Show Time

by Ally Crew

  Forgetting something? The baritone remembrance brushes through my ears, a smooth caress. All ugly shudders from a second ago morph into little tingles, moving down…down...down...forming! a warm swirl of essence between my legs.

  “Whoa…whoa…whoa!”

  I fling my eyelids open and stare at my crinkled fingertips. Am I actually getting worked up over a guy I met for a second outside a bathroom? The reflection on the kitchen window reveals a remarkably plump girl with soggy shirt front and hair that resembles a mop head.

  At least Cinderella was slim and beautiful. Still, I’m well within my rights to spontaneously orgasm dreaming of my Prince Charming while doing the dishes.

  Besides, this blue-eyed Prince Charming probably has a harem of princesses already. Why wouldn’t he? I mean, a silk suit to an evening movie? I hedge my bets on him being a flashy executive of some IT or tech company, out on a midweek date with a hot girlfriend.

  The message-beep on my phone goes off. Dragged back into the real world, I rinse my hands under water before leaning over the counter, for a quick peep, while patting my hands dry.

  An email from Phenomenon! blinks on the screen.

  Oh, no. Please…no…

  Butterflies poke my belly. I blitz through the words. “Wait… what?” I read them again slower this time.

  Following your nomination as friendliest employee of the year… and on recommendation from peers… we would like to offer you… an opportunity… as party hostess… at the upcoming gala… A high-profile event… Pay package negotiable. If you would like to take up this offer, please contact Vicky.

  I blink hard, wondering if I’m doing some wishful-reading.

  My brain tries to justify it. Scam-mail? A prank from a colleague? One of those two options would explain this easily because if it’s real that’s not easily explained.

  Deep breaths, Iris… like really… really deep.

  I blow out long puffs of air, while I go Sherlock Holmes on the contact details. The online search checks out.

  My body tingles with happiness. I’m ready for this. I’m qualified and I’m ready.

  By the time I contact the person in the email and verify the offer to be 100% legit, celebratory fireworks are going off in my head. And a few hours later, when I receive a confirmation letter with a pupil-popping pay package for hostessing—whatever that means—this party, Dad and I break out into an actual jig in celebration. His surgery isn’t a dream now. It’s going to happen.

  I might not need to be Cinderella after all.

  4

  Thatcher

  Nestled in the center of the city, I enter the grounds of the hotel and it’s another world altogether. Soaring palm trees. Floor to ceiling glass displays. Trendy brushed nickel fittings. Chenille furnishings.

  Like the chosen venue, the event is turning out to be a grand success, too. Vintage wines and effervescent champagne flows freely. The canapés on display are exotic, the hostesses serving them even more exotic. The Glitterati of the season seem to be in full attendance. The arrangements have matched my generally unmatchable standards.

  My speech was well received. I should be an ocean of calm. Only, I am not. My glances flit to toward the entrance as I make an excuse to leave before the end of every conversation. I’m a man on edge.

  I excuse myself from a producer, who's been jabbering incessantly about his upcoming short film venture, and then step aside. I was struggling to keep my attention straight after having professionally socialized with several guests already. Now that it’s time for my personal guest to arrive, no one else has my attention.

  A glimpse at the time on my watch shows it’s been forty minutes since the gala began. Through my PA, I’d arranged to have my driver pick her up and have her come in just after my speech. And it’s nearly time.

  She better be coming. I’ve been waiting all week for this, and I don’t take disappointment well. Especially, when it’s about something—or someone—I want. And I haven’t wanted anyone as much as I want Iris. My thoughts jumbled for the last few days and if she doesn’t arrive soon, I’ll storm out through the glass doors, head to the driveway, ask the valet to fetch my convertible and go get her myself.

  Slipping out my mobile phone I access my PA by text.

  Thatcher: Any updates from her?

  A second later she responds, uber-efficient as always.

  Vicky: Not yet. She isn’t late though. Would you like me to call her?

  My thumb rolls over the letters Y… E… S on the keypad, but I decide against it.

  Thatcher: No. Thanks.

  I don’t want her getting suspicious. She has no idea that the guy outside the washroom set this whole evening for her, or that he’s the boss of the boss of her boss. And I’d like to keep it that way for as long as possible. I don’t want to intimidate her with my title when I’m still only a man and human.

  Vicky: Would you like to see the dress we sent for her yesterday? The one you had custom ordered.

  This time, the reply I shoot back is quick and enthusiastic.

  Thatcher: Yes

  The gown is sexy. On her, I imagine it’ll be sensational. I stifle a husky groan, the spike of hormones teasing my cock into a state of semi-stiffness. And I haven't even seen it on her yet. This evening is going to be interesting. Might have to find a place where we can sit the evening so she can’t see how much my body is out of control.

  Few minutes to go...

  My focus shifts from the mobile screen to the crowd in front, as someone calls my name from afar. It’s a budding German model, waving me over. With a sigh, I push my phone back into my tuxedo pocket and head her way, sliding on a cordial faux grin that I’ve perfected over the years. But when Iris gets here, I’ll look like a beaming fool and I won’t care what anyone thinks.

  Except her.

  5

  Iris

  Paris chiffon.

  Even the word rolls off my tongue like the airy pleats of the dress. I’ve said it ten times to myself and I still can’t believe the beauty. Heck, I didn’t even know a fabric called Parisian chiffon existed until I saw the label.

  I’ve always known Phenomenon! is a rich brand. But this is beyond rich. Sending their honored guest a dress that would look perfect on a celebrity walking the red carpet, and then sending an employee a car and driver for the trip to the venue? It’s a little much, but I’m trying to be grateful and not freaked out.

  Event hostess? What does that even mean? I looked it up on Google, but it seems a vague position. I’m used to serving ten year olds popcorn buckets with a smile. I hope that I’m not serving fine wine to hot-shots, all while balancing myself on four-inch stilettos. That is not my forte. I can barely stay upright in flip-flops.

  Nonetheless, it is a different experience and I need the money. So, I’m not going to stumble. Literally or figuratively.

  Crap! I glance at the time. I’ve already stumbled. I meant to be early, but I’m not going to be. I’m neither used to dressing up, nor used to accounting for downtown traffic on a Saturday evening.

  Please…please…please…I can’t be late.

  I notice the driver watching me through the rearview mirror and I stop with the praying.

  “You look like one of them celebrities going to a movie release, miss.”

  “Thank you,” I bite the inside of my glossy lips with a blush. No one has actually called me that before. Except for Dad—my cheerleader—of course.

  I adjust the teardrop earrings I bought this morning. Dad saw the dress the company sent and advanced some of the money he’d been saving up for my birthday so I could complete the look with a purse, heels and jewelry.

  “You’ve never really been to a prom. Go treat yourself. And I hope you have a good time with the man who's gifted you that.”

  I giggle. Dad thinks some secret admirer has couriered me this expensive gown for a gala. If only he knew.

  That said, for a gown-for-hire that came with the position, it does look
brand new. My palm traces a sensual line over its length.

  Crimson red. Off-the-shoulder neckline. Sequined bodice. Soft as second skin silk chiffon on the flowing bottom, thankfully for ease of moving. Maybe I’m not a celebrity, but I do feel beautiful. If only the orgasmic-memory man got to see me in this too. No puffy eyes and broken buttons tonight.

  Since there’s still a short while to go, I hop onto a dream bubble and start floating adrift, imagining his silvery blue eyes on me…whiskery jaw skimming my shoulder…strong hands on my waist, pulling me close… broad chest pressing into me… manly bulge sliding inside of me.

  I drift higher and higher. Twitches in my core get tighter and tighter, till I hit the highest peak. Pop. The bubble bursts and a quivering explodes inside of me. Whoa, what in the world was that? Did I just come to the mental picture of him with me? At a few fricking pictures in my head and I’m a shaking leaf of a woman. I can’t imagine if I got into his arms…

  I cross my legs at my knees as my pussy drips into my panties. Not panties—a thong! I gasp. I can't afford to be doing this in a rental evening gown. Time to stop thinking about my secret crush ASAP!

  6

  Thatcher

  “Thatch, damn…you are ruthless, aren't you?” The model hangs by my shoulder. The lip licks. The arm taps. The thigh brushes. The shoulder grasp. She's giving me all the signals. A week ago, I would’ve zoomed right through. Granted, she is very attractive. My buddies at the country club would give her a nine-plus.

  But now that I’ve found my ten, no one compares. Every thought is Iris.

  Is this how it is going to be? Always? My heart pounds against my ribs saying “yes.”

  Having touched forty without ever falling for a woman, it seems quite inexplicable that I’m falling for someone I've barely met.

  But it is what it is.

  She continues after a drink of her champagne, “Thatcher…by the way--”

  “Holy fuck!” I cut her off.

  A stunning silhouette walk through the glass doors of the gala hall. Her stilettoed steps halt everything in the room and I can see nothing but Iris. Her smile falters and her confused expression is endearing. She reminds me of a lost pet in a parking lot, and all that hard steel in my chest instantly drips into molten lava for her.

  Cautious nerves aside, Iris doesn’t linger by the doorway for long. She doesn’t waste time and doesn’t party. She simply heads towards the bar and introduces herself, getting right down to business. Is there anything about this girl that's not to love?

  As my eyes stalk her around the crowds, my pulse quickens, every unrequited rush and thought reminds me of the rousing red in my blood, of a man in need of his woman. To me, she was gorgeous even with smudged mascara and puffy eyes and a simple uniform. Now, dolled-up, she is a veritable goddess. The dress does an incredible job of treating every curve right, hugging her bootylicious backside, accentuating her perfectly rounded breasts. The red against her skin is like berry on cream. I’m ravenous for a taste, my hands and lips wanting to dig in straight away. The woman drives me wild and I absolutely love it.

  7

  Iris

  Holy shit…

  I have to remind myself to blink as I traipse down the hallway carpet into the dazzling hall. Water features lit by sublime ambient lighting line the walls. A grand lobby decked with sweeping expanses of carved shimmering Italian sandstone catch my gaze as I pass. Crystal chandeliers that look like they belong in a palace dangle overhead.

  “Wow!” Awe tugs my lips apart. I feel like a princess who’s walked into an extravagant ball. And from the number of local celebrities and high fashion models I’ve seen in magazines and on TV that sparkle and laugh with no cares through the area, this might as well be one.

  Iris! Wake up! Cinderella was a guest at her ball, you’re not…you’re a host…hired for a gig. Remember? The annoying matronly voice in my head speaks up.

  “I remember…” I exhale and close my gaping mouth, snapping back into reality.

  However, now that I am back on solid ground, I realize something’s wrong. Very wrong.

  The fact that the dazzling crowd is already around—drinking, chatting, and partying away—is worrying.

  The gala has been going on for a while. I presumed I was supposed to be around to help with the arrangements too.

  I’ll be terminated before a check ever hits my bank.

  According to the program-board, the speeches have already ended—including the one by lead speaker, T. S. Scott, the CEO of Phenomenon! I’ve never seen his name or him, but now I really don’t want to. He’ll probably fire me on the spot.

  I thought I made it on time. I even gave myself a few mental pats on the back. And now, I’m looking at failing before I even got started. And Dad’s surgery being further away than ever.

  I must have messed up.

  I consider retrieving my cellphone and checking my email to confirm the time—but that’d only waste a few more minutes. I take a deep breath and decide to make the best of a bad situation. It can’t get any worse, right?

  I bat my lashes, heavy from the weight of my brand new mascara, and look around. I feel lost, I can’t afford to look lost though. I rush toward the bar and introduce myself to the two bartenders. I notice their attires. The staff are dressed in simple white shirts and black pants.

  What the heck am I doing dressed in Parisian silk, then?

  “Iris Morales?” A woman in her mid-fifties makes her way towards me, the very sight of her seems to set my nerves on ease. She has a simple and calming way about her—very fairy god mother. “I’m Vicky. I sent you the email.”

  “Oh, thank God, Vicky!” My chest visibly heaves in relief. “Am I late?”

  “No, you’re right on time. It’s nice to meet you.” Her experienced eyes give me a quick once-over. “And you look amazing.”

  “I do?” She says the words like she means them and nods her head, bringing a smile to my face. “Thank you. So…can you tell me what I’m doing tonight?”

  “You’re the party hostess. You socialize and make yourself comfortable.” She grabs my hands and squeezes them. “You, Iris Morales, are the face of Phenomenon!”

  “I am?” I try not to let the confusion show through.

  “Yes, and we’re lucky to have you representing the staff.”

  I’m overwhelmed. I’ve never felt so appreciated in my life. My last day job acted like I was a burden and that I didn’t do anything right.

  With the party already underway, I wander toward the crowds. Part of me wishes I had an invisibility spell, the other part of me wants to go wild. I walk the middle of the road and begin by dropping the generic “hope you’re enjoying yourself” phrase to the guests. If I spot an empty goblet or flute, I offer a refill of their second, fifth, tenth, and I assume for some of them by their glassy eyes, twentieth round of drinks.

  I assist a veteran actress with the kinked metal chain on her purse, and help a supermodel find her lost car keys. In the course of it all, I gain a few autographs and photo-ops, too. Before long, the whole experience turns out to be a galaxy away from the planet I sell popcorn on—but this is one spaced-out trip I’m not going to complain about.

  At some point, I’m pulled into a conversation by one of the Phenomenon! executives. I laugh at his jokes, the ones that I can understand, and I nod at those I can’t. During one of his joke-a-thons, I catch something from the corner of my eye. A glint. A sharp glint. A pair of eyes—smoky-blue eyes—are on me. Watching. Observing.

  Holy shit! It’s him. My secret crush. My mind freezes. My body freezes. My pulse, however, shifts to the highest-gear, racing blood through my veins and pumping it to the part of me that has already started pulsing with need.

  Why is he here? How long has he been here? How many minutes has he been watching me?

  My eyes delve into a game of hide and seek—but it doesn’t help that wherever I look, I know I’ve already been caught. After a few minutes, I dare a quick p
eep his way, and catch myself sighing audibly. He looks a million dollars, and he looks like he's worth even more.

  Is he one of the guests here? My thoughts pause. And how has he recognized me?

  I guess that only proves my point—a curvy woman with expensive clothes and a purse—is still a curvy woman.

  Suddenly, the hottest German model on earth emerges from nowhere threading her hand into his. Just as jealousy stabs me with its sharpest pickaxe, he catches me staring again—this time, with a smile lurking at the edge of his mouth.

  What am I doing crushing on a man who's living and playing in a whole different League?

  I excuse myself from the group and make my way in the other direction. I turn a tad too fast. My heels loop into the hem of my skirt. The world spins. Instead of laughter and glamour, I’m suddenly seeing the twinkling of lights.

  I yelp in horror, microseconds before my ass is about to be slapped by cold marble.

  “Hey, steady there.” A strong pair of arms catch me just in time, breaking the fall, before helping me onto my staggering feet. I’d successfully not tripped all this while—only to end up in a dramatic stumble at the end of my time there. Perfect timing. As always.

  “We meet again. I’m Thatcher,” he introduces himself, extending his hand, but my fast beating heart muffles most of what he says.

  I lock my hand in his and blink, having forgotten my name for a bit. I’m a hostage in my spot, and I realize it’s because I’m gazing into the most beautiful shades of blue. Smoky blue in his eyes. Slate blue on his suit. Silvery grey-blue in his hair. But a devilish red in his smile. My nipples harden making my hyper-aware of every twist and turn as they slide against the soft silk of the dress. Thank God for padded bodices or I’d be in serious trouble.