Impossibly Tongue-Tied (4 page)

HE: (
Groaning
) Yes! Yes! I can just imagine!

SHE: My nipples are so…so taut right now…so hard…(
She moans
) When I caress them, they tremble at my touch!

HE: (
Whispering
) You're touching them? You're touching them now?

SHE: Yes…I'm gently stroking them to keep them warm—

HE: (
Breathing even more heavily
) Warm…warm…

SHE: But my gentle strokes are having the opposite effect. They're getting larger…and harder…How about you, Wilbur? Are you getting harder?

HE: Yes! Harder! Harder!

SHE: (
Seductively
) Aw, gee, that's too bad, Wilbur, because I just got a text message from my dispatcher. Seems that your credit card is topped out. Sorry, hon, gotta go—

HE: No! No! Please! I've got—I've got to
finish
here, and I—I
can't
—without you!

SHE: Well…um…let's see: Do you happen to have another card somewhere?

HE: No. Yes! Yes, I do. It's—but it's—(
now somewhat deflated
)—it's a company card—one my wife uses, too. I did use it once before, but…Hell, I could get in trouble if she finds out!

SHE: Gee, that's a shame, Wilbur. Really it is. Because I'm still
very hot
down there.

HE: How…how hot?

SHE: (
Stroking each word tauntingly
) Steaming hot. Throbbing hot. So hot that, if you were here, I'd scorch you alive, and…(
Pauses, then sweetly
) But, hey, Wilbur, I thoroughly understand if you can't use the card. Well, I gotta run—

HE: Wait!
Wait!
Don't hang up!…Just let me get it out of her purse…(
Rummaging
) Hold on. Let me see…Um, hey, you do take Discover, right?

SHE: You know how I love plastic, Wilbur. It doesn't matter what kind of plastic it is, either. All of it makes me—you know,
hot
. Hot like you, Wilbur. I can just imagine that you're hot right now: long, hot, hard, and
throbbing
…Um, what was that number again? Oh, and don't forget the expiration date.

HE: (
Relief and joy in every word
) Yeah, yeah, I got it right here! It's 5555—

(
SFX of tape cutting off…
)

 

This O woman was the vocal equivalent of Viagra.

Hell, thought Sam, no wonder Hugo's obsessed with her!

Which meant that Hugo was in
deep shit
. Up to his hairy armpits.

And, from the sound of it, Sam would need a bulldozer to yank him out. He knew he had no choice other than to read Hugo the riot act tonight, when he'd see the director at the after-party for his new film.

Sam was glad he'd opted to play the CD while he was still parked in the hotel's lot instead of doing so while on the road. Otherwise he might have found himself wrapped around one of the many palm trees that hugged Sunset Boulevard's blind curves. Still lost in thought, he pointed the Ferrari west, back toward the office—

—only to have to circle back around Will Rogers Park in order to head back east, in the direction of the Beverly Hills Tommaso's on Doheny.

He'd almost forgotten that he still had to make one more stop before heading into the office.

To pick up something called teff.

No, of course he didn't have the time to stop, but if he didn't, he wouldn't be able to live with himself, because skipping the teff meant enduring another weekend with the current love of his life, Chastity Valentine.

‘Nuf said. Teff it was.
Then
he could gently break the news to Chastity that their relationship was over.

On the way to Tommaso's, he listened to the CD again…

And again.

 

Ironically, the only messes Sam's $3,800 made-to-measure size 12 John Lobb loafers never seemed to avoid were those involving his love life—which, at this very moment, was getting
way
out of hand.

Since he was a winner in every other aspect of his life, it was
not
something that he was particularly proud of. But, hey, he took total blame for the predicament. The truth was that he was married to his job, 24/7, which was what was needed—no ifs, ands, or buts about it—to be a success in this town.

And because he'd yet to find a woman who was just as exciting to him as this client's problem or that star's account or his agency's bottom line, it was inevitable that whoever occupied his bed at any given point in time would eventually figure that out and then take off in a teary huff.

Say, eight or nine months, tops. Unless he gave them his “you're way too good for me” farewell speech first.

Right at that moment, Sam and Chastity's relationship was just at a week or so beyond month seven.

Right on time.

Granted, Chastity had the full package: a great job—she was a well-respected syndicated radio astrologist-slash-sex therapist—and she was a live wire, albeit somewhat off-center…And yeah, okay, she was
certainly
easy on the eye.

And
she loved sex. In fact, he could honestly say that the woman was a
machine
. It must have been all that Bikram yoga she did, all twenty-six positions of it, every day, without fail. And it never failed that by the time she'd reach position three—the totally submissive
pada hastasana
—he was fully erect and raring to go. For the first six months or so, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven!

But then little things started to get under his skin. Like the realization that she certainly wasn't the brightest bulb on the runway. That was not to say that she was a dummy. It was just that the kinds of things she
did
know well—like sun signs and tarot cards and ancient pagan lore—bored Sam to no end. Not
that every woman he dated had to have Natalie Portman-esque Harvard smarts, or even project Uma Thurman-esque worldly wisdom, but minimally she had to be savvy enough for him to take to Susan and Tim's and not be mortified when she went into some New Age riff…which Chastity had a tendency to do, and certainly a little more often than
he
cared to hear her do, particularly in public.

Sam knew that no one woman he dated would or should be perfect. Last night, however, in regard to Chastity, the writing was certainly on the wall: They had been at a charity event at Reiner's place. Sam had been chatting up an actress whom he really admired. The word was out on the street that she was looking for new representation, and hell, he just
knew
he could take her career in a whole other direction. That was when he caught Chastity glaring at them from across the room. Jeez, anyone in Hollywood could have told her that Sam
never
mixed business with pleasure. If Chastity didn't get
that
after seven plus months with him, then as far as he was concerned, she didn't get anything at all…

Which was why their union could now only be described as over.
Fini.
As dead as a Best Supporting Actress's career two years after she'd taken home her gold-plated doorstop.

That very minute Sam had decided he'd break up with her the next morning, convince her that they should cut their losses, no hard feelings. They could even stay “just friends.”

Ha.
As if.

The breakup would have happened just like that, too…if he hadn't awakened with an erection. And because he was cuddled up against Chastity's luscious backside, of course she
felt
it, too—

—
and she went for it.

Needless to say, one thing led to another…and another…and another…

And so, after three highly aerobic orgasms, his plan to break up with her was sidelined…

…At least for another day. No
way
could he break up with her after they'd just had make-up sex. He wasn't
that
big of a bastard.

He sighed. Well, at least
one
of them had gotten out of bed with a smile.

That is, he assumed she was smiling. It was hard for him to be absolutely sure because Chastity—hot, sweaty, naked, and limbered up—had already slithered out from under the seven hundred-count Egyptian cotton Anichini bedsheets to begin her morning yoga regimen.

As Chastity moved from one state of bliss to another, he resolved himself to his fate: He'd have to reschedule the breakup for tomorrow morning. Hell, after the sexathon they'd just had, there wasn't even time for a shower, let alone a breakup. Besides, he had to meet Lucinda Hardaway at the Polo Lounge in—
Jeez!
—less than thirty minutes!

As for that golf game he had scheduled for tomorrow morning with Bill, Samuel, and Kevin, well, he could kiss
that
good-bye now, too, because Chastity would demand at least a full morning of tearful introspection before riding off into the sunset.

With his stomach growling, Sam crawled out of bed, zipped up his charcoal gray Z Zegna slacks over a day-old pair of Ever-last 1910 boxer briefs, and silently made his way to the door, Piatelli long-sleeve knit polo shirt and John Lobbs in hand. He
was almost home free, too, when Chastity (who had by then moved into position eight, the very, very come hither hey-I'mall-yours-for-the-asking
dandayamana bibhaktapada paschimot-tanasana
) called out after him: “Hey, my chart says it's
dire
that I should stay put today, so on the way home, can you stop by the store and pick up something we
desperately
need?”

Turning back around, he shot her an exasperated look, but she didn't see it. She had already moved into the
trikanasana
position: one leg bent forward, the other stretched out behind her, and an arm reaching up to the sky, which made it difficult for her to do anything other than stare up at the ceiling.

Sensing his reluctance, however, she added in that babyish singsong voice that had come to grate on his nerves sometime around month five: “Pretty please? With sugar on top? It's just one
itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny
item. You can pick it up at the Beverly Hills Tommaso's, you know, near your office.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. What is it?”

“Teff.”

“Huh?” He didn't recognize the word. “Teff? What…what the heck is that?”

And when
, he wondered,
in the next eighteen hours will I have the time to pick it up?

Certainly not before the breakfast with Lucinda. And after that, he'd be racing back to ICA's offices to take a meeting with Quentin, and he certainly wasn't prepped for that. Not that the meeting would need much prep, since meetings with QT were mostly one-way gabfests-of-fancy:
his
way. (
God love him, the dude is a genius and all, but boy does he have diarrhea of the mouth, and even allotting only two hours was expecting a friggin' miracle!
)

Of course, if
that
meeting started late, then the hottest female actress on his roster, Katerina McPherson, would be left cooling her Manolos in ICA's lobby, and boy would
she
be pissed, because Katerina never waited for
anyone
, not even Sam. And her meeting was to be followed by one with a couple of whiny television writers who were pitching a feature script that they wanted him to slip to Mr. Cradle Robber…then lunch at the Ivy with a couple of suits from Sony…

…And in between all that would be at least eighty phone calls to make, and fifty e-mails to return, and several dozen contracts to review; not to mention the meeting he had scheduled on the Fox lot that wasn't even starting until the early evening because it was with that kid from
Lost
, which meant they'd have to meet after the day's shooting had wrapped…

Needless to say, he would have to miss Hugo's premiere of
Very Bad Boys
, so there was
no way
he could miss the after-party…

For which I'm determined to go without you, Sam thought, as he looked back at his contorted girlfriend. Hell, I'm not even
mentioning
it to you at this point…

And because he felt guilty about that, too, he was resigned to picking up the goddamn teff.

Okay, now think…think…The Beverly Hills Hotel is on Sunset, and Tommaso's is a mile or so east on Doheny, so maybe if I stop right after seeing Lucinda, it would work. Besides, how long could it take to pick up the stupid teff? Ten, fifteen minutes, tops?

Then
can we break up?

“Sure, okay…teff. I'll remember.”

“Trust me,” Chastity said seductively, before folding herself into the silly-boy-how-can-you-resist-jumping-my-bones-
this-very-second
dandayamana bibhaktapada janushirasana.
“You'll just
love
what I do with it.”

At that moment, he tried to remember one instance when he'd
ever
trusted her…but none came to mind.

In fact, he couldn't remember a time he'd actually trusted
any
woman.

And that was Sam's dirty little secret.