Wake Me

by Jill Sanders

  “Absolutely,” Rafe lied. “But this one looks like she’d be hard to leave in the morning. Why don’t you try one of those fillies over there?”

  “Hard to leave” was code for You’ll never get her to stop texting you.

  But Blaine’s eyes narrowed. “I think you’ve got this one pegged wrong, Major,” he said, his eyes swinging back to Emily. “Besides, we’re just having some clean fun. I doubt she’d remember much tomorrow anyway, right sweetheart?”

  Clean fun was code for I know she’s too far wasted. Rafe saw his roommate glance towards Jamie and understood the situation. Blaine was playing keeper while Jamie was off with the bouncer, Rod.

  That, of course, had Blaine acting out, since the guy was totally gone over the pink-haired beauty.

  It looked like tonight was going to get interesting. He held in a sigh.

  Emily seemed oblivious to the undercurrent of tension between him and Blaine. Her eyes were closed, and she was swaying to the music, her arms lifting above her head, and a small smile playing about her lips.

  Blaine shot him a look that clearly said Get lost, I’ve got this. Rafe hesitated, glancing over at Emily, who was still swaying and occasionally bumping that tight sexy body of hers up against his.

  Jamie suddenly appeared next to them, clad in a silver dress and hanging on Rod’s arm. She took in the scene in a glance and laughed.

  “Oh good.” She laughed. “Just what Emily needs—a pair of stripping doctors.”

  “She’s very drunk,” he warned.

  “She’s fine,” she said to Rafe. “Leave her alone. She’s blowing off steam tonight.” Jamie’s eyes were cold and more sober than he would’ve thought she’d be. A hint of something lurked behind them…a misery that had no words. Then she blinked and it was gone.

  “You heard her,” Blaine said, reaching out to steady Emily on her heels. “Go find your own entertainment tonight.” He hauled Emily into his arms and spun her onto the dance floor. Her eyes popped open and she gazed up at him, smiling as though he was the Tooth Fairy and Brad Pitt rolled into one.

  Rafe shrugged, backing down. He’d tried to do his one good deed for the month. Let Fate have its way. It wasn’t his life to fuck up.

  A geriatric group of grannies on his right were hootin’ and hollerin’, motioning for him to come over. Rafe left Emily to Blaine’s tender clutches and headed towards the snowbirds. He knew Blaine would never give the little old ladies a second glance. He said it was weird and creepy and not right that women over a certain age would show up at Sunset Strip. Rafe never minded the blue-hairs. Maybe because he’d never known his own grandma? Whatever the reason, they were the reason he took more cash home than Blaine on any given night.

  “Good evening, ladies,” he said, giving them a cocky grin. “Did you enjoy the show?” He waggled his eyebrows.

  The one nearest him cackled in glee, rubbing her hands together. “Aw, honey, that was the best thing I’ve seen since Elvis was wigglin’ his hips on Ed Sullivan.”

  Her friends laughed and one of them whistled.

  There were worse things to be compared to, Rafe decided.

  He adjusted his hat and fiddled with his dog tags, drawing their eyes to his chest. “Thank you,” he said, affecting an exaggerated Elvis accent. “Thank you verra much.”

  They squealed in delight and dove for their purses, waving tens and twenties at him as he went from granny to granny, giving them the kind of look that said each one held the key to the best sex of his life.

  It was a little talent he had.

  The last one was Harriett, according to everyone else egging her on, and she wore a bright purple hat with a red ribbon. Her laugh was full-throated and the kind that made you want to laugh along with her, even if you didn’t get the joke. She was drinking a mint julep, and not her first, judging by the way she was touching his chest.

  Touching was okay, as long as it didn’t get too personal, and Rafe had gotten pretty damn good at twisting and turning as he gyrated, avoiding those who wanted to touch what he didn’t show off.

  As he danced for Harriett and straddled her lap, he thought he might have met his match. He’d be damned, but the little old lady copped a feel of his crotch as she tucked money into his waistband.

  Her friends woo woo-ed and she laughed. The look in her eye said that forty years ago, she might have given Rafe a run for his money.

  “Easy now,” he said in her ear, swinging around behind her and drawing his hands along her arms up to her shoulders. “Don’t be all Grabby Hands.”

  “Honey, I’m too old to be embarrassed and too young not to ’preciate a great big hunk of a man like yo’self.”

  Miss Grabby Hands Harriett was quicker than he thought. She made another swipe at him, this time getting a good handful of ass. Her friends decided to get in on the action, and Rafe was hard-pressed—no pun intended—to evade them all. On the upside, by his count, he’d made five hundred off that table alone.

  Blaine could say what he wanted about the blue-hairs, but they enjoyed spending their pension checks on the decadent pleasures in life. And Rafe was one of them.

  A few hours later, the heat of the club was still thick in the air despite the few bodies remaining. He let the back door slam behind him as he exited into the alley behind the club. It felt good to get out of the army clothes and back into his own jeans and T-shirt. He shrugged on his leather jacket and swung his leg over his secondhand Harley. He spent more cash for repairs on the older bike than he would have a newer model, but the classic was worth every penny. A moment later, however, he watched Blaine and Emily stumble out of the door and head towards Blaine’s car.

  Even though he and Blaine only lived right up the street from LIV, he knew his friend was too far drunk to drive the short distance. Leaving the hog parked in its usual spot, he climbed off and made his way over towards Blaine’s car.

  He even helped the duo up the stairs to their apartment on the top floor of the two-story building. The beach sat directly across the way and the view from their deck at this particular section of Miami’s beach was worth a cool two million. Not that he or Blaine owned the joint.

  The owner was a divorcee named Karla that Blaine had met ten months ago. She lived in New York ninety percent of the time. This was her vacation home, one of three scattered around the world.

  Occasionally, she dropped in for a day or two. On those visits, she and Blaine would disappear into his bedroom and only emerge for food and wine. When she left—with a lingering kiss on Blaine’s lips—he’d collapse onto the couch.

  “Oh my god, she’s insatiable,” Blaine would groan.

  “Good thing you can take one for the team or we’d be back in that dump of an apartment across town,” Rafe would remind him.

  Sex with a beautiful woman almost twice his age was a small price to pay for cheap lodging, according to Blaine. He didn’t call it man-whoring, just “a mutually agreeable arrangement between friends—sex with benefits.”

  Whatever. Rafe wasn’t one to judge, that’s for damn sure. Rafe was exhausted. He’d been awake for twenty-two hours straight.

  When he let himself into their place, the apartment was dark and quiet, a welcome surprise.

  Blaine wasn’t even trying to be quiet. Emily was singing and dancing around the apartment like she was still in the club. Only she was the entertainment. Her dress came off the moment they stepped into his room. Why they had even entered his bedroom was beyond him.

  He was about to tell them to get out when Blaine rushed to the bathroom and threw up.

  So, he entertained Emily as she continued an impromptu strip. He’d never seen anything so sexy. And he’d worked in a high-dollar strip club in Miami for over a year now.

  She reached down and slowly slipped off one of those sexy heels. And then fell face-first into the center of his bed.

  Rolling his eyes, he turned her slightly to make sure she could breathe. The doctor in him took over and he knew he’d once m
ore have to go without. Sleep or sex.

  Waking up in bed with another man wasn’t high on Rafe’s bucket list and if there hadn’t been a woman in between he and Blaine, he would have had no problem shoving Blaine’s drunk ass onto the floor.

  Whatever had happened last night to put Blaine in such a shitty mood had also served to impair his judgment, considering he’d brought home a girl and they’d both ended up in Rafe’s bed instead of Blaine’s.

  Speaking of the girl, he realized instantly that Emily was awake. He could tell by the slight stiffening of her body. He wondered idly if she remembered anything from last night.

  She shifted slightly and the scent of her soft perfume hit him.

  He’d always had the impression she was the shy and conservative type. It just went to show, don’t fuck with tequila or tequila will fuck with you right back.

  He closed his eyes, feigning sleep as she rolled toward him. Frankly, he was too tired to go through the whole post-play analysis. She’d want to know what had taken place, because she’d been too drunk to remember. Let it be a lesson to her. Next time, she might not be as lucky.

  The bed shifted and he felt her crawl with painstaking slowness off the end of it, trying not to wake either of them. Blaine groaned and rolled over but, judging by his heavy breathing, he’d be out for hours still.

  Rafe cracked his eyelids open and watched as she scurried to where her dress lay draped over a chair. Her sexy firm backside was a glorious view as she tugged the dress on over her head. It was enough to make him reconsider letting her leave without so much as a goodbye kiss.

  She tucked something into her purse and was about to walk out when she remembered something very important—she was barefoot.

  She muttered a soft curse and started to glance around the room, spying one shoe almost instantly. Apparently, she was unable to find the other one.

  Rafe watched, amused, as she searched high and low, even rounding to his side of the bed and crouching on all fours to look underneath the bed. He couldn’t resist playing with her.

  He stretched and rolled over, so he was facing her, but kept his eyes closed. He could hear her freeze in place. After a few tense moments, he felt more than heard her retreat.

  Cracking open his eye again, he watched her crawl on all fours toward the door—carrying only one shoe, ass in the air, and exposing quite a bit of said ass in a dress barely worthy of the name.

  Rafe couldn’t help but let out a low chuckle. She looked absurd and sexy at the same time. He didn’t know if she heard him or not. When she got to the bedroom door, she popped up to her feet and rushed out, closing it behind her with exaggerated care.

  Stepping out and messing with her hadn’t been in his plan, but then he’d seen the genuine worry and the concern that he or Blaine had taken advantage of her state.

  He told her the truth. He’d enjoyed the strip show she’d put on for him last night, but neither he nor Blaine would have let it go any farther.

  They were protectors. Not creeps.

  After she’d walked out the front door, his amusement faded as he walked back into his room and glanced back at Blaine. They were best friends, but lately he felt as though Blaine was nearing self-destruct mode. He’d have to corner him later and figure out what was going on. But in the meantime, no way was he going to sleep in a bed with another dude.

  He was on his second cup of coffee and watching others do the walk of shame down the boulevard from the comfort of his deck when the phone rang.

  “Rafe, darling, how are you?”

  He winced at the familiar breezy female voice. “Karla, it’s good to hear from you.”

  “You have simply no idea how awful New York has been,” she continued, oblivious to his non-response to her question. “I had to get out of town. So, I’m landing in a few hours. Would you be a sweetheart and pick me up from the airport?”

  That was the problem with living on someone else’s dime: you were at the beck and call of the one paying the bills.

  “I’m sure Blaine would rather pick you up,” Rafe lied. He didn’t give a shit what Blaine wanted. Karla was his problem, not Rafe’s.

  “I’d rather it be you, if you don’t mind,” she said, this time with an edge to her voice that told him he’d better not argue.

  “Sure. No problem.” He rolled his eyes since one of his free days was now most likely flushed down the toilet.

  She gave him her flight information and he hung up. Thirty seconds later, he was tossing Blaine out of his bed.

  “What the fuck?” Blaine spluttered, jerking upward.

  Rafe tossed him a pair of sweats. “Put some clothes on. It’s bad enough I have to wash my sheets now that your junk was on them. I don’t need to see it, too.”

  Blaine ran his fingers through his hair and rubbed a hand over his face before pulling on the pants.

  “Karla called,” Rafe said. “She’s in town. She wants me to pick her up at the airport.”

  “She’s supposed to be in London,” Blaine said, heading for the kitchen and pouring some coffee into a mug.

  “Well, she’s not, so I need to borrow your car to go get her.” Karla wasn’t the kind of woman who’d ride his bike. It’d mess up her perfect hair. Not to mention the woman was almost always wearing a tight skirt that barely covered anything.

  Blaine grabbed a set of keys off the counter and tossed them to Rafe, who caught them neatly.

  “Any idea what she wants?”

  Blaine shook his head. “No clue. The usual, I suppose.” For a moment, he looked much older than his twenty-six years.

  A pang of sympathy struck Rafe. They were the same age, but for some reason he’d always felt responsible for Blaine. Probably because Blaine was the leap-before-he-looked type, which had backfired a few too many times over the years.

  “I’ll keep her occupied for a while,” he said. “Take her to lunch or something, shopping, whatever. I’ll text when we’re on our way back.”

  “Thanks.” Blaine shot him a grateful look and took another swallow of coffee. He frowned suddenly and looked around. “Wait. Wasn’t there a girl here this morning?”

  Rafe rolled his eyes. “I was wondering when you’d get around to that. Yeah. She left a while ago.”

  Blaine ground the palm of his hand into his eyes. “What was her name? Erica? Ellen?”

  “Emily,” he supplied.

  “Yeah, that’s it. She was fun.”

  Rafe bristled. “Fun? She was fucking drunk, Blaine. It’s a good thing I drove the both of you back here after work. Why did you have to get so wasted?”

  Blaine shot him a look. “Don’t give me shit,” he said.

  “You ended up naked in my bed,” Rafe shot back. “I think I’m entitled to ‘give you shit.’”

  “Nothing happened.” Blaine shrugged. “You know that. She passed out before I even got in here. I was sober enough to remember that. Though, apparently, not sober enough to see that I had stumbled into your room. Besides, you know me. I would never take advantage of someone like that.”

  He did know Blaine well enough and agreed that he wouldn’t take advantage of anyone. Ever. Still, he didn’t need Blaine stumbling in loudly at all hours. “Well, next time, stay sober and go to her place, capiche?”

  Blaine was heading for his bedroom and tossed a “Yeah, yeah,” over his shoulder. Rafe sighed and glanced at his watch. He had just enough time to shower and shave and still get to the airport on time.

  It was when he was pulling on his jeans that he saw the shoe. Red stiletto with a black sole and Jimmy Choo stamped on the leather inside. He let out a low whistle.

  He knew how much Jimmy Choos cost. He doubted there was a man in South Beach—gay or not—who didn’t. Looks like Emily had forsaken the shoe in favor of her tattered dignity. It wouldn’t be gentlemanly of him not to return her property.

  Grinning to himself, he imagined that scene. Oh, yeah. He could play with her a little more. Now, how best to do it…

>   Rafe entertained himself with different scenarios as he drove to the airport in Blaine’s Porsche, a gift from another woman who’d met him while on her honeymoon. By her own admission, she’d had the best sex of her life that week—just not with her new husband. Her thanks had included the car plus a Rolex.

  Karla was as beautiful and perfect as always. Her blond hair flowed past her sun-kissed shoulders and down her back. The dress she wore dipped in a low V and if the cut wasn’t enough to draw your eye, the diamond pendant nestled between her breasts would. Matching diamonds glittered in her ears and on her wrist. Divorcing a billionaire after twenty years of marriage had its rewards apparently.

  “I thought we’d grab a bite,” Rafe suggested as he slid behind the wheel after helping her into the passenger seat. Her luggage had barely fit into the trunk, which made alarm bells go off inside his head. Exactly how long did she plan on staying?

  “That sounds lovely, darling,” she said, sliding on a pair of oversized designer sunglasses. “I’m starving.”

  A café Rafe knew of was up on the next block, and he parked the Porsche in the back. The place sat directly on the beach and had a great view. If he had to spend time entertaining Karla, at least he’d enjoy the view of the water.

  She waited for him to round the car and open her door, which made him want to roll his eyes. It wasn’t that he minded playing at chivalry—only when it was demanded did he balk.

  Being with Karla was akin to being with an annoying aunt who’d never had kids but expected to be obeyed and adored simply because it was her due. An annoying aunt or an oversexed Sunday school teacher.

  The image of Karla getting struck by lightning in a church confessional made his lips twitch as she got out of the car. She was always touchy-feely and draped herself on him as they walked into the café.

  “…simply must see the new Armani collection,” she was saying. “He has a jacket that I know would look absolutely stunning on you.”