Suite 269 (6 page)

"I can't think of one thing," he whispered. "I can't, Lex, truly. She is a selfish person. I'll give you an example, okay? She was a vegetarian, so narcissistically she believed that everyone around her should be a vegetarian too. So when she'd go out and eat with people she'd ask them how their cow carcasses tasted, or if they knew eating pork was the closest thing to eating small, dead children."

I scrunched up my nose and laughed.

"I love eating meat and she always tried to ruin it. I'd get a rare steak, chew it slowly in front of her, and moo. People like her make you revert back to your worst adolescent behavior. Please say you eat meat."

"I eat meat," I stated seriously.

"Ever have filet mignon?"

That was a loaded question, so I offered a loaded answer, "I've had steak that said it was filet mignon, but turned out to be regular rump roast."

His eyes were tearing with his laughter. "What'd you do?"

"Spit that crap out into a napkin and skipped out on the bill."

"Okay, okay. So what was so special about Trager? What did you love about him enough to want to marry him, and what did you hate about him?"

“I hated that I could really never talk to him. You know what he said?”

“Tell me,” he prompted.

“He kept saying that I was too timid sexually. Which wasn’t true. Okay, well maybe a little. I mean, there were so many things I wanted to do, you know?” I drank another bottle and wiped the back of my hand across my lips. “I was always too scared to tell Kevin the things I wanted. I tried, but he was so condescending. He had this horrifying vaginal imagery of what the person you’re supposed to marry should act like.”

“Did you just say horrifying vaginal imagery?”

“Yes. Horrifying vaginal imagery. Like he was scared of it.”

“You really have no filter, do you?” he laughed.

“Nope. Sorry. Want me to stop? Get out? The look on your face is kind of making me want to jump out of this speeding bullet right about now anyway.”

“No. I love it actually. Please keep going,” he laughed.

"I hated the way he always automatically lumped genders into tidy little stereotypical boxes. He was a man so he had to like sports. I was a woman so I had to wear make-up. He complained every day of our two-year relationship that I never wore make-up. I hardly ever wear make-up. Here's a secret for you, I never learned how to put that crap on my face. When I have to put on make-up for a special occasion, I end up making myself look like a clown on crack. A crackclown."

"You don't need any make-up," he said in a low voice.

"There are times I wanted to feel all girly and pretty, but he always seemed to complain about me. Everything I did, everything I was. I love sports and bands like Metallica. I’m independent. I don't need or want a man for money. I'm strong. I could drop you like a sack of shit with one swift punch to your throat. But with Kevin, I was never enough. I hated that I never felt comfortable in my own skin with him."

For a few moments, we stared at each other in silence. At some point during our conversation and laughter, we were catapulted into the sky, neither of us acknowledging leaving the ground.

"You didn't say one thing that you loved about him. Why were you going to marry him?"

"Yeah, see here's the thing...
This
is what I'm having trouble with internally. I seemed to have been living on autopilot. At some point, I pressed cruise control on myself. You know that spacey, zoned out state of mind you fall into when driving a car? And then all of a sudden you realize—holy crap, I'm driving a car! And you have no clue where your destination was and there's absolutely no recollection of ever getting in the damn car or having any consciousness of the last few miles you drove. The only thing I'm aware of is sobbing and singing at the top of my lungs to some sad song on the radio. It's like I woke up parked in front of a church wearing a bridal gown."

"How long were you together?" he asked.

"I was incarcerated for two years."

"Incarcerated? So now you feel free?"

"Yeah," I said, nodding my head.

He ran one of his hands through his hair. "I think you made your decision already, Lex."

"I don't know if it's because I'm getting really buzzed, but when you said that, in my head my brain just answered you with,
but then that bitch wins
."

He grabbed both my hands.
Well, hello there strong sexy hands
. I may or may not have said this aloud, then melted into a hot mess of boneless flesh.

"Listen to me. He chose to cheat on you, Lex; he didn't consider you at all when he made that choice. He was a selfish prick. He risked your health, your relationship, your future, all because he wanted a bit of strange pussy."

"Ass," I interrupted. "His dick was inserted into her ass."

"Let her have him. She wins? And what a fantastic kind of a prize is he, Lex?"

The plane bounced and I yelped. He continued talking as if careening through the sky at three hundred miles per hour was normal, so I sat back and listened. Note: he was still holding my hands.

"Trager is a piece of garbage. Not all the sugar frosting and colored sprinkles, chocolate pieces and coconut crumbles, can disguise a piece of garbage. It's still a load of garbage, babe. Let her win the garbage." Our heads knocked together. "Remember the lack of orgasms for the past six months. Let her take over chasing after them from him."

"Shiiiit, I told you about that, didn't I?"

"Yes, you did."

"Screw him," I whispered.

"Screw her," he shouted.

"Screw them," we both cheered.

I waved my hands and laughed. "Ah. No man understands the sexual needs of a woman anyway, maybe I should switch teams."

"I must admit pussy is the better choice," he rumbled.

"I talk shit, but I'm too scared to try anything. Again, one of the many things the idiot complained about. But, I've talked to plenty of my friends about this and we're all a little sexually scared. Maybe it gets better when you're with someone you trust completely, but I could never see me asking Kevin to play out one of my fantasies."

"Fantasies?" he asked.

It was just about then, right there, that moment—I realized just how drunk I was, and digging my own grave. What is it about liquor that makes your inhibitions just vanish? "Hell yeah, fantasies."

"Please explain," he leaned in closer, his shoulder touching mine.

"You see, Mr. Holt, during sex—we women, well, we're usually thinking about something other than the person we are having sex with."

"Like a movie star?" he asked, smiling.

"No, like dirty and nasty situations, maybe with a movie star, but it's the situation we truly fantasize about. Being dominated maybe, using toys, whatever it is, we're always fantasizing."

"Hmph. Why don't women tell the men about the fantasies? Maybe they share a few..." He handed me an armful of snacks and all but one fell on the floor near my feet. Still all flesh with melted bones; I couldn't hold a thing.

"Most women are too embarrassed about sex, so they lie. We are a group of unsatisfied liars. I mean God; I was brought up thinking that touching myself would send me to Hell. But let me tell you the truth about women. We want it all. We want to be completely and utterly cherished but at the same time treated like our inner whores. The secret is that we don't want to ever talk about it.
We want you to just know
. So not only are we liars, we're a bunch of crazy ass bitches. Most of us are just self-conscious about our bodies, about our feelings. And if we give words to our thoughts, what will our men think? Especially if we are wanting but are too terrified to try things.” I slapped my hands down on my little armrest to add more drama to my words. “And society doesn't help us with this; just think if women all over the world banned together and decided that they really felt comfortable in their own bodies and with their own thoughts, there would be a ton of various industries out of business."

"Most men are self-conscious too. Especially about our cocks," he laughed. "If we’re not worried about size, we’re worried about shape, or girth, or whatever. Guys think about their dicks a lot."

"You, Jameson Holt, are self-conscious about your penis?" I asked, smiling like a fool.

"Hell no," he said, staring straight at me, seeming to search for something in my eyes. Then slowly, his gaze made his way to my lips.

I swore his laser eyes were setting fire to my lips. The look was so heated the back of my neck started to sweat as he continued to stare at them. The energy, or air around us, whatever it was, seemed to come alive and hum as if kissing me was a thought in his mind. But, it couldn't be; this had to be me misreading the entire situation. See, that's the hazard of being near someone as perfect as Jameson Holt. The attention he gives, his disarming charm, the sheer sexiness he suggests, it makes you feel like it's only for you when it's not; it's just his natural charm. My fingers fumbled to open a bag of chips and it exploded all over our laps. I was leaning my elbow over the seat divider laughing. "My head is going to hurt like hell tomorrow. I think I drank way too much." I tried fanning the chips off our pants but they were sticky little things.

He snorted a laugh from somewhere above me. "You trying to get my pants off, Miss Novak?" Oh, crap. His words caused my head to snap in his direction.

Damn those hazel eyes. Soft sage. Spun gold.

Stunning eyes that still lingered on my face and moved slowly down my neck and body in such a way that made every inch of my skin blush. His lips parted slightly and a small sliver of tongue and teeth flitted out to wet them. Eyes darkened, deadly pull of a smile that made me swallow whatever thick lump had lodged in my throat. My hands clenched tightly into clammy little fists.

I'm reading this situation wrong, right?

James leaned back against his seat, blinked, and ran both his hands through his hair, tugging when he got to the ends. "
Whoa
, sorry," he said under his breath.

That's when the realization dawned on me: I was definitely reading this situation wrong
and more importantly;
this was someone I worked for. Shit. I was acting unprofessional
and
stupid. "Mr. Holt. Oh, my God, I'm so drunk I don't even know where the heck I am. This is probably the most unprofessional thing you've ever seen. I am so sorry."

I felt the landing gear open beneath my feet, the loud clank of metal pulling me back down to earth. "You needed this, Lex," he said. A gorgeous smile tugged at his lips. A dangerous smile, one that had me acknowledging even one kiss of Mr. Holt's and my heart would not survive. "You weren't unprofessional in the least. As a matter of fact, this was one of the best flights I've had in a while."

We matched smiles. Nice, friendly, professional smiles. Yet, the urge to climb in his lap and nibble his lower lip was maddening. I desperately tried to ignore the heat of his gaze, so I started singing what was supposed to be my wedding song in my head and kept my eyes fixed on some random focal point on my hands.

There's a vague memory of stumbling down steps onto a tarmac with James laughing beside me, his arms wrapped around my waist. Then there were flashes of a chauffer in a sleek black car and buildings racing past us as we toasted to douchebags, sluts, and new friendships, while singing songs about throwing away garbage.

Then his hands helped me fumble with keys. Strong, warm arms carried me up the stairs. My bedroom door. James leaning against my wall saying something like, "You need to take care of yourself, be selfish for awhile. Where do you keep your pajamas? I’ll help you undress."

"Real subtle, Holt," I said aloud.

He gave me a huge smile. A smile that made me, if I'm remembering correctly, throw my panties at him. There’s a hazy memory of his fingertips dangling them teasingly, bringing them up to his face, and breathing them in.

I think I need to go
I remember him saying, yet standing there, staring at me, not moving to leave.

S'kay
I thought
. I'm just going to pull the covers over my head and cry at top volume, but not because of them. And in the morning when I sober up, I'll get up and take a shower, and masturbate the fuck out of my showerhead thinking of you
.

Shit. I hope I didn't say that out loud.

I
was so screwed
.

Her bedroom was soft, low lit. A crimson colored light fell through her window, casting a warm sinful glow along her skin. Somewhere my brain whispered low, deep,
I needed to leave
. Yet, I watched her sleep. Messed up, I know, but I couldn't help myself.

I forgot to ask her if Kevin Trager knew Alex Kavon. The reason she was put on that plane with me and I couldn't think about anything but how funny she was, how beautiful she was, how stupid a guy like Kevin Trager was.

I was so screwed
.

We stumbled into her apartment together. Not intentionally, but the laughter and the conversation kept us going. She could talk about anything—one of those people who knew useless trivial facts about everything. It fascinated me. We laughed and teased, flirted and talked; all while I imagined her mouth on my cock or riding me deep and slow.

I sat down beside her. Gently tucked her hair behind her ear. It was a strange place I found myself; I'd never wanted to crawl into bed and taste someone more than at that very moment. The only thing stopping me was how intoxicated we both were. She's not the kind of woman I could just sleep with though; she'd want more, and she'd already been hurt enough.

I slid out my phone and snapped a picture of her. Creepiest thing I ever did. She still had her shirt on, so it wasn't
that
creepy. Unfortunately, the blankets covered everything else. I just wanted her image, something to stare at to remind me of her when this situation was all over, when she marries the loser.

I walked out of her apartment with the hardest dick ever erected; even my driver looked at me weird. Made me feel closer to God.

I barely remember the drive home or crashing into bed, alone.

Evan woke me up the next afternoon with a phone call and invite for a late lunch. Grumbling and whining about some problem, I said I'd meet up with him at our regular lunch place, just to shut him up. I really didn't have time for his stupid nonsense, but I needed to get out anyway. I needed to clear my head of the mess it was in.

Of course, he was late. I sat down in a booth and ordered a beer. Last week, the only problem in my head was this magazine and keeping it afloat for the old man. Now, within just a few days, my head was spinning thinking about a pair of underwear that was flung at me by the sexiest woman I'd ever met. She was brilliant, funny, and sexy as sin, and her panties were burning holes into my fingertips as I toyed with the lace of them in my pocket.

I barely noticed when Evan slid into the booth across from me. Yeah, too busy running my thumb across the silk material in my pocket, trying desperately not to take them out and smell them again.

"I do not understand women at all.
At all
," Evan grunted as he slid into the booth across from me. "They are like another species or something. The things they can get men to do..."

"Uh huh," I mumbled, not listening to a word he said.

I wondered if she'd really go through with the wedding. She'd never be able to trust him again. Honestly, I can think of very few things in life that are more dishonorable and disgusting to me than cheating on someone that loves you. Be a man, leave if you want to, but don't pull tricks behind her back. Women aren't stupid. Eventually, the truth will come out; it always does.

"Are you even listening to me?" Evan reached across the table and nudged my arm, making me almost spill my beer.

"Humph," I mumbled back, mushing his hands away from my beer.

My lack of listening etiquette had no effect on him. His voice raised and he leaned forward, seeming to speak urgently and quite animated with his hands. I couldn't have given a damn about what he was saying. Wasn't happening. My brain had trouble concentrating on anything but Kevin Trager and how much of a loser he was. He wasn't good enough for Lexa. He was the kind of little boy who would keep on doing things behind her back because he thought he could get away with them. Over and over again. Someone who liked to play dress-up in his daddy's business suits and still held the mentality of a child. Lexa deserved a real man.

Evan gulped down his drink and slammed it down on the table so loudly I feared it would break. "Here she comes," he hissed.

"Huh? Who?" I asked, stumbling blindly back into reality.

"Hello, James. Evan."

My gut twisted with the sound of that voice. Sophia emerged from somewhere behind me in tall, uncomfortable looking heels and a skimpy black dress. I watched silently as she made a theatrical effort to pull a chair over to our table, bending down in front of me so my eyes could see nothing but her
ass
ets.

"I don't recall inviting you to sit with us," I said with very little emotion.

"So, you didn't listen to a thing I just said to you, did you?" Evan questioned.

"Nope." I drained my beer and belched like a toddler in the direction of Sophia's face. "Evan, I'll see you at work," I said, gathering my things.

"Wait, James, please," Sophia begged.

"Shouldn't you be screwing Trager?"

"What the hell do you care if I was screwing him? You told me no strings, right? Jealous? I told you this before; you're the one who didn't want to be exclusive. You knew I wanted a relationship with you and you know that I believe Kevin Trager knows Alex, so I did it for you!"

"Let me clarify, Sophia. I don't care who you sleep with, we don't have a relationship, we never did, but it was a poor choice on your part to mess with someone else's fiancé."

"You think he told me there was a fiancé? Please. And what do you pay the mail staff, because his apartment is fabulous. He has a little garden out front and a view of the city to die for," she bragged, trying to get a rise out of me. Like I'd care.

"I don't think it's his place, I think it's hers and you're right, it is really nice,” I smiled wide.

"No way. She’s a pathetic little fact checker. I think
Kevin
is
Alex
," she whispered, crossing her arms under her chest, trying to show me more cleavage. "Wait, how do you know it's really nice? You went home with
her
?"

"Cut the crap, Sophia. You and I are nothing to each other, so don't start drama," I snapped.

Her lips twisted in the most hideous way. "Did you have sex with her?"

I rolled my eyes and laughed in Evan’s direction, but he wasn’t there. Where the hell did Evan go? "Not that it’s any of your business, but no."

"No, you just took her home on the company jet as she sobbed about her perfect little ruined wedding. Why? Did you have to take care of her, like the poor little pathetic thing she is?" She pointed her finger at me and snarled. “Do you realize I had to take a commercial flight back? In economy! Your father didn’t even have enough money to fly me in business class.”

"Is there any part of you that's human?" I asked.

"Yeah, the part that you stuck your dick in,” she said, making me cringe.

"That's no great feat Sophia, and it was just sex, so whatever way you want to spin it, it was still just two people passing time by screwing, same thing as sitting here eating lunch."

She paused briefly, watching me. "You really don't care, do you?" she said, eyes widening.

"No, Sophia, I don't," I shrugged, draining the last of my beer.

"But what about..."

"Stop," I cut her off. "Was it just once? You and Trager? When did it start? I need the truth. Not for me. For Lexa."

She wiped at her eyes. Her makeup smeared from the tears, showing her true face underneath.

"The night that I asked you what you wanted from our relationship—the holiday party. He saw me upset and took me home. I wanted you to get upset, but you didn't even know I left," she sniffled.

"He's been cheating on her for two months?" I was shocked.

"Why do you care so much about her? She has nothing to do with us!"

Another round of drinks arrived. The server ran from the table when she noticed the angry stare Sophia wore. Screw it. I threw down my napkin and stood up. "I don't know what you and Evan planned this lunch outing for. I told you at the conference there is no need for us to speak any longer. You wanted to get me jealous. It didn't work. You want to say it has something to do with Kevin Trager being Alex Kavon. You can believe that all you want, sweetheart. But the truth remains; you slept with someone to see how I'd react. This is how I'm reacting. I don't care."

I walked out of the bar, Evan suddenly appearing right behind me. "James. Man, wait up," he called after me, tugging on my sleeve.

"What? Seriously, what the hell do you want from me?" I said, spinning on him. “And where the hell did you run off to?”

He gestured for me to follow him across the street and into a small coffee shop. "Listen, I know you don't give a crap about Sophia. But, she's getting some information about Alex Kavon merging with Rollingstone. That's going to blow our magazine out of the water." He tugged at his hair nervously. "You and your father have the rest of Holt Media and all their accounts. I work for InTrend and I can't lose my job. Your father is filing for bankruptcy, maybe talking about selling the whole thing, or I don't know."

"I guess you should start looking for another job. Because neither my father nor I will bed Alex Kavon for this dying magazine. It had a great life, once. Now it's over," I seethed.

My fingers hovered over my phone the entire conversation, until I finally couldn't hold back any longer. I put my cell to my ear and waited to hear my father's greeting, then walked away from Evan, leaving him standing alone in the coffee shop with clenched fists.

"Hey, son."

"Pull the magazine. It's not worth it," I said.

"Jameson," he sighed into the phone. "I want to save it, son. It was your mother's pride and joy. She'd roll over in her grave if she knew. I have a consulting firm coming in this week. We'll make plans after," he huffed.

"That's a bullshit reason. The people that work here need to know it's dying," I urged, walking farther down the block.

"Your mother's memory and how she felt about this magazine is not a bullshit reason. I want to give it a few more months, son. So I at least know I tried."

I grumbled my oppositions and we said our goodbyes quickly. Why did I care more about what Lexa was going through than what the magazine was going through? I took my phone out again, took a deep breath, and punched out a text.