Part 22 - Goldi : Reaching for the Star
I’d gone to the shelter to find Red, and I’d come away in a swanky ride, long luxurious lines and plush seats. The dulcet tones of deep caramel dripped from his bottle, falling into my waiting mouth, the warmth of it spreading through my body to combat his icy stare.
I’d stared through the windows, watching haggard women move between the huddled figures, passing out food and drinks, blankets. The looks between them and their charges, hands pressing together, quiet nods and tepid smiles. A word or two and then they moved on. This was Red. I could see it in their tenderness, feel her touch in their connection, just as I’d felt it in ours. How she’d touched me the first day she’d seen me, the first day I’d stepped into the 63rd Street Shelter.
What sat across from me in the stretch was nothing like her. He loomed like a shard of glass ready to fall. I touched my throat, the phantom edge tracing a line across my skin as I swallowed down the smooth elixir and held the glass out for another. Warm leather enveloped us, dulcet tones flowing from the speakers, the bourbon from a crystal decanter that would soon flow through my veins like the deep red of her blood.
A starlet. It’s all I’d wanted to be. Taste the good life. Rub elbows with mooks, just not the mooks from Smiley’s festering follies. Mooks with money and means.
I’d fallen into the shelter like a drowned cat, the few items of clothing I had left and one bag clutched under my arm. The others had gone by the wayside through hook or crook as I’d made my way cross country, sucking off mooks for miles, shacking up with loners and the lonely, offering the most tender bits of myself for the chance to follow my star.
Red was the first thing I saw, all beauty and wonder, like a fairy tale princess. She glowed when she smiled, floated across the floor to me, and pulled me in close as if we were long lost kin.
I’d melted into her then, fell into her later, drowned in her embrace, the warm crooks of her body, the way her sighs melted away any resistance, the way my dreams melted with them. I dreamt of her that first night, the hard cot and scratch of the wool like a sleeping in a cloud. I’d kissed her a week later, rash but necessary, the scent of coffee on her breath drawing me in. I fucked her that first night in her little place, our place, where my dreams would go to die.
She was leaving, and my star was nowhere to be seen. Or it was at Smiley’s on that wooden stage, the tips of my heels sticking between the creaky boards, a thousand hungry eyes crying for a glimpse of cunt. I was here for stardom, to sing my way onto the grandest stages, to float on clouds of cushions, bathe in bubbly, and she was leaving.
A dribble of bourbon slipped down my chin and splashed across my tits. I wiped it away with a finger and slipped it into my mouth, my eyes locked on the ice king across from me.
He didn’t move, didn’t smile, didn’t say a word. He was a statue, this whoever. Just another mook. A rich one who loves to wine and dine. I’d seen them before, their eyes wandering, lusting, the way they undressed you and fucked you and threw you away with the merest of glances. Just another body on a pile of bodies, the forgotten, the worthless, the ones who didn’t make it. His gaze hadn’t left me since we’d gotten into his luxury ride.
I knew what he was thinking, but I was steps ahead. It’s the only way to survive.
City lights flashed by, big neon shining down into the darkness between us. A glimpse of his eyes. Cold hard steel reflecting soft curves, golden curls, a sultry, silly laugh that poured out of my mouth when the bourbon splashed across my lips, dripping down down the front of my dress. “Oops!” A giggle, a guffaw, an uncontrollable outburst as I tried to laugh and drink, losing more of the elixir to my tits, it’s cool embrace hardening my nipples.
“Sorry about your seat, mister,” I said, trying to sound apologetic, gripping the glass with everything I had to keep from wasting what was left. Fuck his seat. Fuck him. Fuck everyone.
“Your dress.” The ice king spoke.
“It’s nothing,” I said, another giggle because it was true, because it was nothing, because I was nothing, and he didn’t know.
“Take it off.”
Blue light streaked through the window, a flash of his face highlighted against the darkness. His tongue darted out and licked his thin lips. I felt my pussy clench, and suddenly I wondered if he would use that tongue on me.
Make me cum. It’s what he wanted. It’s what they all wanted. Suck my cock. Spread your legs. On your back, whore. Eventually it’s what they all wanted. But it was the path to my star. Find someone to open that door, to pave the way. So many gatekeepers. So many gates. I just needed to find that one mook who would give me what I wanted. And all I needed to do was give them everything they wanted and what I deserved, earned, strive and suffered and burned for would appear.
A golden lame dress. Bright lights. Flashy heels. The limo pulls up to the red carpet. Cameras flash as the doors open. Premiere night. The first big concert. Rabid fans line the walkway. White carnations underfoot. A reporter. A cameraman. A smile, a glance, a wave. The doors open and the world stands in awe. The starlet ascends the stage, and the star is born.
I held the glass high, careful not to spill the last drops as I shimmied out of the dress, pushed it aside with my foot, my eyes never leaving his. The truck rocked gently, the weight shifting through a turn as the street lights panned through the darkness between us. I spread my legs to steady myself. A test more than anything. Was he a mook?
A shift of his eyes. Sudden change in his face when he glanced down, drinking in my cunt. And then his eyes were locked into mine again. The mook had no idea.
“Do you dance?”
I nodded, pressed the glass to my lip and took a final swallow. “For you, I do,” I said and poured the last of the nectar over my tits, felt it wash down my belly and over my clit. “For you, anything is possible.”
