Love in Lingerie

by Alessandra Torre

  Maybe I’ve gotten soft. I should have left the watch at home. I could have stuck a twenty in my pocket and left the keys in the car, locking it with my phone instead of the fob. Instead, I trusted the address, the Ritz Carlton logo, and a squeaky clean online profile. Now I’m literally left with my dick out, watching the man stuff my clothing into a duffel bag, my thousand-dollar jacket shoved, with little regard, in last. I watch my phone disappear into his jean pocket.

  “You mind leaving my clothes?” I flash the woman a smile. “It’d be nice to walk out of here.”

  The grin, one that hasn’t failed me yet, earns me a downward glance, her eyes drifting over my cock. “Go right ahead, beautiful. Nothing to be ashamed of there.” She smacks her gum and smiles. “Now, let’s get your sexy ass on that balcony.”

  I am half-relieved, half-concerned, at the instructions. Maybe she isn’t going to kill me. Maybe she’ll just lock me out, thirteen floors up. If so, how long will it take for someone to see me? How long before they track down my room and let me out? I glance toward the balcony door. “Give me a robe, at least.”

  She considers the idea, then nods, barking out an order to the man, who scoffs at my request while wearing a puffy jacket that I could climb Everest with. I watch as he yanks a fluffy white robe off a hanger and walks past me, giving me a wide berth, the sliding door opened, the robe left outside. Sixty seconds later, I am beside it, the woman’s bright orange fingernails waving at me as she closes the curtain and locks the door. I pull on the bathrobe and wonder how the fuck I got here.

  “Mr. Marks, you can’t throw furniture off the balconies.” The hotel’s night manager sneers at me with a snobbish scowl that I haven’t seen in a decade, not since I moved solidly into the upper class.

  “I understand that. I was trying to signal to the people out on the deck.” In the lunacy of this situation, I seem to be in trouble, the man glaring at me as if I am about to be put on a Ritz Carlton blacklist of sorts.

  “You will have to pay for the damage. You destroyed the chaise lounge. And the side table.” He pushes a piece of paper forward, one where he has neatly written down both items, as if I might argue this point at some future moment. Underneath the two, he has added “Bathrobe: $40,” the words underlined.

  “That’s fine. I’ll pay for it.” I rub my eyes and wonder at what point everyone lost their damn minds. The police had been the first to show up, called by this idiot, who still seems convinced that I was drunk and slinging furniture off my balcony just for the joyous hell of it. It took fifteen minutes to explain the situation and get them in pursuit of the Tesla, which could be halfway to the border by now. Then, I had to practically beg the hotel for use of their phone, making calls to my credit cards and bank. By the time I hung up with American Express, this vulture was waiting, pouncing on me with the ferocity of a disapproving parole officer.

  “We aren’t a party hotel, Mr. Marks. We would appreciate it if you conducted such … events at another establishment.” Events. I’m not sure if he is referring to my sex life or the robbery. I ignore the statement and stand, rubbing my fingers across the lines of my forehead. “I’d like to make a final call, if you don’t mind. Then I’ll be on my way and out of your hair.”

  The man purses his lips. “There is the issue of the payment for these items. I’m afraid that you won’t be able to leave until they are taken care of.”

  My patience snaps. “I told you that I will pay for them. Just charge them to my room.” I reach forward, putting a hand on the phone and dragging it toward me. I need to call someone to pick me up, but all of my numbers are in my phone. I flip the phone book open to the residential section, thinking through my friends, my mind blanking on half of their last names.

  “Your card has been declined, sir.” I stop somewhere in the Ds, and turn my head to him. “What? It’s an American Express. Run it again—“ Oh. In my haste to stop the bitch from a Trey Marks sponsored shopping spree, I had reported all of my cards stolen. The American Express representative had gone through the pending transactions with me, and I had authorized the hotel’s hold on the room. Their initial authorization had probably not been enough to cover the damn furniture, this new authorization rejected.

  Fuck. “I’m sorry. I just had all of my cards canceled.” I run a hand through my hair and try to think. I hate the look on this asshole’s face right now, that mix of pity and contempt, his thoughts as clear as the smell of shit that I have stepped in. You can’t afford to be here. You don’t belong here. Words I’ve run from for a decade, fought through, moved past with my fucking Tesla and penthouse, my company that I can barely keep afloat. I look down at the phone book and fight the urge to smack it across the man’s knowing face. “I’m calling someone to pick me up. They’ll pay for the items.”

  I turn another page, my options reducing.

  If this night were lingerie, it’d be a leopard print satin set. Trashy and destined for ridicule.

  chapter 4

  Her

  It’s my car’s first visit to a Ritz Carlton, and I pull up carefully, worried that I might bump into a Rolls Royce or a priceless planter, the deserted drive giving me a little peace. I come to a stop before the valet, who eyes my Kia in the cautious way that someone might avoid a bum. There is a knock on the passenger window and I startle, glancing over to see Trey. I roll down the window, watching his hand steal in and take the leather portfolio off of the passenger seat. “Is this it?”

  I nod. “Yes.”

  He doesn’t explain why he needs the company’s checks at one in the morning, or why he’s wearing a bathrobe. “I’ll be right back.” He walks off with the portfolio, and I notice his bare feet. In the last two months, I’ve seen several sides of Trey Marks. This is, by far, the oddest.

  Ten minutes and five bucks to the valet later, I pull away from the hotel, the check folder in Trey’s lap, the top of one muscular thigh visible under the edge of his robe.

  “Where are we going?” The streets are empty, amber streetlights illuminating half moons of asphalt, the bright glare of road construction up ahead.

  “Good question.” He lifts up a hand and rubs at the back of his neck, a scent of soap drifting over. I’ve never been so close to him, his elbow bumping against me, his knee close to the gearshift, my movements careful not to touch him. He shifts in the seat and his robe opens further. I get a glimpse of more thigh and flick my eyes back to the road. I don’t think he’s wearing underwear. The questions mount.

  He turns his head, and I feel his eyes on me. “Does your fiancé live with you?”

  “No.” I think back to our disastrous Mensa meeting, the stilted goodbye. Good thing Craig hadn’t spent the night. I could explain a lot of things, but a call at one in the morning would be difficult. “Why?”

  “I don’t have my keys. Maybe we can find a hotel, one that will accept checks.” He falls silent, and I attempt to put together the pieces of what he is saying.

  “You need a place to stay? Tonight?” I look over. “Is that the roundabout point you are trying to make?”

  “I don’t want to impose.”

  I smile despite myself. “You woke me up in the middle of the night and dragged me downtown. Letting you crash on my couch is minor. Yes, you are welcome to stay at my apartment. Assuming of course, that you behave.”

  He drops his head against the headrest, a low chuckle rolling out. “Trust me, Kate. You have nothing to worry about.”

  “Thanks.” The word comes out tart and offended, as if I want to be pursued, and I struggle to recover.

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He looks down at his lap and adjusts the white terrycloth. “It’s just been one of those nights that makes you want to swear off sex forever.”

  “I’ve got to admit, you’ve piqued my curiosity.” I get on the on-ramp. “Girlfriend problems?”

  “Something like that.” He reaches over and adjusts his air vent. “Can you turn the heat on?
I’m freezing.”

  I glance toward him and turn a dial, increasing the flow of hot air. “Where are your clothes?”

  “Good question.” He leans forward, holding a hand to the vent. “In my car, along with my phone, watch and wallet. And my condo keys.” He frowns. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  “It’s in my purse. Down by your feet.” I tell him the unlock pin and watch as he pulls up the internet, does a quick search, then places a call. I get off on my exit and eavesdrop as he speaks to someone in his building, instructing them to deactivate his key fob.

  He ends the call and returns the phone to my purse. “Thanks. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but you’re the only person I know who is still listed in the phone book.”

  I grin, the precaution one that Craig had insisted on, and I had always deemed a nuisance. “No problem.” As irritated as I had initially been with his middle-of-the-night call, this was turning into one of my most exciting nights in years. “So … is your car back at the Ritz?”

  He rubs the back of his neck. “According to the police, it’s somewhere in San Diego right now. They’re tracking it down.” He glances at me. “I was robbed.”

  “In your bathrobe?”

  He laughs, and it’s a nice one. Deep and strong, the kind you want vibrating against your skin. “I was naked, actually. The bathrobe was a bit of kindness on their part.”

  Their part. A robber duo. Or trio? I try to figure out how Trey Marks was robbed while naked at the Ritz Carlton, and come up completely blank. It’s like those damn Mensa puzzles. I have all the pieces; they just won’t fit together. “I need more information,” I say finally, admitting defeat as I bring the car to a stop at a red light.

  “I was meeting someone for sex. I left a key at the front desk. They came in when I was in the shower and robbed me.” He shrugs off the explanation, as if is a commonplace response, and one that makes perfect sense.

  I was meeting someone for sex. I left a key at the front desk. It takes a few seconds for any possibility to come to mind. “Like a prostitute? You were meeting a prostitute?” I feel a burst of excitement, the term for this popping to mind. Rolled. He was a john and got rolled. I mentally high-five my super cool trendy self.

  He shifts, the vinyl seat squeaking in response. “Sure. If that’s how you want to think about it.”

  “That’s a bullshit answer. Either she was a prostitute or she wasn’t.”

  “She wasn’t a prostitute.” He turns a little in his seat to face me. I successfully resist the urge to check how his new position affects my chance of a penis sighting. He’s not wearing underwear. He all but said that. Meaning that there is only a thin bit of terrycloth between us. If I reach over and nudge the fabric, he’ll be right there, fully exposed. I focus on keeping the car very precisely spaced in the center of the lane. She wasn’t a prostitute. Another maddeningly odd puzzle piece.

  He clears his throat. “Do I seem like I’d need to pay for sex?”

  “No.” I could have shouted it through stadium speakers and it wouldn’t have been more emphatic. Women probably pay him for sex, for the opportunity to sample that mouth and body. I straighten a little in my seat. Maybe that’s the answer. “Are you a prostitute?”

  “God, you’re terrible at this game.” He looks out the window, eyeing the buildings that pass. “I’m not a prostitute, Kate.” He sounds disappointed. “I don’t want to talk about it. I fucked up and got burned.”

  “I can’t believe the hotel wouldn’t give you any clothes.” I also can’t believe he didn’t pack any clothes. I guess whatever he had planned with this non-prostitute visitor—he hadn’t planned to spend the night. I guess he just waltzed in with his condom and dick—nothing else needed.

  “The gift shop was closed. And the employees were unwilling to part with their own.”

  I turn off the street and into my apartment’s garage, driving to my assigned spot. I shift into park, my hand brushing against his knee, and he moves away from the contact. I turn off the engine, and he unlocks his seatbelt, the sound unnaturally loud.

  My couch is a sectional, one that doesn’t fold out, and I tuck a sheet under the cushions, moving with quick precision as Trey wanders around the living room, picking up and moving anything that he finds interesting. Craig was the complete opposite the first time he came into my home. He’d hovered by the front door, his eyes darting to me, needing the verbal authorization before he’d felt comfortable enough to fully step inside. Second, he didn’t touch my stuff. He still asks before picking up a frame, or opening a drawer. I like that, that even now, two years into our relationship, he has respect for my space, for my things. When we move in together, he won’t invade, but rather carefully ease in, all the while confirming and diplomatically discussing boundary items like dirty laundry and personal time.

  I hear Trey open my bedroom’s closet door and I pause, mid-fluff, of a pillow. “What are you doing?” I call out, setting down the pillow and moving into the room.

  “Looking for clothes. Where does your fiancé keep his stuff?”

  He crouches, moving aside the bottom of an old prom dress, then stands, turning to me, as if he isn’t being the rudest person on earth. “Huh?”

  “Huh, what?” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

  “Where does your fiancé keep his clothes?” He raises an eyebrow and damn, he is beautiful. His robe is open at the chest, showcasing muscles that hug either side of his neck. His chest is bare and tan, the muscles strong and well-developed. He swallows, and I yank my eyes back to his face.

  “He doesn’t keep clothes here. He packs a bag when he comes.” I suddenly think of something. I snap my fingers in excitement and run for my keys. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab something out of the trunk.”

  I am at the front door when his hand wraps around my forearm. “Wait.” I pause, my hand on the door, and look up into his face. “Let me get it. It’s too late for you to go out there alone.”

  I snort. “I just went out there alone when I went to pick you up. You weren’t too concerned about me then.”

  “Selfish necessity. And I didn’t realize the setting. It’s too dark of a garage. Too many places that someone could hide and wait for you. Just tell me what to look for.”

  I yield, glumly handing over my car keys. “In the trunk, on the left side, there are two big ziplock bags. Grab the one labeled ‘Craig’.”

  He nods. “I’ll be right back.”

  When he returns, he hands over the bag, our fingers brushing. I turn away, open the bag above the kitchen counter, and pull out the clothes, an emergency set that Craig had insisted, when we’d first started dating, that we carry in our cars. As he likes to preach, it never hurts to have a spare set of clothes. It’s the same reason why our trunks have bottled water and granola bars, first aid kits and flare guns. Once we marry and move to a house, we will have a generator and a storm cellar, fire evacuation plans and enough canned food to get us through a month-long famine. I hold out the clothes. “Here. I can’t promise they’ll fit.”

  Trey takes the clothes—a new pair of Wrangler jeans, boxer briefs, and a T-shirt. “Do you mind if I take a quick shower?”

  “Sure.” I point to the bathroom. “There are towels underneath the sink. Feel free to use the shampoo and soap that’s in there.”

  He goes. The bathroom door shuts and I try not to think about his robe dropping, and Trey Marks standing, fully naked in the space.

  I’ve worked for Trey for two months now. Long enough that I feel comfortable around him, long enough that I no longer flinch when he comes near me. When we bump against each other, when he leans over my desk and examines documents, I no longer hold my breath, or sneak an illicit sniff of his cologne. He treats me with a sort of wary respect, and I’ve grown confident enough to let my opinions fly, sometimes without an appropriate filter or level of respect. It’s not that I don’t respect him, it’s just that I sometimes forge
t my place, overly empowered by my position. At Lavern & Lilly, I made decisions, and then waited to be admonished or overruled. At Marks Lingerie, he only watches, his eyes following my every move, my freedom eerie in its entirety. He promised me control over the design team, and he has delivered on that promise. It hasn’t stopped his temper from flaring, or arguments erupting between us. In the last two months, there have been plenty of both. I was meeting someone for sex. There is a whine of water pressure, and the shower turns off.

  I clean off the coffee table and move the remote near his pillow. I consider it, then move it back to the coffee table, lining it up this month’s issue of Vogue. I should be tired. The last time I was up this late was before Fashion Week, and I fell asleep mid-sketch. It wasn’t a graceful slump either. I face-planted into the desk, my hand getting caught in between my body and the desk, my ring finger bending the wrong way. I didn’t even wake up from the pain. I woke up an hour later, the imprint of a stapler against my cheek, and when I saw the right angle of my finger, I passed out from the sudden brutality of it. That overreaction gave me a black eye, and caused poor Craig a hundred glares.

  The bathroom door opens, and I turn. “Oh my God.” I lift a hand to my mouth to cover up my grin. “You look…”

  “Sexy.” He fills in, then cocks his head, as if he can tell he guessed wrong. “Irresistible? Rugged?” He steps forward. “Wait, I got this. Drop—”

  “Ridiculous,” I interrupt. “And … big.” Craig would have been appalled at such a kindergarten word, but it fits. He looks like a giant trying to wear a mortal’s clothing, the boxer briefs skin-tight, the T-shirt stretched across his chest and ending halfway down his abs. I swallow.