Masterson In Love

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

"Thank you so much."

  "Now go and have a good time, and that's an order," she smiles. "Oh by the way, where's Roman? I haven't been able to catch up with him all night."

  I hear Sloan mutter behind my back.

  "Ah-ha and that is the million dollar question of the night, now isn't it."

  19

  Elizabeth

  I feel as if I'm having an out of body experience. I'm on the third floor of the gala, I've already freed myself from my Spanx (hallelujah!), and I'm watching a bartender named Patrick hand me drink after drink with a grin plastered across his face. I'm also watching myself become drunker and drunker. A loopy drunk. Laughing at every corny joke he makes. Paying very close attention to how he strokes his mustache then wipes the bar top with a white rag in a continuous circular motion. Over and over.

  A mirror covers the wall behind the bar from corner to corner. So I can easily see that I look drunk. Glazed over eyes. Flushed cheeks. Frizzy hair. I know that I need to quickly get my ass home and sleep it off, before I make a complete fool of myself, but it's like I can't stop myself. I'm a one woman wrecking ball. A total disaster.

  "I think I may have to cut you off young lady," Patrick says in what seems to be very slow motion. Of course I know it's just my liquored up brain translating his slightly midwestern accent into gibberish.

  "I know. I know. I should stop shouldn't I?"

  "You should have stopped a long time ago, but my guess is that you're trying to numb the pain."

  "You're so smart, Patttrickk," I slur. "Did I tell you that you have the same name as my dad?"

  You don't have to be smarter than a fifth grader to see that I'm drinking to stop myself from thinking about the flirt, also known as the cheater, who I've given my body to night after night since the day we practically met.

  My so-called boyfriend.

  My cousin.

  The asshole extraordinaire.

  After I pulled my big panties up and traveled down to the first level to say hello to Mr. Lambert and his wife (a successful endeavor by the way), I spotted Roman again.

  New location.

  New conversation.

  Same blonde.

  "You need to say something to him," Sloan chimes in. She's pretty drunk herself and when Sloan gets hammered, she gets confrontational.

  "Why!" I protest. "Why should I say anything to Roman El Stupido Masterson?"

  She looks over my shoulder.

  "Because I'm pretty sure that he's headed right this way."

  I whip my head quickly around, but notice that his six foot lying ass hasn't spotted me yet. He's scanning the room and there's the same short guy talking his ear off while he does it. Distracting him.

  Good.

  I'm so out of here.

  "I need to dip out of here, Patrick. Is there a side exit to this place?"

  "Uh-uh-uh, Elizabeth. We're not dipping out anywhere," Sloan says. "I'm going to continue sitting here drinking my drink, and you're going to stay seated right here next to me. Plus this isn't some rinky-dink nightclub. Any side door to this place is probably sealed or a fire door. The alarms will go off. Definitely not the way to be discreet. We're in semi-formal wear for God's sake."

  "Forget about your Givenchy, I just want to get out of here," I say.

  "Stop running. Just confront the bastard. There's no way out and you know it. Space or no fucking space, he's your boyfriend. You should talk to him, especially because the asshole is literally going to spot us in about the next ten seconds. Ten, nine, eight–"

  I move my head a little to the left, behind a very wide guy seated on the other side of me with slicked back hair and a glass of beer in his hands. He doesn't notice that I'm using him as a human shield while he continues to laugh about something with two of his equally large friends.

  "You're a horrible wingman. I don't know why I continue to go out with you," I whine as I try ducking my head even lower. "You're not my friend. You're not even trying to help me."

  "Of course I'm your friend drunkard, and by the way if I was your wingman, I'd be helping you pick up other men. Not hiding you from the one you have. Hell, there's no running from the Dark Knight anyway and you know it. He won't sleep until he finds you. He won't let anyone sleep. So suck it up, and deal with him."

  I know that what Sloan is saying is one hundred percent correct. I'm not a kid anymore. I just don't know if I'm sober enough for an intelligent conversation with Roman right now. I think I'm just clearheaded enough to curse him out, and then stumble to the street and hail a cab. I'll curse him out good too. I'll use the F word like he's always challenging me to use. Yeah, he'll know I'm done with his cheating butt for sure if I use the F word.

  "He sees us," Sloan warns. "Here he comes."

  All the bravery I felt a second ago, flies out the window the minute I lay eyes on Roman. I jump up from my stool and try to slink my way in the opposite direction, but moving like a ninja in a place that's packed, when you're three or four drinks deep (I lost count), and in platform heels is not an easy feat. Pros could pull it off, but not an amateur drunk like me.

  So I fall.

  Flat on my butt.

  In my tight gold dress.

  A large, sweaty hand helps me up on my feet by pulling me up by my elbow. I'm pretty sure it's the unusually wide guy who I was hiding behind. I can't help but notice how his arms are massively muscular. He probably uses steroids like that Mendez guy I think to myself.

  "You okay?" the stranger asks with genuine concern etched across his brow.

  I pull down my dress. "Yes, thank you."

  I'm pretty sure I just slurred that reply.

  "No problem. Are you–"

  "Take your hands off the lady please," a gruff voice commands.

  I'd know that lying, cheating voice anywhere, even though I've barely heard it the entire night.

  "Excuse me?" the stranger says as his back grows rigid and his chest puffs out.

  "I said please, motherfucker. Don't make me regret being polite."

  Suddenly the guy's two big friends dressed in abnormally tight suits turn around and stand in solidarity with the stranger.

  "You need help putting out some trash, bro?" One of them asks in reference to Roman.

  "Oh, shit." I hear Sloan mutter behind me.

  "That's right!" I exclaim feeling no pain.

  Strangely enough I still feel as if I'm out of my dang body. It's like somebody else is doing all the talking while I cheer this mysterious, brazen Elizabeth on.

  "Take out the trash." I agree because Roman made me feel like trash tonight. Okay, that may be an exaggeration, but all evening he's been acting like we're casual acquaintances, not as if we are in a loving relationship. I'm so mad at him right now, I could spit.

  Then he has the nerve to give me one of his infamous death ray glares for my trash comment, but then turns his attention right back to the three beefy guys who look like they are ready to pound him into dust.

  Good! Maybe an old fashioned ass kicking is what he needs right now to recognize everything he is taking for granted. Like how I risked my circulatory health just to look good in this dress for him tonight.

  "The lady belongs to me," he says in a voice that I swear is an octave lower than I've ever heard in my life. "So I'm going to say it one more fucking time. Take your hands off of her and step away."

  "I don't belong to anybody," I blurt out.

  There I go again.

  Drunk Elizabeth just keeps talking and talking.

  "And he's a liar!" I point to Roman's face.

  I know I'm playing with fire now, but I just can't help myself. I'm hurt, and angry, and I know that I'm probably starting some shit. But I just can't seem to bring myself to care right now. I want to piss Roman off, and I think it's working.

  "The lady says she doesn't belong to you. So why don't you just go on about your business, Ace."

  Then Roman's scar starts twitching.

  He cocks back his arm and with the pr
ecision of a sharp shooter punches beefy guy number one, my protector, dead in the jaw. And the hit miraculously drops him to the floor like a heavy sack of flour. Next he knees his friend, beefy guy number two, in the lower abdomen, sending him straight to the floor as well with a hard thump. When he steps to make a move towards the final guy, number three quickly throws his hands up in surrender and backs away.

  "Sorry, man." He stares down between his two friends on the ground and then proceeds to leave. "I didn't come here for a fucking bar fight."

  Something about seeing these two mammoth but well dressed men sprawled across the floor of my aunt's event wakes something up inside of me. My conscience. This is all my fault. If I've ruined my aunt's event, I'll never forgive myself.

  Roman cracks his neck to the side once while keeping his eyes dead on the two guys on the floor, while I take a few steps towards him. I've got to calm him down. His jugular vein is engorged, pulsating, and he looks like he's ready to kill someone.

  "Don't fucking move."

  The words are meant for me, and I stop dead in my tracks.

  "Do we understand each other yet?" he says while standing above the two men with a menacing look across his face.

  "Fuck, dude. Take her!"

  I know I'm still drunk, because I'm actually offended these guys are so willing to pass me off to the dressed up, tatted up, lunatic hovering above them. Well then again, maybe I do understand.

  "Pussies." Roman practically spits while throwing a couple of twenty dollar bills on the floor by their heads.

  "Uh ... security is coming," Sloan interrupts.

  "Can you handle this?" Roman says to the same stocky man I've seen him with all night.

  "I got it," he says.

  It's interesting that this well dressed, dad-looking guy doesn't even seem fazed by Roman's behavior. He's probably his parole officer I laugh to myself.

  Roman nods a good-bye to the man, then stalks over to me, grips my wrist, and pulls me away to a darkened nook of the room on the opposite end of the bar. I think Sloan mouths the words to me "kick him in the nuts" while I stumble clumsily forward. Luckily I manage to walk behind him without falling (which is a miracle), considering I'm in a too tight dress, too high heels, and have had too many strawberry whatever those were.

  We're both staring each other silently down. I'm pretty sure he's assessing my intoxication level, and I'm glaring at what almost looks like smeared lipstick on the corner of his mouth.

  Did she kiss him?

  Did he let her?

  I'm going to smack him and run.

  After a few moments between us, he's still deadly silent, fuming mad, and I couldn't give one single shit.

  He walks me backwards against a wall and slams his palm above my head as if that's supposed to intimidate me. But I'm not scared. I'm loaded with strawberry liquid courage.

  "What the fuck, Elizabeth."

  I cross my arms in front of me and close my eyes for a moment to help keep the room from spinning so much.

  "What?"

  "Don't play fucking games with me."

  "What?" I ask again after reopening my eyes.

  "Why are you pissy drunk tonight of all nights? Why didn't you respond to my text? Why were you encouraging those assholes back there? And how do you know that bartender?"

  How does he know I was talking to Patrick, and what text is he talking about? My phone is on vibrate and in my purse. I must have missed any text he may have sent, but that's totally besides the point, so I lie.

  "I didn't feel like returning your text."

  Roman slams his hand against the wall above my head again in aggravation. He's got the nerve to be really angry. The nerve!

  Then he briskly rubs over the top of his closely shorn head with his palm in utter aggravation. As if he has no clue what part he's played in what's happened tonight. He can't honestly be that stupid. Oops, there goes that word again I chuckle under my breath.

  "What the fuck is so funny, Elizabeth!"

  "You're funny."

  "There is nothing funny whatsoever about what happened tonight."

  "You're right. This night hasn't been fun at all."

  I'm sure he's going to lie. He's going to turn it around on me and try to make me out like I'm some crazy girlfriend. Which is how I kind of feel right about now. Like some trashy, jealous, maniac that you see on reality television.

  "I saw you," I say in an accusatory way.

  "Saw me what?"

  "Who were you talking to all night?"

  "Plenty of people. Half of the people here are clients I've done work for at some point or another, so what are you talking about? I don't speak crazy."

  "You're hilarious," I say sarcastically. "The blonde, Roman. The blonde."

  All of a sudden his facial expression changes and a wide grin spreads across his face as if he's had some sort of delightful epiphany.

  "You're jealous?"

  He brings one of his hands down off of the wall and begins to lightly caress my face. My reflexes are a little slow, but I do my best to smack it away.

  "All of this because of her?" he continues grinning.

  "You didn't talk to me all night, but you had plenty of things to say to her. I saw her talking about me too. Admit it!"

  He doesn't flinch at my words. In fact, all he does is continue to allow his hand to travel down the length of my body until it lands on my butt. He starts rubbing his strong hand in a circular motion and then intermittently kneads each cheek. It's just a light massage, nothing too erotic, but it feels so good that my eyes almost close in rapture.

  I missed his touch desperately. I don't ever want to be without it again.

  "You're not making any sense, baby. You're drunk. Let me take you home, take care of you properly, and when you sober up I'll tell you all about Kat."

  He had me up until he said the name.

  Kat.

  There's something about him saying her name out loud that sickens me. It's a nickname. Like he knows her well. Like there's a story behind the name.

  Women drool and fawn over Roman all the time. At the club. When we go out to eat. When we take Mr. Tibbs for a walk. When we go to the grocery store. That's nothing new to me. I don't like it, but I'm used to it, and I had to get used to it if I was going to be with him.

  But this woman is different. She wasn't fawning over Roman or begging for his attention. She didn't need to. He was totally focused on her tonight, and she was quite comfortable being on the receiving end. As if she was quite used to his attentions.

  "I don't want you to take me home."

  "It wasn't really a request. I'm taking you home."

  "Last time I checked, this was a free country, and I have choices."

  "You sound like a twelve-year-old right now."

  "You like to rub the asses of twelve year olds?" I say sarcastically.

  He instantly drops his hands.

  "Are you fucking serious right now? All this because I talked to one woman who I've known half my life, when you practically got me jumped tonight by three juice heads?"

  "No, this is all because I wouldn't let you fuck me in my office with Blake in the other room. Isn't that how we really got here?"

  "That prick again."

  "This isn't about Blake. This is about how you can't stomach hearing the word no. That and the fact that you don't trust anyone. Not even me."

  "That's funny. You actually talking about trust issues?"

  "I've turned my entire life upside down to be with you, Roman. My parents think I'm some sort of rebellious black sheep. They're waiting for me to come to my senses, meet a nice accountant, move back home and marry him. I've been putting all of my trust in you, but now I'm not so sure I made the right decision when you act like this."

  Roman grabs my face forcibly with his right hand, tilts it up, and moves his face as close as he can to mine without our faces touching. I can smell and feel his breath. An intoxicating whiff of chocolate and cognac floats
over me.

  "We had an argument. You said some things I didn't like. I was being a dick about it. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let it go this long, baby."

  I almost crumble when he uses that term of endearment, but I know that it's just the liquor breaking down my defenses.

  Remember Kat, Elizabeth.

  "You were talking to that woman on every floor of the gala," I shake my head, "I don't know."

  Roman holds my face tightly and pulls it in closely to his. "Were you spying on me all night, Duchess? Because I have to tell you, the fact that you were is turning me the fuck on."

  He bends down and presses his granite hard pelvis up and against mine. Even though my tight dress won't allow him to position himself completely in between my legs, I can feel him. Every solid inch. He's not lying. He is turned on, and God help me so am I, but I refuse to let my hormones distract me.

  That's the liquor messing with you, Elizabeth. Stay focused.

  "I saw everything," I say.

  "What do you think you saw, baby?"

  He starts inching up my dress by the hem. I don't think anyone can see us in this dimly lit corner of the room, but I look around anyway. The last thing I need is to get caught fooling around with my cousin at my aunt's fundraising event. I can tell by the look on his face that he's surprised to find me commando.

  "No panties a-fucking-gain?" He says in a thick and needy voice.

  Ignore that, Elizabeth.

  "You were smiling and laughing. You touched her. You had your hand on her back. Damn near her ass. You were looking at her the way you sometimes look at me. It was ... disgusting."

  "The way I look at you is disgusting?" he chuckles as one of his hands begins caressing my butt. His fingers teasing the crack of it.

  "You think this is funny?"

  I'm seriously offended.

  "I think it's very funny."

  "Then you're an even bigger ass than I gave you credit for. Just be a man and tell me who she is."

  "Be a man, huh."

  "Yes, be a–"

  He slides his middle finger inside of me while staring at me with great intensity. I'm drenched, so it's real easy for him to do, but I try my best not to clench down on it like my body normally automatically does. I don't want to give him the satisfaction ... or myself.