Can't Touch This (13 page)

As the conference day ends, Rory steps over to our booth with a prospect.  I hear him say, “Well, I’m headed out, so call and let me know how you want to proceed after you take a look at my competition.”  He shakes the guy’s hand and pats him on the back.

“Rory?”

“Hey, Vanessa,” he says.

“Are you leaving?”

“Yeah, oh, shit, didn’t I tell you?  I was only down last night and today.  I’ve got to head up to Jacksonville for a meeting and then back to Seattle.”

“But what about… I thought... I mean, last night...” I trip over every word, unable to complete a thought.

He leans down and whispers, “Last night was great.  You’re amazing.”

I frown.  But nothing happened.

He winks and gives me a small hug.  “I’ll e-mail you when I get back to the office.  Can’t wait until the next trip.”

And then he hustles off.

Kyle looks warily at me, but returns to the demo he’s doing.  I really don’t need him to question me or what’s going on here.  I need to focus on this tradeshow and doing my job.

Rory and I will have our time in San Francisco.  That will be date number three.  The pay off pitch.  The sex date.

So, San Francisco it is.

I hear Griz in my head saying, “go with the flow and see what happens.”

Thing is, Vanessa Virtue doesn’t get too many opportunities.

I don’t want to fuck this up.

A
 week later,
I’m missing Rory like crazy.

In my valiant effort not to come across like a total, wannabe desperate woman who’s totally infatuated with a tall, blond hunk, I, of course, screw it up.

Or so I think.

People who go out for an all-nighter with Griz at The Last Drop in Allston should
not
be allowed to come home, somehow click on her phone, and send a sappy, typo-laden text message to said tall, blond hunk.

I cringe when I re-read the previous night’s correspondence:

Hye Rory...I midd u so mych.  I hsd sych a grat time in Maimi and cant wait to cc u again.  Ihave this stuipd trip to Vegas, but then itts c and me in SanFran.  I’ll be thnking abot c hope u thnk abot me.  Hugs, Double Vee.

My face flames fiery red as I think and overthink what I did.  Even when I get to the airport to catch my flight to Vegas.  The memory of my foolishness makes my stomach churn.  Not even the smell of the fresh tureen of New England clam chowder at Au Bon Pain will satiate this nauseating feeling of utter shame.  Then, as I’m on the plane and instructed to turn my phone off, I get a series of texts:

Double Vee...that’s cute.

But then, you’re cute.

Drinking a little too much last night?

Don’t you know you’re not supposed to send texts at 2 a.m.?

Have fun in Las Vegas.  Bet on 22 black for me. 

See ya soon in San Fran

P.S.  I midd u, too, and you’re all I can thnk of, too.
J

I smack my palm to my head and groan, laughing at my college-like behavior.  I’m way too old to be doing brainless things like that.  It’s all Griz’s fault.

I re-read the messages.  Rory did say he misses me and is thinking about me.  And that I’m cute.  That’s a gut-punch moment right there.  I’ll just focus on that.

My temples pound and my stomach lurches at the thought of another takeoff and landing.  Maybe the residual alcohol in my system will act as a tranquilizer and help ease my fear of plummeting to the earth in charred bits.  I try to breathe in deeply and calm myself, just like Kyle instructed me to do.  It’s just an airplane ride.  A long, six hour flight across the entire friggin’ country and over the Grand Canyon.

Unknowingly, my fingers curl around the arm rest, gripping it like it’s the only lifeline I have.  I think about Rory, his eyes, his smile and the fact that he likes me, even though I showed my ass off.  Laughing in spite of myself, I start to relax a bit and concentrate on doing at good job at this tradeshow.  That’s what matters the most.  Everything else is gravy.

Then I remember that Rick and Kyle (who rescheduled his Reno trip so he could be at the show) are on this trip with me.

I’ll just have to make sure I behave in Las Vegas to avoid any further embarrassments.

*****

A
pparently I don’t
have to be drunk to make a complete and utter ass of myself.

When my plane lands at the Las Vegas airport, I make a beeline toward the ladies room.  My stomach is in turmoil from last night’s overindulgence with Griz and the massive amount of unruly turbulence that had me shunting and heavy breathing the whole way out here.  I totally have to get some medication for my fear of flying.  I make it into the bathroom stall just before I revisit my pretzels, peanuts, and Diet Coke from the plane ride.

When I’m done, I emerge slowly and then splash water on my face.  I dig into the black hole that is my purse and revel in the fact that I have a travel-size bottle of Scope amongst the many items.  Then, I head to the baggage claim area where I’m meeting up with the boys.  They flew Southwest from Dallas because they were at a client site.  Ted was supposed to come, but he had to go to Vermont for his uncle’s funeral.  I heard he also had to deal with something involving inheriting an ostrich farm.  Or maybe I just imagined that.

As if my bathroom pyrotechnics aren’t enough, I then humiliate myself in front of my co-workers.  My very cute, hazel-eyed co-worker whom I’m not supposed to find attractive.  If I ever wondered if Kyle Nettles wanted to punt the whole company handbook and ask me out, it’s settled when I show him my true graceful ways.

I’m supposed to meet Kyle and Rick Churchman at the baggage carousel.  So, I go over to the America West claim area first to lug off my big bag and the tradeshow booth.  It takes forever for the luggage to come down the steep conveyer belt and I grow impatient, panning around for the guys.  Ten minutes later, tired of waiting and trying to find a place to take a load off, I sit gingerly on the edge of the baggage conveyer.  I hear someone call my name and look up to see Kyle and Rick walking toward me.  I pull my hands up off my knees and wave.  Just then, the bells and lights go off signaling the bags are on their way out.  The first piece out is the goddamned tradeshow booth.

And it has me in its sights.

“Watch out, Vanessa!” Kyle shouts.

The container speeds down the steep incline to the bottom of the rack where I sit.  Before I can move fast enough or react, the large vinyl case thwacks me in the back sending me sprawling out on the floor of the airport like fresh road kill.

Kyle drops his computer bag and instantly runs to my side.  Rick stands there looking slightly amused.  I should be reeling in utter humiliation, but then I start laughing hysterically.  All three of us crack up as Kyle helps me to my feet.  Thank heavens I’m not wearing a skirt.  Otherwise, I would have flashed the whole airport.

“I’m so embarrassed,” I say, wiping my hands on my shorts.  “I hate that fucking booth.”

I gaze up into Kyle’s soft hazel eyes, awaiting his reaction.  He smiles and chuckles.  “You okay, Vanessa?”

My heart gives one of those aches, like when you see a cute baby in a television commercial.  “Yeah.  Thanks, Kyle.”

“How’d you like your trip, Grace?” Rick kids.

Ignoring him, I struggle to catch up with the booth as it spins away on the conveyer belt.

“I’ll get it,” Kyle offers.  Okay, so Corporate Boy is a true gentleman.  When he stretches out to hoist the bulky booth from the conveyer, I can’t help but admire his muscular arms and trim physique.  Not what The Handbook would encourage.  I really need to snap out of my sexually frustrated funk and concentrate on work.  That’s why I’m here.

The large computer tradeshow is being held at the Las Vegas Convention Center, so we booked ourselves on the older part of the strip:  Circus Circus.  Apparently, so did everyone else.  The place is packed.  Two buses of Baptists from Macon, Georgia—doesn’t the Bible say gambling is a sin?—and the geriatric set from central Michigan are all checking in at the same time as us.  Talk about kicking it back old school.  I had expected glitz, glamour, and the full swank of Las Vegas, not an older, dreary casino filled with old ladies spending their children’s inheritance and their own Social Security checks.  The place isn’t anything like the Travel Channel special I’d seen on it.

After finally checking into our rooms, we head over to the convention center.  We get our booth set up in no time and then Kyle, ever the business-minded employee, wants to make the rounds with the other vendors.  The SalesTracker booth is far down at the other end of the hall and I see Kyle talking to Gene Cappucci, the Italian Stallion divorcee extraordinaire, whom we’d met in Atlantic City.

Too bad Rory’s not here in Sin City.  I bet we could get to some real sinning.

For now, I’m stuck with Vegas Boy (Rick) and Mr. Serious (Kyle) and a hangover that won’t let go.

“How about FatBurgers?” Rick asks.

Just what I need.  A heaping helping of grease.  “Show me the way.”

*****

L
ater that night
Kyle, Rick and I have an overpriced dinner at Emeril Lagasse’s restaurant at Venice and then make our way to several casinos.  Kyle tells us he’d rather be back in his room working on the customer service plan, although Rick’s trying to get him to loosen up.

I have to say, I admire Kyle’s drive.  I need to be more like that.  I want so much to make a splash at work and prove to them that I’m a great worker—which I am—it’s just sometimes I look at this whole corporate world as bullshit games adults play with each other.  It’s all about money and profit and the bottom line.  We’re on the road, though, and it’s not like we’re slacking on our duties.  We’re simply having fun, that’s all.  Maybe I should let Kyle in on this revelation.

I touch him on the arm as we’re on the tram between The Luxor and Excalibur on our way to New York, New York.  “Hey, Kyle, are you okay?”

He looks at me with a start.  “Yeah.  Sorry.  Just thinking about the meeting with RLMP Associates tomorrow.  They’ve agreed to be a beta tester for the new version of The Director.”

“You know,” I say.  “It’s okay to relax and have a good time when we’re off the clock like this.  No one’s going to accuse you of being a bad client services manager.”

His dimple appears when his smile widens.  “Sorry.  All I think about is work.  You’re right, Vanessa.  I should just have a good time being here with you.”

My hand moves to my chest over his pointed complimentary words.

Kyle must pick up on my interpretation, because he corrects himself.  “With you and Rick, I mean.”  He looks over at our co-worker who’s peering out of the window like a kid at Disney for the first time.  “He’s crazy.  He’s ready to spend everything he’s got on the craps table.”

Studying Kyle, I try to see inside the guy standing in front of me.  I don’t know much about him other than his strong work ethic and his amazing looks.  I wish I knew more about the person underneath the corporate persona.  I wish that Kyle wasn’t such a Jiles wannabe.  Then again, maybe I’m judging him too harshly.

Kyle smiles at me.  “All right.  I won’t harp on business tonight.  I’ll have fun.  Will that make you happy?”  His eyes sparkle as they meet mine.

“It’ll be good for you,” I say and knock his arm with my elbow.

“We’re here,” Rick exclaims.  The tram doors slide open and we walk across the street to New York, New York.

Next thing I know, the boys are so zeroed in on gambling, it’s almost like I’m not even there.  Like I’m a vapor.

“Hey Nettles, let’s do Jell-O shots,” Rick says, after he wins over a hundred bucks on roulette.  “Ummm, you too, Virtue.”

Kyle’s focused on blackjack and blackjack only.  Approaching it methodically and seriously, just like he does his work.  “I’ve got to concentrate.  Under no circumstances are you to bother me,” he instructs.

Not knowing what to do, I follow Rick to the roulette table.  The guy can’t lose.  Poker chips rain in for him like droplets from a hurricane.  After spending an hour trailing him—and his winnings—around, we go to find Kyle.

“Come on, man.  You’ve lost enough for one night.  Let’s go have some fun,” Rick says, breaking the “don’t disrupt” rule and clapping his boss on the back.

The redness in Kyle’s face spells out his displeasure.  “I’m not doing well at all.”

Rick holds up his booty.  “Let’s go ride on the roller coaster.”

“I don’t think so,” Kyle says.  “Maybe I should just go back to our hotel and go to bed.  We’ve got a busy day tomorrow and I told Jiles I’d call.”

I sigh at him.  “Kyle, what did we talk about?”

He scrunches up his mouth and then smiles at me.  “Let’s go.”

We wait in line for fifteen minutes and then when it’s our turn, Rick climbs into the front car, followed by a twelve-year-old girl who insists they hold their hands up in the air the whole ride.  That leaves me paired up with Kyle.  The coaster gets going and I’m jammed up against him.  He’s solid muscle from shoulder to thigh and I try not to get excited by the close contact.

Rory... must think of Rory.  Rory, who can’t wait to be with me in San Francisco.  Rory, the first guy in a long time who made me feel worthy and special.

As we climb vertically up the first steep hill, Kyle still looks upset.  “Don’t worry about losing money, you can make it up before we leave tomorrow.  Rick wants to hit more casinos.”

“Rick can have at it,” Kyle says sternly.

“Oh, come on.  You didn’t have any fun?”  I let out a whelp as the roller coaster takes a steep dive, pressing me against Kyle even more so.

“I was distracted,” he yells out.  The cars zoom up and around another curve.  Everyone’s screaming, except Kyle.  Up ahead, Rick’s waving his arms over his head like a lunatic.

The coaster keeps roaring forward into a full loop.  I squeal hard, trying to keep my eyes open.  Kyle actually lets out a yell as we bottom out and move into the next loop.  I scream out as we take another sharp curve.  I practically slide into Kyle’s lap, which is a little too comfortable.  Section seven of the employee handbook says nothing about roller coaster rides.