The Great Ex-Scape
Page 31
As well as several variations on the requested activity.
And when it was all over, he lay on top of me gasping for air and sweating beautiful glistening drops (God, even his sweat was sexy). It was easily the hottest experience of my entire life. But then he did something very odd, something that tipped me over the edge. He lifted his head and met my eyes with such intensity that everything around me went silent and blurry. He was looking at me like he knew me. Really, really knew me.
My mouth opened and an almost inaudible whisper came out, “Do I know you?”
He smiled at me. A naughty, skew, sexy smile. “Not yet.” And then he kissed me. No one had kissed me like that before. It was the kind of kiss shared by long-lost lovers.
But when some nosey drag queens knocked on the car window and made loud oohing noises and one of them mimed a comic blowjob gesture, I nearly died. I flung the door open and ran, leaving my Sex God shirtless and with his trousers still around his ankles. While I, the girl that never does stuff like this (I reiterate), had to make an embarrassing run of shame across the now crowded parking lot. I could feel every single dramatically drawn, raised eyebrow watching me as I went.
Before I could get far, I was stopped by a distinctly masculine wolf whistle. Sex God clearly had NO inhibitions.
He was now leaning against his car, zipping up his jeans and doing it completely shirtless—with a very appreciative audience, I might add. He lit a cigarette, inhaled slowly and let the smoke curl out of his mouth.
He was like an advert for cool, in that I-don’t-give-a-flying-fuck-who-cares kind of way. An advert for everything deplorable and lascivious, but downright filthy-sexy in a man. Who the hell was he?
I really had to go!
I climbed into my car and pulled out of the lot, allowing myself one last glance in his direction. The cigarette hung out of his mouth seductively; his wet hair clung to his face; he was leaning across the bonnet in such a way that he looked like a model from an X-rated Calvin Klein billboard. As I sped away, he blew me a kiss and shouted after me.
“I’m in love!”
CHAPTER TWO
I HEARD HE WAS RAISED BY WOLVES . . .
In my head-pounding, hungover daze, I rolled, slipped, and fell out of bed, feeling like someone had poured sand into my eyes and pushed me down a steep cliff. I got up and pulled the now very itchy sequin dress off and got the fright of my life when I realized I wasn’t wearing any underwear. I knew I’d left the house with panties on last night. Hadn’t I?
I was already running late for work—I had accidentally pressed the snooze button on my phone way too many times—but I couldn’t rush to work looking like I was.
I grabbed some cotton wool, dunked it in make-up remover and attempted to wipe the thick, chalky layers of black smoky eye make-up off my face. My red lipstick was smudged and one of the false lashes was clinging on like a dry spider. The make-up was coming off, but the glitter was more stubborn. “A highlighter, babe. Fab,” JJ had said as he’d emptied the entire jar onto my face. The glitter was sticking to my face like glue and some bits had even lodged themselves into my hairline. The wig was even worse. The clips holding it in place had twisted so badly that everything was completely stuck—no doubt from rubbing my head back and forth in the back seat of a total stranger’s car. Instant nausea rose as I started to think about it again. Crap, what the hell had I been thinking!
But the wig was my top priority right now, and I was left with no choice but to painfully rip it off. I yelped in pain as tufts of brown hair came out in chunks, then I cursed the wig and tossed it onto the floor. I couldn’t believe I’d actually worn the thing—it looked like a dead Maltese puppy.
I dissed my usual middle part, scraping my hair back into a ponytail. Contact lenses out—after inventing some new yoga poses to pry them from my dried-out eyes—and glasses on. Black pantsuit, white-collar shirt and a pair of semi-high heels. Then one last mirror check before running out.
On my way to grab my laptop bag and a handful of headache pills, I passed JJ and Bruce’s room, but before I could give them a vengeful wake-up knock, my passive-aggressive attempt at punishing them for their part in my early-morning state, I saw the note.
Sera,
You naughty, naughty girl! We heard you caused quite the parking lot spectacle. Dinner tonight, we want all the juicy details.
XX
J&B
I sighed and, as I went out to my car, my face went red-hot at the thought of telling them what had happened.
My twenty-year-old Toyota had been acting up lately. Another thing to add to the growing to-buy list, along with socks without holes, black pumps with non-peeling soles and now some new undies. But I just couldn’t afford a new car right now—or ever—not between paying back loans and secretly sending money home to my sister Katie.
“Please start, please start, please start,” I pleaded with the hunk of metal junk.
My job was the most important thing in my life. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to help Katie and she’d be at our dad’s mercy. And there was no way I was going to let that happen. I simply couldn’t afford to do anything that would jeopardize it especially since I was one of two interns vying for a permanent position at the company. Being late didn’t exactly scream “hire me.”
I also knew what being late meant. I would surely walk slap bang into an apocalyptic crisis lifted straight from the Book of Revelation. Working at an ad agency means going from one emergency to another. High stakes, lots of money on the line, demanding clients, demanding creatives and deadlines tighter than the skinny jeans they all wear.
My car finally started after a few smoky chugs and I threw a few thank-yous out into the universe. But as soon as I drove out of my apartment complex and turned onto the highway, I was assaulted by bumper-to-bumper Jo’burg traffic, made even worse by minibus taxis and their “creative” driving techniques. Currently I had one only centimeters from my bumper with a painted sign on his back window that read, “What goes surround, Comes surround.” At least something about this morning was vaguely humorous. But the static traffic gave me too much time to think and reflect . . .
What the hell had happened last night? Most of it was a blur, but every now and then an image flashed through my mind.
Vodka. Lots.
“Is this seat taken?” That smooth move and that husky voice . . .
Slowly grinding himself into me on the dance floor of Club Six, running his hands up my thighs, creeping way, way too high for public decency laws, until his hands were . . .
“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he’d whispered in my ear, his hands coming up and cupping my face.
“I want you so badly, Sera.” Hang on, how had he known my name?
“I need you.” That was the moment I melted completely and decided to walk outside with him . . .
Fumbling for his car keys . . .
On him . . .
Under him . . .
Windows steaming up . . .
“Fuck, you’re amazing.” More words that made me lose my mind as I writhed on his lap and totally forgot myself in the moment . . .
His tattoos . . .those dark piercing eyes . . .
“I could do this forever,” he’d whispered in my ear seductively.
“Sera.” He rasped as he came on top of me, the weight of his body crushing me into the seat.
Oh. My. God.
Had I really fallen for every lame jackass line in the book? He probably said that to all the girls he had anonymous back-seat sex with. Was I really that stupid, or sex starved, or mad, or drunk, or all of those to have actually bought into his smooth-play-boy moves. Mortified AF. My only consolation was that I’d never see him again.
After a frustrating hour in traffic, I finally arrived at work, but the only parking space I could find was all the way on the other side of the office park, so I was forced to run with a pounding head and lurching stomach.
But when I finally got inside, I was downr
ight shocked. Something was very wrong.
I was expecting to run straight into the usual office chaos: people screaming at each other, screaming into the phone, screaming at the coffee pot or the copy machine. But something bizarre was going on today. People were sitting around lazily . . . chatting?
It was as if someone had come in the night and tranquilized all my co-workers. Had someone put Xanor into the air conditioning system? That was surely the only explanation for this eerie calm. I inched my way to my desk feeling very uneasy—was this the calm before the storm?
Before I had a chance to pull out my chair, Becks slunk up to me and whispered conspiratorially into my ear.
“Have you heard?” she asked.
I half turned to her but she cut me off quickly before I could manage to respond.
“They hired a new Creative Director. Apparently he’s a fucking rock star. Blake something I think—”
At the sound of that name, one of the junior copywriters who happened to be walking past quickly corrected her, “Isn’t it Blade? I heard his name was Blade?”
Next thing I knew, an equally excitable art director joined the conversation, “Blaze? Isn’t it Blaze? Or Slash?” She was practically squealing.
I looked from one glowing face to the other. Their eyes were lit up like firecrackers and their cheeks were flushed a bright shade of pink.
“I heard they offered him a huge financial package to come here,” Becks said with a wild, wide-eye look. Becks, short for Rebecca, always seemed to know exactly what was going on in the office. I think she made it her business to know. She was also my toughest competition for the permanent job here.
The other creatives simultaneously nodded in agreement, declaring that he was probably worth every cent, maybe even more. Yes, he was definitely worth more, they concluded. Then they walked off—no doubt to spread more legends of this creative man-God.
In an ad agency, creativity is king. It’s the currency and the Holy Grail. So when one of these so-called creative geniuses comes around, it whips everyone into a star-struck frenzy. He might as well have been an actual rock star because everyone here at JTS was whipped. I was too hungover to be vaguely interested, but the rest of the office buzzed like the static on a television.
“I heard he doesn’t sleep . . . ever,” the strange pale vampire girl from layout said dreamily.
“He’s going to bring in a lot of new accounts . . . not to mention awards,” two senior managers said as they passed.
“I heard he nailed all the chicks at his last job,” two guys from IT said before a macho fist bump.
I sighed and started to roll my eyes, but they hurt too much. I opened my email and there it was: “Meeting in the Canteen to introduce new CD” (Creative Director). The meeting was in ten minutes. I lay my head on my desk and waited for the headache pills to kick in.
I must have drifted off to sleep though because I thought I heard someone say, “I heard he was raised by wolves.” I opened my eyes and looked around, but no one was there. I glanced at my watch—Crap!
I jumped up and ran to the canteen as fast as I could without tripping and landing on my face. When I finally got there, everyone was already inside and standing around a black-clad figure. I could only see the back of him from where I was. I glanced around looking for Becks and finally saw her standing in the front row with the other starry-eyed women. I carefully pushed my way forward trying not to be seen, but when I got there, he turned and suddenly I couldn’t breathe—
When you go to Greece to meet your family but end up snogging your smokin’ hot tour guide. #sorrynotsorry
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