by Lulu Wright
Geo’s scowl melts completely and a dimple shows up on her cheek. I am doing well.
“And the third thing.” I hold up the Starbucks cup. “Is that Rose’s coffee’s getting cold.”
Grinning, Geo bits her lip, and gently closes the door. I smile when I hear her sliding the chain off. She opens the door and takes the coffee from my hand.
“Thanks,” I say, but she doesn’t step back to let me in.
“Now fuck off.” She slams the door in my face.
That did not go as expected.
When I pull into the parking lot, there are more fans camping out than usual, in spite of the cold. That’s to be expected with the big media push like we have going for this 24 Hour Radio Marathon. The parking lot is packed with not just my diehards, but also TV trucks and reporters.
Bill rode over with me from the hospital, where I wasn’t able to see Stanley yet. Sleeping, the nurse told me, though not before I caught a glimpse of his room through the window, and saw Bev glaring daggers in my direction.
As we step out of the truck, Bill leads me toward the crowd. I pause in different places along the gauntlet to do my job. A picture here. An autograph there. Stanley would be proud of Bill. Although just fresh outta college, he is a great partner through the crowd and really has things tied up, shuffling me along and interrupting overzealous fans at exactly the right moments.
I notice an old Corolla pull up and I spot Rose in the car. That Geo chick is driving and, man, I can feel the hate lasers shooting out of her eyes from this far away. If looks could kill, I’d be a pile of seared meat in the middle of the parking lot.
Rose takes off her seat belt and Geo touches her shoulder and says something. Probably some gentle words about how I am such a dick.
Usually I laugh about this kind of thing, but not now. It bugs the fuck out of me. Why not wait to hear my side of things before you break out the pitchforks and torches?
“So, what are your thoughts, Mark?” A mic hovers in my face, a camera trains on me and a reporter in a bad tweed sport coat and worse toupee stares at me, waiting for an answer to a question I didn’t catch.
I shake it off. “Sorry, what?”
“You and Amber…”
Bill cuts him off. “No comment.” He pushes me along.
At the front door of the station, Bill leans in. “Say nothing about the Amber situation. Silence is denial.”
Damn right. Not that I would’ve said anything anyway. I have other reasons to say nothing. Just because I’m famous doesn’t mean I have to answer any questions about my personal life. Fuck that.
And I don’t need to explain myself to Rose either.
But I want to.
The 24 Hour Radio Marathon is all about raising funds for the Little Sluggers, my favorite kids at bat. Stanley put it together before his attack, and it’s the least I can do to see it through on his behalf. Even if things with him are still uncertain, with the doctors reporting no change in his condition… Not good news, but not bad news either. Just…waiting.
At least this keeps my mind occupied while I do.
We have a ridiculous goal: raise $100K in 24 hours.
I know the diehards will do it, and our ratings are so hot that I’m also expecting a bunch of non-die-hards to throw us some dough, too. The Yankees are matching every dollar if we reach our target. Earlier today, Bust Up sports drink announced it will match too, and so will Edge Shaving Cream. Plus me, of course.
That could earn half a million dollars for Little Sluggers and all I have to do is stay up for 24 hours straight. That, and keep sane enough to talk on the radio. But as soon as I reach the lobby and spy Rose, I realize this is going to be complicated. She bolts past me without a word and slams the door to her office behind her.
“What’s up with that?” Chris’s furry eyebrows are arched to his hairline.
I shrug my shoulders like I don’t know, but inside I feel the anger start to burn again.
100, 99, 98…
I don’t have to count down further. She’s steaming mad, but she’s still smoking hot. She moved by me in a whirl, but I saw the high heeled boots and little skirt. This is just a little game she’s playing. She wants attention, so I’ll give it to her.
Chris sighs. “Well, let me show you the setup, anyway.”
Night Vixen fires me a dirty look when Chris and I reach the studio. I see the good news is all over the place.
This time, I don’t know who to be angry at. I can’t blame Night Vixen—or Rose, for that matter—for listening to the gossip rags. They are pretty damn convincing. I’d believe Amber myself, if I didn’t already know she was crazy. And nobody knows about Stan except me and Bill, per Stan’s personal request.
But still…you’d think I’d have earned some benefit of the doubt by now.
The studio is decked out with gear and posters from our sponsors. I weave between the boxes to take over from Night Vixen, and spot a pile of snacks, food, and soft drinks. Not to mention a ton of caffeinated beverages. Rose and I have everything we need to get this thing done.
“Reporters will come in throughout the day,” Chris says. “To film and whatnot.”
“Cool.”
He hands me a piece of paper. It’s the schedule for the next 24 hours, including a list of celebrity names. Every hour someone famous in and out of baseball will call in to push the cause.
“This is amazing,” I say, gaping at some of the names they managed to sign. “Great job.”
He chuckles as he taps the paper. “Rose has been working her ass off the last couple of days.”
My jaw clenches at the mention of her name and Chris doesn’t miss it. He shakes his head, torn between sighing and laughing. “Why do I have the feeling that you being locked in the studio with Rose all day is going to be like being sealed in a glass jar with a thousand hornets?” As he shakes his head, he leaves the studio and I turn to catch Night Vixen rolling her eyes at me.
Well. He’s not wrong.
16
Rose
No woman wants to feel like a notch on some guy’s bedpost. Not even Mark Carrington’s Louisville Slugger. But what makes it worse is knowing that it’s my own damn fault. I fell for it again, just like I did in high school.
Damn him.
But damn me more. After all. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, that’s on me.
I can’t avoid Mark forever, but I do a damn good job of it most of the morning. Every second of my routine was peppered with inner monologue chants of “I don’t care.” “I don’t care.” “I don’t care.”
But with all that in my head, why, oh why did I grab my fuck me patent leather pointy boots and micro skirt off my pile of laundry this morning?
Old habits die hard, I guess.
Part of me knows I have zero right to be pissed. Mark and I had a sex deal. There was some cuddling after, but no walking in the rain holding hands. Nothing that had any hint of the two fierce Rs: Romance or Relationship.
Fuck buddies. That’s all we were.
He didn’t make me promises. We didn’t say we were exclusive. We didn’t say anything except fuck me harder or oh fuck, I’m gonna come. Well. That and a few other choice phrases.
When I got out of the shower, Geo told me he stopped by and passed on the Starbucks he delivered. “It’s just a game,” she assured me. “He only wants to fuck you.”
She’s not wrong. He never took me out on a date in public.
He didn’t want anyone to know about us just like he didn’t want anyone to know in high school. I’m an embarrassment for a guy like him. A nobody, a zillion leagues below him.
I knew this going in, so why do I feel so disappointed? Why do I feel so screwed over?
Why did I dab lavender oil on my neck and give myself a fresh shave that involved yoga moves and a hand mirror?
I sit at my desk and squeeze the life out of my stress ball. I have no idea how to handle the anger and hurt I’m feeling. I can’t blame him, not rea
lly. Like I said, my fault this time. But it still hurts, more than I expected. I don’t know what to do with that.
My eyes drift to the Motivational Quote calendar Becks gave me at the last station holiday party. I haven’t peeled off the dates for weeks. Not since the day Mark’s radio show started, in fact. I grab the calendar, angry suddenly at that date. Fuck that date.
Tearing off the rest of the dates now, I go through some pretty laughable “quotes.” I crinkle them up one by one and shoot them toward my wastebasket.
A stranger is just a friend you haven’t met yet.
Go big or go home.
I never met a challenge I didn’t like.
But one of them strikes me. Goddamn it if it isn’t from Pamela Anderson. Happy font imposed over a beach scene, the former Baywatch star and Playboy model somehow gets my soul.
You can’t control others, you can only control your own reactions.
Damn straight, Pammy.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
I don’t care.
Every muscle on my face has to be on board with that thought. My hands can’t shake and I need Scarlett Johansson’s voice more than I ever have before. I read some copy out loud in my office to make sure she is still with me. She is, thank heavens.
I got this. I am golden. I can be locked up with the man who just ripped out my heart for a second time in a small room for the next 24 hours and feel nothing.
At least, pretend I feel nothing. I’m good at pretending. I am the queen of the poker face.
Becks sticks her head in my door without a knock. “Magic time.”
And when I stand from my desk and smile at her, she buys the happy expression on my face.
Mark and I are not alone in the studio, at least not yet, so I have a little time to adjust to his presence. And that unbelievable hotness. He’s dressed in another tight T-shirt, this one dark green—he must have a closet full of form-hugging shirts and a drawer stuffed with perfect fit denim. His jeans are loose where they need to be loose and tight where they need to be tight. He has the booty of the god of glutes.
He turns away from Chris and catches my eye. “Good morning,” he says, cheerily as fuck. I can’t find words, so I just nod at him and avoid those blue eyes.
Night Vixen still has fifteen minutes left of her show and Chris and Becks and Mark’s guy Bill are puttering around getting some media guys in place to film. The first couple of hours on the air, we will have press in the room. After that, it’s all us and the mics and the phones.
The room is hot with all the bodies and lights in here and I am hot for other reasons too. Much as I’m pissed at Mark right now, being in the same room still makes a thin layer of sweat bead along my skin. I feel like I’m on fire. I can’t stop remembering the last time we hooked up, in the bed of his truck, still half wrapped in our coats. We couldn’t wait to get somewhere warm. We needed to have each other, right then and there. He pushed me down into the truck bed and bent over me, his body hot enough to keep me warm in the chilly night air. His warm hands worked their way under my shirt to toy with my nipples, getting them hard as rocks before he slid one of those hands into my jeans to circle my clit instead.
“I can’t wait to get inside that hot little pussy.”
By the time he finally undid my jeans, I was panting with desire, my hands tearing at his belt. But he caught my wrists and held my hands against my stomach as he stroked his finger around and around my clit, making me writhe with desire. When he finally plunged one finger into me, I think I shouted loud enough to wake up the birds in the trees along the highway where we pulled over.
He kept me silent after that, his mouth pressed hard into mine to swallow my moans as he finger-fucked me until my legs turned to jelly. Only then did he release my wrists and let me draw his cock out, stroking his full, velvety length as he wriggled my jeans down my hips.
He fucked me so hard the truck nearly rocked off the road we had parked alongside. His fists dug in my hair, held my head back so he could kiss my neck, my chest, my tits, as he thrust into me again and again, making my back arch and my toes curl and my ass slam against the truck bed with each thrust.
When he came inside me, then it was my turn to grab his face and kiss him hard enough to stifle the deafening groan he let out.
So, yeah. All those thoughts were a bit distracting as I watched Mark chat with Chris, the same body that bent over mine just a week ago now totally off limits. Then a few more media guys started to flood in to begin the first interview series, and I forced my head back on straight. Focus, Rose. This is no time to lose your head. I can mourn my own idiocy tomorrow. Today, I need to play the ice queen, and play her well.
The morning passes in what feels like a few seconds. Thank god.
Three hours down, 21 to go. The studio clears out bit by bit, reporter after reporter, and then finally it’s just Mark and me. I busy myself to avoid his gaze, but peeking out of the corner of my eye, I catch him staring at me with a look I can’t figure out. It’s somewhere between pissed and smoldering.
With all the fury, we haven’t talked directly to each other once on air, never mind in the downtime between calls. We sit in frosty silence if we aren’t talking up a caller.
Coldplay’s latest hit is spinning and I check to make sure I have everything on my end lined up. Our first celebrity call in is coming up and it’s a doozy. Bonnie Faith is one of my idols. I have loved her since I was eight. Her album Queen of Rock is why I got into music in the first place and I learned all her songs on guitar by the time I was 12. When I put the call out to her manager I just did it to try to bring in some more music people, hoping the charity angle would draw her. Still, I never expected for her to personally email me with an enthusiastic yes. Turns out she’s not only a massive Yankees fan, but one of Mark’s diehards too.
“Hey, Bad Boy,” she purrs in that famous raspy English accent. “Who are you punching next?”
“Ah, Bonnie. Wouldn’t you love to know…”
“Still a fan of Chopin?”
Chopin? Mark chuckles softly into his mic, but I see him blush. “Don’t be naughty, Bon. Let’s not spill state secrets.”
“Oh, do,” I blurt into my own mic. I don’t know why I said that and neither does Mark, who shoots me a look of surprise complete with arched eyebrows and a gaping mouth.
“I don’t kiss and tell,” he finally says in a low voice.
Awesome. Mark has banged my favorite rock star. I lean back in my seat, feeling nauseous as I listen to their sexy banter.
Who cares that he banged her? Who cares if he does again? None of my business!
Besides, this should not both me because I DON’T CARE. The words of Saint Pammy bounce around my head and I steel my poker face and steady my quivering hands.
“See, you around, Bad Boy.” Is it my imagination or has her accent gotten extra English as the conversation went on? Suddenly, I hate British accents.
“Later, diehard.”
Finally, it’s over. I bid farewell to my former favorite rock star with a quick thank you and start a stream of five long songs so Mark and I can have a break.
Break initiated, I storm out of the production booth with the intention of hiding in my office for the next half hour, but Mark is standing in front of the studio door blocking my exit as RHCP’s Dani California plays.
“Move,” I say.
“Nope.” He crosses his arms. “You’re being ridiculous.”
He just stares at me with those eyes. Those way too blue to be legal eyes.
God damn why is he such a gorgeous hunk of a man. My resolve is melting like the Arctic ice caps and my panties start to puddle.
“Rose,” he whispers, and the sound of my name on his lips makes my legs wake up and walk toward him. Traitors.
He wraps his arms around me and kisses me…on the forehead. Again. “You suck at being a drama queen. It’s really not you.” With gentle yet firm hands, he positions my body so
my back is to the door.
“What do you think you’re doing?” I am trying to sound fuck you, but ScarJo is making me sound fuck me.
His answer is an eyebrow wiggle as he presses his body against mine. I get another kiss. This one is on the mouth, soft and slow, opened-eyed and playful. I love watching those blue eyes widen as I kiss him back, my lips melting into his. He slowly lowers himself to his knees, keeping those blue eyes trained on mine as if in a dare. He slides his hands up my skirt, then back down with the sides of my panties curled around his thumbs. I feel a rush of cool air between my legs.
He smiles. “I really wanted to do this to you the other night. Unfortunately, life got in the way… Let me give you my peace offering.”
“No. I don’t accept oral sex from men who are currently dating their supermodel ex-girlfriends.” I mentally pat myself on the back for staying strong. But instead of looking guilty, or even angry, he looks sincere.
“I don’t know what I can say to make you believe me. Amber is delusional. She’s making up lies to save her career. There is no one else, Rose. Just you. Come here.”
As I step toward him, I check the windows to the DJ booth, but the studio is empty for once. Mark grabs me to him, flush against his hard body, and kisses me.
And against my better judgment, I kiss him back. It’s deep and connected, and even if he doesn’t have the right words to make this all better, he’s convincing me with his intensity.
“Rose,” he murmurs, pulling me even tighter to him.
I can feel his mouth curving up into a smirk as his hand roams up my inner thigh. I don’t bother fighting him, because this is exactly what I want. With a soft moan, I let my legs slide apart.
Thank god I wore high heeled boots today, because even when Mark is on his knees he’s still a tall guy. I lift my skirt and he looks at my undies for a few seconds and then slowly slides them the rest of the way down my thighs.