by Lila Monroe
But something makes me backtrack down the hall until I can spy through the glass of the break room. I watch as Liam sidles up to Lizzie and turns on the charm.
Don’t fall for it, I will her, and sure enough, she rolls her eyes.
Liam doesn’t take a hint. He moves in closer, pinning her in against the counters. Lizzie scowls as he keeps talking, and I can practically see the steam start to come from her ears. I’m just about to go in there and pull him the hell away, when she jostles him, and somehow manages to spill her cup of hot coffee all down the front of his shirt.
Ha! Liam leaps back, cursing and dabbing at his shirt, but Lizzie just grins and sashays away.
I relax. I should’ve known she can take care of herself. But why do I care? We’re not dating. In fact, we’re not anything at all.
And I need to keep it that way, I remind myself, even if it kills me.
Which it damn well just might.
19
Lizzie
Okay, I tell myself, pacing back and forth at the boarding gate, ready to fly to LA. I can totally do this. It’s just a business trip! A business trip with a hot guy I totally want to screw senseless, but these are just details, right? I mean, what better time to practice self-control or mindfulness or whatever the hell they were talking about in that yoga seminar Della dragged me to last week.
Except all I could think about that whole yoga session was a thick slice of gooey tres leches cake, and now is no different; except instead of wanting to lick up every last drop of sugary goodness, I want to lick—
Well. Yeah. That.
My pulse is racing like I’ve just run a 5K, and I take another sip of my coffee, praying I’ve remembered to pack my Xanax. I’m not a great flier, to put it mildly. Planes terrify me, and without a knock-out dose of tranquilizers or a few very stiff drinks, I’m libel to slip into full on panic-attack mode, the minute the wheels leave the ground. Which would be highly embarrassing in front of a certain cocky, arrogant someone.
Wait. Did I pack my Xanax? I’m rummaging frantically through my bag when Jake arrives, looking predictably perfect in a pair of black pants and a light cashmere sweater that was probably made from some almost-extinct strain of sheep raised in the Scottish highlands.
“Are they boarding yet?” he asks in lieu of actually, you know, greeting me. And I shake my head no and keep tearing through my purse, hoping against hope that the orange plastic bottle will somehow miraculously appear.
“Not yet. Any minute though.”
“Rough day?” he asks, watching as I finally give up and shut my bag, flinging it over my shoulder.
“Not at all,” I say, trying for a breezy tone of voice.
“Right,” he says, clearly not buying it. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink,” he says, craning his neck to presumably look for the bar . . . just as they start boarding our flight.
“Shit,” I mutter under my breath. No Xanax, no booze . . . this is going to get ugly.
“Guess we’re out of luck,” he says, hoisting up his black leather duffel bag and getting in line.
My stomach sinks as I walk down the narrow hallway and onto the plane, dragging my red rollaway suitcase behind me. I take a deep breath as I find our seats and after storing my bag in the compartment above, I slide into the one closest to the window. I just hope the flight is smooth—if there’s anything I hate more than flying, it’s turbulence.
As I settle into my seat, it dawns on me—I’m going to be inches away from Jake Weston for the entire flight, which, while it actually may take my mind off of my impending death, also makes our two hours spent in a movie theater in close proximity seem like a joke. He slides in beside me. “Fasten your seatbelt,” he says, turning to me with a wicked grin, “it’s going to be a bumpy night.”
“If that’s your best Bette Davis impression then the next six hours are doomed,” I say, pulling down the window shade, hoping to block out as much of the outside world as possible.
“Don’t you want to watch us take off?” Jake asks, reaching over and flipping the window shade back up. “It’s the best part!”
“Only if you’re clinically insane,” I shoot back, grabbing the window shade and pulling it down again. “Besides, my seat, my shade. So keep your mitts off it, okay?”
“Touchy, touchy,” he mutters. “Are you going to be like this the entire flight?”
“That depends.” I close my eyes and say a prayer. “Is it too late to get off?”
Jake smirks. “It’s never too late for that, baby.”
I hit his arm, just as the stewardess comes around. “Excuse me?” I lean over. “Is there any way I could get a couple of those tiny bottles of vodka before takeoff?”
She looks at me like I’m crazy. “We don’t serve alcohol until we’re in the air.”
“Sorry about my friend,” Jake interjects. “She’s got a problem,” he adds in a hushed voice. “Real sad. We’re trying to get her help but—Oww!”
I hit him again. “I don’t have a problem,” I tell the stewardess as she gives me a scared look and moves off. “Really, I don’t!”
Jake chuckles. “Why did you do that?” I moan, my one shot at oblivion disappearing down the aisle.
“C’mon, is sitting with me really that bad?”
“Yup.” I pull on an eye mask and plug in my earbuds. I could be sitting next to Brad Pitt himself and I’d still need a drink.
This is going to be one hell of a long flight.
Forty-five minutes later I’m gripping the armrest as the plane dips and drops in the sky so hard that my stomach turns over like we’re on a carnival ride—one with a bonus thrill of crashing into the ocean at 300 miles per hour.
So far I’m having a super great time on this trip.
On top of this, I’m trying to hide my panic from Jake, who is reading the in-flight magazine like it’s his religion and actually circling things with a red pen. You know, so he can buy them later? I can’t. I let out a long breath.
Just five more hours. Three hundred minutes. An infinity of seconds—
“You’re a pretty terrible flier,” he says without taking his eyes off the magazine.
“Tell me something I don’t know,” I moan, leaning my head back and closing my eyes for a second.
“Is there anything I can do to help? Do you have any meds you can take?”
“I forgot to pack them,” I wail. “And now I’m gonna die in this tin can—with you, no less!”
He laughs, and I want to punch him. Instead I concentrate on squeezing my eyes as tightly shut as possible, willing the plane to stop its violent shaking from side to side.
“Seriously,” he says, “what can I do to help? You know that turbulence is the same thing as a bump in the road, right? It’s just air pockets—it’s not going to bring the plane down or anything. We’re totally safe—safer than in a car, actually,” he points out.
I open my eyes, incredulous.
“Did you really just say ‘bring the plane down’ to a nervous flier? Do you know nothing?”
He laughs again, turning toward me. “Look,” he starts, “why don’t we talk for a while? Maybe it’ll take your mind off things?”
“Talk about what?” I ask, my eyes narrowing suspiciously. “All anyone wants to talk about with me these days is sex. Sex, sex, sex. Why I’m not having it, who I’ve had it with, and when I’m finally going to have it again.”
“Fine. Then let’s talk about sex,” he says matter-of-factly, like this isn’t the worst idea in the world.
“Seriously?” I ask.
“Why not? I’m game if you are.”
“Well, what about it?” I answer, irritated now as the plane drops what feels like a few hundred feet and I let out a yelp. Without even thinking, I grab onto his hand, squeezing his fingers tight.
“What if I hadn’t left your apartment that night?” he asks quietly, lowering his voice so that the passing stewardess checking seatbelts can’t hear us.
“Do you have any idea what I might’ve done to you?”
“Umm, I don’t know,” I say, taken aback, my cheeks immediately hot. “More of what you were already doing?”
“That’s not very descriptive,” he chides, squeezing my hand in his own. His fingers are so warm and strong that I’m starting to forget about the fact that I’ll probably die at any moment. “You mean the way I was kissing you up against the wall? My tongue in your mouth and my fingers in your panties?”
“Yes,” I manage to squeak out. What the hell is he doing? Didn’t we have an unspoken agreement not to talk about this? And now he brings it up—here?!
“You had your hands on my cock,” he adds, his voice murmuring low in my ear. “And you were driving me crazy, damn, I wanted to fuck you so bad. Thrust into that slick tight pussy of yours and just screw your brains out, right there on the living room floor.”
Oh. My. God.
I swallow hard. I’m not scared I’m going to die anymore, but I am suddenly worried I might come right here in my seat without him even touching me—which is one way to pass the time on a cross-country flight, I suppose.
I clench my thighs together and he smirks. “You do remember.” Jake casually rests one hand on my leg and starts tracing slow circles that I can feel even through the fabric of my jeans. “Good. Because I know how you taste now, Lizzie. I know how your cunt clenches around my fingers, and how your nipples get hard when I bite that spot right on your neck.” He leans closer to me, and I can feel his breath on my skin, smell that citrusy cologne that drives me out of my head. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, losing myself in the heat and forbidden images of his words.
“The only thing I don’t know yet is how my dick will feel, embedded in your hot little cunt. Do you want to ride me?” Jake asks softly. “Or are you going to just lay back and let me fuck you senseless, the way you’ve been needing ever since the first night we met?”
I shiver, my nipples already pebbling hard under my T-shirt. Fuck, I want him. I want him to do all the dirty things he’s describing right now.
“Yeah, I think I’m going to hold you down, and give it to you good,” Jake continues. “Fill you all the way to the damn hilt so you know what a real cock feels like, hitting your G-spot, so deep you won’t walk for days—”
DING.
I open my eyes to see the fasten seatbelt lights turning off, the captain’s voice reverberating loudly overhead.
Ladies and gentlemen, we’re just clearing a rough path of air. Thanks so much for your patience, but it should be smooth sailing from here on out. We invite you to sit back and enjoy the rest of your flight to Los Angeles.
Holy shit. Reality crashes over me like an ice bucket challenge.
What just happened?
I look over at Jake, my cheeks flaming. “See?” he says, like he wasn’t just reciting the filthiest things imaginable. “It’s all in your mind.”
No, it’s all in my panties right now, but fuck if I’m going to let him see how turned on I am.
I exhale loudly, pulling up the window shade to see that we’re sailing peacefully now through the night sky. The plane has miraculously stopped shaking and dipping, and my nerves feel raw from the combination of adrenaline and horniness.
Jake pulls his magazine out of the seat pocket and starts reading again.
“That’s it?” I ask, confused.
“That’s what?” he echoes. “You needed distraction, I was happy to oblige. Why?” he adds with that trademark smirk. “You didn’t think I was serious, did you?”
I blush furiously. “Me? What? No!”
I lean back in the seat and close my eyes again, trying to ignore the way my body hums. Of course he wasn’t serious. Because to Jake Weston, serious doesn’t exist. Just like sincerity, and feelings, and actual human connection. It’s all just a game to him, and I’ll be damned if I let him see he’s getting to me.
He wants to play it cool? I can be cool. Just call me Elsa, queen of the fucking arctic tundra. Professional. Detached.
Right.
The rest of the flight passes without any major turbulence—or X-rated narration—and soon we’ve landed and headed to the hotel in the rental car. And not just any car, but a 1976 cherry-red Ford Thunderbird convertible. It’s late afternoon in Los Angeles and even though I’m still groggy from the flight, the palm trees and the warm air brushing my face as we drive down Santa Monica Boulevard puts me in a good mood, and I bounce excitedly in my seat as Jake turns into the parking lot of The Standard.
“I love hotels,” I swoon. “Give me room service, poolside cocktails, and turn-down service and I’m a happy girl.”
We walk through the weirdly modern lobby with its huge white lights dangling from the ceiling, egg-shaped chairs, and shag carpet underfoot. “I feel like I’m in an Austin Powers movie,” I say to Jake as we approach the desk.
“Groovy, baby,” he says, handing the guy behind the desk his credit card. “Why don’t you go and relax and I’ll check us in?” Jake says, pointing to the grove of egg chairs across the room.
I drag my suitcase over to the seating area, sinking into one of the retro chairs. Just as I’m getting comfortable, a guy walks into the lobby, pecs straining against his tight black T-shirt, his long legs encased in ripped jeans. He pushes his jaw-length dirty blond hair from his eyes, and stops in his tracks when he sees me.
Oh my god—it’s Dale Ryder, indie film darling and Brad Pitt lookalike with abs I could wash clothes on. His last movie, Danger Zone, put him at number five on GQ’s Sexiest Man Alive list—and for good reason. I stare at him like he’s some weird alien specimen. I mean, these people only exist in magazines, they’re not supposed to be walking around like actual human beings!
He starts walking over to me, and I quickly look away, fiddling with the tag on my suitcase, reading my own name as if I’ve never seen it before. Did he see me staring? Is this some major LA faux-pas?
“Don’t I know you?”
I look up. He’s standing right in front of me, smiling with those insanely white teeth that could eat me alive, a day’s worth of golden stubble masking a jaw so chiseled, you could probably cut paper on it.
“I don’t think so,” I say slowly, my mind racing. He speaks!
“You look familiar,” he says, his blue eyes traveling slowly down the length of my body, then back up. “On vacation?” he asks, taking in my suitcase. “You here to stay and play in LA?”
“Yeah,” I blurt out before correcting myself. “Well, no. I’m here on business.”
“Business, huh?” He gives me a naughty smile. “No time for pleasure, then, I take it?”
Umm, what? Dale Ryder is FLIRTING with me? Something is seriously screwy, or maybe the LA water supply is polluted with hormones.
Or he’s seen the video.
Fuck, there goes the fantasy. You know—the fantasy where a mega-successful Hollywood actor just happens to pick me out of a crowd. But before I tell him I’m not interested, something makes me stop. Jake is watching from the front desk with a scowl on his face. I’m still reeling from how fast he made me go from zero to turned on—without ruffling any feathers at all. It’s all just a game to him, so maybe it’s time I found out just how cool his cucumber is.
A little jealousy never hurt anyone.
“That sounds tempting,” I coo to Dale. “Well, maybe I could make time. Do you have any recommendations?”
Before he can respond, Jake walks back over, key cards in hand. He glowers at Dale, who completely ignores him.
“I’m here for another week or so,” Dale says, giving me a wink. “But if you want to have dinner, let me know. I’m in the penthouse suite under George Peppard.”
“George Peppard—the name of Audrey Hepburn’s love interest in Breakfast at Tiffany’s?” I ask, surprised.
He laughs. “You know your movies, huh?”
“It’s my job.” I smile back, and explain we’re in town scouting for the Met.
&n
bsp; “Wow, beautiful and cultured.” Dale doesn’t miss a beat. This guy would have charm oozing from his pores—if they weren’t invisible, thanks to some thousand-dollar facial, that is. “I’d love to take you out.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Jake interrupts, pulling me to my feet. “We have a very busy schedule while we’re here and there’s really no time for anything extra. But thanks anyway.”
Before I can say anything, he’s pulling me by the arm toward the elevators, leaving Dale and his gorgeous washboard abs standing by himself, looking more than just a little confused.
I hide a smile. Hmmm, there goes his cool act. As soon as we’re out of earshot, I pull my arm away “Just what do you think you’re doing?” I ask, acting confused. “That was Dale Ryder! Talking to me!”
“Didn’t look like talking,” Jake says coolly. “More like flirting, if you ask me.”
“And?” I challenge lightly. “What business is it of yours anyway?”
“Just looking out for you,” he says in an annoyingly even tone of voice.
“Jealous?” I ask, pushing him.
“Of what, that pumped up idiot?” Jake laughs it off. The elevator comes to a halt on the tenth floor, the doors opening with a ping. Jake steps out of the elevator, reaching back to hand me a small, white key card.
“You’re in 1110,” he says. “Get some rest. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. I’ll meet you in front of the hotel at nine a.m.”
The doors slide shut before I can answer. Typical. He just loves to have the last word. And I still don’t know why he’s acting like a jealous boyfriend when he’s made it perfectly clear we’re just working together. Still, it’s hard to stay mad long when I open the door of my own room and find a view of the city and palm trees and a pool with inflatable swans floating around.
Ahhh . . . I flop down on the bed, resting my head on the cool, white pillow. I grab the room service menu and dial. “Hello? I’d like a steak, rare, with French fries and a chocolate sundae.”