There’s no warmth to it as she slaps her palm against my shoulder and—somehow, in the tight, knee-length skirt she’s wearing—lifts one leg and climbs over my lap.
“What are you doing?” I grit out, barely twisting my head so that I’m staring pointedly at the window when she frames my face with her hands and somehow manages to grind against me.
“What does it look like?” she breathes out. “I want you to fill me in.”
“I don’t think this is appropriate,” I say, which is ironic given everything that happened in the elevator.
“Why not?” She swivels her hips in a slow, languid movement, and a string of incoherent words in both English and Spanish escapes me. I make a silent prayer to Saint Michael while she unbuttons the only button on her shirt. “Just like my schedule, my legs are wide open for you.”
“Yeah, that’s not appropriate, either.” My throat bobs reflexively. “Also, I don’t think your legs are wide open. If we’re being factual here.”
There’s that girlish, soulless giggle again. Her head tips to the side, her hair flinging over one shoulder as she strokes my biceps.
“You are so right,” she fawns, then thrusts her tits into my face. They’re a really nice pair—products of my imagination, but still. I’m trying to behave here. Even if it’s my subconscious, I don’t think anything about this is appropriate. “But they can be.”
I avert my eyes to the ceiling. “HR wouldn’t approve of this.” It’s the one thing that wouldn’t stop weighing on my mind all night.
“Approve of what?” she whispers. “We don’t work for the same company. I’m Stewardess Barbie, not Business Barbie, and unlike Business Barbie, I want to take a ride on your plane all night long.”
I hack out a cough. “I kind of want to get to know you, first?—”
“Biblically?”
“Spiritually.” I cough again. “My mother’s Catholic, you know?”
“Oh. Well, see… Here’s the thing about me,” she says in a breathy drawl. “I’m quite agreeable and can be anything you want me to be.”
“You are definitely not Business Barbie,” I deadpan. “Can you be Chatbot Barbie for me?”
“How about I be your Dreamgirl Barbie instead?” she suggests. “Oh, Ethan, I’m so sorry you had a rough day.” I’m uncertain how to respond to whatever this is when she winds her arms around my neck and pulls me flush to her body. “How about we call out sick and sleep in today? Later on, I can make you pancakes with the blackberry jam you love.”
I wrench myself out of her grasp and stare at her in confusion. “What is this?”
“And then we can go check in with your mom and sister. I adore them both so much,” she goes on. “I don’t think it’s weird at all how protective you are of them. I certainly don’t think your sister’s a little bitch. Or that your mom should get over it already.”
I recognize this conversation—the references she’s making, to be exact. “Can you stop?—”
“Stop what?” There’s a grim, mocking stretch to her lips. “I’m only the girl of your dreams.” Her body presses into mine, her open mouth suctioned to my ear, and I don’t know where this is going when she lets out a series of screeching, inhuman noises.
I jolt awake, smacking my head against something padded, and muffle my curse with a pillow. It takes a few seconds for me to gather my bearings and realize I’m in the hotel room. On the couch. With my alarm going off.
Sitting up slowly, my spine feels like it’s been in a fender bender. My neck is stiffer than ever, even after a couple ofstretches I do to alleviate the pain. I grab my phone from the nearby table and silence it, then realize I have a few more hours before we’re to meet up with Ed.
Across from me, Barbie is sprawled like a starfish on one side of the massive bed, breathing evenly into a pillow—no ridiculous stewardess costume in sight.
Since I don’t want to sleep on that cursed couch for another second, I decide to head out early, see what’s open, and pick up some coffee in preparation for today’s conference.
And to keep myself distracted from my weird-as-fuck dream.
Coffee is a good call.She won’t stop chirping over the Cuban espresso I picked up for her, which is better than the other two alternatives that could have happened: awkward silence or arguing over spreadsheets.
Ed had already given us a briefing on what the B&E Dream Team should do when we met up with him at the beginning of the day. One that made it quite obvious the higher-ups had no actual game plan for us. I’m not sure why we had to come here.
Truly, a better use of our time would have been to let us stay home, do actual work, andnotsocialize with people who aren’t relevant to our jobs. I don’t thinkcollecting free swagis as productive as Barbie claims.
Nobody needsthatmany pens and lanyards.
Besides, my laptop never would have been karate-kicked if I had just stayed home. At least a replacement is being sent to my place by Friday at the latest. And it won’t come out of my paycheck, which is a better silver lining.
