Misadventures on the Night Shift

by Lauren Rowe

  But I’m talking to no one. The line is dead.

  I stare at the phone for a moment in disbelief and finally return it to its cradle.

  “What’d he say?” Danica asks, her eyes as big as saucers.

  I glance across the lobby and locate the trio of women heading toward the elevators.

  “Uh, nothing much,” I say. “He said he’s hungry.” I tell Danica a watered-down version of what Lucas Ford said to me and she pouts.

  “Why’d he ask you to bring his food?” she says. “No offense, but you look like you’re going to sit him down and try to sell him insurance.”

  I chuckle. She’s right. I totally do. “I have no idea why me. Maybe he just wants to tell me off for making him put out his cigarette?”

  Danica practically stomps her foot with frustration. “Why couldn’t I have been the one standing here when Lucas Ford came in? One look at me and my body made for sin and he’d have known right away I’d suck his dick. I mean, no offense, honey, but if he wants a woman who’s going to help him blow off a little steam after a hard night at the arena, and not one who’s going to sit him down and try to sell him an annuity, then clearly I’m his girl.”

  I chuckle. “Don’t worry, Dani. All’s right with the world. There’s no way Lucas Ford is going to hit on me, even if he wanted to—which he doesn’t. His friend is still up there with him, remember? Nothing too exciting could possibly happen with that guy still there. I’m just going to bring Mr. Rock Star a sandwich and tell him how amazing he is and that will be that.”

  “Yeah, I know, but still, I’m totally jealous.”

  “Don’t be. Nothing could happen with Nerd Guy still—”

  One of the elevator’s doors open and Lucas Ford’s handler enters the lobby…

  Frozen, Danica and I watch him stride past us and straight out the front door of the hotel without a backward glance.

  Chapter Four

  I rap on the door to Penthouse A, my body trembling with anticipation.

  “Just breathe, Abby,” I whisper under my breath, my eyes trained on the closed door, my heartbeat thudding in my ears. “He’s a human being, just like anyone else.”

  But the door’s not opening.

  I shift my weight. Force air into my lungs. Wipe my sweaty palms on the front of my skirt.

  Did he not hear me knock?

  I raise my fist to rap on the door a second time at the precise moment it cracks open. And there he is in the doorway. My teenage fantasy. Shirtless, all grown-up, and looking sexy as hell.

  “Mr. Ford,” I squeak out, my throat tight.

  “Lucas.” He widens the door to let me pass. On wobbly legs, I push the food cart into the room and straight toward a small table on the other side of the large living area.

  When I reach the table, I turn around, expecting Lucas to be standing behind me. But he hasn’t followed me. He’s settled himself onto a black leather couch on the other side of the room, his legs spread wide and his eight-pack abs on mesmerizing display.

  “Would you prefer the food over there on the coffee table, sir?” I ask.

  “What’d I tell you about calling me sir?”

  “Sorry. Force of habit.” I bring the bottle of Jim Beam and a couple plates to the coffee table and stand awkwardly over him, not sure if I should leave or sit.

  “Sit,” he commands, reading my mind.

  I sit.

  Lucas motions to the bottle of bourbon. “Have a drink with me.”

  “I really shouldn’t. I’m working.”

  “One.”

  “Okay.”

  He smirks. “Well, that was easy.”

  Shoot. He’s right. That was way too easy. I need to pull myself together and pretend to be a femme fatale in a James Bond movie again.

  Lucas grabs the bottle of bourbon, takes a long swig, and hands it to me.

  I take a little sip, giddy to be sharing a bottle with him, and hand it back to him.

  He pulls out a box of cigarettes and offers it to me.

  “This is a non-smoking room, actually,” I say, and the minute the words come out I want to stuff them back in.

  Lucas smirks. “God help us if we violate the Colorado Clean Indoor Air Act of 2007 again.”

  “2006. And it doesn’t apply here. It’s just a designated non-smoking suite.”

  “Ah. Well, then, sounds like I can risk it.” He slides a cigarette between his beautiful lips and lights it. “So you said you’re a big fan of mine?” He exhales a huge plume of smoke.

  I try not to cough. “I am. ‘Shattered Hearts’ is one of my all-time favorite songs.”

  “Yeah, that’s everyone’s favorite, isn’t it?”

  My stomach tightens at his caustic tone.

  “What about my new stuff?” he asks, taking another hit of his cigarette. “What’s your favorite song off my last album?”

  Oh, shit. I didn’t buy his last album. I search my memory for whatever song from it played on an endless loop on the radio, but I can’t think of a single one.

  “I, uh, haven’t been listening to a whole lot of music these past two years,” I confess. “I’ve been in law school part-time, plus working here and studying or sleeping every free minute.”

  “My last album came out three years ago,” he says, his eyes hard. “Were you in law school three years ago?”

  I feel my cheeks rise with color. “No.”

  “Working here?”

  “No.”

  His eyes drift from my face down my body and back up to my face. “Feel free to take that blazer off,” he says. “It’s warm in here.”

  It’s not warm in here. In fact, it’s a bit chilly. But I stand and take my blazer off, anyway. I lay the blazer across the back of my chair, and then smooth my shirt and skirt a bit, emphasizing the lines of my taut body for him, and sit again.

  Lucas takes another swig of his bourbon, still looking me up and down, but he doesn’t speak. Damn. His eyes are dead again. Dead, dead, dead.

  “Is your friend coming back?” I ask, fidgeting with the hem of my skirt.

  “He’s not my friend. He’s my warden. And no, he’s not coming back.”

  I wait, expecting him to say more—maybe to explain his “warden” comment—but he doesn’t. I push a lock of my dirty-blond hair behind my ear and clear my throat, still waiting.

  But Lucas doesn’t speak. He takes another sip of bourbon, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

  After a moment of awkward silence, my stomach growls embarrassingly and I look at the food on the coffee table, wondering if it would be appropriate for me to take a big ol’ bite of one of the BLTs.

  “So what’d you think of the video, Abby?” he finally says, filling the silence.

  “The music video for ‘Shattered Hearts’? I loved it.”

  He smiles. “No. The video making the rounds all over the internet right now. The one of me having sex.”

  My chest tightens. “Oh. I…I thought it was really…impressive.”

  One side of his mouth tilts up. “Did you see the edited or unedited version?”

  My face is hot. I swallow hard. “I don’t know. How would I know which one I saw?”

  He takes a long drag on his cigarette. “Well, did you see me come all over her tits at the end or not?”

  I widen my eyes, and open and close my mouth.

  He smirks. “I can see by your facial expression you saw the edited version.” He takes another swig from his bottle. “Did you like what you saw?”

  “I, um…” I swallow hard again. “To be honest, I felt like I was invading your privacy.” I take a deep breath. “I couldn’t help thinking it was pretty disgusting of your girlfriend to leak the video without your permission.”

  “She isn’t my girlfriend and it wasn’t without my permission,” he says matter-of-factly. “So, tell me, do you have any interest in seeing the unedited version?”

  Holy shit. Is he offering to show me the actual unedited video or was that his coded
way of asking me if I’d like him to come all over my tits? I stare at him blankly, feeling like I’m short-circuiting. This guy has been my sexual fantasy for as long I can remember. He’s my Desert Island Fantasy, for crying out loud. But now that I’m sitting here in the real world, I’m not sure how far I’m willing to take this flirtation. Would I truly go all the way with this man, this fast, simply because he’s Lucas Ford? I’m a bit overwhelmed. I thought I was coming up here to eat a sandwich and maybe flirt with him for a bit and then—perhaps—after some laughter and butterflies and some good-old-fashioned seduction by Mr. Rock Star, I’d maybe fuck him if I were really feeling it. But does he truly think he need only snap his fingers and I’ll spread my legs for him? Is it always just that easy for him to get laid by strangers? As easy as buying a turkey sandwich at a deli?

  Speaking of sandwiches…oh, man, my stomach just growled again.

  I open my mouth to ask him for clarification of his question about the video—or inquire if now would be a good time for us to eat our BLTs—but he lets out a long and exhausted-sounding exhale that instantly shuts me up.

  “So, are we going to fuck or not, Ass-kicker?” he asks, his tone full of impatience. He looks at his watch and sighs dramatically like I’m taking up his valuable time. “’Cause if you didn’t come up here to fuck me, I’ve got to move on to drinking myself into oblivion and start writing a stupid fucking song about heartbreak for the cocksuckers at my label.”

  I bolt to standing, too shocked and mortified to sit still. He expects me to spread my legs for him after talking to me like that?

  Lucas chuckles. “Yeah, that’s what I thought, Ass-kicker. Your mouth wrote a check your body can’t cash.” He flicks the ashes of his cigarette onto the sandwich he told me to order for myself, completely ruining it, and flashes me a hard smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I guess you’re not quite the ass-kicker you were pretending to be, huh?” He motions to the door like he’s done with me. “Bye, sweetheart.”

  I grit my teeth. “Oh, I’m an ass-kicker, all right,” I say, rage welling up inside me. “I just don’t happen to be a whore.”

  He calmly sucks on his cigarette, his eyes dead as can be.

  Shame is slamming into me. I can’t believe I’ve loved this ogre for almost ten years. I can’t believe I came in here thinking I was going to get to eat a sandwich with my rock star fantasy while fangirling all over him and asking him a bunch of stupid questions about his songwriting process and inspirations and band. And after that, if the vibe was right, if he was as sexy and swoon worthy as his music videos and interviews and lyrics make him out to be, that I was maybe going to throw caution and my panties to the wind and break all my hard-and-fast rules and screw him to within an inch of his life, just to say I did. But clearly, that’s not going to happen now. Hell no. In fact, I can honestly say this boorish rock star is the last man on earth I’d have sex with at this point.

  My face burning, I march toward the door of the suite and grab the door handle. But before I turn it, I realize I’ll regret stalking out of here without giving this asshole a piece of my mind. I whirl around, my chest heaving, to find him still sitting on the couch, calmly swigging his bottle of booze like he hasn’t just stabbed his biggest fan in her heart.

  “I can’t believe you’re the same man who wrote ‘Shattered Hearts’!” I shout, barely able to keep myself from crying. “Did someone ghostwrite that song for you? Because it’s awfully hard to believe those passionate, beautiful lyrics came out of a soulless prick like you!”

  I whirl around toward the door again and grab the handle but quickly realize I’m not even close to finished with him yet.

  I spin around again. “You think being a rock star gives you the right to treat women like paid whores who refuse to swallow?”

  Lucas cocks his head to the side, obviously surprised by my choice of words.

  “I heard you had a bad time at your concert tonight. And I’m sorry for whatever’s going on in your life that’s making you act like the world’s biggest douche.” I put my hands on my hips. “But guess what, asshole? You’re not the only human on this planet with talent and you’re most certainly not the only one with problems. Some of us have to work really hard for a living on the freaking night shift while also going to law school part-time so after graduation they can land a job they don’t even want. Some of us are living paycheck to paycheck trying to make ends meet, trying to have a healthy, productive life despite past screw-ups. And some of us would have really appreciated a free goddamned sandwich, not to mention getting to share that free sandwich with their teenage fantasy!” Oh, man, I’m on a roll and I’m not stopping now. “Would it have killed you to be charming to a woman before demanding she fuck you? Would it have killed you to say, ‘So where ya from, Abby?’ or ‘Tell me a bit about yourself, Abby,’ or ‘What are your goals and ambitions, Abby?’ Or maybe something as simple as, ‘What’s your favorite color, Abby?’ Or jeez, I don’t know, would it have killed you to let me ask some cliché and annoying fangirl questions, even if you get asked them all the time, like, ‘What’s the story behind ‘Shattered Hearts’?’ Honestly, would that have killed you, Lucas Fucking Ford?”

  If I’m not mistaken, Lucas’s eyes are flickering with heat.

  “Honestly, it boggles my mind you messed this up,” I continue. “If anyone in the world was going to come up here and agree to have sex with you, it was me. I gave myself my first orgasm at fifteen while listening to ‘Shattered Hearts’ while staring at a poster of you on my wall. And for years after that, I got myself off infinite times imagining I was giving you the most amazing blowjob of your life or that you were eating me out or fucking me. But what I didn’t consciously realize until just now was that those fantasies all included the baseline assumption that you weren’t a total and complete asshole.”

  Lucas subtly bites his lower lip.

  “Honestly, if you must know, you needed a written book of instructions on how not to get laid by me,” I continue. “That stupid sex tape of yours had me all primed and ready for you, if only you’d been the slightest bit charming to me. Oh my God, that video! I’ve watched it on a running loop. And you want to know what turned me on the most? It wasn’t your big dick. Or even the way you gripped her hair. It was the way you looked straight into the camera while screwing her. Because that told me you’re a bit of a dirty motherfucker. And guess what? I secretly like dirty motherfuckers.”

  Lucas’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “I can’t believe how little I want to have sex with you right now, given what your sex tape did to me. After watching it here at work for the first time, I was so turned on I marched straight into a restroom and fingered my aching clit for no more than fifteen seconds before I came like a freaking freight train, all the while imagining I was fucking you like an animal. But now that I know the truth about you? Ha! I don’t want to touch your big dick with a ten-foot pole. And you know why? Because I don’t fuck flaming assholes!”

  I whirl around, swing the heavy door to the suite open, and march through it without so much as a backward glance.

  I reach the elevator at the end of the hallway, shaking with rage and hurt and shame. I bang on the call button furiously while stealing glances at the door of the penthouse, half expecting Lucas to burst out and beg me to wait a minute so he can apologize.

  But Lucas doesn’t appear.

  The door to the penthouse remains firmly closed.

  And now I feel doubly stupid for thinking my words might actually have made an impact on Mr. Rock Star.

  God, I’m such a fool! How did I let myself feel so much love for Lucas Ford over the years? He’s not the man his music makes him out to be. In fact, he’s a total and complete fraud.

  The doors to the elevator open and I step inside. And the minute the doors close again, I cover my face and burst into big, soggy tears.

  Chapter Five

  I take a few minutes to compose myself and wash my face in the bathroom, a
nd slip stoically behind the front desk, my heart aching.

  “So?” Danica asks brightly.

  “So, nothing,” I mumble. I clack on the keyboard and bring up a template for P&R reports, intending to get started on my work.

  Danica stares at me, obviously waiting for me to say more.

  But I don’t.

  “What happened with Lucas Ford?” she blurts.

  “Nothing. I brought him some food. We talked for two minutes about how amazing he is, and then I left. He’s actually a huge prick, to be honest.”

  “He didn’t hit on you?”

  “Nope.”

  Danica sighs with relief. “I can’t say I’m surprised. From what I’ve seen on celebrity gossip sites, you’re definitely not his type. He tends to go for Playboy Bunny types like that blonde with the jugs in the video. No offense, but I’m guessing you’d need to add at least three cup sizes to catch that man’s attention.”

  “No offense taken. I’m glad I’m not his type. Like I said, he’s a prick.”

  “Jeez, Abby, what the hell did he say to you? I thought you said you talked to him for two minutes.”

  “I did. And in that short time he made it abundantly clear he thinks he’s God’s gift to the world.”

  “Well, to be fair, he is.”

  “He’s a prick, Dani, plain and simple. I don’t care how famous he is. He still needs to behave like a decent human being.”

  “Did he say why he asked you to personally bring his food? If he didn’t hit on you, then I don’t get the point.”

  “I’m sure he was just throwing a tantrum. You know, trying to inconvenience me. I’m the girl who told the gilded rock star not to smoke in the lobby, after all. Gasp. He obviously thought demanding the bitchy front desk clerk be the one to personally bring him food would feel demeaning to me.”