by Lexi Aurora
This time, thankfully, it’s just a table of delighted tourists, who all clap their hands in glee and thank me profusely. And yet, every time I’m about to successfully escape, another one of them pipes in about their favorite part of the class, how they almost burned themselves, ha-ha, he-he, etc. All the while I stay dutifully frozen in place, with my smile plastered on, half hoping they can see how eager I am to leave so they will let me go in peace—it’s 5:15 p.m. now, and I don’t get paid for the extra time. But the whole group is delightedly oblivious, chattering on and on, not really including me—I’m just a symbol really. God, I can’t wait until I get my app developed; then I won’t have to deal with this nonsense anymore.
When I finally do tear myself away, I’m almost at the back of the restaurant when someone grabs my arm. I freeze. I twist around to see Geno. Closer to the back of the restaurant now, away from most of the patrons, Geno’s fake smile contorts into a scowl.
“What were you doing?”
I avoid his angry gaze.
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. Those people at that table at the front over there—those customers. You weren’t even pretending to be interested in what they were saying. You were rude, unconvincing, ungrateful.”
Now I dare meet his furious gaze with my own. I rip my arm away.
“Can I say something?”
Geno and I turn around to see the speaker, a customer we didn’t notice at a booth nearby. Though how we didn’t notice him is a miracle in itself; the man is, hands down, the most gorgeous guy I’ve ever seen. Model-sculpted face, dark curls the pride of any hairstylist, he’s wearing a black suit, and his piercing blue gaze is locked on me. Running a Rolex-watched hand through his hair, his gaze flicks to Geno.
“May I speak to your chef?”
Geno’s scowl immediately inverts into a placating smile.
“Of course, sir, of course!”
And then he’s gone, leaving me with the gorgeous man who I definitely didn’t teach today and yet still seems strangely familiar. With one finger the man beckons me over, and with wobbly legs I make my way to him and sit across from him. Plopped on the red plastic booth there, I can only gape at him with a half-stupefied stare. I’m too exhausted and starving for this.
“I’ve had your food before.”
“Oh?”
He grins, showcasing a line of perfect white teeth.
“Here in the restaurant, Picklebucket. And my buddy, Gerald, I don’t know if you remember him—big guy, dopey kind of smile—he came here. Before he would screw up Kraft dinner, and now, thanks to you, he’s making edible dishes: casseroles, pies.”
As I continue to stare at him stupidly, he explains “So I came here. To learn how to cook.”
The lightbulb lighting up in my head, I nod, smile.
“Great. You can just talk to my boss, Geno. It’s actually the end of my shift now.”
But when I rise, he does too.
“Why do you let him talk to you like that?”
“Who—Geno?”
The man nods, those too-blue eyes tracing the contours of my face, looking for something I’ll bet isn’t there. I avert my gaze.
“Geno means well. He’s taught me a lot; he just cares more about the customers than his own chefs.”
The man’s face appears as unsatisfied as I feel at my own response.
“Besides, I’m just biding time here until I can find an investor for my app.”
At my admission slipping out, I feel my cheeks redden as I avert my gaze again.
“No way.”
“Forget I said anything.”
But when I start to walk off, the man’s cool hand grips mine. When I turn to him, he looks as surprised as I feel and releases my hand.
“Sorry. I just—I’m an investor and have been looking for a new opportunity.”
The man returns to the table, sweeps his hand across from him where I’d been sitting before.
“Why don’t you sit down and tell me about your project?”
I pause. Really, at this point that’s just about the last thing I want to do. I’ve got a throbbing headache and a roaring stomach ache, but there’s something about this man, about what he said. I don’t know why, but I know instinctively that I should stay.
“Here.” The man fishes something out of his pocket. “Why don’t I give you my business card and you come by my office to talk more when you have more time?”
Once again, I’m speechless. Because the name on this card suddenly explains why this man looked familiar; he is familiar. Sitting in the booth less than two feet away from me is none other than Allan Dane, notorious billionaire, womanizer, and tabloid fodder.
Now he’s rising, passing by me.
“You know where to find me.”
And then he’s gone, leaving me half-stupefied. I find myself sitting back in the booth, staring at where he’d been sitting mere seconds ago, turning his card in my hand. Something tells me this may be the most important card I’ve received in a while—and the most dangerous.
Chapter 2
At home, a quick nap and half a BBQ chicken are enough to revive me. Angel is curled up on the couch with Popper, both of them casting pitying looks at my sprawled form on the other couch. Angel tosses me the chip bag, which I just manage to catch.
“Another long day?”
I dig around in the Lay’s bag for a minute, getting myself a nice big handful before responding.
“Yup, you know how Geno is. It’s not a real workday unless you’ve been held back at least ten minutes’ overtime with no pay.”
Angel tut-tuts, a red curl falling in her face, which she tucks away as she looks at me.
“You dropped this on your way in, I think.”
Face-to-face with the card, I manage a dismissive wave of my hand.
“Yeah, I met the Allan Dane today. Just strolled on into Picklebucket and asked to talk to me.”
Angel jerks to attention so suddenly that poor Popper half leaps half tumbles off the couch in fright.
“What?”
I lean down to gesture Popper over. Once his little wiener dog body has reached me, I pat him.
“Yeah, crazy, right? Apparently, he wanted some cooking classes with me, so I told him to talk to Geno. When I let it slip that I needed an investor for my app and practically ran out of there, though, he handed me his card and told me I could come by his office to talk my project over.”
Now Angel’s gaping at me, her slanted eyes practically bulging out of her head.
“No way.”
I laugh.
“That’s what he said.”
Angel gets up and flops on the couch beside me. She picks up Popper and plants him on her lap, running her long fingers absently over his sleek brown coat.
He looks so well and fat now, I almost forget what he looked like when we found him on the street: the patches on his fur that were missing, the frightened look in his eyes.
Angel’s voice breaks me out of my reverie. “So, are you going to go?”
I shrug.
“I don’t know. This is Allan Dane we’re talking about. I just want someone to back my app; I don’t want to be the star of some crazy tabloid spread involving starlets and drama galore. Besides, Geno would flip out if I tried to leave.”
Angel is silent, though I can feel her insistent gaze drilling into me. Finally, she speaks.
“Eva...”
Still, I avoid meeting her eye.
“What?”
“You know what. This is big. This is a chance—the chance you’ve been waiting for.”
I shake my head, refusing to look at her. If I do, then her contagious optimism will become mine too, and right now, I’m not sure I can afford that. But Angel isn’t one to be easily dissuaded.
“Don’t do this Eva. Don’t do that thing where you undersell yourself and give up before you even start. Your idea is good—great. You know it is.”
“Yeah, but
Allan Dane hasn’t even heard it yet. He probably won’t think so. The most interest he’s ever shown in cooking was when he publicly reprimanded some famous chef a few months back, okay? There’s no point in getting my hopes up just so they can be shot down.”
Popper lets out a little yip.
“Popper’s right—you’re giving up before you’ve even tried.”
I frown at the blank TV screen. What I need to be doing right now is drowning my sorrows in some good old Vampire Diaries, not arguing over some pipe dream with my equally broke roommate.
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend you can read the dog’s mind.”
Another one of Popper’s yips. Angel grabs the TV remote my hand’s inching for.
“C’mon, your idea is good, you know it is. An app that lets you enter in a list of ingredients you have on hand and then generates a delicious recipe? An app that you can use at home, at work, anywhere? It’s genius and you know it.”
In spite of myself, a smile is making its way onto my face, while my gaze is being irresistibly drawn to Angel’s beaming, high-cheekboned face.
“Maybe you’re right, but I don’t trust this Allan Dane.”
“You don’t have to trust him; you just have to try. Maybe it won’t work, but there’s no harm in trying.”
I stay silent. Truth be told, I can’t explain my exaggerated reticence myself. Why I think that, despite everything, there may be harm in trying at all, that there’s something about Allan Dane... Something about his ridiculous good looks, easy smile, and extended gaze that make me uneasy.
“Eva,” Angel says, “Don’t make me give you the speech.”
I sigh, hold out my hand.
“Can you just give me the remote, please?”
Now Angel’s on her feet.
“Eva Angelica Lynn. Look around you. We are two people living in a 300-square-foot apartment in New York City, the most expensive city in the world. We have been trying, unsuccessfully, for over a year to save enough for a flat-screen TV to replace our bipolar, slowly dying, beast of a box TV. We trade cookies to the woman a few units down in exchange for her walking Popper, since we can’t afford an actual dog walker. Your father is in the shittiest nursing home New York has. If you have the slightest smallest hint of a chance at improving this situation and you don’t go for it, I’ll throw you out the window myself.”
“It only opens halfway,” I remind her, and we crack up.
Angel pokes me in the side.
“I’m serious. I’m not going to let this rest.”
I sigh. By now, I know Angel well enough to know that she’s not kidding. After all, I wouldn’t only do the same for her, I have. I was the one who’d convinced her not to drop out of school after her brother died. I was the one who had stood at her door, banging on it and yelling until she’d let me in and I’d said my piece. Not to mention that Angel and I have been best friends since we could walk and talk. So, the chances of her letting this rest are just about zero.
“Fine, Angel. I’ll go tomorrow, okay? Now please, hand me the remote.”
The rest of the night, we veg out in front of the TV—Angel, Popper, and me, chips and Vampire Diaries galore. I just about completely forget about Allan Dane. That is, until nighttime.
I wake up back in there, the restaurant: Picklebucket, with its hideous red plastic booths and, yes, Allan Dane. He’s wearing the same gray suit as before, the same intense stare.
This time, however, after he’s given me his business card and walked away, I slump into the booth to find myself right beside him. He’s in the booth next to me, laughing.
“You think I’d let you go that easily?”
Next thing I know his hand is on my thigh, under the table.
“What are you doing?”
I gape at him, but he only laughs.
“What you want me to.”
His hand is moving higher and higher as he speaks.
“You knew my reputation, and it excited you; it was written all over your face. You want this.”
I’m trying to move, but my body isn’t cooperating, only trembling with pleasure at his touch, his words.
You’re wrong, is what I intend to say, but what comes out is “You’re right.”
The restaurant is dead silent, and yet the customers are still here, the table of tourists from before; Geno must be somewhere too. I turn to Allan.
“What about my boss?”
Just then, Geno appears beside me. He’s sitting on my other side, and I’m wedged between them, Geno and Allan. Geno’s hip is digging into me, his voice, a singsong refrain.
“The customer’s always right. The customer’s always right.”
By now, Allan Dane’s hand is on my pussy. Over my pants, he strokes expertly, enjoying my discomfort with a pitiless grin. I jerk my head to the rest of the restaurant, which is packed.
“But we’re in the middle of the restaurant.”
Allan gives his chiseled head a nod.
“I can take care of this.”
With one swift sideways flick of his hip, he bops me to the side into Geno, who’s sent sprawling on the floor.
As I gasp out apologies, Geno lolls out on the floor, grinning that horrible fake grin of his.
“The customer’s always right. The customer’s always right.”
Now, Allan Dane is shoving me out of the booth too. We step on Geno, and Allan rips open my blouse, tears it off, and tosses it to the table of cheering tourists.
“The best dish! No burn!”
Already Allan’s tracing the edges of my bra with his lips, his fingers following close behind. I’m rooted to the spot, terrified, and yet, undeniably aroused. We’re still standing on Geno, and when Allan rips down my pants, they fall on Geno’s flabby belly. Allan’s taking me in with a starving look.
“God, you’re lucky I waited this long to do this.”
And then his lips are proving the truth of his words, plastering over mine, his tongue continuing the dance, the round and round, the flick and slide, the in and out, the onward rhythm that can’t be stopped—won’t be.
When Allan picks me up and shoves me onto the table, he rips my pants off all the way so I’m in just my underwear and apron. Allan grabs my chin, speaking right into my face.
“Turn around.”
And, the most shocking thing of all, is that I do.
I turn around and he spanks me, so hard that it resounds around the room, sending the table of tourists into a fit of boisterous applause. At his next ass strike, he grabs my panties and pulls them down. I’m moaning and he’s groaning too, his hands delighting in my bare flesh.
“Jesus, these curves of yours.”
My bra is the next to go, flung behind somewhere, gone. I don’t care now. The worst has happened. No longer am I afraid of Allan continuing; now I’m afraid of him stopping.
He shoves me around again, so my bare back’s on the table and I’m staring up as he engulfs my nipple with his mouth. Oh fuck, does it feel good. As if that wasn’t enough, his hand slides down, giving my other breast a squeeze, then farther down, over my belly, then farther, over my landing strip. Then, his hand’s on my pussy lips, then between them, timing his fingering perfectly to his sucking, in then out, round then round. Now my moans are almost shrieks, and he’s burying his face between my boobs, rocking himself back and forth, motorboating me to ecstasy. When he’s done, he’s gasping, ripping down his own pants, his briefs coming with it. And, just as he presses himself to me, just as I feel how thick and hard he is, just as he shoves himself into me and my whole body explodes into pleasure, he barks.
We both freeze, then he licks me, barks again. As I stare at him, Popper’s head pops up where his face was. As I scream, I wake up.
Angel’s in the doorway with a frying pan held high.
“What the hell?”
I take one look at Popper’s tongue-wagging face as he stands on my still-clothed body.
“It was just a dream.”
“I thought it was...” She takes a dubious look at the rusty old frying pan still gripped in her hand, then shakes her head. “I don’t know what I thought.”
We exchange a glance, then burst out laughing. Angel comes to the edge of my bed and plops down.
“That must have been some dream—you tossed and turned your whole comforter off.”
I looked at the fallen, crumpled-up thing on the floor, nodding without saying anything. Nope, that dream is one thing I’m not admitting to—not ever.
With a heave, I throw myself out of bed.
“I’m going to go.”
“What, now?”
I glance at the clock. It’s only 7 a.m., but I have to get ready and get over there too, after all.
“Yep—first stop Allan Dane’s office. Dibs on the bathroom.”
And then I’m in there, having escaped to the shower. In the tall, tiny box, I still manage to revel in the warm droplets and my now certainty. I’m not going to let some twisted erotic dream dissuade me from what I have to do. No, Angel was right. This wasn’t just for myself anymore or even for showing Geno; it was for the people I loved. Angel. Popper. Dad. I owe it to them to at least try, whatever the consequences. Though, as I step out of the shower and stare at my still-flushed face, something tells me that the consequences of what I’m about to do are even more serious than I can imagine.
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PREVIEW: Wrong for Me by Lexi Aurora
Chapter 1: Tyler
I looked around the apartment as the movers carried things in around me. It was spacious, large and open, with a big kitchen that I knew I would barely use, and a front room with a fireplace that had been lit by the real estate agent before I’d gotten there. It was meant to be welcoming and it was—I had made a good choice in deciding to move after my younger sister had taken over my apartment with her constant partying, and I had a feeling that this apartment was a good place for me to start a quiet life by myself.