The Full Ride

Pink Cowboy Hat-1

Pink Cowboy Hat

It’s true I borrowed Pete’s Mazda without asking, but it was his fault for leaving me with a set of keys. I did call him from the road to let him know I had it because that’s me. Always thoughtful.

“What possessed you to leave for Manhattan during midterms?” His tone was unamused. I almost snorted. Since when did Pete care about school?

The answer to his question was male model Marc Patrick, the hottest, handsomest man on Earth, but why tell my ex that? “I’ve had enough of Handenburg Tech and Rochester for the moment,” I said. “The city is only five hours away, right?”

“Six and a half.”

“Yes, okay, Pete. But you know speed limits aren’t my thing.” I noticed he didn’t ask why I didn’t take my own car. He knows I don’t like risking dinging my Viper in crazy Manhattan traffic. And my dad would kill me if it got stolen. Of course now Pete would feel free to take my car and go cruising for boys.

My ex sighed with exasperation. “You shouldn’t get on Twitter and scream with glee that Pink Cowboy Hat is in the same state if you don’t want people to know you’re e-stalking him.”

Whoops.

“You’re not going to get him,” Pete said, trying to sound bored. “I told you. You’re never going to do better than me.”

My anger at Pete reignited. True, with his black hair, ice-blue eyes, and an athletic body shaped by years of hockey, Pete is hot. But I quit doing drugs, and Pete, that asshat, still wanted to party. We’re friends still, but that’s it. I’m not bitter. Pete’s kind of a slut with other guys now, and I sometimes want to put my fist through a wall, but I’m totally, totally not bitter. Especially not today, because today I have a plan which, if successful, will ensure I have no reason to bother with Pete again. Except to return his car.

I found my way to the Javits Center where Cristiano Bastini’s fall collection would be presented. When I grabbed my bag, I realized I had brought the wrong one. Damn it. I’d broken this camera over Christmas break, shooting wildlife in Costa Rica. I took a deep breath. I couldn’t allow myself to get bummed. Instead, I kept myself busy by texting people while huddling in the cold spring air and waiting for the designer to show up

I might not be hot enough to stop traffic like Marc Patrick, but in shitkicker boots, a black leather jacket, a tight navy T-shirt, and crotch-hugging black jeans, I thought I’d have a chance to catch the eye of most guys. But a designer who saw models every day might be a different story, so I had on vintage Bastini sunglasses I’d found on eBay. Set me back a thousand. See, if you Google, you discover Cristiano adores it when people wear his father’s creations.

I’d been there only half an hour when he arrived in a gray limousine along with a throng of assistants. His bodyguard wasn’t going to let me near him, but the designer held up his hand. He was in his sixties but had enough work done that he only looked old enough to be my dad.

“Where did you get those?” he said, referring to the glasses.

“Oh, these? They’ve been my favorites for years. Mr. Bastini, I read on your blog you’ve had a horrid time finding the right music for this show. I have something for you to hear. It’s the perfect tune to walk to.”

The designer quirked an eyebrow as he took my headphones.

“It’s called ‘Whipped Kream’ by Fierce Ruling Diva. You’ll love it.”

His entourage stared at Cristiano and waited patiently while he listened for perhaps forty-five seconds.

His eyes grew wide. “This…this is fabulous. I must hear this on the Center’s sound system. Young man, come in with us. What’s your name?”

“Trip,” I said. “Trip Masters.” Okay, my name is Triptolemus Mickleburg, but that’s irrelevant.

We turned to enter the Javits Center when a taxi pulled up, and…and…oh my God, it was Marc Patrick in the flesh. He was wearing his signature pink cowboy hat that had made him famous. Yes, I know. A pink cowboy hat is beyond ridiculous. But he gets away with it. He has golden blond hair, perfect bronzed skin, and green eyes that will stun you. I mean, you can’t move, they’re that mesmerizing. Just looking at him in his hat, a white muscle tee and bright coral jeans made my heart speed up. He seemed to be about six foot. Good, I’m six-three if you count my shitkicker boots.

The taxi driver yelled, “Hey!” at Marc because he’d left his phone on the seat.

Cristiano chuckled. “That boy would forget his head.”

Even though my pulse had gone into overdrive, it wasn’t the time to barge over and fawn on Marc. But I couldn’t stop looking at him.

I was swept along with the group of models, stylists, assistants on phones, and attendants wheeling racks of clothes into the building. Cristiano rushed my MP3 player over to a guy who I’m guessing was the sound director for his show. I sat on a bench watching the buzzing activity around me, stealing glances at Marc as he did push-ups, had make-up applied and smiled at everyone who came by to flirt with him, male or female. His teeth were dazzling. Also, as if the pink cowboy hat didn’t already announce he was a total bottom, people kept grabbing his ass and squeezing. He’d swat hands and laugh a musical little laugh, eyes dancing. Yeah, he was beyond adorable.

Then, holy s**t, people started changing clothes right there instead of going into dressing rooms. What total, unbelievable show-offs. Thank goodness. I casually inspected my nails, pretended I was reading a text, and then “happened” to catch Marc in his briefs. His body was perfectly muscled and smooth like in the photos. His briefs were aqua, a color that looks terrible on ninety-nine percent of the world. On him, they were phenomenal. They hugged his fantastic ass so well I could scarcely breathe. God, Trip. Please stop gaping.

My Fierce Ruling Diva song poured out of the sound system. It has a shimmying, scratchy beat that makes you want to strut, and I saw some of the models start to move to it.

“Hot tune,” one of them said.

Cristiano came over to the bench I’d claimed and clapped me on the shoulder. “Thank you, Trip,” he said in a thick European accent. “Now those glasses. Are they really your favorite pair? They’re in pristine condition.”

“I…uh…save them for special occasions.”

Cristiano smiled. “May I pay you for them? I don’t have a pair of that style in such good shape.”

“Well, I could give them to you,” I said, “if you could be so kind as to introduce me to Marc over there.” What was I doing? They cost a grand! Well…anything for love.

Cristiano took the glasses from me, giving me a friendly smile, but rolling his eyes at the same time. “I’ll do my best, but I’m not a pimp. And I’m sure you know how many fans he has.”

“I understand.”

“I see you have a keychain from something called Handenburg Tech. You wouldn’t be good at math, would you?”

“I’ve won awards in math,” I said, thinking of gold stars I’d received for memorizing my multiplication tables.

“Good,” Cristiano said. “Be different. Ask him about his family. Ask about school. Don’t focus on his looks. He can be shy. Guys who only want him for his beauty make him nervous, and they are a dime a dozen.”

Cristiano pocketed the glasses and walked me over to where a stylist was smoothing down Marc’s hair in places it had been ruffled by his cowboy hat. I wanted to re-ruffle it.

Cristiano made introductions and my stomach flip-flopped as I actually shook Marc’s hand. He had the softest skin, and he gave me a warm smile.

“So how’s…um…math. Cristiano said you need a tutor.”

Marc’s eyes widened. “I do. You can help me?” His Slavic accent was mild, but detectable. His real name was Marik Pakorny. He hit himself in the forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m leaving town tonight to walk in another show.”

“Where are you going?”

“Rio de Janeiro.”

I put on an “utterly shocked” face. “That’s insane! I’m going to Rio, too!” Well, I was now.

Marc appeared startled, but he might have bought it because he said, “Okay. I’ll be there a few days. Maybe you can help me then.”

“Well, why wait so long? I’ll change my flight so we can work on the plane.”

I remained in the back while the show was in progress. To know me is to know I have legendary luck. This moment was the most extreme example. By grabbing my bag containing the broken camera, I’d also grabbed my passport. I had planned to shoot in the sss over Christmas instead of Costa Rica, meaning I had a valid visa. This was meant to be.

I made a call.

“Hi, Mom. I suddenly need to go to Brazil. What do you say?”

There was a long pause before she spoke. “I’m afraid to ask, but why do you need to go to Brazil?”

“For love.”

“I see,” she said. “How long have you known him?”

“About five minutes.”

“Trip, be serious.”

“He’s a model. I’m going to be a photographer. This is how you and Dad met.”

She huffed. “Promise me you’re not drinking.”

“I promise you I’m not drinking.”

“No drugs?”

“Absolutely not.”

She sighed again. “Put it on my credit card. No first class. Call me from Brazil.”

First class was delightful. I’d have to explain later to my mother that the flight had sold out in coach, but I hoped her bill wouldn’t reflect I’d paid to upgrade Marc to first class as well. Who knew models flew in coach?

Thirty minutes into the flight, Marc got out his math text.

Please don’t be calculus. Please don’t be calculus.

It was algebra. Phew. However, the book was in Czech. No matter. Math was international.

As I taught him how to solve for X, Y, and Z, I inhaled his scent—a light, fruity cologne that reminded me of coconut tanning oil. I had trouble not picturing myself biting him or licking his neck. My d**k was so hard, I had to cover it with an in-flight magazine. I wished I could unzip to relieve the pressure. Math, Trip. Focus on math.

We finished the assignment in an hour. Thankfully, I’d gotten my arousal under control.

“Thank you for the first-class ticket,” he said. “All this good wine and champagne. But you’re only having club soda?”

I looked down, knowing I was about to over-share, but whoever was going to be the guy for me would have to know sooner or later. “I can’t drink. I have kind of a crazy family. My dad began taking me to wine tastings when I was fourteen, and…well…I had to quit and my dad did, too. Sober two years.”

He patted my shoulder. “Good for you.” He motioned for the flight attendant to take his wine away and requested a club soda for himself.

“So what are you doing in college, Marc? You want to do something besides model?”

He nodded. “This is fun, but at some point it will be over, right? I want to be a teacher. Special education I think they call it in English.”

I blinked. “Wow. That sounds…” low paying and dreadful. “That sounds wonderful.” I thought about it for a moment. It said a lot about him that I liked. I mentally kicked myself for my initial reaction. “I’m studying photography because I want to follow in my dad’s footsteps—maybe travel photography instead of fashion, but that is how he met my mom. She walked runways like you.”

He nodded and smiled, perhaps feeling bashful.

“But sometimes when I hear something like ‘I want to teach Special Ed,’ I think I should do more. I mean, what does a photographer offer the world?”

“Beauty,” Marc said with a confused look, as if to say, “Surely, you already knew that.”

I looked down at my tray table, feeling shy. “You’re the one who offers the world beauty.”

He laughed, and I could swear he blushed. He started fidgeting. Great, I’d made him nervous just like Cristiano warned.

“Should we go back to math?” I asked.

“Okay, but first answer me this. Why are you going to Rio de Janeiro?”

“I…um…honestly? To spend time with you.”

He looked down, but I could see a wide smile. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You’re very sweet. And you’re cute.”

Heaven. This was heaven at forty-thousand feet. I’d never been happier.