Hooking Up

by Helena Hunting

  And then I think I’ve completely lost my mind. Passing through the X-ray machine, dressed in a navy suit, with a five o’clock shadow that could kill a specter, is Lexington Mills. I blink. And blink again. “No effing way.”

  I’m going to fuck you and you’re going to like it. I said that to him the last time I saw him. While attempting to choke him with his tie. For all intents and purposes that’s considered sexual assault.

  He fastens a watch around his wrist. Who even wears a watch these days? Lexington pockets his passport, phone, and wallet and shoulders his messenger bag. It’s masculine for a man-purse, just like he is. I felt just how masculine he is between my legs when I begged him to have sex with me. Oh God, I begged him. Now that I’m past the shock stage and fully immersed and basking in my anger, I can clearly see how unhinged I was. My mortification is doubled by my suitcase of fuck toys.

  Before he slips his feet back into his shoes I note his socks. They’re patterned. And not just with dots or diamonds or some pretentious houndstooth check. His socks are bright blue with what appear to be little bacon strips decorating them. Who is this man?

  As I take a moment to reverse the circuit, checking out his ass on the way back up to his face, I realize he’s staring back at me. I look away quickly, but pretending I don’t recognize him isn’t going to work. Especially since these guys are still going through my damn bag, and my sex toys and lingerie are on display for everyone passing by, including Lexington.

  He seems just as shocked to see me as I am to see him. His expression grows serious as he shoves his feet in his shoes and surveys the area around me.

  I brace myself for some kind of confrontation as he heads toward me, but that’s not what happens. I’m stunned when he pulls me in for a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Keeping his hold on my arms as he backs away, tight smile still in place. “Amalie! So good to see you! Are you traveling alone?”

  I’m speechless at first, unable to understand why he’s being so pleasant. “I-I. Yes. I’m alone.” I feel my chin start to quiver. Dammit. I can’t cry right now.

  “That’s good.” He nods, eyes moving over my face, seeming strangely concerned. “I was worried—”

  When he doesn’t finish the sentence, I fill the awkward silence. “I thought I deserved an escape.”

  “You do. Definitely.” He glances at my open luggage, and leans in to whisper. “Is that yours?”

  I purse my lips and nod. This feels a lot like a pap. I might as well show everyone my vagina with all the things I generally put on, or in, it, already available for public viewing.

  He steps back, his expression somewhere between amused and intrigued. I wait for some snarky comment to add to my humiliation that never seems to end, one that will send me over the edge, back into the land of tears and sadness. Anger is so much easier. “It’s a real shame you have to attend the conference alone.”

  What the hell is he talking about?

  Lexington turns his megawatt smile on the guards. “Amalie is the queen of sex, obviously.” He gestures to my bag. “I’m so glad to see you’ve brought so many of the new products for the Extreme Pleasure line.”

  I cough. The Extreme what? I don’t get what’s happening here.

  Lexington points to the black bottle. “Do you mind?”

  I look to the guards who seem very confused. “You know this guy?”

  “We work for the same company,” Lexington says.

  I’m so discombobulated. I don’t understand where he’s going with this.

  He leans close to me again and whispers. “Follow my lead.” Then he gives me a knowing wink as he grabs the bottle, addressing the guards. “This is great stuff.” He flips it in his hand, possibly judging the heft as he checks the label. It’s not even close to full. I’m sure he’s noticed. He turns his charming white-toothed smile on me, his tongue peeking out just a little.

  My stomach twists uncomfortably. I kissed him. On my wedding night. I had my tongue in his mouth. I know how soft his lips are. It was short-lived, because he was fighting off my advances—sort of—but I still remember every second of it. Especially the part where his tongue tangled with mine briefly.

  He rolls the bottle between his palms, as if he’s warming it up. “Very effective, isn’t it, Amalie?”

  It finally dawns on me that he’s trying to save me, and it’s possible that he can tell I’m on the verge of tears since he’s witnessed me shed them rather recently. I clear my throat and do my best to play along. “Oh, yes.” I nod. “Extremely effective.”

  “So much better than products that numb, wouldn’t you agree?” He’s still holding my gaze, his concern still obvious even though he’s pretending this is a normal conversation to have in the middle of airport security. Meanwhile the lines continue to build behind us.

  I return his smile with a wavering one of my own and address the security guards, who look so incredibly confused. “Definitely. I one hundred percent agree. What would be the point of using something that numbs? Then no one feels anything, and that defeats the whole purpose.” I place a hand on his bicep, the squeeze for me, but also to demonstrate my appreciation for what he’s doing.

  “That’s right, Amalie.” He leans toward the guys, lowering his voice. “This is a muscle relaxant, to help accommodate for larger insertions.”

  Both guards look at me, then back down at the contents of the bag. As it is, I’m working to hold back the hysterical laughter that very well may turn into tears. Lex leans in further and taps the stainless-steel plug. It’s new. I haven’t used it before. I’m not even sure I’m ready for something like that. The two smaller ones are silicone. Obviously I’ve been using them by myself because the only anal thing about Armstrong was his personality.

  Lexington strokes the steel like a lover while he holds my gaze. “This beauty right here is exactly what I’m referring to.”

  And I think I just came in my damn panties.

  Serious Face gives me a look I can’t quite decipher, until he speaks. He sounds like a pre-pubescent teen. “I’m so sorry, but I can’t allow you to take the liquid items on the plane. It’s against regulations.”

  I wave him off, relieved the tension seems to be broken. “It’s fine. I have travel sizes of everything anyway.” Why did I say that out loud?

  Lexington puts his arm around me and squeezes my shoulder. I must really look like I’m about to lose it if he’s being this nice after what I did to him. “She’s always prepared. A regular Girl Scout of sexpertise.”

  They begin the process of repacking my bag, leaving out the items that have been confiscated; so, everything apart from my gigantic bottles of lube and my brand-new bottle of toy cleaner.

  At least the embarrassment is over. I hope. I just need to keep it together long enough to finish repacking my bag and then I need to get away from Lexington, because my emotional hold is close to snapping.

  Six: Fuck Toy Warehouse

  Lexington

  I think my brain might explode. Amalie—poised, put-together (apart from the night of her wedding, understandably) demure, sexy-as-fuck Amalie—has the Willy Wonka equivalent of a portable sex shop stored in her goddamn carry-on.

  “I’m going to have to clean everything,” she gripes.

  The security guards are acting as if they’ve found a bag of candy and they’re about to fight over who gets to eat it. She’s right about the cleanliness issue. Those two have touched pretty much every item in that bag. Although they are wearing gloves.

  I have to wonder what happened to make them open it in the first place. She hardly looks the criminal type. In fact, she’s exactly the opposite. Amalie’s appearance fits into the sweetly sexy category, and she’s become infinitely sexier thanks to the fuck toy factory she’s warehousing in that bag. The stainless-steel plug is rather intriguing. Amalie appears to be a naughty, dirty girl. Which begs the question: why the hell was Armstrong putting his dick in other mouths?

  “May I please assist? The s
teel and the glass shouldn’t be next to each other.” Amalie’s voice is matter of fact, sweet like sugar with a hint of a waver. But her posture reflects her annoyance.

  “Oh yeah, sure, sorry.” The security jerks step back and watch her do her thing, rearranging items, wrapping, moving things around. She’s gentle and efficient, her embarrassment over this only visible in the hint of pink in her cheeks and the single bead of sweat working its way down her temple, along with the tremulous exhalation of breath.

  This is the version of her I’m most familiar with—minus the bag of sex toys. The polite smile, calm, even demeanor, despite present circumstances. That she’s keeping it together as well as she is, considering what she’s been through, is a testament to her strength as a person.

  I note the barely imperceptible tremor in her hand and the heavy bob of her throat as she shifts the items in her carry-on around. There’s plenty of space for adjustments now that the bottles of lube are missing. She zips the interior compartment, then closes the bag.

  “I can get that for you,” one of the security douches offers.

  “It’s fine. I’ve got it.” In her rush to zip the case closed, her fingernail catches on the teeth, tearing it. “Shit!” She shakes out her hand and inspects the damage. She’s torn it to the quick, blood pooling and dripping down her ring finger. Which I note is diamond-free.

  I reach into my jacket pocket and root around for a tissue, but all I can find is a pocket square, likely from a past event. “Here, let me see.”

  I take her hand before she has a chance to protest and wrap the fabric around her finger, gently pressing below the nail bed. Red expands across the gray.

  She tries to pull her hand away, but I hold tight. “I’m fine, Lexington, really. You’ll never get the blood out.”

  “I’m not too concerned about a scrap of fabric that essentially serves no purpose other than to be decorative.” Long, slender fingers with perfectly manicured nails, apart from the torn one, flex around my palm. She has delicate hands, soft skin. My asshole cousin had access to these hands and he was dumb enough to ruin it. He really is an idiot.

  Amalie places her free hand on my forearm. “Lexington, please.” The tremor is more prominent, and it echoes in her voice. Her panic is clear when I lift my eyes to hers. She blinks rapidly, her lashes wetting with each frantic attempt to keep her emotions in check. “Please.” It’s barely a sound.

  I release her hand and my pocket square flutters to the ground.

  “I’m sorry.” She shoulders her purse, grabs her carry-on, and nods to the security guards before striding through the doors, toward the departure gates.

  I scoop up the stained fabric, jam it in my pocket, and follow her. She’s speed walking in heels. “Hey!” I call out, even though it’s clear she’s trying to escape me now that this most recent fiasco is over.

  I don’t know when I’ll see her again, and with the way things happened at the wedding, and just now, that doesn’t sit well with me. I don’t want her to feel bad about what went down in her bridal suite. “Hey! Amalie.” I grab her elbow.

  Her head drops along with her shoulders. The submissive posture doesn’t last long. She straightens her spine on a deep exhale, turns her despondent gaze on me, and gives me her signature polite smile. “Thank you for helping me out of an awkward situation.” She inclines her head in the direction of the security checkpoint. “It was very . . . creative.”

  Her eyes flutter shut again for a brief moment. She tucks blond strands behind her ear, releasing another tremulous breath. “I’d also like to apologize for my behavior in the bridal suite. I was very . . . distressed and I acted inappropriately. I shouldn’t have . . . attacked you like that.”

  That’s one way to interpret it I suppose. “I’m very capable of defending myself when necessary, and I at no point felt attacked.”

  Her smile falters and her chin trembles. “I somehow seriously doubt that’s true. I’m not usually a lunatic. Anyway, I’m very sorry. Have a safe trip, Lexington.”

  She turns to walk away, but I’m still gripping her elbow. “Amalie, wait.” I don’t know what I’m going to say, or if there is a combination of words that will make what happened less awkward for her. My initial response is to make light of things, but I’m not sure a joke is appropriate with the way she seems like she’s about to fall apart.

  “Please, Lex, I need to go. I need—” A tear leaks out of the corner of her eye and she swipes it away, pulling free of my grasp.

  Her kitten heels clip on the tile floor as she rushes away, disappearing into the ladies’ bathroom. I consider waiting, but I feel like I might make things worse if I do. I hope the next time I see her it’s under better circumstances and she’s less distressed and embarrassed.

  Resigned, I make my way to the lounge—which I’m grateful I have access to. I’m also thankful there was a first-class seat available on this flight. Eighteen hours on a plane in coach would’ve been a form of torture. I’m tall, and not particularly narrow, so anything over four hours in cramped seating leads to all kinds of muscles seizing up.

  I order a coffee and browse the menu. At this odd hour, I feel like breakfast. While I’m waiting for my eggs Benedict to arrive I check emails. Ursula, my assistant, has forwarded all the information I requested on the hotels I’ll be visiting. I guess it’s good I have eighteen hours in which I’ll be stuck in a seat, unable to go anywhere but the bathroom, to review it all.

  I spend the next twenty minutes reading emails, only breaking long enough to inhale the eggs Benny and request a coffee refill. My plates have been cleared, apart from the coffee cup, and I’m considering a bloody Mary since boarding is still another thirty minutes away, when the clip of heels draws my gaze toward the lounge entrance. Amalie freezes when she sees me. For a second I think she might turn around and bolt again, but I push out the club chair next to mine with my foot. She sighs, but takes the offer, dropping into the chair.

  Her eyes are puffy and so are her lips. Has she spent the last half hour locked in the bathroom crying? “Are you okay?”

  “I think the answer to that question is probably obvious.” She gestures to her face, then shakes her head. Her smile is soft but strained. “Shall we just pretend I’m fine and that everything between Saturday and just now didn’t happen?”

  “Sure.” I don’t want to push her to talk, but her being here and Armstrong’s absence has me curious as to what exactly happened between my putting her in that car with Ruby and now.

  She fingers a sugar packet from the table, that small smile lifting fractionally. “Thank you. Again.”

  I lean back in my chair, giving her space. “Anytime. I’m the king of avoidance.”

  The noise she makes is somewhere between a laugh and a huff. It’s much better than tears. I can handle tears just fine, but I’d prefer to make her smile, if at all possible.

  Despite the hour, she orders a bottle of champagne when the server comes around to check on our table.

  “Why don’t you get something to eat with that?” I suggest before the server can leave.

  She makes a face. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You can’t just drink champagne.” At least I wouldn’t suggest it.

  Her smile is patronizing. “Sure I can. And you’re going to watch me.”

  I bite back a reply referencing what she said to me in the bridal suite, thinking it’s too early to make a joke out of it, and place another order identical to the one I just consumed, as well as a coffee refill, and a glass of orange juice for Amalie, in case she’d like to make very expensive mimosas, or simply dilute the alcohol she feels compelled to consume.

  “I assume this is a business trip for you,” she says once the waiter leaves.

  “It is, a bit unexpected, but not unwelcome.” I suppose one positive out of this is knowing with absolute certainty that her being here without Armstrong means he won’t have an opportunity to come up with some creative excuse for his behavior.


  “Oh? Is everything okay?” Her concern is strangely genuine. Or maybe it isn’t strange, but the situation and our circumstances, along with the events from the wedding, make it that way.

  “Everything’s fine.”

  The right side of her mouth quirks up. “Fine is what people say when they don’t want to tell you the truth.”

  “You told me you were fine earlier.”

  “And I was lying, just like you are now.” She flips the sugar packet between her fingers, maybe so she has something to focus on that isn’t me.

  “That’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think? Why should I tell you the truth when you won’t give me the same courtesy?”

  Her gaze lifts for a brief moment, her sadness almost palpable. “Because you already know the reason why I’m not fine. You were there.”

  Our server interrupts, and her expression morphs into polite relief as he presents her with the bottle of champagne. At her nod, he pops the cork and pours her a sample. I decline when it’s offered to me.

  He waits for her to take a sip and voice her approval before he tops up her glass and leaves us alone again. Her eyes flutter closed and she sighs, her smile rueful as she takes another, more robust sip. Actually it’s more of a gulp. “So?” she asks.

  “So?” I’m too busy watching her tongue drag across her lip to remember what her question is.

  “Why are things fine?”

  “I suppose for the same reason things are fine for you right now.”

  She pauses with her glass halfway to her mouth, brow furrowed in confusion. She really is absolutely stunning, even with the puffy, slightly bloodshot eyes. “How so?”

  “My date created the problem and I have an interesting history with Armstrong that may lead some to think I orchestrated what happened, so getting away from the gossip is for the best.” I take a sip of my coffee. It’s too hot and burns the roof of my mouth, but it prevents me from elaborating further.