by Laura Wright
“Fuck me,” I utter, hands up, stunned.
Undaunted, she sits down on the floor across from me. “You promised me breakfast. And since neither of us got any at that fabulous and surprising lake shack of yours, this’ll have to do.” She snags a package of Oreos from my lap and a bottle of vodka.
“We could just order room service,” I say.
“Very true…Charles.”
I wince. Fucking hate hearing it cross her lips. I’d tell her so if it didn’t involve explaining the why of it.
“Come on,” she pushes, opening her cookies. “At least give me that.”
I exhale and look away. “It’s my real name, okay? Real first name. Whole thing is Charles Henry Vincent. Vincent was my dad’s name. After he died, I chose to use it.”
She pauses with a cookie halfway to her mouth. “Sorry.”
I shrug. “It’s fine.”
She doesn’t believe me. I can see it in her eyes. Probing. Probing. She’s like a guided missile, sensing my hot/weak spots. I cut her off at the pass. “Didn’t you want a shower? Like yesterday?”
She’s also smart as fuck too, so she knows what I’m doing. “I’ll get there.”
“We could take one together?” I suggest, licking my lips. “Or I can get you wet right here.”
“Oh, Jesus,” she breathes. “Just stop, okay? It’s pointless.”
“Coming on to you is pointless?” I laugh. Real bitter. “This I know.” I drop back against the wall.
She eats another cookie. “You’re not coming on to me, Vincent. You don’t want to talk to me about what the fuck is going on here, so you’re trying to get me to run. You’re deflecting, to quote the therapist my mother forced me to see when I was twelve. I have a feeling you’ve been deflecting a lot in the past several years.”
I ignore that last part and ask, “Why’d she want you to see a therapist?” I can’t help myself.
She shakes her head. “I’d just gotten my period and she wanted someone else to explain all the changes I would be going through.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah, they were super nurturing and stuff.”
I snort and grab one of the munchkin bottles of vodka. “Our parents would pretty much have wet dreams over each other.”
She laughs, then eyeballs me. “Come on. What happened, Vincent? Why did you leave? Why don’t you visit? I mean she’s a total cold fish, but I’m guessing that’s not the reason.”
“Just not the life I wanted to live, that’s all.”
“Nah,” she says. “That’s very fortune cookie-y and self-aware, but it’s not the truth.”
I down the entire bottle. “You’re not going to analyze me, Lis.”
“Already done,” she says, grabbing another pack of cookies. “You’re hurting, like, hardcore. And instead of dealing with it, talking about it, letting it out, you ask me to sit on your face.”
I lean forward until our noses are about six inches apart. “I never said that exactly. But it’s an idea…and a righteous visual.”
“Ass.”
I grin. “Don’t forget the ‘hole.’ I never do.”
She shakes her head, her eyes connecting with mine. They’re some good-looking peepers. Deep blue and heavy on the emotion. I could maybe drown if I ever went swimming, you know? They flicker down to my mouth then, and I feel a kick behind my zipper. The cock is curious. Has been since I first met this chick. But she’d said no, and I don’t work for pussy.
She has some dirt on her ear, just a little, but it calls to me, and I do something unbelievably stupid. I reach out and run my thumb over it, the lobe and a little of the shell. Jesus, it’s her fucking ear, not her clit, but my cock doesn’t seem to understand the difference and it goes all granite.
Cursing under my breath, I drop back against the wall again and utter in a disgusted voice, “Can you go do something? Eat your crap elsewhere.”
She eases back too, her face a little flushed. “There he is. The poster boy for deflecting.”
“I wasn’t deflecting, Blondie. I wiped some schmutz off your ear, and it got gross.”
“Schmutz?”
“Time for that shower, is what I’m saying. You need it.”
“Oh, god, I so totally do,” she agrees.
But does she go anywhere? Fuck. No. My cock is the only one who’s pleased.
“So, did you guys not agree about your future?” she continues, snatching up a bag of hot cheese curls. That’s gonna hurt later. “Was it the tattoo artist career choice? Totally disappointed them? And just so you know, if there’s anything I understand, it’s disappointing parents.”
I sniff my disbelief and my annoyance. “Sounds to me like you’re a model daughter, Blondie. Staying in town, marrying a Dipshit McFancyPants, settling down, living next door.”
“It’s not next door. It’s six houses down.”
“Shit, I was kidding. Seriously, you’re going to live on the same street as your parental units?”
It’s her turn to frown. “Why not? Who cares? I’m doing what I want to do. I made a choice—”
“Oh, get off. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Blondie.” I grab another bottle from her lap and drink the whole thing down in one swallow. Hey, if she’s going to insist on staying here and bothering me, I’m going to get drunk again. “What’s the rich asshole’s name? Maybe I know him. Turns out I know a lot of rich assholes.” I grab another bottle and give her a cheers. “Turns out I am one.”
“You know his name. I told you yesterday at Wicked Ink. It’s Kevin, and you’ve met him.”
“Doubtful. When?”
“At my graduation.”
My head comes up so fast I almost give myself whiplash. “No. Fucking. Way.” I start laughing. “Not Buttons.”
“Stop.”
“Oh, Lis, you didn’t. The guy with the perfect puss and the pastel and the parents?”
She looks uncomfortable now. Well, welcome to my world, honey.
“He’s a good man,” she says.
I snort. “He’s still wet behind the ears.”
“He’s older than you.”
“Wet. Behind. The. Ears. Has nothing to do with age.” I take a swallow of whatever this is in my hand. “Speaking of wet—”
“Let’s not.”
“How’s your pussy when he’s touching you? Slip and slide, or Sahara?”
She points a bottle at me. “I’m not discussing Kevin with you.”
“What about your pussy? Can we discuss that?”
“No.”
I exhale, drop my head back and look her over. “Where does he think you are right now? Does he know you’re in Minnesota? Does he know you’re in a hotel room with me? The asshole with no morals who wanted to ink his milky white ass the last time we were together?”
“No.”
“You should tell him.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because maybe he has a right to know.”
She laughs. “Oh, okay, Mr. No Morals.” She shakes her head at me. “Why do you care about any of this, Charles?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, though I pretty much know exactly what she means and I’m…deflecting.
“Why do you care about Kevin?” Her brows go up in challenge. “His skills? His knowledge? His white ass?”
“I really don’t.”
“Then stop talking about it.”
“Hey, pretty tits, I didn’t want to talk about my family and you kept right on pushing.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
She pauses. “I don’t know. Because…we’re here. Stuck here. Dealing with it. With them.”
“You don’t have to be.” I want to bite the words back the second they leave my mouth. She could so easily say, You’re right. I’m out. Face the fire on your own, dickweed. And if she has any sense, she will.
But thank fuck she has no sense.
“We have things to do, Mr. Vincent,” she says, climbing to
her feet. “Shoes to buy. Real food to eat. Friends to connect with and let know we’re alive and together and staying the night.”
I can’t hide my surprise. “You’re really gonna go with me tonight?”
“Yes, I’m going,” she says with a touch of irritation. “So get out of the corner and reengage. I’m going to go take a shower. Finally.”
“Good idea,” I say, my lips twitching. “I’ve smelled dumpsters with a better odor than you.”
“Once again, your charm overwhelms me.”
And with a quick flip-me-off, she leaves the room. Leaves my eyeline. What she should be doing is leaving this suite—and this state. Why isn’t she? It’s not like I’m all that cool with her. Frankly, I’m a douche. I should’ve insisted she go back to Vegas. She really doesn’t belong here, in this mess. And yet, I can’t help myself. I’m relieved as fuck.
I push the bottles and snacks off my lap and slowly get to my feet.
Addy: Minnesota?!? Like on purpose?
Me: Not exactly.
Addy: wtf does that mean? R U okay? Mayb u should call me!
Me: I’m fine. V and I got a lot hammered and ended up here. His fam is here! Long story. Later.
Addy: No now! I thought you were dead!! Or abducted! Or…
Me: W/ Vincent?
Addy: :( I was praying it wasn’t that.
Me: Well, stop praying, beeyotch.
Addy: When r u coming home?
Me: Vegas isn’t home.
Addy: U know what I mean. And tell V Rush is super pissed. He missed—
“’K. I’m here. What are we doin’?”
My head jerks up and I slam my phone against my chest. I’m in the middle of the sidewalk, a couple buildings down from the hotel, and Vincent is standing right beside me. How did I not hear him?
I slip the phone into my purse. Vincent watches it go. “White Bread?”
“Addison.”
“Rush pissed at me?”
“Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Five messages on my phone I haven’t listened to.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. His unshaven jaw. “I missed an appointment this morning. Or maybe Janie handled it all by her lonesome.”
“You could just tell him the truth about what’s happening,” I suggest as a kid on a skateboard whizzes by. It’s actually kinda awesome here, in Minneapolis. Funky and cool, hip and interesting. Who knew?
“Pass. I don’t need Merrick all up in my business.” He gives me a pointed look. “And keep BC out of it too.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re such a pain.”
“Backatcha, Blondie.”
“Let’s just get to work. Take my credit card and find something suitable to wear.” I point at his clothes from last night. “Because you aren’t going to walk into the party with that on.”
He makes his one pierced eyebrow go up and down. “Would serve ‘em right, wouldn’t it?”
“Well, it wouldn’t serve me right. You smell. The shower barely helped.” I glance down. “For the both of us. I had to borrow these shoes from the concierge. They’re a size too small which is making me cranky.” I thrust the Visa at him. “Now take it or suffer my wrath.”
He pretends to pout. Looks good on him. But really, what doesn’t? “I feel like a prostitute.”
I shove it into his hand with an impatient breath. “Welcome to my world.”
He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and sorta gets flirty with me. “So, I can get what I want? Whatever I want?”
I play along. “That’s right. Go make yourself pretty for me, sugar cock.”
His eyes widen, and then he breaks out into some serious laughter. Like, the belly kind. “Oh my god. Shit, Blondie. Your mouth. Damn.”
I toss my hands in the air. “What? Doesn’t work on me?”
His laughter downgrades to a smile. “Actually, I think it works just fine.”
Did I say that the smile is killer? Crazy sexy? Like if we were into each other and he was holding me and smiling at me like that, I’d strip. And possibly beg.
My heart flips over just once inside my chest. Kind of like it did this morning when he touched my face—well, when he wiped schmutz off my ear.
“Hey,” he says, trying to grab my attention.
“Yeah?”
“I didn’t say thanks yet. So…thanks.”
The grin is gone. And the way he’s looking at me now sorta freaks me out. It’s not his usual brand of staring. Like, hardcore ogling of my lady parts. This is like…friendly. Like…we’re actually friends. Could such a thing be possible?
I blow it off as nothing with a wave of my hand. “You’re welcome.”
“I’ll pay you back, you know?”
“Oh, I know.”
He looks up at me through his lashes. They’re dark and long and frame his black eyes like liner. He’s so sexy and intimidating and hot…and needs new clothes and another shower.
“And for…you know,” he continues. “Going with me tonight. You didn’t have to. Don’t have to.”
I raise my brows and act like I’ve just won the lottery. “Oh. Okay, then. Making other plans right now.” I tap my temple. “In my mind. Making the plans.”
He grins again—seriously good look on him—and puts one palm on the brick beside him. His inked biceps are distracting. “And what plans would those be?”
I inhale deeply and sigh with thoughts. “An in-room massage, followed by room service, a bubble bath and then…Pay-Per-View.”
He snorts. “That all sounds boring as fuck.”
“Well then it’s a good thing you won’t be the one enjoying them.”
“Lis,” he says, kinda leaning toward me. “Thank you.”
He’s too close. And despite the need-another-shower thing, he’s like triple-layer chocolate cake to a chick on her third day of a juice cleanse. Oh so tempting. And then there’s the being all nice and charming—the real kind of charming. I must put an end to this. “Okay, off with you, man candy,” I say, pointing down the street. “Find your Mustache Rides shirt and Balls on Display baseball cap, and get your hair colored hot pink and your nails done in blue and green stripes. And I’ll see you back at the hotel.”
He pushes away from the wall and grins. “I’m gone. But honey, if a bath and massage is what you’re aching for—”
I shake my head. “Didn’t say ache. Never said ache.”
“I’ll take care of you, is all I’m saying. I’ll help you relax.”
My body instantly erupts. And I mean, erupts into flame. It’s like a match on lighter fluid in there. “Something tells me your kind of massage ends up with the opposite of relaxing.”
The grin widens and he says in this low, husky voice, “If you’re lucky.”
And… Kaboom! Smokey the Bear, where the hell are you? Again, I point to the street. “Go.”
“Fine.” He starts walking. “Stay out of trouble,” he calls back. “At least until trouble gets back to the room.”
I watch him. I watch him walk all the way down the street and into one of those shops for skateboarders. Me and a few others. He’s a sight to see. And drool over. And the thing stirring around in my stomach—the thing that was in there last year when he showed up at my graduation—it breaks open and moans with lust and want and wishing and don’t-you-dares.
Shaking my head at myself and the inner workings of my stupid, reckless, bonfire of a body, I turn around and head for Saks.
The suite is like a tomb when I get back. Except for the A/C coming on, going off. No doubt Blondie is still hitting the stores. It’s a well-known fact that people with vaginas can shop for hours. No break needed. I fucking hate it. The worst part? Hauling a bunch of bags home.
I throw said bags on the couch and head for my room. Before the girl gets back and tries to dress me or some shit, I want to get a few ZZZs. But the second I open the door, I’m greeted by a shriek. Guess the girl’s home after all. My vagina theory is way off, man.
“Wrong
bedroom! Wrong bedroom! Oh my god! Get out, Vincent! Jesus!”
I close the door. Well. Hmm. That was a motherfucking eyeful. Nude Blondie. Not something I get to see every day. But definitely something I wouldn’t mind seeing every day. I inhale real deep. My dick is growing inches fast. Jesus H. Christ that woman is luscious. Like, I would lick that like a popsicle on a hot day.
My mind is just rewinding and replaying as the door opens and a towel-wrapped Lisa emerges from her room. She looks pissed and pink. Good combo. Just sayin’. And I got it now. Yup. Her room. Just, you know, next time put a sign on the door.
“What did you see?” she demands, lifting her chin. She’s totally makeup free and her hair’s piled up on her head.
“Nothing.” My lips twitch.
“You’re lying—and you’re laughing.”
“Am not.” I’m trying to control my mouth. Seriously, I am. Just like I’m trying to control my thoughts. But damn…those legs, and that ass. And shit, don’t get me started on the tits. My fucking hands are making grabby twitches.
She’s got Glocks in her eyes as she stares at me. “You’re laughing at seeing me naked.”
“What? You’re cracked.”
“My body parts are heinous to you.”
Fucking pink body parts. Shaved body parts.
Vincent wants.
“Is this what you didn’t want to tell me at the club?” she continues with her nutso ranting. “When I asked why I’m not getting male attention anymore? I’ve gone downhill in my old age?”
“You’re twenty-one.”
“Two,” she corrects. “Twenty-two.”
I contemplate grabbing the towel and yanking it off her. Dragging her into the bathroom and showing her some male attention. Right in front of the mirror. Ba-Boom! “Why are you so fucking insecure all of a sudden? Last year you practically shit overconfidence.”
“Gross.”
“It was kind of annoying.”
“It was annoying because I turned down your offer of a threesome.” She pauses. “Or was it a foursome?”
I shrug.