Thank You For Holding: On Hold Series Book #2

by Julia Kent

  SQUEEEEE!

  I just smile. God has a sense of humor like Zeke’s.

  “And OMIGOD, Gia,” one of them turns to the other, “Zeke is here, too! We could get a foursome going.” She winks at me. “Um, for golf or something.” Wink.

  As if summoned, I hear him shout, “HEY MATE! Hold the door!” Sweaty and holding a fresh beer, Zeke saunters on, literally dripping all over everyone as he turns in place and chugs half his brew.

  “ZEEEEEEEKKKKKEEEE!” They scream as the doors close and I push the fourth floor, noting the only other button pressed was.... the fourth floor.

  “What luck,” Zeke says, burping. “I knew coming to this wedding was a great idea.”

  I’m too polite to point out he came because it was all free. As Anterdec subsidiary employees, we were able to get comped rooms.

  “Whatcha doing tonight, Zeke?” Gia (or Gina) asks.

  He puts his arms around both of them, looks at me and announces. “At least one of you.”

  “Why not both?” Gina (or Gia) giggles.

  “Even better.”

  “What about poor Ryan? We can’t leave him out.” One of the twins speaks while the other applies lipstick.

  Zeke gives me a fake sympathetic look. “Oh, girls. It’s so sad. Ryan has a girlfriend now. He’s taken. Off the market.”

  They pout.

  “So you’ll just have to share me.”

  “We like sharing,” they say in unison.

  “Nice shoes.” Zeke’s statement comes with a wolfish grin. I look down, wondering why the non sequitur about her footwear. Both women are wearing very ordinary high heels.

  “Thanks!” More stereo responses.

  “They’ll look great against my shoulders.”

  Okay, then.

  Ding!

  Without another word, I get off the elevator, find the room, slip in, and press my back against the closed, locked door. Carrie’s gone for the afternoon, attending wedding events like a good maid of honor. The rehearsal is at 5 p.m. and she’ll eat with the wedding party.

  How do I know this? The color-coded Excel printout Jenny’s sister gave us yesterday. Significant others have their own color (cerulean blue). My next optional appearance is at the wedding.

  I’m here now, hiding and safe in my room. Our room.

  Safe.

  Whatever that means.

  Chapter 11

  RYAN

  “Well, I’m off to the bachelorette party,” Carrie says as if she’s headed off to renew her driver’s license at the registry of motor vehicles.

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic.” I spent most of the day consuming calories, running on the beach, and trying to dodge the attentions of O clients. A bachelorette party is the last place I want to be.

  “The rehearsal was bad enough. Jenny’s family minister is about as interesting as listening to my father explain how to edge a window.”

  I laugh. She doesn’t talk much about her parents. I know they own a paint store in Michigan, but other than the fact that her brother works there, Carrie’s life before I met her is a vague mystery.

  I should talk. She’s met Tessa, Carlos, and the boys. That’s it. I don’t share much about myself at work.

  “I’d imagine your father’s home improvement lectures were a great foundation for your interest in design,” I reply.

  “Is that why you became an electrical engineer? Because of your father?” she responds, a hard-to-read tone in her voice. Either she’s genuinely curious or a little pissed I credited her dad with her interest.

  “No. I just like sex toys. A lot,” I say with a grin. “I like them more when they’re taken apart. It’s like a 3-D picture in my mind, up against the skin, triggering nerve impulses in just the right calibrated motions to produce the desired outcome.”

  I get a pillow to the face in response.

  “I’m sure Cal Tech had a lab for sex toys for undergrads to do research,” she groans.

  “No. Just Department of Defense-funded robotics labs. But someday, those wireless robots will do amazing things with a tickler.”

  She snorts. “Even when we’re not working, we’re thinking about sex, aren’t we?” she says, giving me a saucy smile.

  I hold her gaze.

  “I mean,” she adds quickly, “sex for work. Sex that sells. Uh — sex that gets women to open up.”

  I shove the pillow against my face, laughing too hard.

  “Oh, stop! You’re like Zeke.”

  “A horny asshole who fucks Uber drivers?”

  Carrie gives me a squinty bitchface in return. I deserve it.

  “What’s so bad about the bachelorette party?” I ask, switching topics. “Seems like harmless fun.”

  She gives a one-shouldered shrug. “You know.”

  “No. I don’t.” I’m not part of the wedding party, so I’m not invited to whatever the groom’s doing for a bachelor party, thank God. Zeke and I have plans to lift in the fitness center.

  “I work at O,” Carrie says with a knowing grin. “I’m surrounded by hot, mostly naked men all day. A male stripper is just run-of-the-mill. Boring. Like Wonderbread sandwiches.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Really?” Folding my arms over my chest, I watch her as she realizes what she’s saying.

  And who she’s saying it to.

  “I - I — but — no, Ryan, I don’t mean — I didn’t — I’m not, oh, man.” She’s flustered and adorable. “I’m not saying you’re run-of-the-mill or, you know — ”

  “Wonderbread?” I reply, enjoying her adorable awkwardness.

  “No! No! You’re not! You’re like artisanal French countryside bread! Gourmet and handmade, fine organic sourdough! You’re the opposite of what I’m talking about!” She’s so damned earnest. Apologetic. Carrie actually thinks she’s hurt my feelings, and that’s what I love about her. The caring. The concern. Authentic and genuine, she’s so real.

  Every day, I work with women who can’t get what they need elsewhere. Don’t get me wrong — I love my job.

  But there are enough clients who think that they deserve to get what they need from me no matter what — with no boundaries. Time after time, even here at the Inn, I’ve seen it. Off the clock, on vacation, but still viewed as ‘the help.’

  Carrie’s the only woman in my life, aside from my mom and sisters, who doesn’t think of me as a tool to be used.

  It makes her gorgeous, inside and out.

  “I’m sourdough bread? Crusty on the outside, chewy on the inside, made from white goo in a jar that’s left out on a counter to go bad until it bubbles?” I smirk.

  “Fine artisanal organic special — oh, stop!” She finally sees my shoulders moving from repressed laughter and hits me in the face with another pillow she tosses, hard.

  I pounce. In seconds we’re on the bed, Carrie squirming under me as I tickle her, the skirt of her dress riding up to show off creamy, bare thighs. My lifting shorts are tight lycra, designed for compression and sweat wicking.

  Not meant for hiding anything.

  “Stop! I give up! Oh, God, Ryan,” she gasps, laughing until she snorts, then giggling with embarrassment. Her attempts to tickle me back are hilariously ineffective.

  Until her hand brushes against my erection.

  We both freeze.

  Panting, I’m half on top of her, bare thigh to bare thigh, our chests rising and falling from exertion and playfulness. Her mouth is inches from mine, eyes asking me a question I can’t quite answer with words.

  I answer with my mouth anyhow, kissing her softly. Carrie’s lips part and I’m on her, letting my weight press into her, blanketing her body with mine as she moves her hands up my back, inviting me closer.

  The kiss is everything I want, more than I expected and less than I need. I rise up and deepen, her legs moving against mine, her hands on my waist, fingers touching a bare spot above my ass that makes my blood race.

  Bzzz.

  We both jump, Carrie rolling out from und
er me, jumping on both feet like a gymnast, grabbing her phone.

  “That’s Angela, wondering where I am!” she squeaks, running her hand through her mussed hair.

  I can’t breathe.

  Don’t leave, I want to say, sitting cross-legged on the bed, trying to make my mind line up with my mouth, my cock stand down from my heart.

  Don’t leave, I want to beg as the cool air between us sharpens my senses.

  Don’t leave, I want to demand as she grabs her purse and gives me a shaky smile.

  “Now you look improper,” I say. “Like someone who was making out with her boyfriend before rushing off to the bachelorette party.”

  “Boyfriend,” she says, her eyes narrowing as she says the word. Carrie tilts her head, then takes one step toward me, hesitant. The air shifts, meaning filling the room, and I hold my breath.

  I really can’t breathe.

  Then she dips her head and gives a sheepish smile. “Geez, Ryan.” She laughs, shaking her head, as she retreats. “You’re really good at this.”

  “Huh?” I choke out, confused again, body spinning faster than my mind — if that’s even possible.

  “You had me going there for a minute. Boyfriend. Right. Time to go out there and put on a show.”

  And with that, she leaves, closing the door softly with a click that is like a bullet being loaded into a chamber.

  I shake it off, jumping to my feet, snatching up the hand towel I had on my nightstand, my phone and my cardkey. While Carrie parties with the bride and bridesmaids, I’m going to lift iron until my arms detach at the shoulder joint.

  And then do still another set of reps.

  Pure exhaustion would be a relief at this point. Danger is everywhere with Carrie now. I’m about to lose my fucking mind and tell her the game is up. None of this is fake.

  It’s all way too real.

  I get to the fitness center, head for the racks, and load up barbells, curling until my biceps and triceps scream surrender. Zeke’s running late, damn it. I need a spotter for squats.

  Doing squats without a spotting partner is like having sex without using birth control. The chance that something will go wrong is slim, but the long-term consequences are forever.

  I ignore the Olympic bar and decide it can wait. As I’m doing curls, I hear the door behind me open.

  In walk Jamey and Kevin, dressed in full workout clothes, carrying matching stainless steel water bottles.

  And wearing twin looks of discomfort as they spot me.

  “Hi, Ryan,” Jamey mutters, picking a bench as far away from me as possible.

  “Hey.” I rack more weight on my barbells, maximizing out, then lift. Kevin watches, eyes raised, counting my reps.

  Jamey’s mouth tightens.

  “I thought you’d be at the bachelor party,” I grunt out.

  Kevin huffs. “They hired a stripper.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “A female stripper,” Kevin adds in an acid tone. He and Jamey share an eyeroll.

  “Gotcha. Maybe you should head over to your sister’s party. Heard they have their own entertainment.”

  “Now there’s an idea,” Jamey says with a laugh. “Carrie and I could critique him while we drink w — “

  I drop the weights, the gentle bounce of their heft on the lightly padded gym floor barely registering as I get right in his face.

  “Leave Carrie the fuck alone,” I warn him, breathing so hard, my exhale makes his hair lift off his brow.

  Maybe it’s all the testosterone unleashed in my blood by the lifting. Maybe it’s my chewed-on tongue, sore from biting it. Maybe it’s my frustration with all the kisses and caresses with Carrie that aren’t real — but damn well feel like they are.

  Or maybe I just fucking hate Jamey for what he did to my best friend. My fake girlfriend.

  My — whatever Carrie is to me now.

  “What?” he says, incredulous.

  “You heard me. Don’t go near her again — except for the bare minimum you have to do for the wedding.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do. You don’t control who Carrie spends time with.”

  “When it comes to Carrie being hurt, I damn well do.”

  “I can’t believe she’s dating a caveman.”

  “I can’t believe she ever dated a piece of shit like you.”

  Air slides between his teeth as he sucks in an offended breath. “Fuck you, Ryan.”

  “Is that what this is about? Every time you dropped by the O Spa and watched all of us in our g-strings, you were just imagining fucking us? Not only did you use her for a beard, you...” I can’t even complete the sentence.

  Kevin inhales sharply.

  “You don’t understand,” Jamey says, in my face with Kevin as backup. I almost laugh at the posturing, because I’m close to being the size of them — combined.

  “Then explain it.”

  “You’re straight. I’ll bet you’ve always known you’re straight. You have no idea how hard a struggle it’s been for me. I started dating Carrie with the best of intentions. I like her. I even love her.”

  Kevin makes a sound in his throat.

  I give Jamey a deadly, disbelieving stare.

  “But she’s nice and sweet and she just gives and gives and gives and after a while, it was impossible to leave. Impossible to really think! How do you think when someone’s that nice to you?” Jamey practically shouts.

  “You’re blaming her niceness for the fact that you were a jerk to her?” I’d better not be hearing this. He’s trying to make what he did Carrie’s fault.

  “It was agony, knowing I wasn’t attracted to women, not even to Carrie. Denying it. Trying so hard to be the man she wanted. Trying even harder to turn her into the person I wanted. You don’t understand. You can’t understand.”

  “Here’s what I do understand, you asshole. You had a choice.”

  “You’re blaming me for being gay?”

  “What? No! This has nothing to do with your being gay!”

  He looks like I gut-punched him.

  “What?” Jamey gasps. Kevin’s eyebrow arches but he says nothing.

  “Not one bit,” I continue. "The fact that you’re making it all about you is the problem. You didn’t show even the slightest bit of respect for Carrie when you dumped her. You called her from the airport while you were running off with him,” I point at Kevin, "broke up with her, and announced you were gay. And then you hung up." Kevin just blinks slowly, like an owl. Jamey’s face drains of color. "You stripped her of her dignity. You don’t get to do that to her. No one does. Ever again.”

  “I needed to make sure she knew,” Jamey says in a small voice.

  “Then you should have been a grown-up. A decent human being would meet her in person, say all the nice things she needed to hear about how good and smart and kind and attractive she is. Then you break it to her gently. Let her know it’s not her fault. Let her know she’s still valuable.”

  “Of course she’s valuable!”

  “You made her think she wasn’t. Isn’t. You broke her fucking heart, Jamey.” I get in his face. “Own it. You were a prick to her. You made everything about you. You made your own selfishness her fault.”

  He staggers backward, nearly tipping Kevin over.

  My hands reach down to the barbells, the metal grips digging into my palms, my heart speeding through my chest like a freight train. His eyes are wide with a scheming look that make it clear he’s still desperately trying to make Carrie at fault for his own self-centeredness.

  Bzzz.

  My phone buzzes. I drop a barbell and look at it as it buzzes again, then I grab it. It’s an actual call, from Zeke.

  I answer.

  “Hey! I need you. Now.” The last word out of Zeke’s mouth is a bark, a growl, a primal sound that makes me want to pick up shield and sword and join my fellow man in battle.

  “Where?” I snap.

  “Courtyard by the chocolate buffet.” Click.

&n
bsp; That doesn’t sound anything like a battlefield, but I am ready.

  I walk quickly away from Jamey and Kevin, glad to be rid of them. The tension was getting thicker and thicker by the minute, and any break from sexual tension and alpha male preening bullshit is a relief. Whatever emergency Zeke’s going through has to be better than that.

  In the locker room, I throw on my clothes and then lightly jog to Zeke’s location.

  I turn the corner toward the chocolate buffet and find Zeke in the center of a group of women, down to his skivvies, while Jenny peels a red lace garter off his thick thigh.

  With her teeth.

  While wearing handcuffs.

  If this is an “emergency” by Zeke’s definition, the English have a very weird way of viewing the world.

  But anything’s possible.

  “RYAN!” he bellows as Jenny nearly gives him a testicular exam with her bicuspids. He stands and starts clapping rhythmically, in tune to some music I didn’t notice until just now. It’s heavy Euro dance music with a little country thrown in, a fusion that includes a fiddle.

  All the women in the semi-circle around him stand and look at me, clapping and cheering, hair mussed, eyes loose and happy, cheeks aglow.

  The bachelorette party. I scan the group. No Carrie.

  “The stripper no-showed for poor Jenny! No woman should be stiffed on the eve of her wedding, right? I’m helping her out.”

  “Stiffed,” someone says, then giggles through hiccups.

  I take a deep breath, body flushing with the creeping sensation of having forty eyeballs crawling up and down every inch of skin I possess. Even through my clothing, I feel them evaluating me. Smiling while they take me in. Appreciating what their looking does to their emotional cores, triggering fantasies that transport them.

  It’s what I do for a living.

  But I’m not on the clock right now.

  Planting my hands on my hips, I square my shoulders, taking a stand. “You’re more than enough man for all of them, Zeke.” I wink at one of the women, who is tonguing the cocktail stirrer in her fruity drink like it’s some guy’s mushroom cap. “No need for reinforcements.”