Can't Touch This (11 page)

As our group walks toward the gallery, Kyle touches my elbow and says to me, “You look great tonight, Vanessa.  Today’s tanning session makes you glow.”

This is the second time he’s accused me of glowing.  I smile though at his sincere compliment.  “Thanks, Kyle.  I had fun at the beach with you today.”

He winks, not in a cheesy way, and says, “We’ll have to make it a regular thing on our trips.”

Before I have a chance to let this comment really soak in, he opens the glass door for me and we enter the white-walled gallery with the rest of the group.  Kyle wastes no time excusing himself, high-tailing it to the bar where he quickly strikes up a conversation with a swanky-looking older woman from the bus.  Nearly a hundred people crowd the gallery, which is filled with works of art and paintings by Forest Lynch.  I don’t know the first thing about art and can’t tell if the stuff is inspirational or schlock.

Upon closer inspection, I have to go with the latter.

“Would you like some?”  A waiter offers a tray full of hors d’oeuvres.  I snag a couple of Phyllo pastries stuffed with mushrooms.  Next, I take an offered glass of champagne with a small raspberry floating in the animated amber liquid.  As I sip and nibble, I scrutinize the so-called art.

To my left, encased in glass, are four silver toasters welded together and painted in neon colors.  Each sport several “FL” initials.  Ah, the artist.  Looking around the room, I notice everything is decorated with his initials.   After perusing one room filled with yard sale welding projects, I make my way into a second corridor full of portraits.  Okay, this is better.  Real art supplies like oil paints and nylon brushes were used to create these pieces.

But as I look around the starch white room, I notice every portrait on the wall is basically the same thing:  a lone pig.  Only it’s a different color in each portrait.  It’s some kind of warped, wanna-be Andy Warhol Impressionistic crap.

“Do people actually buy this?” I ask out loud before realizing it came out.  A woman in Chanel looks down her nose at me and keeps walking.  Best to keep my mouth shut.

I finish my glass of champagne and snag a fresh one from a passing server.  Another waiter offers me a chicken pastry purse.  After tasting the delectable treat, I take three more.  Might as well enjoy myself.  There’s a small buffet table in the back of the pig display room, so I help myself to crudités, blocks of cheese, and strawberries the size of your fist.  The second glass of champagne doesn’t last long either, and I quickly delve into a third.  Good thing I have a high tolerance for alcohol.

I stand and stare at one pig portrait in particular that makes me think of Arnold from the “Green Acres” re-runs on cable.  Behind Arnold stands another pig.  I wonder what Foster Lynch was trying to say with this portrait, if anything, or if he just has a thing for the porcine persuasion.

“Shouldn’t you be networking, Vanessa?” Kyle asks as he nudges me with his shoulder.

Laughing, I say, “Actually, I’m trying to interpret this painting of an animal with short legs, cloven hooves, bristly hair, and a cartilaginous snout.”

The woman from the bar is standing there next to Kyle.  I feel a bit ridiculous for going of on the painting within her hearing range.  She seems unfazed.

Instead, she shakes his hand and says, “It was great meeting you, Kyle, and let me know if you’re coming out to Salt Lake any time for a customer visit.  I’ll show you a good time.”

I bet she will.

She winks and swishes away.

Kyle doesn’t get it, though, not even while watching her slink away from him.  He’s oblivious to all the women staring at him.

“A client?” I ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yep.  And a satisfied one at that,” he notes.

I snicker.  “I’m sure she is.”

“That’ll make Jiles happy.  Sar-Com Products were threatening to go to SalesTracker just last week, so I may have saved that account by telling her what she wanted to hear.  A little good will goes a long way.”  He smiles and then takes a sip from his beer.

“I’m glad I’m not in customer service.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because, you have to lie.”  I try sipping my champagne without swallowing the raspberry.

Kyle’s lips flatten.  “Oh, come off it, Vanessa, I don’t lie.  I just try to make customers happy.”

“By lying.”

“By listening to and meeting the customer’s needs.”

“It’s lying,” I say, knowing I’m pushing his buttons.  Maybe it’s the champagne talking.

“I wouldn’t say anything, Ms. Marketing,” he contends.  “Marketing’s all about getting people interested in something they probably don’t even need.  You reel them in, sales chews them up and spits them out, and the client services has to clean up the mess.  That’s the thing that gets me about DigitalDirection.  It’s all about money.  The hell with the customer.  Screw the relationship, get the deal signed, and get the check in the bank.”

He’s genuinely passionate about his job and truly making clients happy.  Just like his father before him.  Maybe I should cut the guy some slack for being Corporate Boy.

“I guess I have a lot to learn about business,” I concede.

“I mean, look at this painter,” he continues.  “What’s he selling that people actually need?  Spray paint on a two-dollar canvas and an ego the size of the Florida panhandle.  His initials are even the same as the state.  Talk about narcissistic.  But it’s his expression.  It’s his vision and it means something to him and to the people who buy his products,” he says, fervently, and then points at the two pigs in front of us.  “What do you think this says?”

That he’s craving a good pork loin or a side of bacon.

“I don’t really get it.”  I point at the other portraits, “Pink piggy, green piggy, blue piggy?  Where’s Miss Piggy?  And look at this one.”  I stand back to scrutinize the picture of Arnold and friend.  I place my hand on my chin and cock my head to one side.  “I think I’ll call this one ‘Piggy Sniffing Other Piggy’s Butt.’”

Kyle nearly chokes on his beer from laughing so hard.

“Actually,” a stern voice interrupts, “the portrait represents human insecurities and the need for companionship—thus spreading a message of universal friendship.”

My mouth drops as I turn to see none other than the artist, Forest Lynch, standing right behind us.  It has to be him.  He’s wearing “FL” on his left breast pocket.

Immediately, Kyle switches into professional mode, extending his hand, “Mr. Lynch, I’m Kyle Nettles from Boston.  It’s an honor to meet you.  May I get you a drink?”

Forest Lynch eyeballs me, but then goes along quietly with Kyle, who heroically rescues me from mortified embarrassment.  I totally need to learn to keep my mouth shut.

I glance back at the picture, though.  If Forest Lynch’s portraits signify human insecurities and the need for companionships, then I exemplify it in my twenty-nine dollar dress and free champagne buzz.  Annoyance roils through my veins at the thought of how irresponsible it was for me to drag my company to an event in Miami.  All so I could see a guy I spent a couple of hours with in Atlantic City.  A guy I’ve e-mailed a bit with in the meantime.  I want to smack my palm to my forehead at my naiveté.

Rory Ellery obviously has better things to do.  I’m not one of them.

I gobble down the small Brie and raspberry filled tart on my plate and sip on my glass of champagne, as posers and pretenders flit about around me swapping business cards and cell phone numbers.  I don’t think this is exactly the idea Jiles Chancy had when he said he wanted us to think up creative and innovative ways of getting leads.

Rory Ellery is the only lead I have and it’s a cold one at best.  Hot leads have two of three elements to them:  ready, willing, and able.  In Atlantic City, I was willing and able, but not ready.  Now, I’m ready and willing, but I can’t be able when there’s no one to be able with.

I sigh and take a deep gulp from my champagne, moving the raspberry out of the way with my tongue.  That’s when I hear the sexy voice in my ear.

“What’s a nice girl from Boston doing in a place like this?”

When I look up into blue eyes, I swallow the raspberry.

“H
ow did you sneak
up on me like that?” I ask in a breathy manner.

“I was watching you,” Rory says.  “Waiting for the right time.”

My heartbeat trills away under my discount dress and I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face, warming my entire body.

“Let’s get out of here,” he whispers seductively to me.

Rory is dressed to kill in a light green dress shirt with a white ribbed T-shirt underneath and black dress pants.  His skin is deeply bronzed and his blond hair seems lighter than it was a few weeks ago, which is odd considering Seattle is such a rain-soaked city.

Of course, I don’t want Kyle to see me with our competition, so I walk over to where he’s standing with Forest Lynch, who I think has a definite crush on Kyle.

“Kyle, I’m going to call it a night.”

He seems concerned.  “Umm, okay,”  he says, moving his hand to my elbow.  “I guess I should make sure you get to the hotel.”

My wave off his polite gesture.  “I’m good to take a cab.  It’s not far.  I’ll see you in the morning at the booth, okay?”

“For you, Kyle,” Forest Lynch says, sliding a shot-glass full of black liquid to my co-worker.

“What’s that?” he asks.

“Jaegermeister.”

Oh God, maybe I
won’t
see Kyle tomorrow.

“Call for the cab now, Nettles,” I tease and then saunter off.  I swear I feel Kyle’s gaze on me, but I don’t dare turn back and look.  Besides, Rory’s waiting.

Outside the gallery on the pedestrian mall, Rory is leaning against a palm tree as the night breeze tussles his hair.  He takes me by the arm, drawing me closer to him.  My skin melts at his touch and it has nothing to do with the humid August evening.

“Come here, you.”  His face lowers toward me; his mouthing hovering over my lips.

I gasp and close my eyes when his mouth touches mine.  His hands slide down my back and his tongue pushes forward seeking pleasure.  He tastes nutty, like he’s been drinking a fine scotch.  I wonder if he can taste the champagne on me.  My tongue matches his ferocity as my fingers crawl to the back of his neck and plunge through his hair.  So soft.  So silky.  So sexy.  He pulls back and looks at me inquisitively.  His finger slips under my chin and his thumb caresses back and forth.  “How old are you, Vanessa?”

“Twenty-five.”

He seems taken aback.  “I see.”

“Why?  How old are you?”

He couldn’t be more than three or four years older than me. But I’m not ready to hear...

“Thirty-eight,” he says very matter of fact.  My eyes surely bulge out from the shock of his admission.  He merely laughs and adds, “I’m a whole generation older than you.”

“And then some.”

I steady myself, wondering for the kajillionth time what exactly it is that I’m doing.  He’s
twelve
years older?  More than likely, he’s forgotten more than I’ve experienced.  As the war rages in my head, the current battle ends when I let him kiss me again.  I suppose he has no problem with my age, so I should just chillax and enjoy the moment.

After our romantic sunset kiss underneath the Florida palm, we walk hand-in-hand down to Collins Avenue.  The colorful, neon-lit hotels lining the street are packed with people having dinner or drinks.  Cars jam the road; music of all genres blares from all around.  I start to relax and hear Griz in my head telling me to go with the flow.

“So where have you been all day?” I ask.

“I spent the afternoon deep-sea fishing trip with Zeke, a client of mine,” Rory says.

“Catch anything?”

“A buzz, mostly.  We drank more than we fished.  I’m still a bit hammered from all the beer, waves, and sun.”

“Bad boy.”  I realize part of what attracts me to him is his devil-be-damned attitude.  He has confidence in everything he does.  Perhaps it’ll rub off on me.

“You should see my chest.  I’m pretty sunburned ‘cause I didn’t wear any sunscreen,” he says, squeezing my hand.

Hmmm, I’d definitely like to see his chest, and the rest of him for that matter.

We walk a while and then reach Ocean Drive, wandering by the rambunctious atmosphere of the Clevelander Hotel, and then make our way a few more blocks to Mango’s, a hot—and I mean sweaty—hip dance club with scantily clad waitresses in leopard attire.  It is South Beach, after all.  America’s Riviera.  The line to get into Mango’s literally wraps around the corner and Rory doesn’t want to wait.   We continue along to the next block, down to the famed News Café that stays open twenty-four-seven.

Taking a bistro table in the corner by the sidewalk, Rory orders two Mojitos for us.  When the tall drink arrives, I sip deeply, loving the mixture of rum and mint.  Our conversation is light and teasing.  Not like the dates I’ve had at home consisting of work carping and arguments on the local Boston sports scene and who the guy has picked for his fantasy sports teams.

Rory sets his drink down and runs his finger up my bare arm.  “So tell me all about working for DigitalDirection.  Any good industry gossip you care to share?”

I can’t concentrate with him touching me like this.  “I don’t get into all of that,” I say.  “I just go in and do my job.”

“I hear Jiles Chancey is a real pain in the ass to work for,” Rory says, taking a swig of his cocktail.

“No, Jiles is great.”  I totally lie.  Bitching and moaning to William when I get home from work is one thing; however, there’s no way I’m going to bad mouth the president of my company to the competitor.  That’s tantamount to professional suicide.

“I do love living in Boston.  It’s a lot of fun and there are always things to do.  Seattle must be a great city, too.”

He nods and then asks another question about The Director, our software.  “When is the new version coming out?”

“I don’t know.  I’m still learning the version we’ve got,” I say with a laugh.

I take the high ground and twist the conversation toward him.  “Are you from Seattle originally?”