Chapter 2

"Come on, Alexa. Push through, push through. That's it, get into your stride… focus." Andy, my coach, is getting frustrated. I can hear it in his voice. See it in my time. I'm off my game; my focus is distracted and I need to be in it. I need to go into the zone where nothing else matters except pushing my body to the limit.

"Okay. Let's call it for today," he adds with a sigh as I drop to the ground and try to catch my breath. My limbs are burning. My lungs are on fire. I couldn't get myself into that space where I could push past the pain and so every inch of my body seems to be screaming in protest.

Andy drops to a crouch next to me and grabs my ankle, raising my calf in an unusual gesture of kindness as he squeezes hard on my calf. I feel the sting of pain then instant relief in my muscle as his thumb works out the spasm. "You only have a few weeks, Alexa, until the 10k meet. And you know, I don't want to say this is it. It is never it if you are still focused, improving, dedicated. But you are not going to get many more chances like this." I watch as his beautiful dark brown skin glides over my tan shin so his fingers can work their magic.

He is attractive and reminds me of the actor Jamie Foxx a little bit. He's been my coach for nearly ten years and even though he was in his late thirties when I met him, he still could pass for late twenties; he seems to have not aged a day in all that time. Not like me; I've gone from the awkward teen, rebellious college kid, straight through to the person I am now. Which is probably a chaotic mix of all those things.

I manage to find my voice and gasp out an, "I know." Which I do. It isn't last chance saloon, but I need to make the big leagues now or I'll need to accept the fact that I'm too old and this is now my hobby, just a pastime, and I'll need to always have an alternative career. A proper job.

"Are you okay? You seem distracted?" he asks softly, glancing up at me with deep dark eyes.

I nod. "I am. I just, need to focus. You know."

He nods and switches legs. "You should hit the pool; you need to give your muscles a little break from pounding the pavement. Are you still doing the strength and conditioning programme in the gym religiously?"

"Conditioning and weights every other day," I confirm, and he smiles as he gives my calf a final squeeze before standing. He holds out his palm to give me a hand up, which I happily take.

"Good. You have it all there, Alexa. The talent, the drive, the speed, the fitness. I know you can hit the times you need to to make it big, you just need to pull it all together. I know that it has been a hard road for you and I tell my other clients about you, your determination- you are someone who has what it takes. It isn't about winning all the time; it is about perseverance and fucking hard work. That is what makes athletes, not the medals, the commitment. Don't forget that."

"Thanks, Andy," I say sincerely and he nods.

"I'll see you next week. Meanwhile, do your strength and conditioning programme, get some swimming in, and focus on what is ahead."

My weekend passed uneventfully and other than work, gym, swimming, and running I had nothing worthy to talk about. I took the bus out of the city and dropped my washing off at my Grandmamas and spent my one day off out running errands and chores before meeting up with some friends for a few drinks.

My job was always a source of interest to them. Especially as most had them had sold their soul to the devil and took on regular office jobs, which made each day as gray as the next but gave that all-important regular paycheck so they could afford their very own and private tiny loft space in the city.

I was seen as the wild one. The one who had never really grown up, and I got where the idea came from but it wasn't exactly true.

Mostly, I couldn't be less wild.

I could have gone into the world of insurance, taken an admin job, worked as a receptionist until I got a promotion to PA. But those kinds of jobs just didn't give me much flexibility when it came to my training. Whereas at the hotel, I could double up shifts, switch around, and take my time when I needed it to make it to track and field meets. Not that I made it to that many anymore, but that had always been the intention.

Plus, my hotel job was motivational too. I knew that by staying at the hotel job, it felt like it was just a side job. It felt like I hadn't given up on my dream of being an athlete, whereas the moment I took on the nine- to-five, mentally I would be admitting that I hadn't made it. That I wasn't good enough, and whilst that day was coming nearer and nearer at an alarming pace… I wasn't quite there yet.

So back to my friends. They lived for the details, wanted to know who was in staying at Luxe, who was hooking up with who, who was secretly gay, who was now T Total. I usually had no issues with telling them because I owed these people nothing and let's be honest, who were my friends going to tell. But I found myself biting my tongue when it came to Dahlia Dante. I didn't want to spill her secrets. I didn't want to talk about her. So, I passed it off as a quiet week and got back to hitting the tequilas.

I felt like shit the next day and the bus didn't help, but I knew my Grandmama's cooking would be just the thing I needed to make me feel alive again.

I know what you're thinking. At my age, I should be able to clean my own clothes and cook my own meals, and the truth is I could. But this was our thing, you know. Our routine. She wasn't so good on her feet and found it hard to come and see me race anymore, but this was her way of being present in my life, and I looked forward to it every single week. It was never a chore. Never an "Oh, now I have to go out of the city." It was my escape and my precious time with the person who loved me the most in the world.

"Hey, Grandmama," I sigh as I fall through the back door and collapse at the kitchen table.

"Hey, pumpkin. Your clothes are all done. I folded them and put them in the holdall in the room over there. How are you doing? Dinner will be done in a few minutes. Would you like a drink? Some tea? Water? Soda? I got the zero zero stuff you like."

I smile up at her. She is my father's mom. My parents had both died in tragic circumstances when I was young, before I could even remember them, and Grandmama and Grandpapa had brought me up. A lot of people gave me the pity eyes when I was growing up, but the truth is I didn't know anything different. And I was super lucky to have grandparents who loved me like that.

Money was an issue; both were on the cusp of retirement and in no way prepared to raise a child, and they kept the life insurance money to pay for my college, so we had all learned how to live with less. What I lacked in material things, though, was more than made up with love, attention, and affection. Most people I knew had issues growing up, parents that fucked them up or situations that changed them, became defining moments in their lives that shaped them into different people.

It would be easy to think I was the fucked up one, poor little orphan, Alexa, but that couldn't be further from the case.

My childhood was perfectly vanilla. There was no drama; I went to a nice school, had a couple of good friends, a loving home, and faux parents that adored me and did all they could for me. I never thought of the what if. What if there had been no accident. What if I had been raised by my own parents, because honestly, I grew up really happy so what would be the point in changing any of that.

My grandpapa passed away just after I graduated. I feel like he held on to see that, but in reality, old age was waiting in the wings, and whilst we all fought against it, it was just his time. My grandmama took comfort in the fact he would be with my dad. She saw it as almost a happy thing, finally back with his son who had been taken too soon.

I don't know if I believed in things like that really, but I was pleased the thought gave her some comfort and didn't break her. That the good positive thoughts meant she had a way of finding peace and an ability to carry on.

We chat and eat. I tell her about my track event next month and about drinks last night. She tells me the street gossip and about her plans for the week. It's normal and I leave with my holdall, a full stomach, and a smile on my face as I head back into the city for my shift.

Arriving at Luxe, I follow the same routine as I always do. I slide in behind the bar and eyeball the TV and I look pretty and smile nicely when required, but don't get much done. Guests come and go but overall it's quiet. Tuesdays are often a slow shift. I take my break, but still being full from lunch, I just sit out back and scroll on my phone as I watch the thirty minutes tick by before ambling back in to make my way through the rest of my shift.

As Robbie runs off, I notice that the previously empty end of my bar is now occupied by the very person I had hoped I would see again.

"Well, here she is," says the red-haired movie star with a grin as I make my way over. "I was hoping to get another of your delicious cocktails."

She sits delicately perched with her elbow on the polished bar counter and her chin perfectly rested against the palm of her hand. She isn't dressed up tonight, instead, she's in more comfortable clothes—a tee and some slacks—but even from over the bar I can see they cling to her figure in a way that makes them seem like a polished outfit in themselves.

"Yes, ma'am. The same? Or would you like to try something different?" I ask with a professional edge to my voice trying to cover any hint of unprofessionalism I may feel.

"Surprise me." She smiles and her voice rings with a light tinkle that makes my skin tingle. I take my time preparing her a pi?a colada. It is the best virgin cocktail, in my opinion, because it still has those bursts of flavors that you can enjoy without the burn of alcohol.

I place it lightly on the black and gold coaster and move away to give her space. I find her difficult to read as to whether she wants to interact with me or not. Everything about her invites me in, but her quick exit last week makes me cautious that she's probably only waiting for someone else or has other plans.

"This is absolutely delicious. Makes me glad I gave up the booze for the first time in forever." She doesn't raise her voice to combat the distance between us, which means I have to move back, closer to her to reply.

"It is my favorite too when I'm on a no-alcohol regime- which is often."

She raises her eyebrows questioningly. "You have no alcohol regimes but you work behind a bar?"

I laugh. "Yes. I actually rarely drink anyway; it messes with my fitness plans, but there are months when I have to go zero."

She nods. "You are a PT?"

"God no." I laugh then remember where I am. "I mean, it"s not my thing. I just like to run, that's all. It's all for me, I don't try and motivate others… far too much pressure." I laugh again. She smiles softly, her peachy lips curling a little at the sides, but her eyes are like chasms, endless pools that give nothing away.

"Aren't you going to ask what I do?" she says, leaning back in her chair whilst her fingers toy with her straw. Slowly stirring her drink. I stumble a little bit. I mean, I know exactly what she does, who she is. Everyone does. Should I pretend…

"I'm just fucking with you. Everyone knows who I am. I used to think that was a blessing. Now I am not so sure if it isn't some kind of curse …" her voice trails off and I don't say anything. "Anyway." She smiles, it is dazzling, and gives me a light but fake laugh. "I am here for a few weeks. I have some promos. Some evenings I have to go out and play nice, but others… I am at a loose end, so I'm sure I will be propping up your bar. In a totally respectful, southern kinda way."

It is my turn to smile at her. I fix her gaze with my own. "I would be honored to have you here propping."

The next night, I look for her again and feel the tingle straight between my thighs as I catch sight of her perched on her usual seat.

She looks beautiful in a simple black dress that would do nothing for most people, but on her… it looks a million dollars. It fits her to perfection and makes me instantly want to buy one even though I know for a fact it isn't the dress that makes her look so good; it was the other way around. Her body seems made to make clothes look good, every smooth curve of her seems perfectly drawn, and I bet designers adore her. Her proportions seem perfect to me. She is delicate and graceful, my eyes scan every part of her, wishing I could undress her. The way her breasts and ass are curved and full oozes femininity. Her wrists and hands are elegant and her fingers long, and I imagine them playing a piano. Or playing a woman's body; the thought of it assaults me suddenly, and of course, I'll volunteer mine. Her fingernails are neatly manicured and painted red. I can't take my eyes off her.

Of all those things, it isn't her body or her hands that catch my attention the most, it's her eyes. I have never seen eyes so clear and green, and the soft red sheen of her hair only brings out their sparkle more, lighting up her whole face. I can see why she is such a famous sex symbol, why men are so drawn to her, but the softness, the kindness in her smile, is what makes me like her too. She is the kind of woman that men want to fuck and women want to be friends with.

Unless you are me and you and want both.

I can tell by the slight smudges of her makeup and the stray curls that fall casually and sensually from her updo that she is not on her way out but rather returned from wherever she had been and as if she can read my thoughts …

"I just got back from a full afternoon of promos. You know, I don't think they care about the movie at all. They just keep me there to see if I will make a mistake and say something that will look good splashed across a front page," she says with a soft sigh as I approach and I feel bad for her.

"Drink?" I ask gently, and she snaps out of her thoughts.

"Oh hon, I am sorry. I hate to be one of those people … like, oh my life is so bad because I am famous. I'm lucky, I know I am lucky. Just some days, I feel the vultures circling. You know?"

I nod as I start to fix her a drink. I don't know, of course, but I can take a guess at how it would feel.

"I mean, I don't know anything different. This has been my life for as long as I can remember. But I do wonder what it would be like to just go to a grocery store without being recognized, or re-wear the same clothes without being photographed, maybe eat a burger in public … take a drink … go on a date…"

I finish her drink and place it in front of her, and she meets my eye as she continues, "… sleep with a stranger …" Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and I feel myself take a deep inhale.

I imagine the impure thoughts I'm having about her this second are written all over my face. How I would love to make her forget all that bullshit and just lose herself in me. In a moment of pleasure. She is clearly so used to being in control of all her actions… I wonder if she would enjoy being directed, guided, told what to do. If she would obey.

I watch her skin flush across her chest, her pupils dilate a fraction as she leans in closer and I smell the sweetness of her perfume mixed with the scent of her, knowing she can smell me too. I feel her breathing me in too. My head spins faster and I feel intoxicated.

"Bourbon on the rocks. Room 586," a man calls. His voice is close but the words sounded distant. I want to ignore him, to focus on Dahlia, but I can't. The moment is broken, but it happened and we both felt it.

Over the next few nights, Dahlia did prop up my bar. Each night when I returned from my break, she was there on the end waiting for me in her slacks and tee with her red hair swept up into a messy bun. She never gave anything away though she was there for hours. Sometimes she was content in the silence. I felt her eyes on me, watching me work. I saw her watching other guests and making polite small talk with the men who tried to approach her. But, she didn't look at them the way she looks at me.

Other times, she talked and talked. It was hard to get anything done around her. Her soft southern drawl kept me enraptured. I am not someone who says that much anyway but that didn't faze Dahlia in the slightest; she was happy to be the one to keep the conversation going.

But I noticed how guarded she was. She told me things but they were never personal, never about her or her life. Always her opinions on things, a view from afar, but nothing that felt real. I couldn't put my finger on it but for how open Dahlia was… all I could feel was an impenetrable wall.

She isn't gay—but then again I'm not totally sure that is how I'd define myself—but there is a spark between us. I feel it whenever I see her. At first, I assumed it was one sided. Coming from only my desires and my want to touch her, feel her, taste her. Of course I do. Probably everyone does. Because of how she looks. Because of who she is. Because of the sensuality she exudes.

But I caught the way she looked at me once when I was working, I felt her gaze skim over my body, her eyes were glazed with lust, and I was sure then that she felt an attraction to me too.

The intensity for me has only built. My total intrigue into her grew with each passing moment and I now find myself obsessed with the details of our conversations. I can't stop thinking about all the things she said and more so all the things she didn't say.

With men, they are rarely shy in an invitation to their rooms. In fact, they seem to think that this is my first rodeo and I have never had a guy casually offer me a key card as he leans over and whispers the room number. (It happens all the time.) I smile and do my best to act surprised. I sometimes wonder if they wait for me in their room or if they know by my eyes when I take the card that I never had any intention at all of actually meeting them.

With women, the dance is different, and for all of her confidence and show, I felt like Dahlia was secretly hiding her low self-esteem, and I wondered if that would stop her from ever asking me to spend time with her privately. I wasn't shy; I was confident in my body and who I was, but I didn't want to cross a line with a hotel guest. Especially when she was so high profile. However, as the week sped by and I knew time was ticking for her leaving, I decided to bite the bullet.

"You know I can't make you a cocktail tomorrow night," I say the following Sunday as I serve her up a mojito.

She looks at me in mock shock. "You mean you are leaving? Running away? Gone and never to be seen again? Ooooh, this is good," she adds with a satisfied moan as she takes a deep sip of her drink.

I appreciate the satisfied moan and it makes me imagine other things.

I laugh. "No, it's my day off," I reply as I feel the slightest of flush to my cheeks at her gasp of pleasure. She leans in a little closer with a playful grin.

"Yeah, I figured they might let you take, you know, one night off a week."

I nod and then lean in a little closer. "I do get the night off, and I don't have plans. So, if you want a cocktail, I can still make you one. If you wanted."

Dahlia is an actress; if she has any surprise at my offer, she doesn't let a flicker of it show. She acts as though my proposition is exactly as she expected and responds in the same way as if I had asked her about the weather.

"I have a nice bar in my room I am sure we could make use of. Why don't you come up tonight and see if we need to get it stocked with anything special in preparation?"

I nod with a smile and continue with what I was doing, but my mind is in overdrive. I haven't shaved, I certainly am not wearing my best underwear, and I really would have preferred to have taken a shower before… Oh, what am I thinking? Making drinks, flirting, and perhaps making out doesn't mean we have to do anything more. Just because I want that to happen doesn't mean it has to be tonight. There is time.

The good thing about us both being women is that whilst platonic friendships with guests are not encouraged it is definitely less frowned upon than fucking the guests. It is much easier to sell a ‘friendship' between two females as purely platonic. That means when I take the elevator up after my shift to Dahlia's penthouse suite, I am much bolder and obvious with what I am doing, because I feel like if I am more brazen with our friendship it would seem less suspicious.

Dahlia left the bar a couple of hours earlier so it is just me. I'm still in my work skirt, but I pull on a sweater over my blouse so I look a little less like staff and a little more casual. I only tap twice on the door before it swings open and Dahlia greets me with a coy smile. Her eyes meet mine and the look we share is loaded.

"Come in, quick. I don't want to get my favorite cocktail connoisseur sacked."

"Oh, it's okay, we are allowed to be friends with the guests as long as we respect the boundaries."

She's wearing the same clothes as earlier, but she has touched up her makeup and let her hair down. It is so long, it cascades in thick red curls over her shoulders and down her back. I almost reach to touch it, wanting to feel the softness in my palm as I wrap her locks around my hand.

"Is that what you want to do, Alexa? Respect the boundaries?"

She asks me casually as she perches at her private bar. She is staying in the largest suite I have seen in the hotel. It's like an apartment, the social area being nearly the size of my entire apartment. Everything is expensive, the finishing oozing in class and elegance.

"I don't particularly care for hotel boundaries. I am much more interested in what yours are."

Her eyebrow raises an inch but she doesn't comment, instead, she moves, making her way around the bar.

"How about a little roleplay? You can sit pretty on the stool and I will make you a drink. Alcohol or virgin?"

I sit on the stool and watch her as she slides behind, her fingers already reaching for a glass as her eyes scan the bottles weighing up her options.

"Either. It's my day off tomorrow, I can have one. Or, I can stick with no alcohol if you prefer." I'm surprised to see the spirits lined up. For many alcoholics, it would be a trigger but she seems unfazed. She must have read the confusion as I take in the bottles.

"Oh, I'm not an alcoholic. It's just something my manager tells people in case he ever needs to explain away a situation. God forbid I break the rules sober. Much better if I did it while intoxicated. Then he can whisk me away to some spa under the ruse of rehab until the whole thing blows over. I haven't had an alcoholic beverage in public in six years, but I keep my own bar well stocked for occasions such as these."

She begins to make us a cocktail and I watch her with interest. She has a flair, a casualness to knowing exactly how she likes it and has no need to deviate from that method. Her nails are short but perfectly painted, which I like. Many women opt for long nails these days, and whilst they look chic, they are hazardous. Particularly for fucking women, which is where I want this to go. I want her fingers inside me, and short neat nails are reassuring that she might know what she's doing with her elegant fingers.

I don't follow what she is adding to the drinks. I just watch her move, seeing how her wrists turn inwards as she twists the shaker. Her fingers point on the metal tongs as she takes ice from the bucket and adds it to the glasses. She is mesmerizing and I am enthralled. I can smell her, dusky roses and sweet cinnamon tones that would taste like Christmas on my tongue. I want her.

"Here." She smiles as she hands me the glass, and I'm oh so careful to make sure we don't touch, keeping my fingers steady as I accept the drink and take a deep sip. It's nice, too sweet for me really, but drinkable, and I would have put a good bet on the fact that if you had more than three you wouldn't be walking home in a straight line.

I settle it back on the bar, glancing up to watch Dahlia drain her glass and place the empty one beside mine. She seems nervous, there is an edge to her usual confidence. I guess she is taking a huge risk having me here. I could be anyone. I could sell her out to the press and even though I know myself and know I wouldn't, she doesn't know that. It's as if she read my thoughts.

"I want to let my guard down with you, Alexa, but I have learned that trust should not be given easily and even though you may say right now the things I want to hear… inevitably those feelings can change like a turn of the tides and I leave myself open to being vulnerable. A place I can't afford to be. I think that we both know I desire you. As you desire me, but before I can act on those feelings, I need to protect myself and my reputation. Do you understand?"

I am receiving a speech. I can tell by her tone, the words do not flow naturally but instead are thought out, rehearsed, and recited from memory. I wonder how many have heard them. How many have done what I am about to do? I suppose that this is the risk when you want to experiment as a famous person, and it is the draw for someone like me, to fall into a secretive high profile luxury world with a celebrity.

I look up and meet Dahlia's deep green eyes. I hold her gaze, reading the messages I choose to see rather than the ones she's actually giving me.

The truth is, I want her and I am willing to play by her rules to have her.

"Yes. I understand."