Filthy Gorgeous

by Knight, Jodi

  I even let her stick a finger up my ass, for Christ’s sake. It was freaky at first, but I let her massage my prostate because it was, well … her.

  Now she’s taken those talented fingers elsewhere.

  I guess the heart has reasons that reason doesn’t understand. I read that in a free fortune cookie that came with my Chinese takeout. But, it rings true, doesn’t it?

  Contrary to popular belief, men take break-ups harder than women. Some guys say they don’t cry. That’s bullshit. We do. We just make sure the drapes are drawn.

  No one is allowed to see us cry. No one can see our pain.

  Ella Bryant will never witness my hot man tears.

  Men meet with the guys. We drink the bar dry. We flirt with the hot bartender. We play Call of Duty for two days straight. Some men skip all of that and just hit on the next girl they see.

  I have a confession to make and you’re going to hate me. Before you throw your Manolo Blahniks at me, just hear me out.

  Last night’s developments left me devastated. I was numb and lonely, like an Eskimo’s gonads. After Ella left me lolling around on the sand like a beached whale, I was in shock.

  In denial.

  And then angry.

  So I went back to join the party, I got shitfaced, and danced the night away.

  Then I fucked Renée in the swimming pool.

  Twice.

  Chlorine kills spunk straight away, right?

  I sure hope so. I don’t want to find out in a few years from now that she bottled my swimmers and put them on freeze.

  Okay, you can throw your shoes at me now. Heel first—I deserve the pain.

  You think I should feel guilty? Well, I don’t. Ella walked away. She chose this. She left me. There will be no drunk-dialing this time. I’ll give her the space she so desperately fucking craves. Better still, now I’ve salvaged my inheritance fund, how about I build a spaceship, send her to Pluto, and put five billion miles between us?

  By the way, the sex with Renée was the best we’ve ever had. Rigorous. She was eager to please. Needy. We were wasted, but I can’t deny that the anxiety that swelled in my gut as we fucked was invigorating. Like a bungee jumper going over the Hoover Dam, I bounced back and I screwed her all over again.

  Just because I could.

  It was easy and merciless; an instant gratification that got me through the first painful hours of my new reality.

  Cruel? Sure. I closed my eyes and pretended it was Ella. Do you hate me yet? Fine. I don’t need your approval anyway.

  ***

  It’s Thursday afternoon.

  I’m working from home. By working, I mean binge-watching Breaking Bad on Netflix. I haven’t been in the office since the party. I can’t face it. Renée. My team. The barrage of questions. The rumors. The speculation.

  I’m not moving off this couch until I figure out where it all went so wrong. I rarely wish I was somebody else. After all, you’d be insane to trade down this face. But right now, I wish I was a scientist. I’d build a time machine and go back to a place when I felt less hollow. Less lonely.

  What do you think she’s doing right now? Interviewing bachelor’s I expect. Shit. I know she still had to interview Brett Booker, some finance hot shot. He makes the wolf of Wall Street look like a frigging poodle. My mind dances with paranoid fantasies.

  I shovel a spoonful of Rocky Road ice cream in my mouth and let a montage of the events of the past few weeks roll through my mind. Has Ella’s opinion of me hit such an all-time low that she actually thought I’d accept a gum job from Cougar?

  I mean, really?

  However hard I try, I can’t be mad at her. I should have told her earlier about the stupid advert. I should have told her about my father. I should have told how special she is. That she was the only girl in my harem.

  That I was beginning to …

  Well, you know what I’m trying to say, don’t you?

  ***

  I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.

  I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see her. Only a week ago our warm bodies twisted together under this very duvet, and now I only have my hand for company.

  Too much?

  I apologize. I’m really horny. What’s a lonely, sex-starved reject to do to relieve the frustration? Sure, there are 1-800 numbers for that, but I’ve never paid to jerk off and I’m not about to start now.

  Ladies, I’m folding faster than an origami chair.

  I give in.

  I’m weak.

  Call me a pussy. I don’t care.

  There’s only one way to fix this. I’m going straight to the source of my malaise. I don’t need to see her. I just need to hear her voice again. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Christ, will you calm down? I’m not going to stalk her at home. I’m just calling her office. It’s eleven in the evening. I know she won’t be there; I already used Caller ID and listened to her outgoing message at least a dozen times this week.

  Like I said, not a stalker, I’m just an unpaid telemarketer. Got that?

  I pick up the phone and punch in her number, like a junkie dialing his crack dealer. A few seconds later, I’m greeted by the soothing sound of her voice.

  “Hi. This is Ella Bryant at NY Style. I’m sorry I’m unable to get to the phone right now, but I will return your call as quickly as possible. Please leave your name and telephone number after the tone. Thanks for calling. Good bye.”

  She has such a sweet voice, don’t you think? My dick thinks so, too. I hang up and grab a bottle of Passion Lube from my side table. Using my free fingers, I redial her number. I don’t think I need to tell you what I’m holding in my other hand.

  I hold my deep breath as I wait to hear her dulcet tones serenade me once more.

  “Hello?”

  Fuckety-fuck.

  She answered?

  At least, I think it’s her.

  “Alex, is that you?”

  Yep, it’s her. Think fast, Slade.

  I exaggerate the huskiness in my voice. “Hey, I, umm … Ella? I must have accidentally rolled on my phone.”

  I hear her sigh. “Riiight. How many times is that this week now? Thirty? Forty?”

  Busted.

  “Maybe.”

  “I was getting worried I had a stalker. I asked you to give me some space. Isn’t this inappropriate?”

  I say through a smile. “I am inappropriate, but you know that already. Anyway, you picked up.”

  “Because I didn’t know for sure it was you.”

  “But you had your suspicions, and you still picked up anyway.”

  Caught her out there, didn’t I?

  I sink back against my plush pillow, close my eyes, and pretend she’s next to me. “What are you working on?”

  “If you must know, I’m finishing your article.”

  “Did I make the top ten?”

  “What if I said no?”

  I suck in air and feign shock. “Then I’m afraid you leave me with no choice.”

  “Choice?”

  “I’d have to date you relentlessly until I was number one. Long walks along the beach, nude picnics in the moonlight, naked chess tournaments, naked theater nights. Naked anything.”

  She’s silent for a moment. “That’s a whole lot of naked. Actually, I passed that decision to my colleagues. To stand any chance of a top ten finish you’d have to date every person in our office. Including Jake the intern.”

  That’s a cruel conundrum. It’s like promising a guy a free pass to The Corrs sisters every single day for life, but only if he sticks it to the brother first. I mull over the dilemma. I’m going to have to bleach my brain to cleanse it of that visual.

  “Ella, I’d take Jake if it meant you’d see me again. But, please warn him that I go no further than first base on the first date.”

  She snickers. “Alex, we’ve been through this. Space, remember?”

  Click.

  I redial. She doesn’t answ
er, so I leave a message.

  “If you don’t pick up, I’ll break into your apartment and drown the kittens. One for every day you ignore me, starting with Parsnip. Don’t think that I—”

  She picks up. “Don’t you dare, Alexander Slade. Touch my pussies and the cock gets it.”

  She’s lying. She would never hurt Petie. My cock on the other hand …

  I roll on my side. My voice turns serious. I can’t hold back any longer. “Ella, I miss you. I have to see you.”

  “Alex …”

  I whine. “Just hear me out. Listen, I’ve been practicing the whole boundary thing. I woke up this morning with a huge stiffy. I could have called any of my ex-Sladies to ease the pressure, but I didn’t because you give the best head, baby. No-one else will do.”

  She scoffs. “For a self-confessed advertising expert you’re really not selling yourself very well. Is that supposed to impress me?”

  “It impresses most girls. Past tense, of course. Please? I need to see you.”

  She tries to speak, but stops herself. She hesitates in a way that suggests she’s definitely thinking about it. “Alex, I can’t. Once I’ve signed this article off I’m taking a vacation.”

  Say what?

  “Where?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Paris.”

  Shit. And I’m thrown into panic mode. I sense imminent danger. Not Paris. Anywhere but Paris. You know what’s in Paris?

  French men, thousands of them, roaming freely around the city. Ella is vulnerable and they’re as persistent as a case of hemorrhoids. Then my mind is overloaded with images of her beautiful legs being violated by oversexed onion-sellers with slicked back hair and wandering hands.

  I can do persistence, too. Alexander Slade will not be beaten by a sleazy snail-sucker.

  “When do you fly?”

  “Eight tomorrow morning, and I haven’t even packed yet, so, if you don’t mind, I need to finish this.”

  I try again. “Let’s do breakfast before you leave. I know an all-night cafe on Madison. Their Eggs Benedict is to—”

  She cuts me off. “I’ll let you know when I’m back, okay?”

  I give a resigned sigh. “Fine.”

  See? Two can play at that game.

  “Good night, Alex.”

  “Good night and sweet dreams, Ella. I know mine will be wet. I hope yours are —”

  Click.

  ***

  When one of our ad campaigns has run its course, we meet to review and analyze its effectiveness. Did it provoke the intended action from our target audience? What was the most fruitful media channel?

  Most import of all; did we sell enough shit to please our clients?

  I got bored of moping around my apartment, so I pulled on my big boy pants and got my game face on.

  It’s Saturday afternoon. As I’m an awesome boss, I decided my team and I should work our weekend shift from a whisky bar instead of the office, as you do.

  “Parker, how many hits did we get on the In-Stream ads?”

  His eyes snap open. He scans his screen. “Nine hundred and eighty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-two. Goddamn. I need another drink.”

  He gets up and heads toward the bar. See those panda rings around his eyes? He’s exhausted. Things are heating up with Carrie. Last weekend she took him to a Pottery Barn expo. The poor bastard spent his downtime picking out ceramic cats and china patterns for her kitchen renovation.

  As he’s spending all of his free time with Carrie, I pumped him for information. Ella is in France for two weeks. Two frigging weeks. Screw patience, why can’t hurry-the-hell-up be a virtue?

  But here’s the kicker: he’s ninety-nine per cent certain that she went on a date before she left. He was watching TV and she emerged from her room dressed to the hilt. Killer heels. Mussed hair. The works. When confronted by Carrie, she refused to tell her where she was going. Mysterious, right? I mean, what the actual fuck?

  She can’t be back with Jockass, she just can’t. There’s no goddamn way.

  I’m not jealous, just territorial. Got that?

  I haven’t been idle in her absence. I reviewed the shortcomings of my own romantic campaign. What did I do wrong? Should I have been more attentive? Did I miss her clitoris? Is my two-fingers-and-a-thumb technique outdated? Am I nothing more than a fuckstick on her road to recovery?

  Most importantly of all; did I do enough to win her over for good?

  The answer is no.

  There’s so much I still want to say to her. I want to show Ella that she’s the only girl in my harem. I’ve got a whole heap of fun stuff planned.

  Dinners. Romantic weekends away. Multiple orgasms.

  Parker returns with our drinks, and my cell phone rings.

  It’s Ella. My heart starts thumping when I answer—it’s like answering a radio signal from paradise.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi Alex.”

  There’s a few seconds of silence before she speaks again. “I just got back. I need to see you. Can we meet?”

  I don’t answer right away. I don’t want to seem needy, so I tell her. “I’m in a meeting right now.”

  “Right. When do you finish?”

  “About an hour.”

  “I can come to your place?”

  Nice.

  “See you in an hour?”

  “Sure.”

  Click.

  Okay, so it was a short call, but you have to read between the lines.

  Not only does Ella Bryant want to see me, she needs to see me. She missed me in an I-can’t-wait-to-drop-to-my-knees-and-pleasure-you kind of way.

  I knock back my liquor and grab my jacket. “Guys, I have urgent business to attend to.”

  Karl’s pulls a face. “Hey, you can’t leave. We haven’t finished the social media review yet.”

  I check my hair in a nearby mirror. “That was Ella. I have to see her. Right now. I have to know what’s going on.”

  ***

  When I arrive at my apartment, I find she’s here, sitting cross-legged outside my door. God, I’ve missed her so much. Her laugh. Her face. If I could arrive home from work every night and find this beauty in my hallway, I’d have the happiest dick in Manhattan.

  Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a tight black sweater that nicely hugs her breasts. Tight jeans and minimal make-up give her an understated look, but it’s still gorgeous. Sexy. Like the sweet girl-next-door you really want to bone. Christ, I need to touch her.

  She looks up, and those hazel doe-eyes meet mine.

  Ell stands and accepts my embrace, but it’s awkward, like I’ve never been eyeball-to-eyeball with her pussy. I open the door and she follows me inside.

  As soon as we’re over the threshold, Petie starts bouncing up and down like a low-rider.

  “He missed you, Ella,” I tell her as she crosses the room to greet my feathered friend. I’d prefer it if she made a beeline for my other cock, but we can work on that. She strokes Petie’s crest for a few moments before turning her eyes on mine.

  I can’t frigging take it anymore. I need to know who she’s fucking. A name and address, that’s all, that’s I need for Hitman Express, goddammit. It’ll be quick. Clean. And if they’re running a buy-one-get-one-free I’ll pay them to take Jockstrap out, too.

  I cross my arms across my chest. “Ella, before you tell me about your vacation, there’s something I need to know.”

  She blinks a few times. “Okay, go ahead.”

  I stand up and start circling my dining table like a lion pacing around its cage. “Tell me the truth, Ella. Are you getting back together with Jockass?”

  Her nose wrinkles. “Who?”

  “Tyler!” I stress, with greater force than intended.

  She looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a third eye. “What? Why would you think that?”

  “It’s a logical deduction. Parker told me about your date. You wouldn’t tell Carrie wher
e you were going, and you didn’t tell her about Tyler because you knew damn well she’d follow you and maim him.”

  An amused smile spreads over her face. “You’re right.”

  “I am?”

  “Sure. She’d maim him. But, anyway, you’re totally off base.”

  Puzzled, my face twists in confusion. “I am?”

  She sighs and stands up. “I admit it. I had dinner with a guy, but it wasn’t Tyler. I wanted to see you as soon as I got back because I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  Have you ever seen Basic Instinct? Of course you have. I feel like that cop. I’ve been sucked in by a beautiful woman and she’s about to take an ice pick to my chest and break my heart into a thousand pieces.

  I suck in air. “Who is he?”

  Tugging at her silver necklace, she stares out of the window.

  Her silence tells me all I need to know; she’s hooked up with a French man. I don’t know why I’m so damn surprised. I mean, apparently they have the biggest dicks in Europe. Length and width. I mentally slap myself. I should have stuck with the original plan and set fire to myself in the middle of JFK in protest, like one of those Tibetan monks.

  What she says next makes me want to book myself in for an ear lobotomy. “Professor Bernstein has been great.”

  Let’s just pause right here. Did I hear that right?

  When I finally manage to pick my jaw up from the ground, I don’t hold fire. “You went to dinner with Professor Bernstein?”

  She nods stiffly. “Yes.”

  Holy shit.

  That musty-jacketed, backstabbing, motherfucking son of a bitch. The next time he begs my father for funding, I’ll be sure to rip him a new asshole and stuff the bills where the sun doesn’t shine.

  “Professor Bernstein!”

  That was Petie. We both turn to his cage and say, “Shhhh!”

  I push my hands through my hair in frustration and pace again. “I gotta say, Ella, I’m shocked. George Clooney, I can understand, but a maggoty old crusty cock like Bernstein? He looks like the frigging Cryptkeeper”

  “It’s not—”

  Ignoring her, I continue. “I guess if your loins are burning with a bad case of gerontophilia, you’ll take anyone, right?”

  “Alex, I—”

  “Is it his ginger ear-hair? His glass eye? His tweed underpants? Or maybe his shriveled-up, hundred-year-old needle dick? Come on tell me ‘cause I’m dying to know just what it is about him that gets you wet.”