by Anne Marsh
When I tell him as much, he tries again. “You should see someone. Settle a down a little.”
“Like you did with Mom?”
This is a low blow, because Mommy Dearest lit out shortly after my birth and never returned.
“You could get it right,” he says stubbornly. “What about Amanda What’s-Her-Name? Was she there?”
“Nope.” Occasionally I throw my dad a bone and name names. Instead of getting him off my back, however, he’s turned out to be downright tenacious. He asks after Amanda (and Hope, Janey and Little Bo) every chance he gets. I’ve learned to nod, smile and change the fucking topic.
Now is the perfect time to zone out and refresh my memory about my favorite parts of Harper. Tits, ass, mouth—there are so many choices.
“You met someone,” my dad announces gleefully. “I know that look.”
Busted.
“I’m not looking for anything permanent.” I’m good for a night, not forever. Just like that, though, last night’s memories of Harper pop into my head and refuse to leave. The memories want to stick even if I don’t. Those black boots of hers about killed me. The woman practically owes me mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Or possibly mouth-to-dick. I’m not choosy.
“Thinks he’s fine running solo,” my old man scoffs. I’m tempted to point out that he never settled down much, either. From what he told me, he knocked up my mom, she stuck around just long enough to push me out into the world, and then she took off. Nothing in that story qualifies him to offer romantic advice.
“I’m not the settling-down type,” I offer. That sounds so much better than announcing I like variety in my pussy. And that so far, life has been one big all-I-can-eat sex buffet. Why eat à la carte when I can sample every single dish?
My dad’s knee starts going up and down like a jackhammer as he picks up his fork. Sets it down. Does the same with his knife. He starts to get up and then sinks back into his chair, his knee jerking wildly. Shit.
Houston, we have a problem.
The doctor I talked with last week said the agitation was a symptom of my old man’s dementia. Much of the time, he’s still the same person he always was, but other times his brain takes a hard right and it’s game over. The doctor said I should make sure that all of his basic needs are met, as if I’d put him on a starvation diet or keep him from sleeping. I’m supposed to be calm and reassuring, a paragon of gentle sincerity.
Yeah. Feel free to laugh your ass off at that one.
As desperate as I am, though, I try. Thank Christ, none of the club is here to see me.
“I’ll give it a shot,” I say. “I am giving it a shot.”
My dad’s knee slows from its manic pace to something that better resembles a car ricocheting from side to side on the German Autobahn.
“You’ve met someone?”
“Absolutely.” The one upside to dementia is that my old man’s bullshit radar no longer functions.
But he nods, his attention slowly returning to the waffles swimming in a sea of syrup. “I’d like to meet her.”
“Soon,” I promise. “It’s early days. I don’t want to scare her off.”
He flashes me the bird, but we’re back on terra firma. There has to be a way to fix this. Without, you know, actually settling down and paying a trip to the drive-through Elvis wedding chapel on the Strip. Sure, one of the club girls would be happy to pretend to be my steady girlfriend, but I don’t think that’s what my old man has in mind.
I’ll just have to improvise.
Harper’s face flashes through my head.
As I fix my own plate of waffles—my old man’s onto something there and he’s definitely getting a waffle-maker for Christmas—I wonder how an investment banker would feel about becoming a biker’s pretend girlfriend. I wonder, too, how long she’s spent thinking about my booty call offer. Which was 100 percent fucking genuine. I just need to close the deal. Make her see that I’m the perfect guy to scratch all her itches and give her a little under-the-table loving to help her get over the Douche and on with her life. I’m not boyfriend material, but I’m the Santa Claus of fucking orgasms.
You think she’s more likely to kick me in the balls?
Good thing I’ve always loved a challenge.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Harper
WORK IS CRAZY. I stay late each night, retreating back to my Bellagio room with a Subway sandwich or a bag of Mickey D’s. It’s not even tax season when people get super-concerned about their finances. Yeah, I know they’re just looking for a sweet investment to pull in money hand over fist and simultaneously score them some big-ass deduction with the IRS, but their fees keep me employed. And since I only get one chance to make my numbers and impress my bosses, I’m flat-out.
It’s not until Thursday night that I return to my old place. Not worrying about Bing is a challenge, but it’s not like Mark won’t feed him. Plus, even if Mark did forget, Bing would just make Mark’s life hell until my ex served up the Fancy Feast. It’s no worse than leaving Bing with the cat sitter for company, even if Bing sulks for a week after I’ve been gone.
Step one in my Break, Enter, Retrieve plan? Getting through the front door. I’ve banked on Mark’s pathological unwillingness to do any household task that he can outsource, and sure enough, he hasn’t gotten around to getting a locksmith in. My key still works. There’s also no sign of Mark as I open the front door. I breathe a sigh of relief and move on to the second step in the plan. Retrieve. Bing likes to hide under our bed, so I scoot up the stairs, cat carrier in hand.
I push the door to the master bedroom open slowly, not wanting to scare Bing. This is a well-executed plan step. The cat doesn’t startle.
Hell, no.
I’m the one who freezes in place, peering through the stupid, cracked door.
Turns out, Mark’s home after all.
He’s eagerly eating out some hussy while she swallows his dick. No. Check that. The woman contorting herself all over my ex is one of Mark’s coworkers. The one he used to text and call so often because she had a lousy home situation and lousier husband. They shared a couple of projects. Went out on a few work dinners. Do you hear that sound? It’s my rose-colored glasses splintering into a thousand pieces. Fuck me for not recognizing a lie when I heard it. That, or sixty-nine is the new prescription drug for lousy relationships.
The porno moans start up as they round into the home stretch. With each up-and-down, Mark’s new friend is practically nose to whiskers with Bing. Bing’s eighteen pounds of brown-and-white Siamese love, and he could probably smother that bitch if he sat on her face. Or go to town on Mark’s favorite body part. Maybe if I look away, these new-to-me bloodthirsty urges will subside.
Or not.
Mark’s replaced me already.
The logical part of my brain (the part not running the odds of a murder conviction if I kill them both now) suggests this might not be the first time Mark’s hooked up with his new girl. There’s certainly an unprecedented degree of familiarity happening in that bed. Mark’s dress pants are unbuckled and shoved down his thighs. Her panties are yanked to the side as if she’s so fucking amazing that Mark couldn’t wait to undress her. Or maybe he’s lazy. God knows, he’s never put this much effort into our bedroom time.
The happy twosome shifts and I retreat because I can’t handle a close-up of competitor beaver right now. It’s not that I want Mark back (especially now I’ve seen firsthand where he’s stuck his dick and his mouth), but I feel like the loser in a race I didn’t realize I was running. Before I abandon the field to the lucky winner, however, I whip out my phone and snap a couple of pictures. This is immature, but fuck it.
I keep it together as I park my car in the Bellagio’s parking garage. I don’t break down in the elevator up to my room, and I don’t cry the entire, endless length of the hallway. Mark sucks. He’s a stupid, c
heating, lying bastard and I’m so much better off without him.
Screw him.
No, wait. He’s already got that well in hand. Or mouth.
Not only is the hussy’s beaver now burned into my brain, but I still don’t have my cat. I miss Bing, but what if he decides to cozy up to the new body in the bed? What if my cat falls in love with her, too?
I strip down to my panties and shimmy into my Kate Spade sleepshirt. Yes, I’m a big believer in brand loyalty. The shirt is black and has cute little white cuffs that make it the comfortable version of one of the many dress blouses I wear to the office—except for the happy fact that my boobs announce Eat Cake for Breakfast. I 100 percent endorse that message. I’m giving serious consideration to room-service-ordering up an entire cake.
The Bellagio’s bathroom has more mirrors than a voyeur’s bedroom, so it’s impossible to turn around without catching a glimpse of myself. The funny thing is I look the same, except with bonus red eyes and blotchy cheeks. Sucks to feel different on the inside where no one can see.
The only thing different on the outside is my new ink. I scootch up to the mirror, hike my shirt up under my armpits in the least sexy move ever and ease my panties halfway down my butt. And then I’m staring at my lower back and ass. You know, just checking shit out.
Even with the tattoo only half-healed, it’s clear that Vik is insanely talented with his hands. My firebird explodes up from the base of my spine, wings expanding from my panties and wrapping themselves around my spine. The feathers are this gorgeous red and black, long, sweeping lines of color that soar upward. For all his teasing, Vik didn’t ink his number on my butt.
Okay. So he didn’t give me his number in permanent color but he’s still beneath my skin. There’s all that bare skin around the lines he laid down, just begging to be filled. I want more, want that darkness, that sweet pain and the release that comes afterward. The buzz of his needle let me forget so much and then took me to a different place.
I pick up my abandoned clothes. Fold them neatly and stack them on the opulent little vanity bench. The Bellagio has its King Louis the Something-Something going on because my bathroom is practically raining gilt. My black work skirt and Kate Spade blouse look downright sedate, and my beige bra is the cherry on the boring sundae. To be fair, it’s not like I can rock red lace underneath a white work blouse, nor do I want to, but still...my underwear covers more than most bikinis. If I got hit by a bus and EMTs stripped me down to check for injuries, my modesty would be safe.
Mark’s hussy wore red satin.
I promptly Google selfie tips.
I must be crazy because I’m actually thinking about taking a picture. Of my panties. I recheck the all-knowing Internet, and three minutes later I’m armed, dangerous and pointing my phone at my crotch. Snap, snap, tap. It’s not even hard. Sure, I hesitate, my finger hovering over Vik’s contact info. For like a nanosecond.
I hit Send. Are these panties boring?
Is sharing mostly naked selfies with an almost total stranger stupid?
Yes.
Yes, it is.
And then, still feeling reckless, I march out and raid the minibar. Never mind that the smallest package of M&M’s costs a ridiculous eight dollars or that the price tag on the mini champagne exceeds my last cell phone bill. I’m totally worth it, and today has sucked.
My phone dings with an incoming message.
VIK: You do have my number. Thought you’d never use it.
ME: Answer the question.
VIK: Would look better on the floor. Or wrapped around my dick. Hint hint.
It’s silly to be happy because Vik likes my panties. His opinion is hardly statistically significant—I’d have to march my butt out onto the Strip and poll at least ninety-nine other random guys if I wanted meaningful results. But still. He likes beige just fine. Of course, that’s because he wants to get in them but I totally count it as a win for me.
ME: Tried to pick up my cat from my ex. Epic fail.
VIK: Tell me what you need. I’m on it.
ME: Brain bleach.
He’s a biker who goes to biker parties, so a random couple 69-ing won’t shock him. I text him my new glamor shot of Mark and his colleague. Frankly, the only reason I’m not blasting it to everyone we know is that then I’d have to explain what I was doing in his house after he gave me the boot.
VIK: I’d say fuck him but looks like he’s already got that covered. You can do better than him. I can be there in thirty minutes if you decide to upgrade.
See? I’m sexy.
ME: Flying solo tonight but thanks.
VIK: You sure about that?
ME: Not in the mood for company. Swearing off sex forever.
VIK: Give me a shot.
ME: At?
VIK: Changing your mind. You’ve had the worst. No point in taking a vow of celibacy until you’ve tried the best.
ME: So you’re the best?
Vik texts me back a row of smiley-face emoticons.
I have no idea what that means.
Absolutely none.
Is he in a good mood? Laughing at me? Tapped the wrong picture when he meant to send a chorus line of dancing eggplant emojis?
I consider what I know. Item one? I definitely like his body. New Me has fantasized a lot about stripping him down and licking various parts of his anatomy. But those are just fantasies—and Real Me lives firmly in reality. He’s hot, and I’m me. Most days, I’m happy to be me. But I’m a conservative investment banker. I wear panty hose. I plan for the long game. No matter how pretty Vik is, he’s not my type.
The line of dancing dots appears on my phone.
VIK: Assuming you’re not at work?
ME: Nope. Back at the Bellagio.
Ten long heartbeats later, my phone buzzes.
He’s sent me a picture.
If I had to pick a word to describe what I’m looking at, I’d be hard-pressed to choose, but dirty vies for top position on my list. The shot closes in on his abs and then goes...lower. Much, much, deliciously lower. He’s unbuttoned the top buttons of his jeans and he’s fisting his dick. The view is both hot as fuck and supremely frustrating because while I know where his hand is (squeezing what appears to be a magnificently large penis), I can’t see much of anything. Video would be so much better.
VIK: Sweet dreams.
It’s definitely time to sign off. Otherwise, I’ll be asking him to come over here and show me his Monster Dick in person.
ME: Again? Covered.
I scoop up my snack pile and then text him a picture of my loot. It’s not a sexy look, but I’m nervous about taking the next step with him.
VIK: Looks small. The snack, not your tits ;) Perfect mouthful right there.
ME: Girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
VIK: Hear you.
We sign off, and I sigh with relief. I haven’t said or done anything too incriminating, like beg him to come over and express his appreciation for my boobs in person. Since the fountain show is scheduled to go off in five minutes, I camp out by the window. The Bellagio has the best furniture—I seriously want to load it all into my car when I check out and take it with me.
The fountains explode, and I hold up my phone, making a video. I’ll bet Vik could come up with a dozen different dirty innuendoes for all that water jetting upward. I’ll have to challenge him.
The knock on my door comes just as the fountains shoot their final load sky high. After checking through the peephole to make sure it’s not a serial killer (bad) or a wayward biker (bad but oh so good), I open the door and let the room service guy in.
“Got a special delivery for you, Ms. George,” he says before I can point out that I haven’t ordered anything tonight. “Compliments of a Mr. Vik.”
And then bless the man, he wheels in a trolley, whips
off a half-dozen silver domes and reveals the entire dessert menu. It’s like a multiple choice test where you’re supposed to choose which plate of decadent goodness is your favorite, A, B, C, D, or E—all of the above. This is clearly a vote for E.
Guess I do get to have cake for breakfast after all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Harper
THREE DAYS AFTER the dessert incident, I stagger back into the Bellagio clutching a foot-long sub in a bag. Work sucked the big one, and my evening plans consist of mainlining carbs and greasy sandwich meat until I burst. Pepperoni, salami, cheese and banana peppers—what’s not to love? Sure, tonight’s dinner packs 940 calories and forty-eight grams of fat, but those details are on my to-ignore list for tonight. It would take hours to burn them off on the elliptical machine in the gym downstairs, but I’ve already decided that they’re welcome to take up permanent residence on my hips.
I really need to invest in a place with an actual kitchen, but the last place I looked at was a complete nightmare. The zip code was great, offering a rental in one of those tall, sleek high-rise buildings full of chic condos. New Me liked the white and chrome—it made us feel sexy and sophisticated. Turned out I wasn’t the only one feeling the Fifty Shades of Grey vibes. From the moaning and thumping echoing through the small space, the neighbors to the left were going at it. The Realtor and I both started giggling so hard that I was afraid I’d interrupt the guy’s rhythm.
So now here I am, just me, my sandwich and I. A foot-long dick or margarita sounds like more fun, but I’ll have to make do with carbs. When I reach my room, however, the door is ajar on the latch. Since I don’t see the housekeeping cart, I ease the door open and peer inside, ready to jump back if there’s an assailant hiding in the bathroom.
Nope.
No bad guy—other than the six feet, three inches of biker sprawled on my bed. Vik grins lazily at me as I hover in the doorway.
“You’ve got four porn channels.”
“That cost twenty dollars each.”