The Last Guy

by Ilsa Madden-Mills

  Chas is home when I arrive, curled up on the couch eating popcorn and watching Wendy Williams. Wendy Williams has a show.

  “What are you doing home?” Her legs pop out and she trots over to me.

  I drop my purse on the floor where I stand. My roommate’s eyes flicker from my sunglass-covered face to my purse on the floor and back.

  “Come sit on the couch with me. Wendy’s debuting her Janet Jackson poncho.”

  “Uhhh . . .” I moan, following my bestie to the couch.

  “Did you wear my black Kim K satin robe?”

  I drop on the couch and flop over on my side, burying my face in the faux-mink throw pillow.

  “I don’t mind,” Chas continues. “I just need to know if you spunked it up. That is dry clean only.”

  “Nooo . . .” My face still in the pillow.

  “What’s wrong, sugarplum?” I feel Chas’s long hand stroking my side. “Chris the astronaut couldn’t get it up? Girl, y’all were throwing them back last night. I’m surprised you’re moving.”

  Another wince and a moan into the pillow.

  “If you’re not going to start speaking English, I’m taking Wendy off mute.”

  I turn my face so my mouth is uncovered. “He got it up,” I say in a mournful tone. “Several times.”

  “Yes, he did!” She’s shouting and clapping like she just won Drag Race. “That’s my girl! You go!”

  I pull the faux-cashmere throw off the back of the couch and over my head. “Please stop screaming. I’m about to die.”

  “You know when my aunt LouVerne worked at the Libby glass plant in Little Rock, she got totally wasted one night and slept with both her bosses at the same time—”

  “Cade is not my boss. He’s the asshole sports-director.”

  “He didn’t seem like an asshole to me!” Chas is too excited about this. “Anyway, Aunt LouVerne ended up pregnant and had no idea which one was the father.”

  I confess, I’m piqued. “What happened?”

  “She took my advice and went with the one who wasn’t in her ass, of course!” she laughs. “And they were married twenty years.”

  My face crinkles. “I can’t believe she told you that. How old were you?”

  “Oh, honey, don’t do that with your face. Marv won’t even want you in production with that puss.”

  Slapping the pillow, I sit up. “I don’t want to work in production! I want my own show!”

  “Toddlers and Tiaras!” Chas calls, one hand cupped beside her mouth. “Someone’s missing from the set!”

  “I’m sorry,” I sigh and collapse on the comforting pillow. “It’s hard to accept when your dreams are over.”

  The room falls quiet. Wendy is on our enormous television twirling in her poncho. I want to make an Urban Sombrero joke, but I’m not really in the mood to laugh. What I really need is a good long cry.

  When Chas speaks again, her voice is softly serious. “Why haven’t you ever told me this before?”

  “What?” My voice is sad as I trace my finger along the lines of the faux mink.

  “If your dream is to have a show, you need to pursue it. You need to take the steps to make it happen.”

  “It’s too late.” I’m not pouting. I’m simply stating the facts. “Marv thinks I’m too old, too fat, and I don’t want to move to another station.”

  My phone starts to buzz, and I lift it. It’s the station. I don’t want to talk to Vicky or Marv, so I send it to voicemail.

  “I’m going to lie down. I’m not feeling so well.”

  “I’ve got a show tonight at the Tick Tock, so I’ll be late again. Will you be all right recovering alone?”

  “I guess,” I say, pushing off the couch. I skulk to my bedroom thinking of perky Savannah and hoping those little princess brats make her look at least twenty-five.

  Chassy frowns. “Cheer up, Bee. If you can’t love yourself, how the hell you gonna love somebody else? Right?”

  I force a watery-eyed smile. “Right.”

  It’s quiet when I open my eyes again. My headache is significantly diminished thanks to the wonders of ibuprofen, but I feel like I swallowed a gallon of sand. Tossing back my blanket, I scoop Chas’s Kim K robe off the chair where I left it this morning. I don’t even care that the white feathers lining the collar tickle my nose. The black satin is soft around my aching body. Speaking of ache, with every step my cheeks heat at the ache deep in my core.

  “Oh, God!” I whine softly under my breath as shame flashes down my spine.

  My arms go over my head. I slept with Cade right here in my house . . . so many times . . . and it was sooo good. Shivering, I grab my phone and hit the Door Dash app. Alone in this apartment, I can’t face what I’ve done without tacos.

  “The New Rebecca Revolution starts tomorrow. Tonight it’s Doritos Locos Tacos. Ooo! Cool ranch!”

  I tap the menu items to add them to my cart. My eyes linger on the Cheesy Gordita Crunch, but before my worst nature can kick in, I hit “complete order” and toss my phone on the couch. It helps that I know gordita means chubby girl in Spanish.

  The New Rebecca Revolution might start tomorrow, but I can’t enjoy a “chubby girl” thinking of Marv scowling at me the whole time while he’s giving my dream job to Savannah. Doritos, on the other hand, are allowed in this final wallowing session.

  My comfort food arrives in less than fifteen minutes—I love modern times! I don’t even care that the pimple-faced, chicken-chested guy delivering my salvation looks at me like I’m a demented Norma Desmond in Chas’s satin and feathered robe. I take the food and go straight to the couch, bouncing in place as I crunch through my little pile of heaven.

  “Tomorrow,” I reassure myself. “I’m setting my alarm for seven, and I’m going for a jog around the neighborhood before I get ready for work.”

  Hangover food consumed, belly nice and round, I take a quick shower before heading to bed at a reasonable time. I don’t linger in the shower, thinking of how I smoothed my lavender-covered cloth down those chiseled ridges of his abs . . .

  Much.

  And I definitely do not pull the pillow Cade slept on to my face and sniff it repeatedly, searching for any leftover traces of his cologne . . .

  More than once.

  I responsibly set my alarm, click out the light and close my eyes. I do not slip my hand between my thighs and rub one out while fantasizing about him gripping my ass or the feel of that massive member stretching me in the most erotic way or the low vibration of his voice as his soft, full lips traced a burning trail up the side of my neck followed by the scuff of that beard . . .

  I do not have a mini O dreaming of the bigger, more enormous O I had last night with my sexy coworker.

  I go straight to sleep.

  It’s a truth universally acknowledged that every wakeup alarm created for the iPhone sounds like the screaming bells of hell.

  “Why? Whyyy?” I cry, slapping the face repeatedly to make it stop.

  My eyes are still closed as I drag New Rebecca out of bed and across the room to the drawer containing my sorely neglected workout gear. If God had wanted us to run this early in the morning, he wouldn’t have invented pancakes.

  Jog-bra on. Ultra-tight spandex running pants that support ass and supposedly improve stamina in place. Too-tight tank top that makes me look like a sausage also in place. Running motivation . . . still asleep in bed, most likely burying face in pillow searching for final traces of delicious Cade-scent.

  I force myself to think of those motivational posters Nancy always quoted and not If you see me running, call 911.

  “Sweat is fat crying,” I say, not even pausing to look in the mirror on the way out the door.

  My old two-mile route with Nancy used to take us from our loft on Texas Avenue east to Minute Maid Park. We’d do a couple laps around the stadium then head back home. For whatever reason, today I don’t want to do the old route. Maybe it’s just too depressing being alone.

  Instead
I head south then east to Discovery Green and around the jogging trail there. It’s in the more posh part of downtown, and I’m on the sidewalks more than I should be on my way back. The morning traffic is heavier on this route.

  “Should’ve gone the other way,” I mutter to myself.

  I’m heading up McKinney when I spot a woman walking what looks like a herd of dogs in all shapes and sizes. They’re taking up the entire sidewalk, and I look around frantically to see if I can cross in the middle of the busy intersection.

  “Shit!” I swear through a labored breath.

  Cars are everywhere, and I’m directly in front of One Park Place, one of the most expensive apartment complexes in the city. I’m wavering on whether to go left or right. The mob of dogs is getting closer, and it’s clear they’re pulling the woman holding the leashes rather than the other way around.

  My eyes strain for a break in the traffic when I see a man coming out of the revolving doors at the front of the historic building. The brass doors turn, and all six-foot-awesome emerges, complete with dark waves, beard, and steel blue eyes. It’s Cade Hill, and I want to die. I’m covered in sweat in my sausage shirt, and I just know little hairs are flying out of my ponytail.

  As I’m panicking, I see a perky blonde is right behind him. She runs up to him, catching his arm. He stops, and she turns into his chest, sliding her fingers into his dark beard and pressing her lips flush against his.

  It all happens so fast, I forget to hide. My eyes bug, my jaw drops, and I’m frozen in place across the street watching the man I’d ridden like a pony two nights ago kissing a young, blonde stick insect.

  “What the hell?” My voice is louder than I intend, and I’m surrounded by dogs. The herd is on me, and it’s all leashes wrapping around my waist, around my legs, combined with frantic yapping.

  “I’m so sorry!” The sweaty dog walker raises her arm in an attempt to untangle them.

  “Ow!” I duck as she clocks me in the forehead. “Oh no!”

  A shaggy gold dog jumps up, putting his paws on my shoulders. He’s licking me right in the mouth, and I’m spitting and shaking my head, trying to get him off.

  “Down, Buster! Heel!” The woman shouts.

  YIP! A loud noise from the smaller dog I just stepped on makes me jump out of my skin. “I’m sorry!” I cry.

  I’m stepping and struggling, and my mind is screaming Run! Hide! Get the hell out of here!!! I glance back across the street, and I see Cade. His brow is clutched, and he looks pissed.

  A traffic signal must have just changed, because a barrage of cars pours down the street between us. I’m finally free of the leashes and all five million dogs, and I’m reeling from the fact that it took less than forty-eight hours for him to replace me with a new blonde bimbo in his bed.

  I hiccup a breath and do the only thing I know to do. I take off running full-speed, around the corner, and back the way I came. All the way to my place.

  Cade

  A WET NOSE pokes at my closed eyelid, and I know it’s my rebound-after-Maggie-Grace-left-me cat. I open my lids and she gives me her wake up and pet me stare. White and fluffy with pale blue eyes, she’s the prissiest damn cat I’ve ever seen. The moment Trent, Mom, and I had spied her at the pet store, they’d insisted I bring her home.

  “Morning, Killer,” I mumble as I stretch out in my king-sized bed. She purrs and pushes her head against my hand. I pet her while she curls up next to my bicep, her paws tap dancing on my muscles.

  “If only all bedmates were as easy as you,” I say.

  Stone is on my mind . . . the hot sex we’d had . . . and the way she’d shoved me out her door the next morning.

  Flashes of the night come at me, and I scrub my face.

  What the hell had I done?

  You boned Stone, asshole.

  YOU BONED STONE. Three times to be exact.

  I heave out a sigh. What must she be thinking?

  She regrets it. Wasn’t it obvious?

  Fuck.

  Scooting Killer carefully out of the way, I jump out of bed and crank up some Stevie Ray Vaughn on my speakers. I push all thoughts of Stone out of my head as I get in the shower.

  It’s nine by the time I’m dressed in a slick Tom Ford suit. I pull out a green tie, thinking the color reminds me of Stone’s sultry gaze. But I stop. Nope. Not going there. I whip it off and go with the sapphire blue—which matches my eyes.

  After making sure Killer has her mouse toys and her food dish filled, I give her a final pet, exit the penthouse, and take the elevator door to the lobby.

  The door swooshes open and I step off—right smack into Maggie Grace.

  She takes a step back and I reach a hand out to steady her, easing her to the side to let the other passengers get off.

  “Cade! Oh good. I was trying to get up to the penthouse, but apparently you have to have a key for that. Your doorman tried to call you but you didn’t pick up.”

  Thank God.

  “I’m starting to think you’re stalking me,” I say in a curt tone. I want to go off on her. I want to tell her to get the fuck out of my face and maybe check into getting some new meds, but I don’t. She’s a female, and my mom raised me to treat ladies with a gentle hand, so I grind my teeth together instead.

  She straightens her shoulders. “Actually, after seeing you the other night, it got me to thinking—”

  “What?”

  “It’s been forever since I saw your mom, not since her breast cancer, and you may not know this, but my sister was recently diagnosed, and part of me just needs someone to talk to. My sister . . . they caught hers late . . .” she pauses and her forehead puckers with a line of worry.

  I exhale and my anger deflates. Her attire is softer today, a yellow sundress, and her hair is down and curling around her shoulders.

  “I’m sorry about your sister.”

  My mom had been diagnosed a year ago and had just finished her chemo and radiation treatment. She’s clear for the moment, but I know the emotion Maggie Grace and her family must be going through.

  She nods as she watches the people come and go in my building. “I don’t have her new address or cell since she moved—so I thought I’d pop by and ask you. She was always so easy to talk to. Do you think she’d mind if I came by and brought her some flowers for her garden? I know how much she loves to mess with plants.” She exhales. “Honest to God, Cade, this isn’t about you. I just want to get in touch with your mom.”

  My gut says no, but I see the uncertainty that flits across her features. She grimaces. “My sister . . . she may not make it. I’m scared.”

  I sigh, knowing that feeling all too well.

  I tell her my mom’s address and cell while she types it into her phone. We walk out of One Park Place to a sunny day. We say our goodbyes, and I turn to head to the coffee shop before getting my car.

  “Wait,” she calls.

  I pivot and pop an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

  She walks toward me and before I can stop her, she grabs my jaw and stares into my eyes. “You’re the best damn thing I ever had, Cade. I wish I could go back and redo what happened between us.” Then she plants her red lips against mine, her tongue begging entry to my mouth.

  I freeze. My ex is making out with me, and I let her.

  Maybe I kiss her back—like out of some kind of caveman Neanderthal instinct—but I don’t mean to.

  After a few seconds, I push her off me, glowering at her.

  She stares into my eyes a bit sadly, smiles, then turns and walks away.

  God. Women are fucking crazy.

  My scowl grows when I catch sight of Stone ensconced in a mob of dogs just a few yards away.

  What the hell is she doing here?

  But before I can say anything, she turns and sprints in the other direction.

  After stopping off for coffee and a bagel, I arrive at work and immerse myself in preparing for the six and ten sports reports. With the weekend coming up, we’re working on football game
times and who the big rivalries will be.

  It’s after lunch by the time we’re done, and I head to the conference room for our daily editorial meeting.

  I slide in and like a magnet my eyes are drawn to Stone. She’s been avoiding me all morning. She must have gotten here late judging by the half-eaten bran muffin next to her notebook full of doodles. Her hair’s up in a messy bun, and she’s thumping her pen on the table and swinging her heeled foot back and forth rapidly.

  Someone is antsy.

  I grin in her direction and when our eyes meet, I get hot. My lids go low, remembering her pussy clenching around my cock, and she seems to see the place my thoughts have gone because she blushes. A few seconds later, she shakes herself, her gaze turning chilly. She turns her back to chat with the two weeknight anchors, Matt and Lorie.

  My lips tighten as I swoop past three empty seats to take the one next to her. There’s no way I can let this . . . this thing between Stone and me go—not with this much chemistry between us.

  Plus, even though I’d been trashed, I recall every single mind blowing orgasm she had. She wants me.

  Feeling confident, I ease down into my seat, straightening the crease in my slacks as I do so.

  She’s glaring at me when our eyes meet again. I lean into her space and take a whiff of coconut. “Morning, Stone. Didn’t know you liked to run. We should go together sometime.” It’s a statement, not a question. I smirk and reach over to grab one of the powdered donut holes in the middle of the table and pop it in my mouth. I chew for a few minutes, eyeing her carefully. I’d give up all the donut holes in the world to know what she’s thinking.

  “Don’t hold your breath.” Her face is blank and cold. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was chatting with Matt here before you interrupted.”

  And then she turns back to talk to Matt.

  Fine. She’s still upset about the hook up. Or it’s because she saw Maggie Grace locking lips with me. Hell, it’s probably both.