Filthy Gorgeous (27 page)

“Alex …”

I whine. “Just hear me out. Listen, I’ve been practicing the whole boundary thing. I woke up this morning with a huge stiffy. I could have called any of my ex-Sladies to ease the pressure, but I didn’t because you give the best head, baby. No-one else will do.”

She scoffs. “For a self-confessed advertising expert you’re really not selling yourself very well. Is that supposed to impress me?”

“It impresses most girls. Past tense, of course. Please? I need to see you.”

She tries to speak, but stops herself. She hesitates in a way that suggests she’s definitely thinking about it. “Alex, I can’t. Once I’ve signed this article off I’m taking a vacation.”

Say what?

“Where?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m going to Paris.”

Shit.
And I’m thrown into panic mode. I sense imminent danger. Not Paris. Anywhere but Paris. You know what’s in Paris?

French men, thousands of them, roaming freely around the city. Ella is vulnerable and they’re as persistent as a case of hemorrhoids. Then my mind is overloaded with images of her beautiful legs being violated by oversexed onion-sellers with slicked back hair and wandering hands.

I can do persistence, too. Alexander Slade will not be beaten by a sleazy snail-sucker.

“When do you fly?”

“Eight tomorrow morning, and I haven’t even packed yet, so, if you don’t mind, I need to finish this.”

I try again. “Let’s do breakfast before you leave. I know an all-night cafe on Madison. Their Eggs Benedict is to—”

She cuts me off. “I’ll let you know when I’m back, okay?”

I give a resigned sigh. “Fine.”

See? Two can play at that game.

“Good night, Alex.”

“Good night and sweet dreams, Ella. I know mine will be wet. I hope yours are —” 

Click.

***

When one of our ad campaigns has run its course, we meet to review and analyze its effectiveness. Did it provoke the intended action from our target audience? What was the most fruitful media channel?

Most import of all; did we sell enough shit to please our clients?

I got bored of moping around my apartment, so I pulled on my big boy pants and got my game face on.

It’s Saturday afternoon. As I’m an awesome boss, I decided my team and I should work our weekend shift from a whisky bar instead of the office, as you do.

“Parker, how many hits did we get on the In-Stream ads?”

His eyes snap open. He scans his screen. “Nine hundred and eighty-three thousand, three hundred and seventy-two. Goddamn. I need another drink.”

He gets up and heads toward the bar. See those panda rings around his eyes? He’s exhausted. Things are heating up with Carrie. Last weekend she took him to a Pottery Barn expo. The poor bastard spent his downtime picking out ceramic cats and china patterns for her kitchen renovation.

As he’s spending all of his free time with Carrie, I pumped him for information. Ella is in France for two weeks. Two frigging weeks. Screw patience, why can’t hurry-the-hell-up be a virtue?

But here’s the kicker: he’s ninety-nine per cent certain that she went on a date before she left. He was watching TV and she emerged from her room dressed to the hilt. Killer heels. Mussed hair. The works. When confronted by Carrie, she refused to tell her where she was going. Mysterious, right?  I mean, what the actual fuck?

She can’t be back with Jockass, she just can’t. There’s no goddamn way.

I’m not jealous, just territorial. Got that?

I haven’t been idle in her absence. I reviewed the shortcomings of my own romantic campaign. What did I do wrong? Should I have been more attentive? Did I miss her clitoris? Is my two-fingers-and-a-thumb technique outdated? Am I nothing more than a fuckstick on her road to recovery?

Most importantly of all; did I do enough to win her over for good?

The answer is no.

There’s so much I still want to say to her. I want to show Ella that she’s the only girl in my harem. I’ve got a whole heap of fun stuff planned.

Dinners. Romantic weekends away. Multiple orgasms.

Parker returns with our drinks, and my cell phone rings.

It’s Ella. My heart starts thumping when I answer—it’s like answering a radio signal from paradise.

“Hey.”

“Hi Alex.”

There’s a few seconds of silence before she speaks again. “I just got back. I need to see you. Can we meet?”

I don’t answer right away. I don’t want to seem needy, so I tell her. “I’m in a meeting right now.”

“Right. When do you finish?”

“About an hour.”

“I can come to your place?”

Nice.

“See you in an hour?”

“Sure.”

Click.

Okay, so it was a short call, but you have to read between the lines.

Not only does Ella Bryant want to see me, she
needs
to see me. She missed me in an I-can’t-wait-to-drop-to-my-knees-and-pleasure-you kind of way.

I knock back my liquor and grab my jacket. “Guys, I have urgent business to attend to.”

Karl’s pulls a face. “Hey, you can’t leave. We haven’t finished the social media review yet.”

I check my hair in a nearby mirror. “That was Ella. I have to see her. Right now. I have to know what’s going on.”

***

When I arrive at my apartment, I find she’s here, sitting cross-legged outside my door. God, I’ve missed her so much. Her laugh. Her face. If I could arrive home from work every night and find this beauty in my hallway, I’d have the happiest dick in Manhattan. 

Her hair is piled on top of her head, and she’s wearing a tight black sweater that nicely hugs her breasts. Tight jeans and minimal make-up give her an understated look, but it’s still gorgeous. Sexy. Like the sweet girl-next-door you really want to bone. Christ, I need to touch her.

She looks up, and those hazel doe-eyes meet mine.

Ell stands and accepts my embrace, but it’s awkward, like I’ve never been eyeball-to-eyeball with her pussy. I open the door and she follows me inside.

As soon as we’re over the threshold, Petie starts bouncing up and down like a low-rider.

“He missed you, Ella,” I tell her as she crosses the room to greet my feathered friend. I’d prefer it if she made a beeline for my other cock, but we can work on that. She strokes Petie’s crest for a few moments before turning her eyes on mine.

I can’t frigging take it anymore. I need to know who she’s fucking. A name and address, that’s all, that’s I need for Hitman Express, goddammit. It’ll be quick. Clean. And if they’re running a buy-one-get-one-free I’ll pay them to take Jockstrap out, too.

I cross my arms across my chest. “Ella, before you tell me about your vacation, there’s something I need to know.”

She blinks a few times. “Okay, go ahead.”

I stand up and start circling my dining table like a lion pacing around its cage. “Tell me the truth, Ella. Are you getting back together with Jockass?”

Her nose wrinkles. “Who?”

“Tyler!” I stress, with greater force than intended.

She looks at me like I’ve just sprouted a third eye. “What? Why would you think that?”

“It’s a logical deduction. Parker told me about your date. You wouldn’t tell Carrie where you were going, and you didn’t tell her about Tyler because you knew damn well she’d follow you and maim him.”

An amused smile spreads over her face. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

“Sure. She’d maim him. But, anyway, you’re totally off base.”

Puzzled, my face twists in confusion. “I am?”

She sighs and stands up. “I admit it. I had dinner with a guy, but it wasn’t Tyler. I wanted to see you as soon as I got back because I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Have you ever seen
Basic Instinct
? Of course you have. I feel like that cop. I’ve been sucked in by a beautiful woman and she’s about to take an ice pick to my chest and break my heart into a thousand pieces.

I suck in air. “Who is he?”

Tugging at her silver necklace, she stares out of the window.

Her silence tells me all I need to know; she’s hooked up with a French man. I don’t know why I’m so damn surprised. I mean, apparently they have the biggest dicks in Europe. Length
and
width. I mentally slap myself. I should have stuck with the original plan and set fire to myself in the middle of JFK in protest, like one of those Tibetan monks.

What she says next makes me want to book myself in for an ear lobotomy. “Professor Bernstein has been great.”

Let’s just pause right here. Did I hear that right?

When I finally manage to pick my jaw up from the ground, I don’t hold fire. “You went to dinner with Professor Bernstein?”

She nods stiffly. “Yes.”

Holy shit.

That musty-jacketed, backstabbing, motherfucking son of a bitch. The next time he begs my father for funding, I’ll be sure to rip him a new asshole and stuff the bills where the sun doesn’t shine.

“Professor Bernstein!”

That was Petie. We both turn to his cage and say, “Shhhh!”

I push my hands through my hair in frustration and pace again. “I gotta say, Ella, I’m shocked. George Clooney, I can understand, but a maggoty old crusty cock like Bernstein? He looks like the frigging Cryptkeeper”

“It’s not—”

Ignoring her, I continue. “I guess if your loins are burning with a bad case of gerontophilia, you’ll take anyone, right?”

“Alex, I—”

“Is it his ginger ear-hair? His glass eye? His tweed underpants? Or maybe his shriveled-up, hundred-year-old needle dick? Come on tell me ‘cause I’m dying to know just what it is about him that gets you wet.”

Am I being unreasonable? Ella thinks so, because she’s looking at me like she wants to beat me to death with her stiletto. She comes right back at me, hissing like a viper that’s ready to strike.

“Stop! Will you just listen? Bernstein has been helping me prep for an interview.”

“Interview?”

She nods. “Yes. I decided to go back to veterinary school so I called him for some advice.”

Have you ever felt so ashamed that you just want the ground to swallow you up? Like when you’re alone in an elevator, and let rip just before the door closes but then you’re neighbor steps inside?

Well, that’s how embarrassed I feel. Shame isn’t in my dictionary, but right now, my cheeks are burning like one of Santa’s little elves.

“That’s great,” I admit, sheepishly.

You know what else is great? I introduced them. I’ve got to get a blowie for that, right? Feeling proud, I smile smugly for all of two nanoseconds because then it hits me.

“Wait, so you’re moving back to Ithaca?”

She shakes her head. Her voice is soft and composed. “Alex, my trip to Paris wasn’t just about taking a vacation. While I was there, I sat an entrance exam for veterinary school.” Then a faint smile tugs at her lips. “And I passed.”

Like a Taser victim, I stumble and fall back onto the couch. I’m in shock. I feel like Jesse Ventura just busted through the door, dragged me off the couch, and repeatedly body-slammed me against the floor.

I turn away from her and bite my fist. “I don’t get it. Why travel all the way to Paris to stick your hand up a horse’s ass? What’s wrong with our native Appaloosa’s, anyway?”

She gives a half-hearted shrug and smiles. “Nothing, Alex. I know this isn’t what you want to—”

“It just doesn’t make sense. I thought—”

I bite my lip.

You really think that I’m going to tell her how I feel after this? Tell her she’s been a permanent fixture in my thoughts since the day we met?

No fucking way, Jose.

She’s rejecting me. I’m not putting myself out there. What do you take me for, an idiot? Instead, I lecture her like a concerned parent.  “You can’t leave, you have commitments.”

“What commitments?”

“Seven felines! You can’t leave the pussies.”

“Carrie is going to take care of them until I figure something out.”

Fuck.

I try something else. “Veterinary school costs thousands of dollars. How are you going to fund this?”

She can’t afford this. She really can’t.

She holds her hand in the air triumphantly and wiggles her finger. “I sold my engagement ring…”

Fuckety-fuck-sticks.

“… for just shy of $100,000.”

There we go—the real reason why Tyler went overboard with the flowers; Gollum wanted his precious back.

“You’ve made your mind up then? That’s it? You’re just going to run away to Paris?”

She presses her hand against her forehead. “No! Yes. Alex, please. Please don’t make this about you. It isn’t. This is about me. This is about me going on an adventure. Doing my own thing, and I’m excited.”