by ML Michaels
With her new job had come a large collection of new and exciting acquaintances, with one more—ahem—exciting than the others.
“Because if Lawrence Shriner doesn’t excite any given woman, then you might as well go on and check her primary vital signs,” mused the 28-year-old, adding with a smirk, “The gal just might be dead.”
Tall and slender, the slick blond Lawrence reigned as a leading account executive at Barnes and Callas where he wore his confidence and attitude just as skillfully as he did his fine cut European suits.
“It is these very characteristics, in fact, that probably drew him to me in the first place,” she mused, adding as she squared her sturdy shoulders to prideful effect, “A size 2 blonde I may not be, but confidence and attitude? Well I just happen to boast both of those traits in economy-sized droves.”
Aside from occasional boastfulness, in fact, Lawrence seemed to have only two discernable flaws: 1. His favorite food was escargot (Who on earth, she pondered almost desperately, counts snails as their favorite food? And publicly admits it?) and 2. He was frequently late to agency meetings.
“Not generally this late, though. Could it be that they are serving escargot in the company commissary?”
This was the question that plagued Madison’s mind as she sat in the luxurious, velvet-lined office occupied by the Barnes of Barnes and Callas, a woman who also currently took note of her boyfriend’s fatal flaw.
“Where IS he?” snapped Agatha Barnes, a petite silver-haired woman who presided like a queen behind a polished cherry wood desk. “I asked the two of you to report to my office at 10 a.m. sharp, and it’s nearly 10:30.”
Madison nodded.
“Sorry Boss,” she apologized, adding with a shrug, “I know that he was interviewing models for the Lovely Lady Lingerie—say that three times fast—account earlier this morning, but he swore that he would have those interviews wrapped up by 9:45.”
Agatha said nothing, just tapped her polished ruby red fingernails hard against her desk as she pinned Madison with an expectant look.
“All righty then,” Madison responded, clearing her throat loudly. “While we’re waiting for Snail Boy, would you like to go ahead and fill me in on the newest account?”
Brightening immediately at this suggestion, Agatha opened her top desk drawer and removed two sizable glossy photos, holding them up for Madison’s inspection as she told her, “I’m very pleased to tell you, Madison, that we have been named the one and official advertising agency for Lasso Sportswear.”
With these words she pulled out a display of photos of casual yet stylish sports shirts and jeans that would be appropriate on a ranch in the Midwest or a casual Atlanta restaurant.
“And to complete the line, Lasso is introducing its first ever cologne,” Agatha said.
She pulled out a last even more dramatic image of a round golden bottle cut in the unique shape of a 10-gallon cowboy hat with a curled rope around the brim, a translucent, artfully designed bottle filled literally to the brim with rich golden liquid.
“Behold Lasso Cologne,” Agatha intoned, speaking as though she herself was auditioning to narrate commercials for this “bold and seductive” new fragrance. “They wanted to come up with something that would appeal to rugged outdoorsmen hiding in most men.”
Madison crossed her eyes while Agatha studied the photo.
“Well that certainly is a beautiful bottle,” she acknowledged, adding with eyebrows arched, “I only hope that the contents don’t smell like an artful and highly aromatic blend of sweat and cow dung.”
Agatha, wonder of all wonders, actually smiled.
“Actually the cologne smells great,” she reassured a visibly skeptical Madison. “The fragrance is a rugged, masculine blend. And, as luck we’ve had it, we’ve signed the one and only Luke McCade to appear in print, online and television advertisements for the product.”
Madison blinked. Hard.
“Luke McCade? Now don’t be playin’ with me now. We got the one and only Luke McCade?” she enthused, adding through gritted teeth, “Um, who is Luke McCade?”
Agatha chuckled. Twice in one day, Madison mused, nodding with approval. Must be some sort of a record.
“Well if you happened to be familiar with the world of competitive rodeo riding, then I’m sure you would have recognized the name—and, more importantly, the face,” she assured Madison. “He is not only the star of said circuit right now, but also its current heartthrob. And here’s why.”
With this she flashed the second glossy image grasped in her manicured hand. The photo portrayed the most beautiful man Madison ever had seen.
The tall, muscled man sat tall and proud atop a sleek ivory stallion, dressed in a blue denim shirt and sleek ultra-tight blue jeans.
Matching the hue of this sculpting garment was his mesmerizing pair of clear azure eyes that shone forth from a face that also boasted carved bronzed cheekbones, a distinguished cleft chin and full moist lips that seemed to turn upward in a downright rakish smile.
“He’s a handsome devil,” Madison said aloud. “And durn it if he doesn’t know it.”
Completing his look was a long, appropriately wild mane of thick, gleaming reddish gold hair, one that framed and accentuated his features to sterling effect.
“Cute, huh?” Agatha asked her, pinning her account executive with an all knowing smile.
Not budging her eyes one centimeter away from her new favorite advertising image, Madison still found cause to shake her head in response to her employer’s words.
“Cute, Agatha, does not begin to cover it,” she corrected Agatha. “Michelangelo’s Statue of David is cute. That man right there is a stunner.”
Agatha guffawed outright.
“Glad you like the stunner, Gal, because you’re going to be working very closely with him over the next couple of weeks,” Agatha assured her.
Madison arched her eyebrows.
“Just how closely are we talkin’?” she queried, trying—and quite unsuccessfully, she thought—to keep the tinge of obvious anticipatory hopefulness from her tones.
Agatha grinned.
“Well for starters, you and Lawrence will be attending one of his rodeo performances next Friday night to get some photos of Luke in action—on a horse,” she added quickly, then going on even more quickly, “Then the next day you will meet him for lunch at one of Atlanta’s finest bistros, Le Jardin, to interview him for a comprehensive press kit to promote Lasso Sportswear. I want a bio of him, a product profile of Lasso, and a feature-type article about why this man chose this line of clothing and cologne.”
Madison clapped her hands together.
“Perfect!” she exclaimed, adding as she rose from her seat, “Now I’m going to go find my partner, wherever he may be, and fill him in on the details.”
Within seconds, she walked the length of the long winding hallway that formed the center of Barnes and Callas, headed toward the office suite that she shared with her co-worker and boyfriend.
She froze in her place, and her eyes flew wide, as she heard a noise arise from this very suite; it was a loud, sharp moan that sounded high pitched and feminine in tone.
“From the tone of her voice, as a matter of fact, it sounds like Sharla Michaels, the lingerie model who I recommended for the Lovely Lady Lingerie account,” she recalled with a frown. “And although I know that Lawrence was supposed to interview her today, I’ve never known anyone in particular to enjoy the intoxicating experience of a job interview so much that they felt fit to let loose with a moan of ecstasy. What in the blazes is going on?”
Determined to answer this question, she raced forward into the office suite and flung open the door. Then she was the one letting loose with a high-pitched screech as she witnessed the unthinkable.
She recognized immediately the toned naked body of her boyfriend Lawrence and saw the even more naked and slender body of the lover beneath him on the surface of his polished cherry wood desk.
; Yet one look at the flawless features of the petite blonde, Sharla Michaels, told her exactly ‘who wore these shoes,’ as the immortal Elton John would say—and nothing else.
Taking a quick look at the pane of a brass-bordered mirror that occupied Lawrence’s wall, she regarded her own natural wholesome beauty and curvy, voluptuous figure. Then she looked again at the stick figure with a bad perm who currently seized her lover’s—how might she put this?—attentions.
“Typical,” she scoffed in silence, holding her head up high as she addressed the Neanderthal before her.
“Now Sharla, I do recall telling you and Lawrence to have fun with this assignment,” she told the young woman, who now rushed to cover herself as she and Lawrence raised their heads to regard her with insanely wide eyes. “Perhaps I should have specified just what type of fun and in what quantity.”
Lawrence shook his head.
“Madison, I am so sorry,” he groveled. “It was so impulsive. It all happened so quickly…”
“If recent memory serves, VERY quickly,” Madison deadpanned, and with a downright wicked smirk. “All I know, Lawrence, is that you are out one girlfriend.”
“And, for that matter, one job.”
Madison jumped as she sensed the arrival of a powerful presence at her back who graced her sturdy shoulder with a dainty, comforting hand.
“Lawrence, I never did sense that you were the brightest member of my team. And if you’re willing to betray an amazing woman like Madison for some no brains bimbo….”
“Hey! Who are you callin’ a bimbo?” Sharla interrupted on a squeak, adding as she perused the sight of her naked, prone form, “I know it might look like that but I’m really smart…”
Agatha shook her head.
“My point is that any man who would cheat on Madison Stone is beyond foolish,” she clarified. “And any man who would use the promise of a job to bed—or, I suppose, desk in this case—a vulnerable young woman has no place at my company. Lawrence, you are fired!”
“And dumped!” Madison inserted, eager to emphasize her earlier point—just as strongly and as many times as he needed to hear it.”
A rodeo.
Of all places that she wanted to be at this particular moment—an analyst’s office, a well-stocked bar with an expansive alcoholic menu, perhaps a well-organized meeting of the My Ex-Boyfriend is a Low-Class Cretin Club—a high spirited, celebratory occasion known as a rodeo was the last place that Madison wanted to be right now.
“If that dude on the microphone—the one with the obnoxiously sizable hat and loud voice—encourages us to ‘saddle up for a rootin tootin time at this here rodeo’ one more time, I shall not be responsible for my actions,” she said, rolling her eyes heavenward as a circle of trick-riding Sharla Michaels clones showed off their annoyingly bright beams, along with their admittedly superlative lasso spinning skills.
Her spirits lightened moments later, as the lassoing ladies dispersed to make room for the main event: a headlining trick riding act to be performed by Luke McCade.
“Or as Obnoxious Hat Guy introduces him, “The onnnne and oh-nlyyy Luke McCade!” she smirked, turning her attention to the lone spotlight that focused on the center of Rawhide Arena, the premiere rodeo ring in downtown Atlanta.
All thoughts scattered moments later, as the man in question invaded the spotlight galloping hard atop his sleek ebony stallion.
For just a moment, her rebellious gaze scanned the length of his tall muscled form, which was adorned in a skin tight pair of sculpted blue jeans and sleek designer cowboy boots.
And even more impressive is what he happens to be wearing above the waist,” she mused, her thoughts vague as she regarded a man who seemed like something out of a dream. “Which is to say, ab-so-lute-ly nothing. Except, of course, for a smooth ivory cowboy hat perched atop his gorgeous head. Get a-long, little Dog-gies!
Indeed, clearly visible to the huge crowd gathered at the arena was Luke’s bronzed sculpted torso, an immaculate work of muscled pecs, chiseled abs and a firm, trim waist.
Madison watched in silent awe as the flawless cowboy trotted from the center of the spotlight, galloping around the ring’s outer edges as he waved his greetings to the adoring crowd who chanted his name and cheered his every move.
One more loudly than others.
“You go, Roy Rogers with a Six Pack!” Madison exclaimed, “You go, Sex Ritter!”
“Am I hearin’ that woman right? Did she just call me Roy Rogers with a Six Pack? And wait a minute, Sex Ritter? She must be ancient if she’s talking about good ol’ Tex Ritter. Most young folk don’t know him at all.”
Preparing to accomplish his first trick of the evening, Luke struggled to focus on the formidable feat of high jumping that would take him and his horse Blaze soaring over the topmost rail of a four-rail fence that he just might collide right into if that blasted woman in the front row didn’t stop distracting him.
Oh, not that he really would have minded such a distraction outside the ring. Fresh out of a five-year relationship, one that ended abruptly when his fiancée—supermodel CeCe Burke—left him for a high-powered stockbroker twice their age, he was once again looking for love. Under normal circumstances, the funny, curvy brunette with the beautiful flawless skin, the killer full length red silk dress, and the keen sense of humor would fit the bill just fine.
“Just not when I’m tryin’ to do a particularly complicated and potentially dangerous trick,” he mused, biting his lip as he forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand.
Finally, he launched himself and his trusty mount high into the air, both of them soaring above the top rail with a grace and ease that earned thunderous applause from the crowd before him.
Once the feat was completed, he waved in gratitude at his devoted audience, then turning his head to wink flirtatious at the woman who had showed him such intense—um—devotion?
Although he reminded himself that he still had to focus on the rest of his show, Luke had to admit that he was pretty pleased when the lady winked back.
An hour later, after he had thrown his last lasso and rounded his final barrel, Luke struck a deep, courtly bow that—in the final trick of the evening—was met by a curtsy from his noble steed.
“Blaze, what are you doin’ right now?” he playfully scolded his trusted steed, belying his words with the gentle stroking of his thick black mane. “Dudes don’t curtsy!”
After winking playfully to acknowledge the laughter of the crowd at large, Luke swept with a flourish out of the arena and into the backstage area. This time, he didn’t stop as usual to savor the cheers that marked the completion of his program.
“Norman!”
Stepping off of his mount as a groom ran forward to unbridle and water his co-star of the evening, Luke approached the slight, smiling silver-haired man who applauded his exit out of the ring.
“Another amazing show, Luke.”
Norman Rousey, Luke’s longtime agent and manager, greeted him with a bright smile and his own round of applause that Luke acknowledged with a brief smile before saying, “Thanks Chief, but I gotta go now. I spotted a gal in the crowd that I just gotta meet—and now.”
Norman shook his head.
“Sorry Cowboy, but no can do tonight,” he told his client. “You’re due to meet in 10 minutes with a PR flack for Lasso Sportswear.”
Luke rolled his eyes.
“Are ya still gonna make me do that ridiculous ad campaign for those flannel shirts and men’s perfume?” he snorted, rolling his eyes heavenward as he added, “I’m never going to live this down back at the ranch house—Mr. Big Time Rodeo Star, hockin’ perfume for men.”
Norman chuckled.
“Just think about all of the money that you’ll be rakin’ in, that you can spend on ultra-manly things like man caves and brocations….”
Luke had heard enough.
“OK then, when do I meet the PR flack?” he queried, heaving a deep resigned sigh as he settled his ha
t high atop his head.
“One PR flack comin’ right up!”
Immediately a robust, very familiar voice resounded from just behind him, prompting him to turn around and welcome the source of the sound.
“Why it’s the woman who almost inspired me to crash into a fence!” he exclaimed, his broad smile belying his lightly spoken words. “I just knew, Ma’am, that you and I were destined to meet—even if it is to discuss the preposterous notion of perfume for dudes.”
Madison guffawed outright.
“Well if I may be so bold—and I usually am—you could wear a cologne that draws its aromatic elements from a vat of congealed hog sweat and I reckon the gals would still come runnin’!” she declared, raising her hand to engage her stunning new acquaintance in a friendly and professional handshake. “I’m Madison Stone. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sex Ritter!”
She giggled in spite of herself as Norman—bearing witness to this whole bizarre scene as he stood inconspicuous at the sidelines—shot her a shocked and disbelieving look, his weathered cheeks suddenly assuming the hue of the oversized red bull now making its way past them, en route to the rodeo ring.
Her giggle quickly evolved to an all-out gasp as the cowboy before her took her offered hand, bringing it slow and smooth to his full, soft lips for a warm, moist kiss.
“Pleasure meeting you, Miss Madison Stone,” he told her, tone low and intimate as he stared deeply into her eyes.
Making no visible move to remove her hand from his sturdy, masculine grasp, Madison cleared her throat loudly as she asked, “Did you have anyplace special in mind for our meeting this evening? A dressing room, perhaps? Or I could see if this place has a conference room….”
Luke shook his head.
“If it wouldn’t trouble you too much, Ma’am, I’d far prefer that we discuss business over dinner—after I find myself a shirt, a Lasso Sportwear shirt, that is,” he suggested with a grin, adding with eyebrows arched, “Perhaps at Billington’s Steak House, just a hop skip and a jump away?”