Can't Touch This (12 page)

He laughs and claps his hands.  I think he’s had a bit too much to drink this evening due to the red blotches on his cheeks.  “You know, where are any of us really from?  America, Earth.  It’s all so labeled.  Yeah, I live in Seattle.  I work in Seattle, but am I
from
there?  I like to think I’m from wherever I am at the moment.  Like, I’m from Miami today.”

I frown at his explanation.  He
is
drunk.

He gives me a sad puppy look and then leans in closer.  “Okay, I was born in Illinois, I went to college in Indiana and lived there a few years, then I wound up in Arizona, then California, followed by a short stint in Oregon, and then I wandered up to Seattle.”

“You either have a military background or you’re running from something.”  I laugh as I sip the sugary rum and mint drink.

Rory doesn’t laugh.  At all.

“I, I have a military background,” I say, clarifying my bad joke.  “My dad’s in the Air Force.”

“Oh, okay.  I got it.”  Now he laughs a little.

“So, why Seattle?”

“I was on my way up to Alaska and I got sidetracked in Seattle.  I met the owner of SalesTracker and he talked me into coming to work for them two years ago.”

I love his voice.  The cadence of it oftentimes distracts me from what he’s actually saying.  It’s raspy and lifts slightly when he says certain words.  There’s no trace of any accent—Midwestern or Pacific.  He’s like a newscaster.

When we finish our drinks, I can tell Rory is feeling the effects of all he’s consumed throughout the day because he isn’t talking as much.  I decide I’m going to slow down on the potent potables.  I want my wits about me and I don’t want to pass out this time.  That is if we make it back to the hotel soon.

We leave the News Café and Rory hails a cab, pulling me into the backseat with him.  I nearly land on his lap, but he doesn’t seem to mind.  Nor do I.  His mouth attacks mine right after he says “Mansion” to the cabbie.

Our lips meld together in a fiery heat that matches the atmosphere of Miami Beach.  His hands smooth up my stomach and his hand finds my breast, molding and forming it in his palm.  The touch is exhilarating and sparks a fire throughout me.  I moan into his mouth and adjust my head to provide his tongue deeper access.  Such grown up, mature kissing.  Not the normal sloppy miss-your-mouth-on-the-first-try from a twenty-something.  I trace the inside of his mouth, his teeth, everything, with my roving tongue, and drag my fingers along his chest.  When I do, he winces.

“Shit!  Sunburn.”  He moves his hand down to my knee.

“Where are we going?” I ask and place small kisses at the base of his ear.  He tastes slightly of salt and deodorant soap.

“Mansion.  It’s one of the hippest nightclubs in SoBe.”  His hand slips under the hem of my dress.

“Are you trying to impress me?” I toss a wicked glance his way.  I can’t believe I’m sitting in this—basically—stranger’s lap, in a cab, with his hand stroking my thigh.

“Impress you?  I don’t know.  I’d like to
press
you, though,” he says, inching his hand toward my private parts.  This is decadent.

“You’re insatiable,” I laugh against his lips.

“Why don’t you satiate me?”  He captures my mouth again.

The cabbie cranks up the CD to blast an old N’Sync song remixed.  It’s even more bizarre when the driver starts singing at the top of his lungs.  “I don’t want to be a fool for you.  Just another player in your game for two.  You may hate me but it ain’t no lie, baby, bye, bye, bye...”

Rory and I break apart, laughing heartily.

“What?” the cabbie asks.  He looks at us in the rearview mirror.  “So just because I like listening to N’Sync doesn’t make me a fag, does it?”

I collapse on the seat and Rory answers, “Not necessarily.”

“You look like an angel back there, sweetie,” the cabbie says, “but you’re acting like the devil.”  He has a thick New York City accent and wears mirrored sunglasses although it’s nighttime.  “You’ve got sexy eyes.”

“Me or him?” I ask.  Rory chokes on his chuckle.

“You, sweetie.”

“Thanks,” I say, not really knowing how else to react.

The cab inches along on the busy street.  “So how long have you two been together?” the man asks.

“We barely know each other.”  Rory scratches his chin and looks at me.  “What’s your name again?”

“How dare you, Rory!”  I smack at him and lift my eyebrows in shock.  I catch the driver peering at me again.

“Ohhhh you’re nasty.  Nasty, baby,” he jeers.  “I’ve been with the same woman for fifteen years now.  Lillian, love of my life.  And I don’t kiss her like that.”

I blush from head to toe underneath my fresh sunburn.  I don’t dare look Rory in the eye.

The cabbie won’t let up as he turns from Collins Avenue up the side street and onto Washington.  “Maybe I should take a lesson from you two.  See, Lillian’s a forty-six-year-old Irish feminist who’s going through menopause.  I hit the Triple Crown!”  He pronounces it “men-o-pawwwwwws.”

“Are you from New York?” I ask, trying desperately to change the subject.  Rory’s hand persistently ventures up my dress, teasing me wickedly and I’m about to burst into flames.  The cabbie continues to distract me.

“Ha!  How could ya tell?  Am I obvious?” he asks.  “I have a house in Greenwich Village and a condo here.  They say Miami Beach is New York’s sixth borough.  Manhattan in the tropics.”  The car comes to an abrupt halt.  “Here we are, folks,” the cabbie says.  “You take care of yourself, my little angel.”

As Rory pays him, I straighten my dress and climb out of the cab.  Beautiful people are queued up inside the red velvet rope area in front of the club.  Women are scantily clad, wearing revealing and see-through clothing and skirts cut up to their “see you next Tuesday.”  Men are buff, tanned, and muscular and look like they’ve come straight from a modeling session or a TV set.

I pull back on his hand.  “Rory, I don’t know about this.”

“Come on, Vanessa.  I have VIP passes.”

And with that, we slip right by the bouncer, check in with a dyed-blonde chesty hostess, and are swept into the glitter, swank and pulsation of Mansion.  Pink, yellow and white lights flood the room as dancers move everywhere.  Servers are wearing fashionable short dresses with stiletto heels as they slither through the tight crowd.  As far as the rest of the clientele’s wardrobe, the phrase “anything goes” applied.  Stylish, chic, and proud of their bodies.

We push our way through the people and Rory holds my hand tightly.  A woman in a see-through shirt and a blue sequin thong brushes dangerously by him and says, “Well, hey there, sugar.”  I glare at her, but Rory laughs.

I don’t want to be a prude, but I’m surrounded by nothing but tits and ass and it’s completely distracting.  I tug at Rory’s hand to get his attention.  He smiles down at me and suddenly I feel like I don’t have anything to worry about.  He’s here
with
me.

On the dance floor, we groove to the techno-industrial music blasting all around.  Rory waves his hands in the air and dances like a true white boy to the groove.  I’ve never heard such electronica, so I jive the best I can.  A bouffant brunette in a hint of a hot pink bathing suit comes around carrying a tray of shots in what appear to be test tubes.  She knocks Rory on the arm and points to her ample bosoms heaving out over the tray and asks if he wanted any.

He buys two.  Shots, that is.

The first one is served to him between said ta-tas.  She places the vial in her cleavage and levers herself up onto a stool above him.  Slowly, she leans down toward his perched open mouth until the frothy liquid empties.  He laughs, licks his lips and then winks at me.  I feel like an ass.   I’m standing here in my formal black dress, feeling overdressed and neglected.

As people applaud and Miss Test Tube continues through the crowd, I’m on the verge of tears.  The alcohol has gone straight to my head and it’s clouding my judgment.

Perhaps he’s simply being “a guy”—and a drunken one at that—but I’m not letting him get away with it.

The music transitions to a slower song and Rory pulls me to his chest, his stalwart hands wrapping around my back.

“Rory...”

“Mmmm...”

I smack him lightly on the back of his head to get him to open his eyes.  I look up into the crystal blue depths and say with brutal honestly, “I can’t compete with that.”

“With what?”

My head indicates the emaciated chick up on the bar.  “That.  Her.”

Rory seems confused.  “Why would you want to compete with that?”

“Because that’s all you’ve been staring at since we walked in.”

He shakes his head and grips me tighter.  “Shit, Vanessa.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t realize it.  It’s all the Bud and scotch I’ve had to drink.”

“In any case, I’m not like those girls.”

“Aw, come on, Vanessa.  There’s more to you than that.”

I lift my brow, intrigued.  “How so?”

His finger traces down my face and gives me chills like nothing else.  “You’ve got looks
and
a brain.”

Well, okay.  That’s smooth.  Enough so for me to wrap my hands behind his neck and play a part in a luscious tongue battle in the middle of the dance floor.  He is, after all, kissing
me
and not any of the bimbos he’s drunkenly ogled.

When we break apart, I tell Rory it’s time to go.  Back to the hotel.  There is a tradeshow and seminar in the morning and I would like some quiet time with him away from the crowds, the drinking, and the dancing.  I don’t understand why we wasted so much time walking around and coming to this club when we could have been back at the hotel hours ago.

We get a cab up to the Eden Roc and then stumble together through the lobby and onto the elevator.  As soon as I press the button for my floor, he’s upon me.  Kissing, feeling, groping.  I return his ardor with the same fire-laden passion.  Alcohol only enhances his sexual appetite.  When the elevator opens on my floor, I walk backwards down the hall, tugging him along.

Inside my room, I kick off my two-inch high-heeled sandals and pull him in with me.  He swoops me into his arms and plops me down on the bed, pressing me into the mattress with his weight.  His lips and tongue are on my neck and he trails kisses over my chest and down in between my breasts.

This isn’t the third date.  I shouldn’t let this happen.  But he feels so good.  And he makes
me
feel so good.

He pulls me up to get to the back zipper of my dress and I cooperate, giving him the access he needs.  He eases the black straps off my shoulders and takes in the sight of my strapless demi bra, smoothing his hands over the shiny fabric before returning his mouth to my cleavage.  My pulse threatens to break free from my flesh.

“Oh, wait!  I’ve got to put in for a wake-up call,” I say, not knowing where in the world that came from.  Maybe I’m not ready for this.  Perhaps I merely talk a good game inside my head.

I roll away from Rory and reach for the phone on the bedside table.  I nearly scream when his wet tongue works its way down my spinal column.  I almost forget why I have the receiver in my hands as his deft fingers unlatch my bra and his lips return to the expanse of my back.

Maybe this isn’t a good idea.  Maybe it is.  I can’t make up my mind.

Finishing up my quick phone call, I turn back to him.  Moonlight from the open windows illuminates us in the dark room, adding a silvery mystique to our foreplay.

I think I need a breather before anything else happens.  Just a minute to collect my thoughts.  “Rory, I’ll be right back.”  Scooting off the bed, I head into the bathroom.

“Hurry,” he calls out from the other side of the door.

Taking a deep breath, I brush my teeth, check my makeup, pick up the bathroom phone to call Griz, put it back down, drink some water, take three Tylenol—to stave off a headache—brush my hair, and then finally decide to return to the room.

In the darkness, I hear Rory’s deep breathing.  He’s sound asleep.  I don’t know whether to be relieved or offended.

“Rory?  Rory, wake up.”  I shake him slightly, but nothing happens.  I try again to wake him up, but he mumbles, “Come here, sweetie.”  He reaches around my waist and pulls me close to him like a teddy bear.  I lay still and listen as his breathing slows again.

My heart hammers in my chest echoing the techno beat from the club.  I don’t understand guys at all.  But then again, most females don’t.  I’m not sure what Rory wants from me.  Maybe he’s not even interested in having sex.  I have heard of guys like that.  Or perhaps he’s actually courting me.  He might even believe in the no sex until the third date rule, too.  If so, that’s kind of sweet.

Which means in San Francisco, I’m in for a hell of a ride.

****

W
hen my wake up
call comes the next morning, I’m alone.

My room looks like a tornado hit it.  Bedcovers, clothes, and shoes are everywhere.  My computer case is in the middle of the floor with a sandal on top of it.  Man, I’m a slob on the road.  So much so that I don’t even remember causing such a hurricane.  Course, that’s how my room is at home, so why would here be different.

I just hate that Rory’s gone.  He left another note, though.

“Didn’t want to wake you when you looked so peaceful.  R.”

I stand under the pulsating shower to try and revive myself.  Then, I dress in my company shirt and khaki skirt and meet up with Kyle who’s already working the crowd.

“Early night last night?” he asks, as if he really knows I was out until all hours of the morning.”

“Something like that.”

“Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine.  Ready to get to work,” I say cheerfully.

Across the room, I see Rory amongst a group of men, gesturing with his hands and tossing his head back in a fake salesman laugh—not the same laugh he used with me last night.  Although he’s busy throughout the tradeshow, we play eye tag every now and then over people’s heads.  It’s our own special connection.

I hand out brochures, snag business cards, and bring Kyle whatever information he needs as he’s demoing the software.  We’re inundated with questions about our software, The Director.