That Man 2 (8 page)

“Thanks.” I stumbled over to my dresser and plucked out some fresh underwear—a pair of white cotton briefs and matching camisole—and then ambled over to the closet where I settled on an outfit similar to yesterday’s—dark slacks and a pale pink silk blouse. I hadn’t brought a big assortment of clothes along. Just basics.

“Libby, how did I get back to my room?” I asked as I laid the slacks and blouse across the unmade bed.

Libby looked up from her e-mails. “Blake carried you up here.”

I gulped. “He did?”

She twirled one of her long sienna curls. “You were pretty funny last night.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember?”

A hazy montage of last night’s events spun around in my head. Blake sitting with us. Me singing “Roar.” All those chocolatinis.

“You mean the karaoke stuff?”

Libby laughed. “Hardly. You were awesome. Blew the competition away.”

“Then, what?” My stomach churned. Maybe I didn’t want to know.

Libby smiled wryly at me. “You got plastered and got off on the word ‘cock.’”

“I did?”
In front of my boss?
I chewed down on my lip.

“And then you told Blake Burns that he has a big cock.”

“I did?”
Oh God!
How could I say that? I’d never be able to live this down. Bile rose to the back of my throat as clueless Libby continued.

“Rumor has it his cock could star in a porn flick.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

Blake’s expanse of magnificence filled every crevice of my mind. The truth: I hadn’t stopped thinking about his outrageous cock since the time I’d accidentally seen it at his parents’ house. I gulped down another wave of nausea. In a state of quasi-shock and despair, I stumbled to the bathroom. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. My reflection startled me. My eyes were bloodshot, and my skin was the color of okra. I looked as ghastly as I felt. The first thing I did was brush my teeth, to get the foul taste out of my mouth, and then I popped a couple Advil and downed them with a glass of water. Shedding my pajamas, I turned on the shower and adjusted the temperature of the water to as hot as I could take it. Maybe a hot steamy shower would wash away my emotional turmoil and give me clarity. I stepped into the stall and let the hot water pound over me. I squeezed my eyes shut. Oh, God. Blake Burns was back. This time standing in the shower with me, his cock—yes, his humongous cock—pointing my way. I snapped open my eyes and hastily turned off the water. If only I could rip yesterday out from the calendar. Make it disappear. Make
him
disappear.

As I towel dried myself and slipped on my undies, one reassuring thought crossed my mind. Chances were I wouldn’t see Blake today. He’d made it loud and clear yesterday that he’d had enough of the focus groups and book signings.
Oh, please, no Blake today.

I gathered my wet hair into a ponytail and had the misfortune of seeing my reflection once more. I still looked like shit. Today—with or without Blake—was not going to be a good day.

Back in my room, I quickly donned the rest of my clothes. I gathered my purse and my briefcase with my notebook and laptop inside. Before heading out with Libby, I reached into my purse. Seconds later, my dark prescription sunglasses were sitting on my nose.

As we descended the high-speed elevator, Libby chit-chatted about the upcoming focus groups. Yesterday’s respondents were “heavy” readers of erotic romance books, reading four or more e-roms a month; today’s panelists were “moderate” readers, reading one to three books a month. Her cell phone rang. Retrieving it from her bag, she let me know it was from the research facility. Everything for today’s groups was in place. While Libby spoke to the facility’s director, I dug into my purse and rifled for my own cell phone. Poor Bradley must have tried to reach me while I was passed out. He must be worried sick about me.

I scoured my handbag, but my phone was nowhere to be found. Shit. Maybe it fell out of my bag last night. This day wasn’t getting better. When the elevator reached the main floor and the doors pinged opened, I told Libby that I was missing my phone and had to go back up to my room.

“Oh, I put it on your night table,” she said. “Just in case you needed it. Hurry. I’ll meet you outside the hotel.”

Libby stepped out of the elevator, and I immediately palmed the twelfth floor button, the floor on which we were staying. Fortunately, the elevator made no stops. When I reached my destination, I slogged out of the elevator to my room. I should have sprinted, but I was still in no condition to move at more than a snail’s pace. Every nauseating step was a painful reminder of last night’s embarrassing debacle. I vowed I was never going to get drunk again. Or, at least, never touch another chocolatini.

I found my phone quickly and took a moment to check my messages and texts. To my surprise, there weren’t any text or phone messages from Bradley. Not one. My heart twitched. Maybe something happened to him. I immediately speed-dialed his number. His phone went right to his voice-mail. Instead of leaving him a message, I texted him.

Call or text me as soon as you get this message. I love you.

xJ

My mind wandered. Why hadn’t he called or texted me? I told myself he must be okay. Surely, his parents or even his hygienist, Candace, would have gotten in touch with me if something terrible had happened to him. They all had my cell phone number. Maybe he’d lost his phone or taken a spontaneous overnight trip to some place where his phone didn’t work. Unable to dispel my unsettling feeling, I tossed my phone into my shoulder bag and headed back to the elevator bank.

The elevators, this time, took their sweet time. This day just fucking sucked. Besides being still hungover, I was growing increasingly sick with worry. Bradley. The outcome of today’s focus groups. Facing Blake.

I thought about taking the stairs—not a bright idea given my pathetic state and accident proneness—when an elevator car at last arrived. The doors parted and so did my lips. Standing smack in front of me was the last person I wanted to see. Blake Burns! Mortification raced through me. My heart was in my mouth.

He was dressed again in jeans, black body-hugging ones that hung low on his narrow hips, and one of those expensive premium cotton white tees that exposed his newly bronzed biceps. Dangling from his hand was an expensive tan leather overnight bag with his initials—
BB
—monogrammed in gold. He must be checking out, heading back to LA.

“Ms. McCoy, are you going down . . . ?”

 . . . 
On your big frickin’ dick?
Geez. What was wrong with me? I kept my gaze on his gorgeous face. He looked freshly showered and effin’ sexy as sin.

“Well?” He was holding the door open.

“Um, uh, yes,” I stuttered. A part of me wanted to run away or wait for the next elevator, but who knew how long that would take. Libby was waiting for me downstairs, and I didn’t want her to be late for the groups.

Hesitantly, I stepped into the elevator. I stood as far away from him as I could and faced front. The elevator doors closed, and we began our descent.

“So, how do you feel today, Ms. McCoy?” His tone was sardonic, and in my mind’s eye, I could see the smirk pasted on his face.

“Fine.” I stabbed the word at him and adjusted my sunglasses.

“You were quite entertaining last night.”

Every muscle in my body clenched, and I felt myself flushing with embarrassment. “I’m sorry about last night,” I blurted out, still facing forward.

He chuckled. “Don’t worry, tiger. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

The high-speed elevator couldn’t reach the lobby fast enough. When the doors parted, I darted out.

“Have a nice day, Jennifer, and stay out of trouble. I’m flying back. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow.”

“Bye,” I squeaked, not turning to look back at him.

*

The focus groups went as well as yesterday’s. Sobriety returned to me, thanks to the thoughtful research facility director who set me up with a pot of strong black coffee and a bowl of fresh fruit. After a quick lunch with Libby at a fast-food restaurant close to the facility, I headed back to the hotel to attend the final session of the book signing event. Once again, I met with numerous authors and bloggers who couldn’t be more excited about the block of programming I was developing for SIN-TV. I had their full support and ended up with a bag full of signed books and swag.

Libby and I were booked on a 7:30 p.m. flight back to Los Angeles. With a few hours to kill, we decided to meet up at the Hard Rock pool. To catch some rays and swim a few laps. A margarita for her, a cherry Coke for me. After last night, alcohol was not in my immediate future.

While I was changing into my swimwear in my room, my cell phone rang. I quickly grabbed it, hoping it was Bradley and dreading it was Blake. It was neither. Instead, Libby.

“Jen, I got inspired to start writing up the focus group report, so if you don’t mind, I’ll meet you down at the pool a little later.”

“No problem.” Work came first; this was a business trip, not a pleasure trip.

“Save me a lounge chair.”

I told her I would and ended the call.

Before leaving the room, I checked myself out in the floor-length mirror by the entryway closet. For the first time today, I smiled at my reflection. Color had come back to my face, and the red spider lines had faded from my eyes. Wearing a turquoise one-piece bathing suit and flip-flops, I was back to being me. I slid open the closet and shrugged on the fluffy white terry cloth robe that came with the room. I was ready for a refreshing swim.

*

The pool area was packed. I’d never seen so much skin in my whole life. Women in string bikinis were mingling with hunky, tattooed men in Speedos or tanning themselves. Exotic drinks were everywhere. Wearing my dark prescription sunglasses and holding a plastic cup full of ice-cold Coke, I wound my way in and out of the crowd, searching for two side by side empty chaise lounges. At last, I spotted a pair. I hurried to them before someone else claimed them. Settling into one of them, I sipped my soda and took in the scene.

Three bikinied women, who could pass as triplets, with big boobs and even bigger blond hair, were fawning over a well-built, tanned man, lying face down on the chaise lounge next to me. A backward-facing baseball cap covered his head. One of the blondes was massaging his feet, another the back of his muscular thighs, and the third his upper back and shoulders. I recognized the latter—Kay, the flirtatious cocktail waitress from the other night.

She began to plant kisses all over his rippled back. He jerked.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

I gasped. The voice was muffled, but I recognized it immediately. Blake!
He was still here?

In a state of frenzy, I leapt up from my chaise and sent my beverage flying, ice cubes and all. To my horror, it splattered all over Kay and Blake.

Shrieking, Kay scrunched up her face in disgust while Blake muttered, “What the fuck?” and rolled over. Our eyes met, wide in shock.

“Blake, baby, I’m sorry, I didn’t do it,” pleaded Kay. “It’s all that little bitch’s fault.” She gave me a look that could kill. I felt my face flare and my blood curdle.

Blake bolted upright. “Jen, it’s not what it looks like.”

I took a couple of deep breaths. “You know what they say: what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.”

With that, I stalked off, ready to get the hell out of Sin City.

Blake

M
y flight back to Los Angeles had been delayed. With three hours to kill, I’d decided to hit the pool. I could use a little R&R. And a little sun. I had no clue I’d be accosted by Kay, that skanky blond waitress from the other night, and her two look-alike cousins, Kelly and Kendra, both Vegas showgirls. I’d told them to get lost (well not exactly those words), but they’d refused to leave me. I got stuck buying them drinks. While they savored their piña coladas, I rolled over on the chaise and closed my eyes. I was still worn out from my bout with the flu, and traveling to Vegas didn’t help.