by JA Huss
“It’s too much. And the money, Vaughn, please. It’s sending me all kinds of mixed messages. I don’t understand what’s happening. All of this is just too much!”
“Too much how? Your constant objections to everything I say and do are sending me mixed messages. Jesus, do you even like me? From the way you react to everything I do, I’m going to have to say no. The money is not complicated, Grace. You must worry about bills, you don’t make very much. So why is it too much to take that worry away?”
“You’re trying to buy me.”
“Buy you for what? That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does to a poor person.” And then she hangs up.
And that is bullshit. I redial and get ringing. One, two, three, four, voicemail. “Grace, call me back.”
I take my credit card and stuff it in my wallet as I exit the cafe, sliding my sunglasses down over my eyes, as I head into the paparazzi. They bombard me with questions, cameras clicking, people touching me. The crowds gather, but the valet is there, and then the security from the restaurant comes to help—this is the cafe to the stars, they know how to deal—and I slip into the Range Rover, check traffic, and pull out onto Santa Monica, heading west.
I’d like to forget about her.
That’s a lie. I’d like to fly to Denver right now and fuck that girl until she relents and lets me boss her around.
I chuckle a little because she hates the bossing. I get it. Lots of girls hate it. But I’m half joking about it with Grace. I can take no for an answer, but not all the fucking time. She wants to say no to me just to say no. And while I like to spar with her, it bugs me that she’s so combative. Can’t she see I’m playing? I’m not sure if she’s pretending to be offended by the money, or if she really is.
Isn’t that why she works? Isn’t that why everyone works? To make money and pay bills, and do new things, or take care of kids?
I’m not out to offend her. I just wanted to help her
I dial her phone again, and again, it goes to voicemail. “Why can’t you just say thank you? Why can’t you just feel good about the money? Why can’t you just enjoy it?” I hang up and wait to see if she calls me back.
I don’t want to squash her independent nature and I like her feistiness. I wonder how feisty she can be in bed when she’s not getting fucked publicly. I’d like to find that out and I’d like to find that out right now.
But I put on my blinker and turn right at Laurel Canyon to head up into the hills. I’ve got meetings and she’s got a job. I try and remember how long it’s been since I was dating a woman with an actual job. Someone who was not paid to hang out and wait for me to show up.
Wait, did I just refer to this as dating?
We’re not dating. I shake my head and laugh. I don’t date, and not only that, long-distance relationships never work. And I’d never date a girl in Denver, for fuck’s sake. Denver. No. Colorado is a place you go on vacation. You ski there, you don’t date girls there. You might fuck some girls there, and I do plan on fucking Miss Kinsella there. But that’s not dating. I don’t know what this is, a friendship maybe. But it’s not dating.
I check my phone to see if I’ve missed any messages, but no. She’s not calling me back. That’s OK. I will leave her alone so she can work today, but if that woman thinks I’m going to walk away from our sex tweeting tonight, she’s mistaken.
Ten minutes later I pull up to the gates of my modern mid-century home and the security guards let me through with a smile and a wave. I have a tuxedo fitting later this afternoon, but the tailor comes to the house, so I plan on spending my day at the pool thinking up ways to make Miss Kinsella blush and wiggle with one hundred and forty characters.
Chapter Twenty-Six - Grace
#SomeAssholesAreBrilliant
I THROW my purse down on the table near the front door, kick off my heels, and flop down on my couch. Exhausted.
Walking to work this morning was fun and exciting, but the reality is that I need my car during the day to meet people. So all that musing over living and working local was just bullshit. I can’t ride the bus to meet clients. It’s stupid. Just stupid. It took me forever to get over to Park Hill today, and I was totally late because I had forgotten that I didn’t drive. And instead of going home and picking up my car, I insisted that I try to get around without one.
Denver has no real train system, so public transportation is not an option like it is in bigger cities. So now I live two blocks from work and I’ll still have to drive every day.
The future Mrs. Blazen—who actually does have a name and it’s Kristi—was a mess. A total mess. All that fake happiness on the phone was just that. Fake. She tried to force the smile with me too, but in person you can see she’s having a very hard time dealing. She’s pregnant for one, and that’s why all this hush-hush stuff with the wedding, and she’s far enough along for everyone to know that she got herself knocked up by this Blazen guy months before the divorce was final.
She was on the verge of tears the entire time. Everything I asked, from what kind of music she liked to what color flowers she would prefer, her eyes filled up. I can’t say for sure, but I think some of that is the pregnancy hormones and some of that is guilt. And she deserves to feel guilty. Women who sleep with married men are scum in my mind.
As are men who cheat.
I didn’t actually meet the infamous Johnny Blazen because he doesn’t live there with Kristi, he still lives in the house he shared with his previous wife in Cherry Creek. I’m hoping I can get all the way to the wedding without meeting him, actually. He seems like an asshole, and the future Mrs. Blazen, who does actually call herself that, could do a lot better in my opinion.
At least the wedding should be relatively easy to plan. They’re eloping to Vegas. Well, technically they’re eloping, but it’s going to be planned to the nines. No drive-through wedding for Kristi and Johnny.
No, a fountain terrace affair at the Bellagio is what Kristi wants. And why she needs me to do this is puzzling, because the Bellagio has its own wedding coordinator.
My phone buzzes and I cringe. I’ve been thinking up excuses all day for Asher. Jesus, that man has some nerve. But when I glance down at my phone, it’s Bebe, so I smile and say, “Hola, bitch. Tell me my life is fabulous so I don’t forget how long I’ve worked to climb my way up to the bottom rung of the ladder.”
“Awww, the poor baby. She chats with a movie star last night and she’s feeling down today because her life is ordinary? Please. Your life is fantastic. And as much as I like to know about the new club parties you’ll be planning—I want regular invites, by the way—I’d like a little more info on this whole Twitter hacking that took place. Is that crazy or what?”
“Totally crazy,” I say, trying to feign excitement. I don’t want to talk with her about Vaughn. Meeting him was nothing like my dreams. He’s pushy, controlling, pompous, and rude.
And he put thirty-five grand into my accounts today.
Thirty-five grand. That’s more than I make in a year and he just put it into my bank and on my Starbucks card. I could put a down payment on a house with that—
“Earth to Grace? You still there?”
“Sorry, I think I lost the connection for a second. I don’t really know how that hacking stuff happened. I didn’t talk to him or anything, so—”
“What’s wrong?” Bebe says. Why did I think I could fool her? “You should be jumping up and down with excitement over this. Bitch, you tweeted with Vaughn Asher, the man you’ve been cyber-stalking for years. And you’re not fangirling!”
“I know!” I say back, trying my best to be excited. “But today was a crapper. My first day on the new job and I got a high-profile client who makes me sad in so many ways I can’t explain it. And I can’t even talk about it, because I had to sign a NDA to work with her.”
“Oh, Jesus. NDA, that’s some serious shit.”
“Yeah.” And it only further reminds me of Asher and what he’s offering.
How do I go through twenty-three years of life never even saying the words non-disclosure agreement out loud to being asked to sign two of them in the same week?
At least the one for work is acceptable.
“—you hear me?”
“No, sorry, my mind wandered. What?”
“Steve and I are going to the mountains this weekend, wanna come?”
“Can’t, I gotta work on this new event. It’s taking place in two weeks and I’m the second planner, so I have a lot to do.”
She buys it, but the truth is, the future Mrs. Blazen has almost everything set up. I will not have to work very hard at all for this event. But the thought of being third wheel for Bebe’s fun trip to the mountains is too much. I can’t do it.
We chat for a few more minutes. Mostly it’s Bebe bitching me out for leaving the island and not telling her, and I agree, that sucked. I do not deserve to even defend myself because it was bullshit. And then we make up and say our good laters.
I set my phone on the coffee table and close my eyes, but no sooner have I done that than the door buzzer goes off. “Jesus, can’t I just get a moment?” I drag myself up and go over to the front door and press the intercom. “Yes?”
“Delivery for—” There’s a pause, like the guy is reading something. “Mrs. Invisible M? Is that you? It said apartment four, but—”
“It’s me.” I sigh heavily and then press the door buzzer. I open my door and stand there, waiting for the delivery guy, because if I sit back down, I might fall asleep. I can hear him trudging up the stairs, huffing like he’s out of breath, and then he comes into view and smiles at me. “It’s heavy!” He walks down the short hallway to my place and stops at the threshold and thrusts the pretty-papered, ribbon-tied box at me. I take it, groan from the weight, then set it down by the door. I shuffle though my purse to find the few dollars in change I didn’t need to spend this morning on coffee and hand it over. He smiles, does a short bow, and turns on his heel.
I close the door and slump down to the floor next to the box. “Now what in the hell is this?”
My phone buzzes across the room on the coffee table, so I get up and grab it.
I’m calling you in thirty seconds, pick up.
Bossy Man is back. I ignored his earlier messages. I mean, not really, I listened to them and I fumed about them. But I didn’t call him back like he demanded. But when the phone rings thirty seconds later I press accept. “Yes,” I say curtly.
“Open the box.”
“Oh,” I say with a hint of disappointment. “That’s from you?”
He grunts. “Who the hell did you think it was from?”
“I’m kidding, you jealous jerk.”
“Just open the box.”
I walk back over to the package and untie the ribbon. “I like the gift wrap,” I say, as I pull on the long satin strands.
“Is it pink?” Vaughn asks, sounding earnest.
“Yeah, a very bright pink. It’s pretty.” He sighs, like that makes him happy, and my stomach flutters. For all his caveman tendencies, he’s actually charming at times. I take the lid off the box and peel back the white tissue paper, not expecting anything specific, because the weight of the box was a dead giveaway this was not lingerie or candy. “What is it?” I ask, staring at the bundle of papers. “We’re not really married, @mrinvsman, so I know they’re not divorce papers.”
“No, you said you’d never marry—which is disturbing, if I’m honest, but that’s a conversation for another time. Just open them.”
I pull out the first heavy glossy folder and read the logo. “Front Range Fosters. I don’t get it.”
“It’s a charity, what’s not to get?”
“No, I mean, why did you giftwrap me a folder with this company’s info?” I pick up the folder underneath. “Or the Denver Foster Kid Alliance Scholarship Fund?”
“Because I wanted to give you choices.”
“Choices for what, Asher? Just speak plainly, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Donations. You said you didn’t want the money, you’d probably do something stupid with it, so I figured I’d channel that anger into the right direction. So pick one, and I will give that money to the charity of your choice.”
I swallow down the tears as I look at all the charities in this package. They are all for foster kids until I get to the last one for the Colorado Sibling Fund, and then I almost can’t breathe. “How?” I ask him as calmly as I can. “How did you come up with these charities?”
“Is it more of a transgression to admit to stalking or hacking?”
“Asher,” I growl.
“Fine, I might’ve peeked at your charitable donations for the past five years.”
I close my eyes and let out my breath, calm returning. “OK,” I say, taking one more moment to gather myself. “Well, that was very nice of you. I’d like to split it then, and give each one the same amount.”
“I’m smiling, Grace. I’m smiling very big right now.” It sounds genuine too, like he’s a little boy giving a grownup something that came from his heart. And maybe for the first time since I met him, he is speaking from his heart and not his dick.
I smile back, but I don’t tell him.
“OK, so we’re still on for Twitter sex in an hour. I sent a gift in the box—”
I check the box, and sure enough, there’s another gift-wrapped box in there with the same pretty ribbon.
“—but it’s to be opened after we’re finished. Be online as @mrsinvsman at eight. And be naked.”
The line goes dead before I can even answer. I’m a little bit stunned. He sorta stuns me. He’s overpowering, and controlling, and bossy. But at the same time, he’s got this charm about him. And he’s very confident. Like he’s in charge of things. Like he takes care of things. Makes everything OK. And I have to admit, he took the money back graciously and made me feel important at the same time.
It was a brilliant move and suddenly this day is exciting. Like it should’ve been all along.
Vaughn did that.
The movie star I’m secretly tweeting with has made my day and it’s got nothing to do with the dirty sex I want to have with him.
Vaughn Asher might, just maybe, be a decent guy.
Chapter Twenty-Seven - Vaughn
#KiddingNotKidding
THE summer wind is just enough to make the low eighties temperature perfect as I sit outside on the terrace and sip a glass of Cuvée Elisabeth Salmon, 2002. Champagne is a drink I not only enjoy, but appreciate for the complexity of flavors and scent. And as I highly doubt Grace has had the pleasure of the 2002 vintage of this particular house, I’d like her opinion on it.
I check my watch and notice the lights that are strung up along the exterior of the terrace. It’s pretty. Romantic even. Perfect for our Twitter date.
I have to chuckle to myself. Is that strange? To be excited about a Twitter date when the sole purpose is to get her to open up to me sexually?
Why not, though? People communicate in all kinds of ways in this age. Twitter is just another method of making a personal connection. One hundred and forty characters and a well-placed hashtag might just change my life.
And I have to admit, just the idea that Grace has been stalking me for so long, thinking about me as she’s touched herself… well, it’s more than a compliment. It’s a turn-on.
I check my watch again. What is she doing? Preparing? Is she naked yet? Probably a more apt question would be will she actually accommodate that request?
I pick up my phone and find the note app. I’ve been composing filthy tweets all day. Tweets like:
My fingertips are dragging up and down your calf as my head dips between your legs.
But that’s too much like phone sex and I don’t want this to be like phone sex. I want it to be… different. I like the thought of my head between her legs, and I’m sure, from what I’ve read of her dirty tweets about me over the years, it’s definitely one of her fantasies. But it n
eeds something more. A hashtag, for sure. That’s Twitter sex 101. Are there rules for Twitter sex? I don’t think so, but maybe there needs to be? Guidelines to challenge and excite at the same time. Am I too competitive?
I’m sipping from my glass as that thought crosses my mind and I almost choke on the expensive champagne.
Is this a competition? What am I really trying to accomplish with this night? Her one-hundred-and-forty-character orgasm? A next date? Something else? The NDA contract and six months of dirty sex at my whim?
All of the above?
None of the above?
Some of the above?
Yes on the written orgasm. That makes me grin like a fool. I don’t even know why it’s so damn hot, but it’s making me hard just thinking about it.
Yes on the date too. I’ve seen her sexually, now it’s time to see her in other ways.
Do I like her? Like, for real like her? Or do I just like her body?
That I can’t answer. It’s a step ahead of what I’m capable of knowing at this point. I know only what I’ve dug up on her life. And I have to admit, there are some sketchy things about her past that have thrown up big question marks. Her childhood for one. It’s missing. If she went to private school, then that would explain her missing school records. Hell, my childhood school records are pretty scarce as well. But I was trailer-tutored on set most of the time. The one year I did attend a real school, it was super-private and only for the elite.
Grace doesn’t seem to come from money, but what do I know? Her parents were named Kinsella but they were a much older couple who died a year apart while she was in high school. I had Felicity do a property search for real estate records in the Denver neighborhood Grace said she grew up in, but it came up blank. So I’m not sure if she’s lying when she says she sold their house, or I’m just missing something about her past.
I feel it to be both. Something is just a little bit off about her background check. She has no criminal record as an adult. I could dig deeper into her juvenile record, but is it really necessary to pry that much for a few sexual encounters?