That Man 2 (4 page)

“Darling, how are you feeling?” asked my mother, tidying things up.

“Eh,” I grumbled.

The good Jewish mother she was, she immediately reached inside her monstrous designer purse and pulled out a thermometer. It was the old-fashioned mouth kind.

She hovered over me. “Open up, darling. Let’s see if you have a temperature.”

Reluctantly, I opened my mouth, and she shoved the glass column under my tongue. I pressed my lips together and made a face. I felt like I was fucking five-years-old again. I counted the seconds until she pulled it out.

She brought it to her eyes. “Ninety-eight point six. No fever, dear.”

“Fever
shmever,”
chimed in my grandmother. “I’ve brought you Jewish penicillin. My delicious chicken matzo ball soup.”

I remembered today was Friday. Shabbat. I definitely wasn’t up for going to my parents’ house. Especially dealing with my whacked-out sister and obnoxious twin nephews.

“I’ll go heat it up,” said my mother, taking a shopping bag from my grandmother. She waltzed out of my bedroom, leaving me alone with Grandma.

“So,
bubbela, vhere
does it hurt?”

“Right here, Grandma.” I clutched my heart like I was having a heart attack. The pain was palpable.

She eyed my lower torso and pointed at my pecker. “And
vhat
about the
schmekel?”

“It’s numb,” I replied glumly. Trust me, there was no pulse.

“Flu
shmu
.
Bubbela,
you’ve fallen for someone.” Grandma winked. “I bet it’s that nice
haymisha
girl you brought to the house.”

I grimaced. How the hell did she know? I nodded listlessly.

“Finally. You bring me some
naches.
Have you
shtumped
her?”

Only my audacious Grandma would want to know if I’d fucked her. I shook my head.

“
Vhat
are you
vaiting
for?”

“Grandma, I can’t. Remember? She’s engaged.”

Grandma made a disgusted phlegmy sound and dismissively waved her veined hand at me. Before I could say another word, my mother reappeared with a piping hot bowl of soup on a silver tray.

Grandma jumped in.
“Bubbela,
have a
bissel
. Chicken soup is good for the soul.” She winked at me again. “And the
shmeckel
too.”

My mother set the tray down on my lap. With a spoon, I took a sip of the delicious broth. Two hours later, I was back to my old self on a plane heading to Las Vegas.

Jennifer

T
he days following the incident with Don Springer were beyond awful. I regressed to having nightmares. The ones that had haunted me in college. Always the same. A faceless monster attacking me. Knocking me to the cold ground. Groping and squeezing my breasts and between my thighs. Snipping my hair. Me fighting him off. Writhing. Screaming. The monster roaring cunt, cunt, cunt. Over and over until my eyes flashed open, and I found myself drenched in cold sweat.

But it was more than just the nightmares. I felt a terrible aloneness. Bradley, with whom I didn’t share the Springer encounter, was working long hours and hardly had time for me; I guess his practice was booming. And Blake was home sick with the flu that had been going around the office. His stoic secretary, Mrs. Cho, sent an e-mail to the entire staff telling us not to contact him unless it was a dire emergency. I missed him terribly.

I busied myself with my work and prepared for my first business trip. I was going to Las Vegas. In doing research for the block of women-friendly erotic programming I wanted to develop, I’d discovered there was big erotic book signing event taking place there that would give me the opportunity to meet with many authors and pitch them my idea. Contacting the authors via their Facebook pages, I lucked out. They were all excited about developing their novels into television series and couldn’t wait to meet me.

When I told Libby about my trip, a brainstorm clicked in her active mind. “Why don’t we kill two birds with one stone? There’s a great research facility in Vegas. I can set up focus groups there and prove to your arrogant boss once and for all there’s a demand for such programming. We’ll have a blast together in Sin City.”

Libby’s idea made a lot of sense, and it would be super fun to go with her to Vegas, a city I’d never been to before. There was one downside: I was going to be on my own. Blake Burns wasn’t coming along because he was still sick. There was no way we could cancel the groups because too much was at stake, and an opportunity to combine the book signing and groups wouldn’t come along again for a long time. It was just as well. I didn’t need him breathing down my neck. And I didn’t need him wracking havoc with my mind—and body. I was having only one problem with my job—my devastating boss. All day long, every cell in my body danced with tingles. I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

*

Libby and I left directly from work Friday evening on a flight from LAX. The travel time took less than hour. We were staying at the Hard Rock Hotel where the book signing event was taking place over the weekend.

Vegas was something out of a surreal dream. Libby insisted our cab driver take us down The Strip before dropping us off at the Hard Rock, which was located off the beaten path. I’d seen photos of Vegas and had even seen the city featured in movies and television shows, but nothing prepared me for the experience of being there. As we cruised down the famous stretch, my eyes took in both the elegant and garish hotels that lined it. I was in awe of how each hotel tried to outdo the other with size, lighting, and special effects. Tomorrow night, Libby wanted to take me exploring, but tonight we mutually agreed to settle into our rooms and call it a night as we had a big day ahead tomorrow. One thing about Libby, she would never put pleasure before work. She took her job very seriously and was the consummate professional. These focus groups were as important to her as they were to me.

*

The Hard Rock Hotel was vast. After checking in, we wove our way through the loud, dark, frenetic casino, my eyes wide at the sight of people throwing money into slot machines and onto gaming tables. I felt intimidated. I was definitely out of my element. I was happy to get to my room, switch into my fuzzy SpongeBob pajamas, and settle into the comfy king-sized bed with my computer to review the meetings I’d set up. Though he wasn’t going to be here, I wanted to prove to my boss that I was professional and organized.

Just as I was about to turn off the light by my bed and call it a night, my cell phone rang. I didn’t recognize the private number. But I recognized the voice. Blake!

“I’m here,” he breathed into the phone, his voice sultry.

“What do you mean?” I was stunned and confused.

“Just what I said. I’m down­stairs.”

“I thought you were sick.”

“I’m better. Have you ever gambled?”

“No.” My voice wavered.

“Then get your sweet ass down here and meet me at the front desk. Let’s see if we can make some money together.”

*

Quickly donning a pair of jeans, heels, and an open-necked silk blouse, I headed downstairs to the casino. Sure enough, there he was, dressed in an elegant dark suit and open black dress shirt, leaning—or should I say posing—against the check-in counter. God, he looked sexy. My heart did little flips.

His mouth twisted into that cocky lopsided smile when he caught sight of me. My heartbeat quickened and butterflies fluttered in my stomach. Anxiously, I sauntered up to him.

“Is gambling with your boss allowed?” I spluttered.

“I gambled on you, so I think it is.”

Smartass.
“I don’t have a lot of money with me,” I said, adjusting my shoulder bag.

“Then, let’s start making some. Have you ever played slot machines?”

“To be truthful, I’ve never gambled. It’s not my thing.”

“Well, it’s mine. I gamble on everything. Come on, let’s try our hand on a five-dollar machine. Follow me.”

A few moments later, we were standing in front of one of the thousands of slot machines that dotted the casino. His broad shoulder brushing against me, he reached inside his slacks pocket for his wallet and pulled out a five-dollar bill. I watched as he fed it into the machine.

“Go ahead, you can either pull the lever or push this button.” He pointed to a square “spin” button.

“Me? What if I make you lose?”

“Ain’t happening. I never lose at these things.”

There was a part of me that wanted to disprove Mr. Cocky and a part of me that wanted to prove him right. To be his lucky charm.

Hesitantly, I pulled down hard on the lever.

Our eyes stayed glued on the spinning symbols—all of them pieces of fruit except for the number seven. I squinted as I’d forgotten my glasses.

“C’mon triple cherries,” hissed Blake, balling his fists.

The spinning came to a halt… one number seven… then another… and then a third. All landing on the payline.

“Yes!” shouted Blake as the machine went ca-ching, ca-ching, ca-ching.

“What did you just win?”

“Triple sevens. The next best thing to the jackpot. A thousand smackeroos. Way to go, tiger!” He high fived me, his warm palm slapping against mine.

“Where’s the money?” I asked.

“These days, you have to hit the ‘cash out’ button, and then you get a credit slip that you redeem at the cashier.”

“Oh.” I felt stupid that I didn’t know that. In all the movies and TV shows I’d watched, a bucket full of silver dollars barreled out of the machine on a big win. It wasn’t quite as exciting the paper way.

“Okay your turn. I’ll let you use one of my credits.”

“Are you sure?” I didn’t feel comfortable using my boss’s money even if it was just digital dollars.

“Yeah. Go for it.”

Wordlessly, I did as he bid, this time hitting the button instead of using the lever. My squinting eyes stayed riveted on the payline until the spinning stopped. A banana . . . an orange . . . and a lemon.

“What’s that?”

“Fruit salad.”

My eyes lit up with excitement. “How much is that worth?”

“Nothing.”

My shoulders slumped and my heart sunk to my stomach. I was a loser. And I’d just wasted five bucks of my boss’s money.

An attractive buxom blond waitress came by and asked if we wanted cocktails. Her goo-goo eyes on Blake were not lost on me.

“I’ll have a Scotch. Ms. McCoy, what would you like?”

“Um, uh . . . water.” I knew I shouldn’t drink with my boss while I was tech­nically on the job.

“C’mon, order something. We’re in Vegas, baby.”

Reluctantly, I gave in to a glass of white wine.

“Bet again,” Blake insisted as the flirtatious waitress disappeared into the crowd with our order.

“I don’t think so. I’m not very good at this.”

“It’s just luck.” I could feel his warm breath on my face.

Against my better judgment, I agreed to play one more round. I should have held steadfast because I lost again. Frustrated, I was happy when the drinks came. Blake handed me my wine and then reached for his shot of Scotch. He slapped a twenty-dollar bill on the cocktail waitress’s tray. Her eyes grew wide and she smiled seductively. “Why thank you, handsome. Good luck to you.”