Lane
One month later
“Good evening, Mr. Wrigley? Checking someone in tonight?” Stuffed like a pig in a blanket into his fitted dress shirt and skinny chinos, James greeted me with his usual sarcasm as I walked into the Dylan.
“No, James, I’m not, but thanks for asking. I’m here for a late dinner. Can you call down to the restaurant and see if they can accommodate me?”
The snarky little shit. He’d seen me come in a few times this month for a drink, never once checking anyone else into the damn fucking hotel.
I had no idea why I continued to go there; it only held memories I would have liked to banish. Yet I kept torturing myself with quick glances at the hammock or toward the suite where she’d stayed.
“For how many, Mr. Wrigley?”
James interrupted my thoughts of Bess spread out on the bed, my head between her legs. Unable to talk yet, I held up two fingers, my fantasy so real I could almost taste her pussy. When he waggled his eyebrows at me, I was tempted to make two fingers into one. The middle one.
James hung up the phone. “If you’ll head over to the patio, they have a table ready for you. Should I direct your guest that way?”
“Yes. Randi, I mean, Ms. Pepper should be arriving any minute.”
I hadn’t sealed the deal in a month. Not since I shoved my boxers back on and ran out of Bess’s, fleeing the scene, leaving only bullshit in my wake. My balls felt like they were going to burst, even after rubbing one out—often.
I’d gone on a bit of a bender when I first returned home, spending the remainder of the weekend holed up with a bottle of aged scotch. Then I thought of Bess and her struggles, and scolded myself.
On Monday I jumped back into my life with a renewed vengeance, ignoring twenty-five frantic calls from my brother, and then I remembered Bess and her story of helping the puppies. I called him back, Skyped with the smoothie fuckers, wired them their money, and solved my brother’s problems again. Except he wasn’t a lost puppy.
After that, back to work I went. I had closed three new accounts in a month. It was a new record for me, traveling eighteen days of the month. I’d even been back to Spain once for forty-eight hours. All I thought about was Bess and how dreamy-eyed she got when thinking about traveling.
Losing myself in my preferred rigorous workaholic lifestyle, I felt my shell snap back into place. But every time I ran or twisted in yoga, it felt like it was going to crack wide open again. I couldn’t help but think of Bess holding her side. Christ, I’d hurt her; I’d physically injured a woman. The very one who held all my fantasies, and as of recently, my heart. I almost felt her pain when I bent into the side crow pose, or pounded down the beach.
She was all I thought about. Essentially, I’d traded one nightmare for another. At least I’d been able to somewhat control the awful dreams of my past since returning to my refuge—sunny Florida—where all that mattered was people’s appearances, no matter how contrived they were, and nothing was more important than a tanned, firm body.
Like the fake beauty walking my way at the moment. Randi had arrived and was taking the outdoor dining patio by storm, air-kissing a plastic face here and another one there before sitting down across from me.
Tonight was about exorcising my latest living hell, burying myself deep inside some faceless woman so I could forget the girl who had taken up permanent residence in my head.
“Hi, Lane. How are you?” Randi asked as she slinked into her seat. Her tits were popping out of her miniscule black minidress. Thank God someone came and put a napkin on her lap as she sat down, because if she had to bend over, one of those fake C-cups was going to come popping out onto the table.
It didn’t even look remotely sexy. My tastes had turned toward skinny jeans and Nikes.
“I’m fine. You?” I asked, not really caring.
Randi flipped her auburn tresses back in a practiced gesture, her long French-manicured nails catching the light. “Oh, great! I just got booked on a shoot in Australia! I can’t wait. I wonder if the toilets actually flush the wrong way there ...”
She never shut up, yapping incessantly about herself, and as she waved her hands in the air to emphasize a point, I couldn’t stop thinking about Bess’s hands. They were small with short nails that felt so good scratching up and down my back as I rode her hard. Bess was smaller than the average model I dated, but we fit together so perfectly.
Oh fuck!I wasn’t going to get her out of my head. Not tonight.
Interrupting Randi, I stood up and said, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well. I have to go.” And like that, I walked right out of the Dylan, calling my assistant on the way out.
“I have another package to send.”
