Grabbing my pair of provided flip-flops and slipping them on, I head to the door. I’m in my leopard-patterned swimsuit. I have a pair of matching leopard ears to go with it, but I’ve decided not to wear the ears now. Role-play only, really. And only if I find myself a boy to play nicely with.
Which is probably not going to happen, I remind myself, stepping out my of door and closing it behind me. As I do, I wrap my personal towel around me more tightly. The baby soft Egyptian cotton has a pair of leopard eyes sewn into the fabric. Striking green ones, a perfect match for mine.
All ready for my evening soak—my bubbly, non-alcoholic nightcap—I head away from my room to where the signs point me to the hot tub/spa area. The walk is easy and uneventful until I see him. Greaser Boy from the bar, and by the looks of things he’s still buzzed. Fan-fucking-tastic. His gait is uneven, but his eyes are on the lookout.
For me, I think, deciding to stop immediately and switch directions. The last thing I want is to be bothered by him again. I quickly move into another hallway. An alternate pathway to the soaking pools.
Thankfully, it doesn’t look like he’s seen me. It also doesn’t look like he has plans to do any soaking.
I breathe deeply and move forward with confidence after that. There are more hotel rooms this way but that’s okay. Most of the doors are closed or have “do not disturb” signs on them. Meaning I’m not likely to have to deal with anyone else on my way.
But, just as I turn into the hallway directly connected to the pool and spa area, I hear footsteps behind me. Before I have time to do anything more than freeze up and hope it’s not Greaser Boy, a woman appears beside me.
“Hi there,” she says, looking somewhat out of breath and embarrassed. The woman has short gray hair. Spiky in places, like a pixie. Her makeup, as if to match her hair, is delicately bold.
“Can I help you?” I look at her, then behind me, thinking I’ve dropped something. Nope. Nothing but luxurious carpet behind me.
The woman lowers her head, smiling. The smile is a nervous one, but no less magnetic. Charming, in its way. “Help me? Well, no, not necessarily,” she says, blushing, “I was hoping I could help you.”
I relax my pose. Cross my arms. Lean back on my heels, being sure to keep the towel pinned firmly around me. “Help me? With what?” Maybe it’s just me, but I didn’t think I was walking around with a big sign on me that said, “In constant need of assistance and company, please come on up.”
For the first time since she caught up with me, the woman looks me directly in the eye. “I saw your exchange with Little Elvis in the bar earlier,” she says. “And I saw you dodge him just now.” Her eyes flash with something but I’m not sure what. Knowing? Exhaustion? Whatever the case, she’s focused on me with everything she has. “I can tell you from experience the action available for us women around here is — “She looks furtively from side to side — “let’s be real. The real people. Men and women with real interesting desires, those can’t be found walking around here, okay?”
I nod, understanding on some level and yet not.
She continues, “Listen. You aren’t looking for ordinary, right?”
Intrigued, I nod again.
“You aren’t interested in Joe Schmo. You aren’t interested in what normal men have to offer you.” She steps closer. “I can see it. I can feel it.” She smiles again, and I’m not sure why, but my stomach and clit both react. They flinch under her intensity. Under the wildcat I can sense roving around in her. Used to hunting. “And I know how difficult it can be to get your needs met, you know?” The woman licks her lips. Not at me, but at something she’s thinking. “I know what it’s like to have different tastes. Exotic desires for things. Things not everybody is willing to give you.” She pauses, obviously hoping for a contribution from me. Some answer to everything she’s said.
So, I give it to her. “Yeah, you’d be right. What I want is not typically what men will loudly or proudly admit they like,” I say. “Most men don’t even like the kinds of things I have to offer them or expect in return.”
The woman chuckles, brushing a hand through her short silver-gray hair. “Definitely not sitting at a bar.” As she says this, she produces a small business card from her bra. From under the flowing fabric of her very hippie, New-Age tunic. “But lucky for you, I have just the place you can go to, to get those needs met. To find someone hungry for what you have to offer.” She hands me the card, and I look at it.
The Exchange Club, it reads, Aspen. Basement. Dinner starts promptly at 8 PM. Underneath this is an address.
“What I’ve just invited you to at the Exchange Club is by invitation only.” The woman says this as I meet her gaze after reading what’s on the card. “If you’re tired of vanilla, this is your chance to try a whole world of flavors.” She steps away. “If you decide to come, rest assured: there will be someone there who’ll be more than happy to take what you have to offer, whatever that is.”
With that, the woman takes her leave. Bows almost.
“Hope I see you there tomorrow night,” she says, heading back the way she came. “I guarantee you won’t see anything else quite like it here in Aspen.”
After that, I’m left alone in the hallway with only the business card to keep me company. I’m not sure what to do with it. What to make of the woman who gave it to me. But what I am sure of now, is that I really need a soak.
Chapter 4 – Jordan
While the lodge’s bar is as colorful and seductive as it was the last time I was here — even more so with the neon hearts and cupids hanging here and there — it’s doing nothing for me. Even with my go-to rum and Coke in hand and the added company of Mariah and Jane, nothing is exciting or new.
Mariah and Jane are cuddled up with Paul and Alex, and, although they’re not trying to make me feel like the third wheel, I’m even more of a third wheel now than I was before they each got girlfriends. And, no matter how much Mariah or Jane try to send me sweet, encouraging smiles, I’m the odd man out.
Literally. Not just figuratively.
I take my mind off the cuddling couples next to me and settle for scanning the bar. But there are couples here, there, and everywhere. Nobody looks all that single. Particularly not the girls. They all seem paired with somebody.
I sigh, spotting what looks like a couple of single girls to one end of the bar. They’re all platinum blondes with too-red lips and perfect bodies. Shallow.
Resigned to spending the rest of the weekend alone, my eyes mindlessly skim another part of the bar. I spot a few more women by themselves. They don’t look as “Hollywood porn star” as the other girls here, but they still have that vibe to them. Silly. Unaware. More interested in what I can offer them over the next hour not anything meaningful.
I can tell by the way they laugh. It’s fleeting. Hollow.
I turn away from them, taking a large sip of my drink. It’s big enough to make the ice rattle and catch Alex’s and Paul’s attention.
“You’re not making any moves, Jordan,” Alex says, as if he can’t remember what it’s like to be single. To see women everywhere, but none that catch your fancy. “Go find someone to strike up a small conversation with.” He scans the moving bodies in and around the bar. Like me, he’s not seeing many singles, but he won’t admit it. “There’s gotta be somebody you’re interested in.”
I take another big drink, looking halfheartedly.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see an older-looking woman. I can’t see much detail in the neon and shadow, but she looks mature. More mature than most of the other women drinking and flirting. She’s doing the same thing I am — watching and waiting, and for a moment, I’m interested in possibly going over and striking up a conversation.
Until I see her eating a snack-sized pickle while looking in my direction. She sucks on it seductively before biting a piece off. She winks at me. A cougar if I ever saw one. And while I’m not necessarily turned off by the idea that she would want to eat me alive, sh
e doesn’t have the depth I’m looking for. Her eyes, while striking, are muddy. Glazed over, and I’ve seen a lot of eyes look at me in that way. They usually belong to women who enjoy being drugged up while getting fucked. Expecting everything to be done to please them, not available for their man.
I turn my eyes away, drowning our connection in another draw on my drink.
“Not worth it,” I mumble, feeling the rum rush to my head. Probably shouldn’t have asked for a double shot because the liquor buzz is already warming my bloodstream. And not necessarily the good kind. Like I might yak or pass out. “There’s nobody worth talking to. Not out of the women who look available, anyway. Shallow.” I down the rest of my drink, knowing I’ll probably regret it later. “I want depth.”
Jane and Mariah nod empathetically. Knowingly.
Paul licks the rim of his salted shot glass. “Not ready to settle down, huh?” He knocks back his tequila. Through a grimace, he adds, “Too busy building your Empire, eh?”
“I’m tired of being bored and used,” I snap, wondering why I bothered to meet them here in the first place. My eyes dart to the women filling the bar. “None of these women are for me. I can tell. They have nothing I want and nothing I need.” I shove my empty glass away, refusing a second round.
Mariah catches me up in her gentle eyes. “What would it take for you not to be bored, Jordan?”
Jane nods, seeming genuinely interested in my answer.
I shrug, acting aloof. Macho.
But even as I do this, I’ve got a fantasy already playing in my head. Of being put under the control of an older, wiser woman. Of her dominating every last inch of me. Binding me. Directing what I can and can't do. Pushing me to my limits. Pushing me past them, but with love and awareness.
But more than that, as well as her commanding my body, I fantasize about her commanding my heart and mind. All of my attention, so I worship none but her.
That’s what it would take for me not to be bored, I think, imagining my goddess and queen. For a woman to ensnare me. Hold me captive until I see nothing outside of her.
But I don’t think a woman like that exists. I glance again at the female bodies flowing around me. None of these, anyway. They’re too tender — too immature — for such a responsibility. Loneliness wells up inside me.
Alex claps my shoulder, ripping me from my thoughts.“Don’t worry, man,” he says, giving me a reassuring smile. “We’ll help you find the girl of your dreams.” He sits a little straighter, looking proud. Confident. “We’re excellent wingmen, Jordan. We’ve got your back.”
“Great,” I say, but I’m not so sure it is.
Chapter 5 – Bianca
Valentine’s Day
After my encounter with the mystery woman in the hall last night, I only sat in the hot tub for a little while. Not long enough to ease any of my aching muscles.
No matter, though. I spent the morning skiing and now plan to soak for a lot longer. When I ski, I really ski. I go for the hardest, longest runs on the mountain. Not only because I like the challenge, the physical and mental effort it takes, but the solitude it provides.
Every day, not just on Valentine’s Day, I don’t particularly like other people. Especially not shallow, chatty ones.
But today, as I go back into the lodge, I’m exceptionally glad for it. Within seconds of coming back to “civilization,” all I can see is couple after couple. Drinking cocoas and coffee. Snacking on cookies and candies. Chocolates and caramels provided by the resort just for “your sweetheart with a sweet tooth,” as the puke-inducing signs say.
Repressing a shudder at the horrible, cheesy marketing, I clear my boots of any snow and ice. As I do, I think about the mystery woman again. Her offer to come to an event tonight. One she promised would be unlike anything else to be had in Aspen. One that would give me a chance at finding a man who would be willing to take whatever I have to “offer.”
What the hell did she mean, “offer”? Is it a holiday-themed bazaar? Auction? I’m not sure, but something about the latter — the event being an auction — feels likely. But then again, I haven’t spent twenty-years in the publishing industry without developing a “sense” for language and its use. And “offer” seems like a particularly important, conscious choice.
While making my way from the main lodge area to the area that acts like the hotel, I think, Do I really want to go to that kind of thing, though? What if it’s creepy? Weird? Dodgy?
The woman said it was my best chance of getting what I need and want, though. She said if I wanted something beyond normal, this would be my one and only opportunity.
I hang a left, heading toward my room with thoughts of the invitation still on my mind. Whatever the event is, it’s invitation only.
Room numbers coast by me as I move, but I’m not paying too much attention to them. Just enough to be sure I’m headed in the right direction.
If I don’t take the woman up on her offer, it’s not like I can just go some other time. Some other day. And the card stated “dinner” started promptly at eight, which probably means I can’t be late if I go.
I sigh, starting to feel sticky and warm in my ski clothes. Even just walking is enough to make me sweat. “So, I need to decide soon if I’m gonna go,” I mutter, happy to see I only have a few more doors to go before I reach mine.
I see something that doesn’t make me happy, however. I see him. Greaser Boy. I stop walking, initially thinking maybe it’s not him. But as he turns completely to face me, I realize it’s definitely him.
I also know I have no option to avoid him like I did last night. There’s no alternate way to get to my room. Worst of all, though, is that, unlike last night, Greaser Boy’s seen me and is headed my way.
He’s got a swagger to him, though this time it’s not due to too much to drink. It’s due to his super-inflated ego.
“Hey, Pink Martini,” he says. His tone is maliciously playful; like he’s been working on a comeback for my treatment of him all night. “Looks like we’re neighbors,” he adds, making sure I can’t squeeze past him. Unfortunately for me, he’s placed himself right in front of my door. “Lucky us, huh?”
I take a shallow breath and square my shoulders. “If you consider me being stuck on the same floor as an ignorant, pushy grease ball lucky, then yeah.” I clench my ski poles, being sure he sees the tips. “Lucky me.”
Again, as he did last night, Greaser Boy seems hurt. Miffed at my treatment of him, but unlike last night, he doesn’t allow himself to act angry. He simply saunters up to me, resting one hand against the wall, and the other loosely at his side. “Hey, girlie, sorry about before,” he says, “I’ll admit I wasn’t on my first drink when I came up to you.”
I look around him, yearning for the quiet safety of my room.
Greaser Boy’s head blocks it out, and I have no choice but to look into his blue eyes. Far from being beautiful, they’re bright and pale enough to be unsettling. Like they don’t belong on his body—stolen from someone else’s.
“But you were mean to me too,” he purrs. “I understand your frustration.” His free hand wanders too close to my body, my breasts. “All alone on Valentine’s Day without a man to help you release all those beautiful, curvy frustrations of yours.”
The jerk actually goes to put his hands on my curves. I bend my body away but that just makes Greaser Boy step closer.
“Why not come to my room, baby girl. I’ll handle all those frustrations for you.”
Just as he goes to lean in and grab or kiss me (I don’t know which), I step away and slip past him. He darts toward me.
“The only thing frustrating me is you,” I say, almost yelling. “If you want to help me handle my problems, go away.” I scream this part, feeling something between rage and fear. I shoulder past him, not caring that my body slams into his.
“Oh, come on, baby.” He whirls around and grabs my wrist. Spinning me to face him again. Which happens more quickly and easily than I want to admit. �
��Quit being so fussy and let me give you my pacifier to suck on.” He grinds his hips, thrusts lightly as he says this, completely and totally grossing me out.
“No!” I pull out of his grasp, turning to make it to the safety of my room. “I told you to leave me alone. If you don’t, I’ll call security.”
Around me, I hear door handles rattling. Jiggling, as if the occupants are standing on the other side listening to the exchange. But none come to help me, not that I particularly need their help. I can handle myself.
Greaser Boy grabs at me again, but before his fingers can bury themselves in anything personal, or he’s able to get a good grip, a man’s voice belts out from behind. It’s strong but tender. Booming, but with the edge of feathers or sunlight.
“Hey, dumbass! Did you not hear the lady?” Quick, thundering footsteps follow. “She told you to leave her alone, so do it!”
In the next moment, Greaser Boy’s hands abandon their quest.
I turn to see my savior. He’s blonde haired and blue-eyed. Kind of skater/snowboard boy looking with his medium-length hair style, backwards baseball cap, and a sports jersey.
Not usually what I see walking around a ski resort like this. But despite being dressed like a punk, his attitude is straight up gangster.
“You better crawl into whatever hole you came from before I get up there, or I’m breaking all ten of your fingers, bitch.”
Greaser Boy growls. For a moment it looks like he might stand his ground in front of the newcomer. But as my backwards baseball cap referee rolls up the sleeves on his jersey, flashing an expensive and painful-looking set of gold and silver rings across his ten fingers, Greaser Boy loses his nerve. Slinks away from me and quickly beats a retreat into his room. Which, unfortunately, is a few doors down from mine. I hear him grumble something as he slams his door closed, but I don’t care what it is.
Four Billionaires for St. Patrick's Day Page 59