deceit. My world is filled with frauds, each one with a dirty little secret to hide.
Soon, I have to become one of them, and when I do, I fear that I’ll turn into someone I’ve never wanted to become—my father…or worse, my mother. She’s a fame-hungry, soul-sucking bitch who cares about no one, except for herself.
I paint a nice picture, right?
Well, call me a cynic, but growing up with the parents I have, you’d be one, too.
I don’t want any part of the life they’re forcing me to have.