He carefully scrutinized it and then pulled out his trusty pocket calculator from his slacks pocket to compute the 17% tip. Nothing more. Nothing less. He then whipped out his impeccably neat wallet and took out his credit card. He placed it precisely in the center of the bill holder and handed it to the waitress when she returned to our table.
“Do you really like the ring?” Bradley prodded after the waitress slipped away.
I nodded, faking a small smile.
He flashed his pearly whites. “I know the stone is a little small, but right now I want to put as much money as I can into my practice.”
“Of course,” I agreed, hiding my disappointment.
The truth: Brad was thrifty—to the point of almost being a cheapskate. I think it was connected to his parents, who despite their wealth, lived very modestly, and to his anal behavior. He never valeted his car, parking it blocks away to save money, and liked to shop at bargain outlets. The 99 Cents Only Store was one of his favorites. And apparently so was Zales, and not Tiffany’s.
I glanced down at the ring. As dull a diamond as it was, it glimmered in the candlelight. Yet, I didn’t feel a glint of excitement. Not even the tiniest. The candle burnt out and I wondered—had my love for Bradley burnt out? Up until now, I was in denial. And now, we were officially engaged.
Chapter 7
Jennifer
During the workweek, Bradley and I had agreed not to spend the night. He liked to go to sleep early to be bright-eyed for his early morning patients while I was somewhat of a night owl. My late-night activities, which ran the gamut from watching TV or reading a book on my tablet to raiding the refrigerator, kept him up. Moreover, he firmly believed we should wait until we got married to live together.
So, after dinner, Bradley and I each went our own way. He stood with me outside the restaurant while I waited for the valet to bring me my car. Bradley had parked his several blocks a way to save money. When my little red Kia arrived, he pecked my cheek and told me he loved me. “Love you back,” I said as I scooted into the driver’s seat. Driving off, I turned on my radio. Alicia Keyes was singing, “This Girl is on Fire.” My heart clenched in my chest. This girl wasn’t.
The house I shared with Libby was a small two-bedroom Spanish cottage in a modest neighborhood known as Beverly Hills Adjacent. It was the last house on the street, situated between an empty foreclosure and a deserted parking lot. Wearily, I pulled into the driveway.
I had the house to myself. Libby was working late conducting focus groups. Usually when she had groups at night, she didn’t get home until ten. I wasted no time changing into my comfy-cozy SpongeBob pajamas and curling up on the couch with a cup of chamomile tea and the stack of ratings. Shoving my glasses onto my head, which I needed for distance only, I pored over the numbers.
My mind, however, kept wandering, and the numbers before me became a blur. I couldn’t get that kiss out of my head. Those lips consuming mine. That tongue. Entwined with mine, swirling and twirling.
A sick feeling fell over me. I took another sip of my tea. It was just a fluky thing. A silly dare. A silly game. It should mean nothing to me. But it had undeniably aroused feelings and sensations in me I’d never felt before. My heartbeat quickened, and tingles danced between my legs as I kept thinking about it. I closed my eyes and pretended I was kissing that man again, rolling my tongue with the imaginary yet very real one in my head.
The familiar ring of my cell phone hurled me out of my fantasy. I reached into my shoulder bag parked on the couch next to me. My heart jumped when I saw who was calling on the screen. My boss! Blake Burns. Was he calling to check up on me? To test me?
“Hello,” I said nervously. The way the word came out sounded almost like a question.
“Hi.” His voice was relaxed and sultry. It gave me goosebumps. I didn’t know what to say next. Fortunately, he spared me from responding.
“I was just calling to find out how you’re doing. When I thought about it, I thought maybe I’d overloaded you on your first day at the job.”
“No, everything’s fine,” I stammered. “I’m used to reviewing numbers. I did a lot of that at USC.”
“Good. I’ll look forward to your analysis tomorrow. By the way, I’d prefer an oral presentation.”
The way he breathily drew out the word “oral” made my whole body tremble. The phone shook in my hand.
“Not a problem.” My voice shook too.
“Then let me not keep you from your work. Good night, Jennifer.”
Click. The phone went dead before I could bid him the same. I immediately returned to the stack of papers and studied the numbers. A pattern was emerging. Men 18+ were in full force in prime time and piqued in the early morning hours. And then, there was almost a total fall off. The great majority of men watching SIN-TV in the daytime were over the age of sixty-five. The morning lineup fell short in the key advertiser demographic—adults 18-49.
The sound of the front door opening diverted my attention. I looked up. It was Libby with her large canvas messenger bag hooked over her shoulder and a huge stack of folders in her hand. Despite such a long day, she looked vibrant. Ready to party.
“Hi,” I said, in awe of her stamina. “How did your groups go?”
“They were really interesting,” she replied, throwing her bag and folders onto the coffee table and then flopping down on an oversized armchair catty-corner to me, her muscular legs dangling over the arm.
“How so?”
“I was testing a pilot called Her Space about astronauts’ wives with women for the CBC drama department. Almost everyone complained it wasn’t sexy enough.”
My ears perked up. “What did they expect?”
“Something more erotic. A few women even used the words ‘erotic romance.’”
My mind was racing. “Is there a huge audience of women in the morning?”
Libby nodded. “Yeah. Daytime TV is all about women.” She swung her legs off the arm of the chair and stood up. “I’m going to the kitchen. I need a glass of wine. Do you want one?”
“Sure. Thanks.” Enough with the tea. As my roommate drifted out of the living room, my brain percolated with ideas.
Libby returned quickly with two wine glasses filled almost to the brim. She handed one to me and sunk back into the armchair.
“To your new job,” she toasted. We clinked our goblets together and put our lips to the rims in unison. I took my first sip of the too-familiar, cheap white wine. Good old Trader Joe’s Two-Buck Chuck.
I swallowed and felt the chilled liquid course through my bloodstream. “Lib, have you ever done any focus groups for SIN-TV?”
With a smirk, my bestie shook her head. “Not one. Like I told you at lunch, Blake Burns doesn’t believe in research. He believes in programming from his gut.”
Dick is more like it. I took another sip of the wine. “Well, I think it’s time for an attitude change. I’m going to convince him to do some focus groups with women. I have a theory, and I’m going to prove it.”
Libby let out a snarky little laugh. “I’m at your service if you get him to agree. Good luck with the arrogant, self-centered, know-it-all egomaniac.”
I burst into laughter. Wine that didn’t make it down my throat came flying out of my mouth, spraying Libby.
My roomie snorted with laughter too. I don’t know if it was the wine or I just needed a release, but I kept laughing until tears poured from my eyes. With my other hand, I swiped them away.
Libby’s watering eyes grew wide; she caught her breath while her gaze zeroed in on my ringer finger. “Holy shit. Is that what I think it is?”
“Yeah. Bradley finally gave me a ring.”
“Let me see it.”
I stretched out my arm so the ring was almost in her face. She examined it. The brutally honest research analyst could not mask her dislike. “It’s not round like you wanted or—”
I cut her off before she made another negative comment. “I know. Bradley’s a little st
rapped right now. He’s putting his practice first.”
“Personally, I think he should be putting you first,” she quipped. “Have you set a date?”
“Not yet.”
“Don’t rush.” Her voice was dripping with sarcasm. My bestie couldn’t hide her feelings. She had never cared for Bradley, and the feeling was mutual. Free-spirited Libby was the antithesis of my uptight fiancé. They pushed each other’s buttons. Moreover, she knew sex with him was as she bluntly put it: “boring.”
The truth: I wasn’t eager to lock a date. What was wrong with me? I wondered. Bradley was a mother’s dream. A good-looking dentist from a good family with a good future ahead of him. We’d been friends before we were lovers, but lately I felt like we were two strangers. Instead of spending more time together, we were spending less and less. I longed to tell Libby how I felt, but I feared she would try to convince me to leave him. I couldn’t do that. We’d been together over five years, and he’d helped me get through the aftershock of the attack I’d endured as a sophomore. He cared about me and I cared about him. So I thought.
Libby took a big gulp of her wine and twisted one of her long red curls. “So, now it’s officially official. You and Bradley are getting married.”
I nodded. “Yeah.” My voice wavered. “You’ll be my maid of honor, right?”
“Of course.” Her voice oozed with warmth, and a smile played on her freckled face.
No matter what she thought about Bradley, Libby was always there for me. And always would be. I twitched a small smile back and thanked her.
Setting her almost empty wine glass on the coffee table, she rose to her feet. “I’m going to call it a night. Maybe try to Skype with Everett.”
Everett Pierce was her long-distance boyfriend. They’d met at USC, but now he was doing post-graduate work in linguistics at Oxford. Even with texting and Skyping, the eight-hour time difference made communication challenging. Libby missed “Ev,” especially frequent sex, but she threw herself into her work to compensate for it. They were thankfully going to see each other over Christmas on the East Coast where Everett’s family lived. Libby needed to get laid.
She gave me a hug. “See you in the morning. Congrats on everything.”
I mumbled a throwaway “thanks” and returned to the SIN-TV ratings. I had found a hole in the ratings. A big one.
And I had also found one in my heart.
Chapter 8
Blake
“Hi. I studied the ratings and I think I’m onto something.”
Her voice startled me. I was sitting on my leather couch, about to hit the play button on my remote to watch the dailies of our series, Private Dick. It was one of our most popular late-night shows, but virtually no one watched it when we re-aired it during the day. I glanced at my watch. Nine forty-five. I wasn’t expecting her so soon. She was fifteen minutes early for our meeting. At the sound of her voice, I gazed up. She was standing at the doorway to my office, the files I’d given her tucked in her hands. She was clad in an almost knee-length plaid pleated skirt and a white silk blouse with little pearl buttons. Most would describe what she was wearing as prim and proper, but I found it oddly sexy. It left a lot to the imagination. Beneath her garments, I could visualize her soft curves and the swell of her breasts. Did she wear lace or was she one of those Hanes types of girls who wore cotton briefs and a simple no-wire bra? While I was a total lace-man, the image of her in that boyish cotton underwear turned me on. I yearned to rip open her blouse, hear those pearly buttons bounce to the floor, and pull down her skirt. My cock flexed beneath my pants.
“Did I catch you at a bad time?” she asked, her voice a little timid, perhaps because I’d not acknowledged her.
I shifted on the couch and let out a nervous little cough. Behave, Mr. Burns. That’s what I often called my cock. Call it respect for my mega-fucking machine.
“No. Come in and take a seat.” My eyes stayed riveted on her as she strode into my office and headed toward an armchair across from me.
“No, please sit next to me,” I said before she could plunk her sweet ass on the chair. “I’d like you to watch something with me.”
“Okay,” she said hesitantly, rounding the coffee table. She lowered herself onto the cushion next to me.
“A little closer, please.”
She scooted next to me, and for a brief second, her thigh brushed against mine. She quickly pulled it away. The delicious cherry vanilla scent of her hair filled my nostrils and made me slightly lightheaded. Still holding the remote, I hit “play.”
On the large plasma TV on the wall facing us, the latest episode of Private Dick began to play. Oral Covert, the undercover agent with the twelve-inch dick, had confronted his chief suspect, a hooker named Daisy who was hiding something. She was also his on and off love interest.
“Get over here, you slut,” he growled, lowering his pants. The actor who played the part was capable of few words, but this line came easily to him. His favorite weapon—his big gun—sprung from his pants. The camera panned his extraordinary length. Nice.
The busted hooker, dressed in a bustier, fishnets, and mile-high leather boots that led to her pussy, flung her mane of flaming red hair and licked her pillowy lips. The camera zoomed in on the latter. I could feel my cock tense as it did. Nice work again.
Oral grabbed her by the hair and shoved her to her knees. Mental note: Add a gasp in ADR. “Just give it to me, cunt, if you know what’s good for you,” barked Oral. In a heartbeat, Daisy’s lush lips were wrapped around Oral’s foot-long cock, taking it to the hilt. He began to fuck her mouth vigorously. In and out. Faster and faster. As moans and groans filled the room, I felt Jennifer squirm next to me.
“Does this turn you on?” I turned to ask her.
The scrunched up expression on her face was one of pure revulsion. “It’s vomiticious.”
My brows lifted to my forehead. “Vomiticious? What does that mean?”
She gazed at me. “It means it makes me want to vomit.” To illustrate, she opened her sweet glossy mouth, stuck out her tongue, and shoved a finger inside it. God, she was cute when she did that gagging gesture. It made me want to insert my finger into her mouth and have her lips clamp down on it and suck on it. I was consciously aware of my cock straining against my fly.
“Come on,” I challenged. “I don’t believe you. What girl wouldn’t be turned on by twelve inches of pulsing, hot flesh in her mouth?”
“You are so clueless.”
What the fuck? Seriously. One day on the job, and this little know-it-all was calling me clueless? Moi, who had started SIN-TV and made it the phenomenal success it was? I had to be doing something right. Impulsively, I hit the “off” button on the remote. The picture on the screen faded to black. They’d still been at it.
“Can you please explain what you mean?” My voice had taken on a sharp tone. Yet, she did not seem the least bit intimidated by me.
She folded her arms tightly across her breasts, her hands tucked beneath them, and one long leg over the other. “It’s simple. Men think with their cocks; women think with their hearts.”
“Oh, is that something they taught you in Psychology 101?”
Making a face, she seemed a little affronted by my patronizing attitude but continued her lecture.
“Men are all about conquest; women are all about romance.”
I was all ears.
“And that brings me to why your slate of programming is not performing in the daytime. I analyzed your ratings package very carefully. The problem is simple: the daytime audience consists mostly of women. There are millions of women—moms and caretakers at home—looking for an escape. But they’re not going to watch hard core porn; they’re looking for something different—”
I cut her off. “Like what?”
“Erotic romance. Romantic, emotional, sexy shows with characters and stories they can connect to. Programming that offers a sexual escape—an aspirational fantasy—with a happily ever after end
ing.”
I continued to listen intently without interruptions.
“There’s a huge opportunity to do something breakthrough. To develop programming that will appeal to women who read books like Fifty Shades of Grey and so many others like that.”
I’d, of course, heard about that book, but had never read it. I also knew that Universal was turning it into a major motion picture. “So what exactly are you proposing, Ms. McCoy?”
“I think we should option some of these popular books and develop a block of sexy telenovelas—thirteen-part limited series. Most of them are independently published, so I have a hunch we won’t have to go through big agents or pay significant money for the rights. Maybe we can even form a partnership with an online retailer—I’ve read they really want to get into television production. We can offer the authors an attractive backend position because I think there’s a huge international market for these extended mini-series as well as tremendous licensing and merchandising opportunities.”
The word “merchandising” was like music to my ears. To be honest, SIN-TV hadn’t fared that well in that lucrative arena. SIN-TV baseball caps were our bestseller, but they didn’t generate substantial revenue. “What kind of merchandise?” I asked eagerly.
A knowing smile spread across her face. “It’s endless. Signed posters, graphic novels, sexy lingerie, sex toys.”
I remained speechless as she rattled off more possibilities. Even DVD’s, original soundtracks, and home furnishings. She was right. The possibilities were endless.
“And I think there are a lot of advertisers that will jump on board and support this block of programming. It’s the perfect demographic—Women 18-49.”
Gloria’s Secret’s demo. Is this something that would appeal to Gloria?
“How do you know you’re right? That your idea will work?” I finally asked.
“I’ll prove it to you. Let me set up some focus groups.”
THAT MAN: Holiday Box Set Books 1-5 Page 4
