That Man 2 (7 page)

“I’ll just have a cherry Coke.”

Libby made a disgusted face. “Come on, Jen. We’re in Sin City. You only live once.”

“You won’t be sorry,” said the cocktail waitress with a smile. “They’re delicious.”

Reluctantly, I gave in to the drink. The waitress disappeared with our order.

“So, how’s it going with Blake?” asked Libby while we waited for our drinks.

The mention of his name sent a shiver to the base of my spine. On the stage, a bad Lady Gaga wannabe was belting out “Bad Romance.”

“Okay,” I simply said.

“I bet he’s reeling from the focus groups. The second group of older women was even more enthusiastic about your idea than the first. Wait till he reads my report.”

Before I could say a word, the waitress returned with our drinks and set them down on the table. I have to confess the chocolatini looked amazing. Like a chocolate milk shake in a martini glass. And it was topped with a heap of fluffy whip cream.

After a toast to “us,” I lifted the chilled glass to my lips and took a sip of the creamy cocktail. Holy cow! It tasted as amazing as it looked. Rich and chocolaty with a nice little zing from the vodka. It coursed smoothly down my throat and into my veins. My glumness instantly lifted.

“Isn’t it fucking amazing?” asked Libby after her first sip.

“Totally.” I licked my lips and began drinking the chocolatini like it was chocolate milk. Before I knew it, I had depleted the glass. So had Libby.

“Let’s order another round,” insisted Libby.

“Are you sure?” Deliciously lightheaded, I craved another. God, was it sinfully good.

“Totally. Look at it as one of the perks of your job.”

It didn’t take much more to convince me. The cocktail waitress returned and we placed our order. She scooted off and I turned my attention to the stage. Some goofy-looking guy was singing “Blurred Lines.” While he was no Robin Thicke, many in the crowded club were singing along and dancing to the lyrics. Even Libby was standing up and swaying her hips, totally into it. Not wearing my glasses or contacts, everything was a big blur to me. And the chocolatini hadn’t helped. The lyrics sounded fuzzily in my head. Talking about getting blasted.

The waitress returned with our second round of chocolatinis. Libby sat down and proposed another toast. “To Blake Burns for giving us this opportunity.”

“Yeah, to fucking Blake Burns,” I echoed, clinking my glass against hers and then immediately taking a gulpful.

“Did I just hear my name?”

I gagged. I almost spit out the mouthful of chocolate liquid but somehow forced it past the golf ball-sized lump in my throat. Setting my glass down on the table with my shaky hand, I swiveled my head. There he was, in one of his expensive dark suits, looming above me. That dazzling cocky smile was plastered on his face. My mouth dropped open, but words failed me.

“Can I join you, lovely ladies?” he asked.

“Sure,” said Libby who was totally nonplussed by his unexpected presence. I was still speechless.

“Scoot over, Ms. McCoy,” he ordered.

I did as he asked and he gracefully slipped into the booth. I felt his hard, muscular thighs brush against mine. I took another large gulp of my yummy drink. In fact, I guzzled it. I finally found my voice.

“I thought you had a date.” I didn’t tell him that I saw him with his latest blond hook-up at The Venetian.

“I did. With my Vegas affiliate manager.”

Was he was bullshitting me? The blonde he was with looked more like a porn star. Tall, leggy, and stacked.

“She had to leave early because her kid got sick.”

“Oh.” I still didn’t know whether to believe him.

Diverting his attention to the stage, Blake began to sing along with the karaoke singer. Holy shit! He had an amazing voice. A raspier version of Robin Thicke’s. His body rhythmically brushed against mine, and every time the singer got to the “good girl” part, he turned to look at me with his smoldering blue eyes. A rush of heat spiraled inside me. And wetness pooled between my legs.

After the singer finished his rendition of the song and stepped down from the stage, Blake asked, “So, do either of you sing?”

A loopy Libby chimed in. “I have the worst singing voice in the universe. It can scare off aliens.”

Blake let out a laugh. God, it was sexy. He turned to look at me. “And what about you, Ms. McCoy?”

Before I could say a word, Libby chimed in again. “Jennifer has an amazing voice. You should hear her.”

Inwardly, I was cringing. Libby and her big mouth.

Blake kept his beautiful baby blues on me. They glinted with mischief. “I’d like to hear you sing, Jennifer.”

“I don’t think so.”

“Ms. McCoy, I’m your boss and I’m ordering you to sing.”

Fuck. Boss’s orders. I chugged the rest of my drink. “Fine.” I spat the word at him. With a triumphant smirk, he stood up and let me out of the booth. I sauntered up to the stage, but let me tell you, I wasn’t walking in a straight line. I was smashed.

On the stage, I grabbed the mike and made my song selection. Katy Perry’s “Roar.” It was my favorite new song, and I knew the lyrics by heart having sung it in my car a gazillion times. It must have been the most played song on the radio. I’d even watched Katy’s jungle girl video on YouTube several times.

At first, I felt nervous. My heart raced. Everyone’s eyes were on me, including Blake’s. But once the music started, my stage fright dissipated. I began belting out “Roar.” I really connected with the lyrics. And Blake Burns really connected with me. His eyes never strayed from me. It was if I was singing this song just for him. Katy Perry, move over. I was going to let him hear me roar my way. Fierce and hungry. I was his tiger.

The song came to an end. The audience cheered me and applauded wildly. On cloud nine, I took a quick bow and when I stood up again, Blake Burns was giving me a standing ovation. Hooting Libby followed, and then before my eyes, everyone in the nightclub was doing the same. I felt as ecstatic as I did embarrassed. Thank God, I was totally smashed. I swept beads of sweat off my forehead. I had really worked myself up. Despite shout-outs for an encore, I staggered off the stage, hoping I wouldn’t trip and make a fool of myself. That’s what usually came with being Calamity Jen.

Dizzy with excitement, I wove through the congratulatory crowd and made it back to our table in one piece. Blake was still standing at the edge of the table, allowing me to slip back into the booth. Except I stumbled. Fuck. It had to happen. But before I went crashing onto the table, two strong arms caught me. Blake’s.

“Are you okay, tiger?” he asked, holding me in his arms. His warm breath heated my cheeks. My blood whipped through my arteries and veins like a rollercoaster.

I nodded. I was a wet bundle of nerves. “I need another drink.”

He held my gaze fierce in his. “You’re quite the singer, Jennifer. Do you have any other hidden talents I should know about?”

His seductive voice sent me over the edge. “Blake, I need a cock—”

“Tail?” He finished the sentence for me. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if I could. His intense eyes and intoxicating scent were rendering me senseless. And weak in the knees. Breaking away from him, I slid into the booth. He followed me in, sitting closer to me than before. The heat of his body diffused through me. Under the table, my toes curled.

Our cocktail waitress came by again. She instantly shimmied up to Blake. “Hi, gorgeous, what can I get you?”

Gorgeous?
It was if she only had eyes for him. I felt invisible.

Blake winked at her. I inwardly cringed. Why should his every little move with other women drive me to despair? Get me some alcohol!

“I’ll have whatever these beautiful young women are having,” Blake responded before turning to us. “Can I buy you each another round?”

“Pass,” said Libby. “I’ll just have some water.” That was a first.

“I’ll have another chocolatini. In fact, make it a double.” I could actually see daggers shooting out of my eyes, but the flirtatious, oblivious waitress deflected each and every one of them.

Libby looked concerned. “Are you sure, Jen? You’ve had a lot to drink.”

“I’m positive,” I shot back.

The waitress took off.

“So, Mr. Burns, what is it with you and cocktail waitresses?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing.”

“Maybe it has something to do with the word ‘cock.’”

“Ms. McCoy, I think that word affects you more than it does me.”

I was tingling like crazy all over. Beneath the table, I crossed my legs to quell the unbearable sensation.

“Cock is a funny word,” said Libby, joining our conversation. “I read once that it comes from the French word spelled c-o-q which means ‘male bird.’”

“That’s cockamamie,” I retorted.

Libby burst into laughter. “
Cock
-a-ma-mie. That’s a good one.” She paused, that clever mind of hers clearly at work. “I have an idea. Let’s play a game and come up with words that begin with ‘cock.’ The first person who can’t think of one, loses and has to buy another round of drinks.”

Oh, no! Libby and her games. My murky mind flashed back to the last time I played a game with her. Truth or Dare. A wildfire zipped through my already heated body.
That
man! That kiss!

Blake’s dreamy voice interrupted my flashback. “Okay. What about cocky?”

That word sure summed up his personality. Of course. He thought with his cock. That fucking giant cock! The memory of seeing it exposed at his parents’ Shabbat dinner flashed into my head. A shudder ran through me. And then a flutter crept between my legs.

Blake continued. “Oh, by the way, ladies, I should let you know that I never lose at games.”

Fiercely competitive Libby smirked at him. “Neither do I.”

“And, for your information,
Mr. Cocky
, I was an English major and excel at word games. No one can beat me at Scrabble, except my father who was an English professor.”

Blake shot me a wry smile. “You should play with
me
some time.”

Was that another sexual innuendo? Or was I just reading into things? I mentally slapped myself.
Stop it, Jen. What the heck is wrong with you?

Our drinks arrived. Blake proposed a toast. “To winning.” Clinking my mega-size martini glass against his, I shot him a smirk of my own. I took a heaping gulp of the martini cocktail. Suddenly, my head began to spin. A din buzzed in my ears. And nausea rose to my chest.

“Whose turn is it?” asked Libby. The words spun around in my head. Libby’s eyes focused on me. “Jen, I think it’s yours. Are you okay?”

“Jennifer?” It was Blake. I whipped around and looked at him. There was no longer one Blake Burns but two. I was seeing double. Twice the gorgeousness!

“Jen, what’s your word?” asked Libby, her voice impatient.

I gazed at Blake times two. I could barely get my mouth to move but managed one word. “Cockatoo.”

Blake smiled that dazzling smile and I slurped more of my drink.

“You have a big cock too.” I hiccupped.

“Fuck, she’s drunk,” I heard Libby say.

“I’m not drunk. I’m good.”

Libby again. “Come on, Jen. I need to get you to your room. Can you stand up?”

“Sure.” Grinning, I’m rose to my feet, and I felt the world tumbling down. My legs were jelly and my body was swaying. My hands gripped the edge of the table to steady me. My grin fell off my face like a scab.

“Shit, Blake. She can’t walk. Can you help me get her to her room?”

“C’mon, tiger. Let’s get you out of here.”

A heartbeat later, I was in his arms. I gazed up at him, still seeing double.

“Did I win the game?”

“Yeah, tiger, you’re the winner.”

I held his shimmering eyes—all four of them—in mine, and then everything faded to black.

Jennifer

I
slowly peeled my eyes open, one at a time. Disoriented, it took me several long moments to realize I was in my hotel room. I felt like shit. My tongue was pasted to my parched palette, a God-awful taste filled my mouth, and my head was pounding. Fuck. How many chocolatinis had I downed last night? I’d stopped counting after the first. I must have consumed them like a bag of M&M’s.

A ray of sunshine slithered through the blackout curtains. It must be morning. A loud knock at my door sounded in my ear.
Go away!
The knocking persisted, growing louder.
Okay, enough
. Tossing off my comforter, I staggered out of bed to see who it was. To my surprise, I was clad in my flannel SpongeBob PJs. I had no recollection of putting them on. In fact, I had little recollection of any of last night’s events.

The knocking morphed into relentless banging. My fuzzy brain did some wishful thinking . . . maybe it was room service with a large pot of coffee—something I could really use. But I didn’t recall placing an order.

With a shaky hand—God, I was hungover—I unlocked the door to my room and swung it open. Standing before me was Libby, dressed in a casual slacks outfit and carrying her large canvas messenger bag.

“Hi,” she chirped.

How could she be so bright-eyed and chipper? She drank those chocolatinis too and, in fact, was the one who turned me on to that lethal concoction. Maybe she drank fewer than I did though she did have a much higher alcohol tolerance.

I struggled to liberate my tongue from the roof of my dry-as-a-desert mouth as she skirted past me and let herself into my room.

“I thought we could share a cab and go to today’s focus groups together,” she said, plopping down on my bed.

Reality threw a wrench at me. A wave of nausea rolled in my chest. I had another day here in Vegas to observe more focus groups and to meet with more authors. In my sorry state, I was up for neither. I just wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the covers over my head.

My tongue back in action, I headed back into my room, still in stagger-mode. “Can you wait ten minutes? I need to take a shower and get dressed.”

“Sure. I’ll check my e-mails.” Sitting cross-legged on my bed, she pulled out her cell phone from her bag and began scrolling.