Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  A huge smile flashes on her face. “Gotcha.” She points at me, and victory sparkles in her light blue eyes.

  “Got me at what?”

  “I heard you like pranks. Josie told me.”

  I crack up and shake my head in appreciation. “Well done,” I say, then slowly clap. “You win at pulling my leg.”

  I straighten out my left leg, and she does her best charade to yank it. I pretend she captured it, and she tugs harder at the air, my leg like a big fish she’s captured.

  She grunts as she reels it in, then I set my foot down on the ground and knock fists with her. “Seriously. Dinner is on me tonight.”

  “It better always be on you,” she says, then adds for emphasis, “Boss.”

  Ah, there’s that reminder.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “I might have been pulling your leg. But everything I said is true. I never said I made the calls. And I do know all that because I did work for a phone sex company. I just wasn’t an operator myself. I screened the girls who wanted to work for us, set up the schedules, made sure they were paid, logged all the calls. It was weirdly fun.”

  “And I’m weirdly impressed.” I would never have pegged the phone sex business as part of Natalie’s work history, but the way she describes it completely fits her organizational skills.

  She punches my bicep playfully. “And I wasn’t technically lying.”

  “You were technically entertaining the hell out of me, though.”

  “Good,” she says with a bright smile. “Want to know about more of my past jobs? I’ve had some interesting ones.”

  “Sure,” I say, stretching out my long legs and thoroughly enjoying the legroom, not to mention the conversation.

  “After the phone sex company I worked as a pet pedicurist.”

  “That’s a job?”

  She nods, the look in her eyes intense. “Hell, yeah. And it’s not a bad way to make a living. You have no idea what wealthy Manhattanites will pay to have someone come to their home and clip the chihuahua’s claws.”

  “Why not stick with it then?”

  “Shockingly, I didn’t want to spend my entire life working on dog feet. Don’t get me wrong. I love dogs, and paws are awesome, but when it started conflicting with my schedule at the dojo in the evenings I had to let it go.”

  I tap her knee. “Which brings us to your true passion. Administering a side-kick to the head.”

  She pretends to punch me in the chest, coming this close. “Or the heart.”

  Her eyes glint. For a flash, I see something in them. Or maybe it’s just that her words feel like a warning, like she really could deliver a blow to my heart.

  I blink then look away.

  She lowers her arm, placing her hands in her lap. “I do love it, though.” Her tone is calmer now, more serious than when she riffed on yiffing and feet, on paws and claws. “Always have.”

  “Since you were little?”

  “My parents sent me to karate class when I was six. I had a lot of energy, and it was a great place for me to burn it off. I grew to love it. The techniques, the skills, and most of all, the fact that you can always improve.” She raises her eyes, meeting mine. In this moment, she seems to be shedding a layer that was between us—the boss-assistant one, maybe—as she ventures into more personal territory. “I also really love teaching it. My favorite is the self-defense part. I really want to keep teaching women self-defense and using martial arts for that. I feel like it’s this one special thing I can do, you know?”

  Her voice is vulnerable, like she wants reassurance that her admission means something to me. That I’ll treat it with care. And I will. “I completely know what you mean, and I suspect you’re fantastic at it.”

  “Don’t get me wrong. I love working for your company, too, and my job at WH is a fantastic one,” she says. Then a soft smile curves her lips, spreading until it turns into a yawn. A huge open-jawed yawn. She brings her hand to her mouth. “I think I hear a nap calling my name.”

  A few minutes later, she’s sound asleep in her seat. A little after that, her head slides to my shoulder. Then, when she’s deep in REM, her upper body slouches down, down, down . . . her head hitting my lap.

  And that’s how I spend the rest of the flight with Natalie curled in my lap.

  Yes, it turns me on. Yes, I’m fucking aroused. And yes, my mind is filled with a reel of images of where her head could be if she woke up, shifted a few inches, and opened her mouth wide.

  I inch back in the seat, trying to give Natalie’s face some distance from the family jewels.

  Soon enough, we begin the descent into Las Vegas. She wakes as we land and shoots straight up, her eyes darting all around as if she’s registering where she is as she comes to. “Did I . . .?”

  She points at my legs.

  “Sleep on my lap?”

  She nods.

  “Yes.”

  Her eyes widen to saucer size. “Did I do that?” She points frantically at my crotch.

  Ah, fuck. She noticed the banana in my pocket. I cycle through a litany of potential excuses for sporting wood during her afternoon lap nap when my eyes follow her finger. It’s not my dick she’s pointing at. It’s the wet spot on my jeans. The huge wet spot that could only be caused by—

  She brings a hand to her chest. “I’m so sorry I drooled on you.”

  I crack up. “Sweetheart, you can drool on me anytime.”

  She flashes an apologetic smile, then reaches into her back pocket for her phone, presumably. When she comes up empty, I peer around, spotting it on the floor by my feet, where it must have fallen while she slept.

  I reach down to grab it for her, and I do my best to look away, but I can’t help but notice the end of a message from her sister that appears on the screen.

  I knew you’d feel this way!

  What way, I wonder?

  6

  The Eiffel Tower is a dwarf. The Ferris wheel spins like a miniature toy, and the rollercoaster of New York-New York wraps around that casino like an architect’s model. Up here, on the twenty-second floor of Lila’s husband’s new palace, we are kings and queens of a city of royals.

  This building is one of the tallest in town. Surely it’ll be a home for billboards soon enough, as high as the entire tower, beckoning tourists to glittery extravaganzas for the senses. For now, it’s potentially the site of my next job.

  I’m still not entirely sure why Lila wants me rather than someone local, so I ask her. I’ve built a reputation on honesty—no need to change that now. She’s next to me, her arms crossed, a look of pride in her eyes as she gazes at the expansive view of the city of sin from the floor-to-ceiling windows in her living room.

  “Do you like it? The place is lovely but the kitchen is a mess, isn’t it?” Lila waves her arm toward the red stove, the black cabinetry, and the emerald green countertop. “Can you turn it around?”

  “Absolutely. We’ll tie everything together, and make it the centerpiece of the home you want. But I’ve got to ask, Mrs. Mayweather—why not find someone local? Any contractor would be glad to work in this gorgeous space.”

  She turns to me, meets my eyes, and laughs politely. “You’re sweet to say that. But do you know how hard it is to find someone you trust? To let them into your home? Especially in a new city?” Her pitch rises, and she fidgets with her strand of pearls. From her unsaid words, I get the feeling Lila has encountered some bad apples previously. “There are so many predatory contractors disguised as your friend.”

  I almost want to knock fists in solidarity, because do I ever know bad apples. My college girlfriend, Roxy, was the rottenest one of all, but I’d have never known it at the time. After graduation, she encouraged me to start a handyman business, became my biggest cheerleader, and helped brainstorm a business plan. When she walked away for some dude on Wall Street making bigger bank, she did everything she possibly could on her way out the door to tear off a chunk of WH Carpentry & Construction with her bare teeth and kee
p it for herself. She was like a koala bear who turned out to be an alligator.

  I nod at Lila, since I don’t care for bad apples, alligators, or ex-girlfriends who hide their crazy far too well. “I hear ya. I appreciate you saying you can trust me, and I’m glad you feel that way. Means a lot.”

  “Plus, you finished on time, and in Manhattan none of my friends have found a single contractor who does.” She slashes her hand through the air and raises her chin, as if she’s offended by the indignities her friends have suffered in this regard. “You’re a rare breed, Wyatt, and the thing I need most is to finish on time, since I want to have this place ready to host a gala for one of my favorite charities. A local philanthropist, Sophie Winston, is going to help me set it up. Will it be too hard to manage the work from afar?”

  I turn around and drink in the layout once more. It’s an open floor plan with copious space, a sunken living room, and gorgeous bedrooms. The style is modern and clean. White walls, simple furniture, and light hardwood floors. The kitchen, by contrast, is a mismatched mess, like a drunk monkey designed it while noshing on a spiked banana.

  Natalie strides out of the kitchen where she’s been taking measurements. She exits purposefully, her closed laptop in her hands, scribbling on a notepad on top of the computer.

  “Hey, Natalie,” I call out. “Think we can manage this job? We’ll need an electrician, and we’ll need to find some local suppliers for parts.”

  “Actually,” Lila says, holding up a finger to chime in, “you won’t even have to do that. You can use all your regular suppliers in New York and fly everything out on my plane.”

  I rein in a grin. Jesus fucking Christ. She is a fairy godmother. She’s trying to make all my work dreams come true.

  Natalie stands next to me. “And when it comes to an electrician, I already have one. I talked to a friend who runs Edge, a nightclub here. He’ll hook us up with his guy for the electrical, as well as anyone we need for other specialized jobs. You’d just need to be here to do the labor,” Natalie says to me, then she turns to Lila. “We can do it. I can manage it all remotely, and Wyatt can be on-site to do the work. We’ll make it happen.”

  “Wonderful! I’m so thrilled,” Lila says, her grin as wide as the Strip. “This benefit is so important to me, and I want my home to shine. Do you have a sense if you can meet the budget?” she asks, then tells me what she’s willing to spend. The number has many zeros and nearly unhinges my jaw.

  “I don’t think that should be a problem. Why don’t we go work on an estimate, send it to you, and then—”

  Lila jumps in. “And then I can sign off on it tonight!”

  Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo indeed.

  Once inside the elevator, it’s just Natalie and me while Lila stays behind. The doors close with a soft whoosh, and I turn to my assistant. “Can I just say it now?”

  “The part where you’re giving me a twenty percent raise?” she asks playfully.

  I laugh. “Pretty sure I said ten percent.”

  “Ten percent. Twenty percent. What’s the difference?”

  The car descends softly. “Seriously, though. I will need to pay you extra for this. It’s a ton of work.”

  “Twist my arm,” she says and hands me her arm.

  I pretend to torque it into a corkscrew.

  “Ouch, ouch, ouch,” she says, contorting her face.

  I let go. “But officially, the answer is yes. The raise starts today. Thanks to Lila.”

  “Even though she hasn’t officially signed off?”

  I wave a hand in the air. “It’s as good as a done deal.”

  I offer her a hand to shake, and instead she throws her arms around me. “Thank you so much,” she says in the most heartfelt tone, her lips near my neck, her breasts snug to my chest, her fingers close to my hair.

  “You’re worth it,” I say.

  And you smell fucking amazing. And you feel spectacular. And I am a motherfucking master of self-control because all I want to do is hit the stop button, hitch your leg around my hip, and screw you hard.

  “I can do my videos now.” She pumps her fist in victory as we separate.

  “Videos?”

  Her entire face is animated. Her eyes are lit like sparklers. “I just started working on a series of self-defense videos. Like the kind you see on YouTube. I want them to be well-produced, and I think if they are, I can attract new students to my classes.”

  I smile. “Never knew that. That’s fantastic. Are you shooting them yet, or still in the planning process?”

  “I’ve made a few, but I need them to be a better quality. They’re missing a certain something. I think I know what it is, but I didn’t have the funds to keep making them at the level I need,” she says quickly, then her tone switches, as if she’s apologizing for her hopefulness. “It probably sounds silly—my self-defense dreams.” She gives a dismissive wave.

  I grab her arm. “No. It doesn’t sound silly in the least. Dreams never are. Now you can go after them the way you want.”

  She shoots me that smile that always disarms me, that hooks into my heart and threatens to wreak havoc with my life. It’s such an honest smile; it says she’s this totally straightforward person who lays it all out up front. Who doles out compliments, who shares in excitement, who doesn’t hide who she is or what she wants. All of that from the curve of her lips, the way her blue eyes light up, how her entire face glows . . . Fuck, I’m getting lost in this one part of her, and I’ve got to get it together. To remember the alligators . . . the crazy alligators, even though I can’t possibly put Natalie in that reptilian category.

  Still, once bitten, twice shy, so it’s time to let these thoughts of her go. I start by releasing her arm.

  As we reach the ground floor and exit into the lobby, she says, “I have to admit, I’ll kind of miss seeing you around the office when you’re out here for a few weeks working on Lila’s home.”

  And hell, if that comment doesn’t hook into me even more. Before I can show off my mastery of self-control, the unfiltered portion of my brain wrests control. “And you know what? I’ll miss you, too,” I say, and it’s not the horny aliens. It’s just me.

  We reach the revolving door and head into the Vegas afternoon sun for the quick walk to the Bellagio.

  Natalie points in the direction we came. “I think I cut you off earlier. When we first stepped into the elevator and you said can I just say it?”

  I laugh as she rewinds us back to what I’d been thinking as we left the penthouse. “Just . . . holy shit. Lila is the most generous person I’ve ever met.”

  “She is generous. But you heard what she said. You’ve earned the right to her generosity.” There’s no teasing now in Natalie’s tone, and her compliment reminds me what matters—being a good guy. At work. In life. With women.

  I need to stop thinking of banging Natalie in elevators, and, on that same note, of missing her. That’s girlfriend-level stuff. Natalie is just an employee. Nothing more.

  I look at my watch. “It’s nearly four. Think there’s any chance we can find a watering hole willing to serve us at this early hour?” I joke, since it’s Vegas and round-the-clock drinking is not only possible but encouraged.

  “Absolutely. Let’s grab something at the Bellagio.”

  “Sounds good. How about an early dinner, some drinks, and an estimate?” See? I’m all work.

  “And then maybe we can celebrate later and ride the rollercoaster?”

  I say yes, because all work and no play makes Wyatt a dull boy.

  7

  Five hours later, Natalie shows me exactly where she wants to land a knifehand strike to my throat.

  “And then just to make sure you’re down, I’d spin around like this,” she says quickly, and executes a fast, low kick in the vicinity of my knee. “But, I’d totally kick you harder, and you’d crash to the ground.” She winks. “That was just my bar kick.”

  I shudder. “I’d hate to run into you in a dark alley, Sensei N
atalie, whether you’re bringing your bar kick or your karate chop to my neck.”

  We’re at a noisy bar with rock music at the New York-New York hotel, since the rollercoaster is here. Natalie is already two drinks in—mojitos are her choice tonight. She’s been detailing exactly what she wants to do in her self-defense videos. Most of the time, she demonstrates the moves on me. Well, not like full demo where I’m flat on my ass, but she’s been pretending to punch me.

  Maybe I’m a masochist, but I love it. Or maybe I’m simply an attention hog for this woman. Whatever the reason, the outcome is all good in my book—her hands on me. But then, everything is good right now, because the job is a big green go, and we are celebrating.

  We worked up an estimate when we returned to the Bellagio. Natalie emailed it to Lila. Thirty minutes later, Lila wrote back with: “Wonderful! The first check will be deposited on Monday.”

  Which means a raise for Natalie, and the path to expansion for me. It also means Natalie’s racing along the highway to buzzed, and I’m not too far behind her. She’s changed from her work clothes. She wears a red skirt with some kind of surreal flower pattern, black heels, and a silky black top. The heels are hot, but flip-flops would have fit the bill, too.

  See, I’m an everything guy. I don’t have a particular type when it comes to women. Some gentlemen prefer blondes, some dig redheads, and some go bananas for women with exotic looks. Me? I’m an omnivore when it comes to the ladies, and I have a big, hearty appetite.

  Right now, though, with Natalie radiating energy and excitement, I’m thinking blonde with a side of spanking is my favorite. Maybe an appetizer of hot hungry kisses, a main dish of hardcore fucking, and for dessert, we’d go for doubles.

  Shit.

  I went there again.

  I blink away the not-safe-for-work thoughts and try to come up with a generic topic to riff on to get my mind back into the good-guy zone. Something that won’t set my fantasies on fire. Maybe what invoices we need to file. Or new tools to order. Possibly even what’s next on the schedule after this new Vegas job.