Best Laid Plans

by Robyn Kelly

  Best Laid Plans

  Book 1

  by

  Robyn Kelly

  Text copyright ©2015 Robyn Kelly

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any means, printed or electronic, without written permission of the author.

  Best Laid Plans is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  CHAPTER ONE

  * * *

  The best part of working for yourself is never having to take a job you don’t want—unless it’s the only job you can get. Which is why I’m the event planner for Lois Amsford’s fiftieth birthday party. The theme is “Fifty Shades of Anything but Grey,” and whenever anyone within two hundred miles of San Francisco wants a Fifty Shades party, I am the person they call.

  It’s not what I dreamed of when I started JW Events (JW are my initials—Jillian Whitkins). I thought I would be doing weddings, art openings, charity balls, fashion shows, and elegant, sophisticated events. But in 2011, Jenny Mitchell wanted a bachelorette party with a Fifty Shades of Grey theme.

  At that time, I didn’t know the difference between a flogger and a cat o’ nine tails, so I spent a weekend reading all three of the books. I found male bartenders slash strippers who could pass for deeply disturbed billionaires, scoured every thrift store for gray neckties, and turned a corner of the Starlight Room into the Red Room of Pain.

  I had a makeup artist create little plastic burn scars, and we glued them on our shirtless staff. They walked through the party with trays of hors d’oeuvres, stopped at groups of women, and with smoldering eyes, held out the tray and barked, “Eat!” We ran out of food within the first hour.

  My guys loved it. If they didn’t want to be touched, they could grab the offending hand and say, “Don’t. It’s the way I am.” And if they wanted to be touched, all they had to say was, “You’re biting your lip. You know what that does to me.”

  Everyone had a great time and by midnight, Facebook was flooded with selfies of drunk women and shirtless Christian impersonators. Jenny thoughtfully tagged all the pictures to my business, and the next three years were a blur of whips and chains and a healthy bank balance.

  I make it very clear to clients that I do not do sex parties. My events are fantasies. The birthday girl may get a spanking, the bachelorette may be blindfolded, there may even be a gentle flogging demonstration, but nudity and sex are not allowed.

  Despite my rules (someone actually called me a prude!), no one wanted to hire me for those elegant events I wanted to do. Blushing brides didn’t want to look into the eyes of the woman who saw them do Jell-O shots off the belly button of three different men at their bachelorette party. In fact, I was about to fold the business entirely when the movie came out and we had a brief revival.

  That has come to an end. Tonight is the only event I have on the books. It’s time to move on, but I feel bad having to let go of my only employee, Robert. He’s been with me from the start. He provided the “servers” (which is what we call them because it sounds more professional than “hot shirtless guys”) at my first party. When he found out what we were doing, he had so many good ideas and valuable contacts that I started using him at all my events. He’s great at organizing, planning, and general herding—and I couldn’t have done it without him. When he hinted he was looking for work, I hired him on the spot. I’m surprised he didn’t leave me years ago, but he’s a free spirit and wouldn’t do well in a nine-to-five environment, which makes me feel worse about letting him go. People think we’re a couple, but we’re more like brother and sister. And, unlike me, Robert has a husband.

  By ten, the party is in full swing. The theme of her fiftieth birthday is “Anything But Grey,” so Lois has insisted that no gray hair is allowed. We have a selection of wigs at the coat check for those with the offending color (including the men), but anyone who wants a secret identity for the night is free to wear one (including the men—and a surprising number of them are).

  The downside of a secret identity is that some of the guests are getting a little bold. Our servers started to complain about being accosted and so Robert and I are on guard duty, monitoring the room to protect the virtue of our shirtless staff. I wonder whether it’s a full moon tonight.

  “I don’t remember buying a Cher wig,” Robert says under his breath.

  I turn to look in his direction. “I think that’s her real hair,” I mutter, trying to keep the jealousy out of my voice. My hair has always been a mess of curls. It’s a burnt copper color and I like how it looks when I straighten it, but that takes more time and patience than I have these days. I’ve always wanted long, straight hair and that’s what this woman has.

  She’s young. Mid-twenties maybe, and short, even in those four-inch heels. But it’s the hair you have to notice. Black, straight, and hangs past her dress (granted, it’s a very short dress). It surrounds her, frames her face, and she wears it like a cape. It’s both a thing of beauty and kind of creepy. “She looks like Cousin It from the Addams Family.”

  One of my assets is a sense of humor. And one of my character defects is a sarcastic sense of humor. I normally keep it in check, but when I’m nervous or tired, my mouth overrides my social filters.

  Robert laughs. “Yes, she does! Miss It!”

  “Don’t be sexist,” I scold him. “It’s Ms. It.”

  She is texting on her phone, completely oblivious of the party around her, or our stares. Luke, who’s probably the most stunningly handsome of our servers (and he would be the first to agree), approaches her with a tray of champagne flutes.

  Robert nudges me. “I think Luke is going to make a move.”

  Ms. It looks up from her phone, and I see her face. She is a pale white, almost vampire white, with black bangs that are cut just above her eyebrows. Her makeup is very deliberate and dramatic, with bright red lipstick and enough eyeliner and shadow to give her raccoon eyes. She takes a glass from Luke’s tray and I watch her lips move. I don’t know what she says but Luke steps back and then hurries off.

  Robert and I look at each other, and then he motions to Luke. When Luke reaches us, I notice how pale he is under the spray-on tan.

  “What happened over there?”

  Luke glances cautiously toward Ms. It to make sure she isn’t watching. “I gave her my standard line. ‘I’d like to bite that lip of yours.’ And she looked at me and said, ‘And I’d like to bite that dick of yours. Hard!’ And then she snapped her teeth together!”

  I put my hand on his arm, and instantly regret it. Luke likes to oil his body and now my hand is greased. “When you finish handing out those glasses, why don’t you take a break. And you can avoid her for the rest of the night.”

  He flashes me his $28,000 smile (he didn’t cap his four wisdom teeth), and thanks me before he heads back into the crowd. Robert hands me a napkin off Luke’s serving tray as it passes. It’s a simple gesture, and reminds me how grateful I am to have him for a friend. “I’m going to miss this. You always seem to know what I need. I wish…”

  Robert grabs my clean hand. “Don’t cry. I only took one napkin.” He smiles warmly at me. “This has been a great ride. The last few years…it was a dream job. Thank you for giving me that.” I notice Robert’s eyes are getting a little misty, too. “Let me go check on the cake.” He heads to the kitchen, even though we both know there’s an hour before the cake is served.

  I follow Robert’s lead and take a lap around the room, checking that the bar stations are well stocked. It’s busywork, but it’s better than wallowin
g in self-pity.

  When I finish the circuit, Ms. It is still glued to her phone, while knocking back a glass of champagne. There are three empty ones next to her, lined up like dominoes. News travels fast and my guys must be too scared to come near her. I grab a cocktail tray and head over.

  She’s talking on her phone by the time I arrive, too absorbed in her conversation to notice me pick up her empties. I am not an eavesdropper, but it is my duty to evaluate her state of inebriation for insurance exposure purposes. At least, that’s the excuse I give myself.

  “That’s so unfair. You don’t care about me. Now what am I supposed to do?” she whines into the phone.

  My guess is that Ms. It has a drinking problem because I’ve heard all those phrases from the drunks in my life. I don’t need to hear any more. I’ll let the staff know that she is cut off. And to expect her to make a scene about it.

  I circle through the party, telling my servers and bartenders. She’s easy to describe and most of my team know exactly who I’m talking about.

  I head to the bar near the entrance where Kyle is stacking the champagne flutes into a tower. I know it’s Kyle because the tattoo on his back has his name spelled out in big letters. I once asked him why and he said, “So women will know me coming and going.”

  I never feel comfortable with stacking glassware, especially in a city with a history of earthquakes. I am about to say something when I spot Ms. It sitting on a stool. She doesn’t have her nose buried in her phone now. She is staring into the eyes of a man. Well, trying to stare. She’s so drunk her eyes keep crossing. All I can see is the back of his head as he hands her a drink—which is totally irresponsible. She says, “Thank you, sir,” and he responds, “Call me Jackson.”

  I am not a snoop (I keep telling myself) but the low rumble of his voice—with just those three little words—piques my interest. Her hair starts to sway and I know she’s wobbly. The man who says his name is Jackson (can you trust a man who gives a drunk woman more alcohol?) puts his hands out to steady her. The most beautiful hands I’ve ever seen. I don’t notice men’s hands normally, unless they’re really dirty or touching me inappropriately, but his hands are sexy. They’re large, and masculine, and…I don’t know how to describe the appeal of them, but if you think the word manhandled is bad, you haven’t seen this man’s hands.

  I want to see his face. I’m not a…oh, who am I kidding? I have been snooping and spying and stalking Ms. It since I saw her, and now I’ve moved on to the man sitting next to her. Maybe it is a full moon tonight, or maybe I just want to see the face that’s attached to the first hands I ever found sexy, or maybe I want to know who would hit on a drunk girl when a perfectly wonderful, responsible, single, clear-headed woman is standing right behind him. For some reason, that thought makes me angry enough to act on this crazy impulse.

  I slide behind the bar, keeping my back to the two of them. Several boxes of champagne are on the floor, and I bend over to pick up a bottle. My plan is to turn around, set the bottle on the bar, and open it while discreetly giving the man the once-over. I know from experience that a hot voice doesn’t necessarily go with an attractive face, but I have no experience with sexy hands.

  The first problem is that this box of champagne is glued shut, and I need to rip it open without breaking a nail. It takes several tries until I finally get enough of the lid pried back to pull out a bottle. Now, for the big reveal. I turn, keeping my eyes down, and peel the foil that covers the cork. This is actually fun. Maybe I’ll become a private investigator. Robert keeps telling me I have world-class snooping skills.

  “Oh, champagne! Let’s have a toast, sir,” Ms. It drawls. She must be too drunk to remember his name.

  “Jackson. Call me Jackson. Finish the one you have, first.” His tone is so authoritative. He probably has to speak that way to get it into her alcohol-soaked brain. Now is the perfect moment to look, when he’s talking to her.

  I lift my eyes, targeting the prey in my sights.

  If I had to pick a face in a police lineup that went with those hands, it would be his. I’m around attractive men all the time. Every event I do has shirtless waitstaff, so I’ve become immune to male beauty. Don’t get me wrong: I can still appreciate a finely chiseled chin and buff body, but experience has taught me that if any of those men had a choice between staring in my eyes and staring in a mirror, I would be a distant second.

  Yet next to him, those men are pretty. He is hot. And it’s not just physical. There’s a sexual energy that radiates off him like Sterno under a chafing dish. I could stare at this man’s profile all day. His skin is the color of the salted caramel ice cream at Bi-Rite Market, and his lips point to the dimple in his cheek. His hair is damp, which makes the wavy, light-brown mass glisten under the lights. I suspect it will dry to a dirty blonde hue. I smell the faint scent of chlorine, and visualize him stepping out of a swimming pool wearing nothing but a smile.

  From somewhere deep inside, I let out a little “Ohhh.” Not like in “Oh, dear.” More like “Ohhh Santa, bring me him!”

  When his head turns in my direction, I know I should look away. I know I am going to flunk the PI aptitude test if I let this man catch me staring. Yet I can’t not see what he looks like. I’m hoping that there is a tremendous scar across the far side of his face (that he got in a duel) because then he wouldn’t be perfect, and if he wasn’t perfect, I might have a chance. Yet when his head turns and his eyes lock on me, I can see there’s nothing marring his square jaw and sensual full lips.

  The corner of his mouth curls up into something like a smile. A self-satisfied one. I know I am gawking but I can’t look away. My gaze moves up from his mouth to his liquid blue eyes. If I had to match them to a linen sample, Topaz Olympus is the closest. They’re hypnotic and seductive and I feel like a deer in the headlights. Topaz Olympus headlights.

  He winks. My body shudders, my grip loosens, and that expensive bottle of champagne falls to the floor. The impact dislodges the cork, which ricochets off the ceiling into the tower of flute glasses, knocking them over like bowling pins. They shatter into a million shards that rain down over the bar.

  This is a sign. Anytime I’m attracted to a man, it always ends badly.

  The broken glass snaps me out of my trance and I go into disaster recovery mode. “Kyle, pull anything that might have broken glass in it. I’ll take this ice and dump it.” I grab the bucket and scurry out from behind the bar, getting some distance between me and the man who wants to be called Jackson.

  I dump the ice, rinse the bucket out and put in a fresh bag. I look for Robert, hoping he can handle this. Unfortunately, he’s busy handling our birthday girl. Lois is looking a little wobbly herself, and is calling for Luke.

  Maybe this is all for the best. If tonight had run smoothly, I would want to keep my business alive. This party makes me realize it’s time to do something new.

  I pick up the ice and head back, trying not to care whether Jackson is there or not. I made my bed and now I need to lie in it. Well, maybe I shouldn’t use a bed reference in regards to that man.

  As I round the corner, I notice they’re both still at the bar. My courage evaporates, until he throws her unconscious body over his shoulder! Her short dress bunches up, revealing a pair of very sheer, black, ridiculously flimsy panties. He turns to leave, and suddenly I don’t have a good feeling about this. What did he say to her about finishing her drink? I know she was drunk, but did he slip her something?

  I hurriedly set the ice on the bar while I call out to him, “Wait!” He doesn’t stop. I pull out my phone as I rush toward them. Planting myself in his path, I grab the bottom of Ms. It’s dress and pull it down where it should be (Do onto others is my motto). He looks at me like I’m bacon at a vegan buffet.

  “Smile,” I squeak and take his picture with my phone. The flash blinds both of us, and when my eyes adjust, his attractive face is looking very dangerous.

  “I’m going to need that phone from you.”


  I swallow, but stand my ground. “Then I’m going to need some ID from you.”

  He shifts his gaze from my eyes to someplace at my left, and then he nods. Suddenly, there’s an arm around my waist and a hand prying the phone from my grip. I spin around to find a very tall man in a black suit. He looks kind of like Lurch. Is there an Addams Family theme tonight? Lurch then walks to the front door and opens it. Jackson smirks at me and heads for the exit.

  “Hey, I’m calling the cops,” I yell.

  “That will be hard to do without a phone,” he says over his shoulder—the shoulder that doesn’t have Ms. It on it.

  I have to make a decision to follow my phone or stay on the job. Maybe I’ll just follow them to get a license plate, and then I’ll come right back. I have to move now before they get out of sight, though I doubt that Jackson, Ms. It, and Lurch would be hard to miss—even in this city.

  CHAPTER TWO

  * * *

  I rush out the door and see the trio. Jackson has gotten pretty far considering there’s a small woman on his shoulder. Maybe he has a lot of experience. I head off as fast as I can, and am grateful I didn’t hesitate. They enter a swank condo complex, and I reach it just before the door locks behind them. The location is too convenient for it to be a coincidence. They must be party crashers.

  Jackson is on his cell phone. “Yes, pronto. I want to make sure it’s gone.” He swings around to see me sneak in behind him. “I was wondering where you were.”

  The building guard is staring at us. Finally, an ally. “Call the police. These men have stolen my cell phone.”

  The guard looks from me to the men. Jackson takes his free hand and twirls a finger around his ear—the international symbol for crazy person.

  “Don’t worry, John. She’s with me. Oh, and I have my head of technology stopping by. We’ll be in the guest unit.” His gaze turns to me. “Now, if I take you up, will you behave?”