by S. R. Grey
“Sounds intriguing,” Lainey muses. “It must be someone good.”
“Hmm, maybe,” I reply, wondering myself who I’ll be matched up with.
“It’s a guy, for sure, that you’re helping?”
“Yeah. From what my boss indicated it’s definitely a male client.”
“Ooh, maybe this one will be über hot and you’ll fall for him.”
Hot or not, that would be a big NO! Fraternizing with the client is strictly forbidden, which is fine with me. Lainey has no idea how messed up these guys actually are. And yes, I use the term “guys” because our firm works with far more male clients than female ones.
“It doesn’t matter if he’s hot,” I say to Lainey. “We’re not permitted to date our clients.”
“That’s a shame.”
“No, not really,” I reply. “These guys are usually complete nightmares.”
It’s true. I’ve worked with two male clients so far this year alone, and both were so screwed up that each required a multi-month commitment. Dating either of them would never have crossed my mind.
“But you help them become all sweet and kind,” Lainey says.
Oh, the delusions of youth.
Chuckling, I reply, “I wish I had that kind of influence, Lain. But the truth is I only help my clients straighten out enough so they become successful again. They tend to remain epic jerks.”
Case in point, my most recent client, an aging quarterback, turned out to be more than a handful. He was a fallen hero with a massive pill-popping problem, and my job was to fix him before the fans figured out what was really going on. His team was close to canning him, but I finally talked him into giving rehab one final try. It worked too. But I had to hang around to counsel him and make sure it stuck. The quarterback—and I wish like hell I could share his name with you—is right now in training camp. I’m proud to report he’s clean and sober, and throwing bombs like he did ten years ago.
But that doesn’t mean he wasn’t a terror to work with. He was. He blatantly hit on me every freaking day, begging me to go out with him, forbidden or not. The grossest part was he was freaking married!
Ugh, I need hazard pay.
And I totally do.
Before the philandering footballer, I was assigned to work with an alcoholic actor. Back in the day, this guy was every teen’s dream. But now thirty, he was struggling to land roles. Even though he was half in the bag and ready to give up, I took him on. I got him sober and back to feeling good about himself. I heard just the other day that he landed a role on a hot new TV show.
Good for him, even though he was an ass. Too bad my non-disclosure agreement precludes me from sharing with Lainey how he used to find it infinitely amusing to flash his dick, like every single day I worked with him. She’d freak if she knew that. But she’d really freak if she knew just how tiny his lusted-after prick is.
I chuckle, thinking of how that itty-bitty thing was so not worth showing off. Even my hungry-for-dick lady bits were bored.
“What’s so funny?” Lainey wants to know when I start giggling.
“Oh, nothing,” I reply, pulling myself together.
“Is it something about a client?”
“Lainey,” I warn.
“Damn it, Aubrey,” she huffs. “You never tell me anything good.”
“I can’t,” I remind her. “Believe me, I wish I could. But you know how it is. I sign strict confidentiality agreements with each and every client. If I told you anything specific I’d get fired from the firm.”
“Someday, I swear,” Lainey says, sounding mischievous, “I’m going to get a name out of you. And I bet when it happens it’ll be because you fall for one of these guys.”
“Never going to happen,” I maintain. “You may as well give up on that crazy fantasy.”
My sister groans. “Boo, you’re no fun. But you bet your ass I’m holding you to the having fun-rule tonight. I know just where we’re going too.”
“Oh no, what am I about to get myself into here?”
“A text popped up while you were talking. Apparently there’s a party tonight at some sweet lake house just outside the city. I’ve heard of the place. I think it belongs to some rich baseball player.”
“Sports, huh?” I start chewing on my nails. “I don’t know about this, Lainey.”
“Oh, come on,” she pleads. “This isn’t one of your clients. You told me yourself you’ve never worked with any fucked-up baseball players.”
“That’s true,” I murmur, considering.
The only problem is that Lainey doesn’t know a baseball from a football. I guess I’ll have to trust her on this one. I can’t back out now, not after all my “new me” talk. Nonetheless, I picture all the files I’ve recently seen at the office, ones for everyone in our firm. When I’m satisfied there’s never been any baseball clients in Minneapolis, I say, “Okay. I’ll go.”
“Cool. Promise me you won’t change your mind at the last minute and back out.”
“No, I’m all in,” I assure her.
“Thank God.”
“After all,” I continue, trying to convince myself more than her. “What possible harm can come from attending one little party?”
“That’s the spirit,” Lainey says.
Yep, this is the new me, throwing caution to the wind.
“You’re about to see a whole new side of me tonight,” I tell my sister. “Someone wild and fun and free.”
Crap, I hope I don’t end up regretting this tomorrow.
I Don’t Have a F*cking Problem
“Dude, you have got to see this bullshit.”
Benny has just come out of his bedroom, and he’s mad as hell.
I look behind him, expecting to see a girl all upset and shit. But no, he’s alone. At least, I think he is.
“What’s the problem?” I inquire, wavering on my feet. I’m a bit unsteady, but happily buzzed. The party is in full swing, and I’ve done my fair share of imbibing already. “You got a girl hidden in there that you’re trying to ditch?” I crane my neck to see past big Benny.
He shakes his head. “No, no girl. Not yet, that is.” He winks and smiles, but then his smile fades. “Check this shit out, though.”
He shoves his cell under my nose, and I try to read what has him so irate. But in my current state the words are too fucking blurry to make out.
“Fuck, man,” I grumble. “You’re holding it way too close for me to read anything.” I take the phone from him and hold it at a bunch of different angles. At last, I find one where I can see the words.
Well, sort of.
As I sort-of read the fuzzy message, I mutter, “Dude, this is nuts.”
“Yeah, see. I told you it was bad.”
I blink and the e-mail comes into better view, so I read it once again.
Handing the phone back to Benny, I shake my head. “Wow. I can’t believe the team’s threatening to trade you. That’s harsh.”
Benny brushes back his mop of blond hair and rolls his unfocused green eyes. He’s almost as fucked up as me.
“Yeah, well, a trade is imminent only if I refuse to admit myself to some fucking treatment center out in goddamn Arizona. One the team has handpicked for me.” He pockets his phone and sighs. “I have to be there, checked in, by tomorrow night.”
When Benny grabs for the bottle of Grey Goose I’ve been nursing, I let him have it. With this news, he needs it more than me.
After he downs what’s left, he says, “Goddamn management. I don’t have a fucking problem.”
Some random girl walks by us just then, a full bottle of vodka in hand. In my best take-care-of-me-babe voice, I ask her if I can please, please have it. She gives it to me, of course, and then tries to stick around. Benny and I shoo her away. We don’t have time for bitches tonight.
Unscrewing the cap, I raise the bottle and declare to my friend, “I don’t have a fucking problem, either.”
As I’m taking a long pull, I spy Nolan coming aro
und the corner.
“What are you two little bitches whining about back here in the dark?” he asks when he reaches us.
“Fuck off,” I say, lowering the bottle.
Nolan laughs.
Benny then fills him in on what’s going on, and when he’s done, I ask him, “Have you heard anything from team management?”
He shakes his head. “No, not a word.”
I’m not surprised. Even though Nolan has spent the summer with us, and he’s done his fair share of partying, he’s not the hot mess Benny is. Along with those workouts in my basement gym, Nolan’s been diligently stocking the fridge with loads of healthy shit.
Twenty-five going on forty, remember?
“What about you?” Nolan asks me. “Any e-mail ultimatums for the captain of the team?”
“Not a one,” I reply, feeling rather smug.
I’m pretty confident I’ll never receive an e-mail like that. I mean, come on. The team would never trade me. Or force me to do anything I didn’t want to do.
Benny, taking note of the cocky expression on my face, says, “You’re forgetting something, Nolan.”
“What’s that?”
“Our ‘golden boy’ is untouchable, remember?”
“Good point.” Nolan laughs in his low, even timbre. “I almost forgot that Brent Oliver can do no wrong.”
I call them out for what they are. “You’re both pricks.”
Benny gestures to the living room, where it’s noisy as hell. And getting noisier by the minute.
“Come on, Golden Boy,” he says good-naturedly. “We better get our drink on, party our asses off, and make this night count for something. Looks like this party has just become what you said it would be—the last blowout of the summer.”
“Speak for yourself, Perry.” I laugh. “I’m not the one receiving e-mails shutting down any of my extracurricular activities.” I raise the vodka to my lips. “I don’t, nor will I ever have a fucking problem. I handle my shit just fine, thank you very much.”
I take another long pull from the bottle, all while Benny laughs at my over-confident ass.
He pushes past me to head back to the party, patting my shoulder as he goes. “Keep lying to yourself, dude,” he says.
Benny is joking—I think—but the look Nolan gives me tells me everything I need to know—I am lying to myself. Because, let’s admit it, I clearly have a problem. And it’s a rather big fucking one. In fact, it just keeps getting bigger, this problem of mine, when not five minutes later I receive a text from my agent.
It’s a warning that my ass better be on a private jet tomorrow.
Huh?
Apparently, there’s a mandatory meeting with management in Vegas. And if I miss it, I’m toast.
What in the hell could this possibly be about?
Party Like a Rock Star
“This party is the best, Lainey,” I scream over the noise. “Have I told you lately how much I love you? I do, little sis, and I’m so happy you brought me here.”
Lainey smiles over at me. “I’m glad you’re having a good time, sweetie,” she says. “Like I said this morning, when we were on the phone, you deserve a night like this, just some good, old-fashioned reckless fun.”
She hugs me and when she pulls away, everything goes blurry. “Whoa, don’t move so fast,” I say.
Worry creases Lainey’s brow, and she peers down at the red plastic cup in my hand. “I think it’s time to start pacing yourself, Aubrey. You don’t drink much these days, so maybe slow it down a notch. At the rate you’ve been going, you’re either going to get sick or pass out.”
I’m definitely drunk, but to Lainey I maintain, “Nah, not me. I’m a trooper.”
Belying that point, I shift my weight from one foot to the other and almost topple over. Lucky for me Lainey has fast reflexes and grabs my elbow.
“I’m good, I’m good,” I insist as I right myself with her assistance.
“Pacing, Aubrey,” Lainey repeats. “Learn it, live it, make it a way of life.”
“My stumbling wasn’t on account of me being drunk,” I huff.
She laughs, and I point down to the four-inch shiny black heels I borrowed from her to complement my shimmery red party dress. “It’s these damn shoes you gave me to wear. They’re deadly.”
“Yeah, sure they are,” Lainey replies, shaking her head. “Good thing I’m the designated driver this evening.”
On that, I can’t disagree. “Yeah, good thing,” I concede.
And then, for no reason other than the fact I’m buzzed to the gills, I yell to the crowd, “Party like rock stars, dudes!”
That earns me some interesting looks. Okay, clearly I am beyond buzzed. Lainey is right; these vodka tonics I’ve been slinging back are catching up to me.
“I’m going to be so hungover tomorrow,” I groan as I finally admit I’m inebriated.
“You can sleep it off on your flight to Vegas,” my sister says reassuringly. Much more of a partier than I, she’s well-versed in next-day hangover remedies, which she proves when she adds, “Drink lots of water when you get back to the hotel. And eat a couple bananas. That’ll replenish your potassium.”
“Thank you, Dr. Lainey.”
She shakes her head at me, but in a good way. I can tell she’s glad I’m cutting loose and goofing around, just like I promised.
“I’m proud of you,” she yells over the ever-growing crowd noise. “You’re really sticking to this ‘new you’ philosophy of having fun.”
“I sure am,” I agree, raising my cup. “But this reckless me is making an appearance tonight only. It’s fine to get a little crazy in a place where no one knows me. Speaking of which, thank God I’ll never have to see any of these people ever again.”
“Here, here.” Lainey taps her water bottle to my cup. “Get wild, crazy girl.”
“To one night of absolute abandon,” I declare.
As I polish off what’s left in my cup, Lainey says, “Hey, on a serious note, I’m glad you came out with me tonight.” She makes a little hand flourish in front of me, like I’m a prize on a game show. “You look stunning, Aubs. That dress is amazing. You should consider wearing it to your meeting tomorrow. You know”—she puts her fists up in a mock-fighting stance—“knock ’em dead and all that.”
More like get fired and all that.
I peer down at the cute and clingy red number I stuffed in my suitcase before I left this morning. I packed it on the off chance I’d actually venture out at some point on this trip. And wow, here I am, already wearing the dress and partying like a rock star. But a dress like this, all sexy and low-cut, is best reserved for nightlife only.
“I think this might be a bit much for business,” I state.
“Still, it’s a good thing you brought it. Otherwise you wouldn’t look so fabulous tonight.”
“Thanks, Lain.” I smile over at her. “I’m glad I threw it in my bag at the last minute. I almost didn’t.”
“Why? What do you usually pack for these work trips?”
“Business suits for meetings and lots of leggings and comfy shirts for the downtime.”
Lainey lets out a little laugh. “Talbots and LuLaRoe, right?”
“You know it.”
I sway a little from side to side, moving to the music someone just turned up.
Lainey smiles and says, “You’re kind of funny when you’re tipsy.”
Still swaying, I remark, “I may be a little more than tipsy, Lainey, m’dear.”
She laughs, and I decide it’s probably best to stop moving so much since it’s making me kind of dizzy.
Lainey is peering into the crowd, so I do the same. There are lots of guys, and she’s eyeing them up and down, checking each one out. I don’t usually assess men, but then again, maybe that’s my problem.
What the hell; let the assessing commence…
Guy with a mullet, that’s a no-go.
Oh, hey, there’s one who’s kind of cute.
Oh wait, crap. He’s with a girl already. I sigh. The good ones are always taken.
Whoa, wait, who the heck is that?
A stunning specimen of hot maleness comes into view, and blinking to be sure I’m seeing correctly, I muse, “Wow, is he real?”
I fear he may be a mirage. You know how thirsty people imagine seeing water out in the desert? Maybe that’s what’s happening now. This man—if he’s even real—could actually be hideous. Maybe the dick-drought has finally affected my brain. Can that even happen?
“Is who for real?” Lainey asks, interrupting my drunken panic that I’m losing my mind.
Before I can point out the model-caliber dude who’s captured my attention and confirm he’s not a mirage, Lainey sees him for herself. “Who is that?” she exclaims.
Thank God, he’s real. “That’s what I’d like to know,” I murmur.
“Shit, Aubrey, that guy is hot enough to qualify as bona fide book boyfriend material.”
Whoa, this is serious.
I shoot my sister a look. She has an insatiable romance novel obsession, along with a slew of what she terms “book boyfriends.” I hear about them all the time. There’s a Christian, some dude named Barrons, and a Gideon in there somewhere. That’s just three I can name off the top of my head, thanks to my current drunken state.
But back to this guy, this real-life, incredibly delectable man… Wow! I don’t know if he’s a book boyfriend come to life, but he definitely personifies masculine perfection. He’s tall, has olive-toned skin, thick dark brown hair, a strong jaw, high cheekbones… Oh, hell, you get the picture.
Gah!
Oh, and let’s not forget about his oh-so-sculpted bod. Or, at least what I can discern of it under his dark jeans and tight black tee.
Dreamily, I lean against Lainey and say, “Look at him, Lain. I bet your romance authors would have a blast writing about a guy like him.”