Misadventures on the Night Shift

by Lauren Rowe

  “I bring food to guests all the time when the kitchen is short-staffed or whatever.”

  “Yeah, so do I. But he doesn’t know that.” I wave dismissively in the air. “Just forget it. I don’t have any idea what he was thinking, and I don’t want to know.”

  Danica shrugs. “I wouldn’t take his tantrum personally. I think he’s in the midst of some sort of personal crisis. His handler said he’s going to be writing up there this entire week without leaving the building. I got the feeling Lucas has no choice in the matter. Isn’t that kind of weird?”

  “I have no idea what’s normal in the music industry.”

  “Oh, by the way, the nerdy guy said Lucas is a real night owl. Up all night, sleeps all day. The guy said we should check in with Lucas around the start of our shift every night just to make sure he’s eating something. Apparently, lots of artists forget to eat or drink when they’re doing a marathon writing session.”

  “Then let’s not check up on him. If we’re lucky, maybe he’ll forget to eat and drink and drop dead.”

  “Jesus, Abby, what on earth did he say to you up there?”

  “He was just rude, that’s all.”

  “Note to self. Never be rude to Abby Medford or she’ll leave you to starve to death.” She giggles. “Hey, let me be the one who brings him food tomorrow night, okay? You’ve had your chance to seduce him.”

  “Be my guest. I’m not working tomorrow night, anyway. But if I were, I’d say, ‘He’s all yours.’”

  “God, he really must have been a jerk to you. I thought you absolutely loved Lucas Ford?”

  “I did. But not anymore. I’ll never hear his songs the same way again. In fact, I never want to hear another one of his stupid songs, period.”

  Danica rolls her eyes. “Come on, Abby. You’re the one who told him he couldn’t smoke at three in the morning in an empty lobby…right after he’d had some sort of meltdown at his concert. I bet he’ll be a lot less rude to me when I go up there with some food and make it abundantly clear I’m up for anything, unlike Little Miss Girl Scout Cigarette Police.” She snorts.

  I pull the keyboard toward me. “Like I said, he’s all yours.” I focus on the computer, my brow furrowed, and begin working on the P&R reports, telling myself I’m never going to speak to that asshole again, or listen to one of his songs, or fantasize about him, or watch that sexy-as-hell sex tape, or drool over any of his music videos, or…

  “Hey, Abby,” Danica says, drawing me out of my rambling, murderous, boycotting thoughts.

  I look up from the computer.

  “Where’s your blazer?” she asks. “I could have sworn you were wearing it when you got here.”

  I look down at myself and instantly remember the whereabouts of my stupid traitor of a blazer. I close my eyes and exhale. “Shit.”

  Chapter Six

  I’m trying to concentrate on what the professor is saying at the front of the classroom, but I can’t. I’m too wound up by what happened earlier this morning at the hotel. I can’t believe Lucas Ford turned out to be a narcissistic, asshole douche. And I can’t believe I told him off! He’s a VIP guest in our most expensive penthouse suite, after all. What the heck is wrong with me?

  I hope I have a job waiting for me when I go back to work. I think the odds are fifty-fifty he’s going to get me fired. Obviously, he won’t tell my boss the truth about our exchange, but he could easily think of something horrible to say about me to get me fired if he were feeling particularly vindictive.

  And then where would I find another night job that pays as well as The Rockford and allows me to sneak in two to three solid hours of studying every shift before racing here to school to sit through two morning classes? Shoot. Maybe I should have just screwed the guy, asshat or not. I mean, at least it would have been something to check off my bucket list, right? A story to tell at cocktail parties. Not that I ever go to cocktail parties. Wow. I had no idea I’d developed so much self-respect over the past five years. Thanks, Dr. Carlson! You’d be so proud of me if you knew!

  “What do you think, Miss Medford?” my professor asks, drawing me out of my thoughts.

  “I…uh,” I stammer. “I’m sorry, Professor. I was daydreaming.” I flash him a genuinely apologetic look.

  My professor smiles. He knows I work the night shift at a downtown hotel and that I’m working my ass off to make this crazy schedule of mine work. “It happens to the best of us,” he says kindly. He scans the crowd for his next victim and focuses on a handsome guy in the front row named Noah. “Mr. Endicott?” my professor asks. “Can you tell us about the court’s rationale in this case?”

  Noah answers the professor’s question with aplomb and I zone out again, letting my mind wander to a thousand thoughts, all of them having to do with Lucas Ford.

  Finally, the class ends and I begin gathering my laptop and books, my mind and body both exhausted from the mental and physical toll of the past several hours.

  “Hey, Abby.”

  I look up. It’s Noah, the guy the professor called on earlier. He’s always flirting with me, even though to my knowledge I’ve never done anything to encourage him. Yes, he’s handsome, but he’s far too straitlaced for my taste.

  “Hi, Noah,” I reply.

  Noah’s wide smile reveals straight, white teeth. “I’m having a little party tonight. A small group is gonna watch the game and have pizza, and play beer pong or Cards Against Humanity or whatever. I was hoping you could make it?”

  I pause. Noah’s definitely cute. And his body is really attractive. True, he seems a bit stodgy for my taste, but maybe that’s exactly the kind of guy I should be pursuing nowadays. Maybe the way I reacted to Lucas Ford’s behavior earlier this morning is proof, once and for all, I’m finally ready to move on from bad boys and act like a mature and reasonable grown-up when it comes to romance. “Tonight just so happens to be my night off,” I say brightly to Noah. “I’d love to come.”

  Noah’s smile lights up his entire face. “What’s your number? I’ll text you the address.”

  I give him my number and he texts me the information.

  “And hey, if you want to bring your toothbrush and a change of clothes or whatever, that’s cool,” he says. “That way you can drink as much as you want and crash.” His face flushes. “On my couch, I mean. Or I could sleep on my couch and you could take my bed. Whatever works.”

  “Thanks,” I say, doing my best to suppress my amusement at his sudden awkwardness. “That’s really sweet but not necessary. If I drink, I’ll just Uber home.”

  Noah nods, disappointment washing over his face. “Yeah, of course. I didn’t mean to imply any expectation… I just meant, you know, just in case.”

  I resist the urge to sigh audibly. Damn. It would have been so much better if he hadn’t back-pedaled. If he’d acted like it was a foregone conclusion he was going to seduce me tonight because he’s just that good. Out of nowhere, I think of Lucas Ford’s sexy voice saying, “Don’t call me sir…unless I happen to be fucking you.” And my clit pulses at the delicious memory. Why can’t Noah be more like Lucas Ford? Lucas might be a douche, but at least he’s a sexy one. I clear my throat and smile kindly at Noah. “No worries. I know exactly what you meant and I appreciate your thoughtfulness. It was sweet of you to think of my safety. I’ll see you tonight.”

  Chapter Seven

  Noah’s lips are on mine. His hand is on my breast. His hard-on is jutting into my crotch.

  We’re standing on the balcony of Noah’s apartment as a small group of people plays beer pong inside, and his breath on my skin feels especially warm in the cool night air.

  Noah’s not a bad kisser, actually. Better than I thought he’d be. And now that he’s wrapping his arms around me and pressing his body against mine, I can plainly surmise he’s got a really fit body underneath his sweater and jeans. Not too shabby for a future lawyer. Plus, he’s definitely on track to make a mighty fine living one day, so that’s a plus. As my mother always
says, it’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich boy as a poor one. Yep, by all measures, Noah’s a good catch.

  And yet, I’m not feeling it at all.

  The way Noah’s kissing me isn’t even in the stratosphere of the way I need to be kissed to want to have sex with someone. Honestly, the minute he started kissing me, I knew in my bones he could fuck me with everything he’s got—and throw in a vibrating dildo, to boot—and I’d literally yawn and start thinking about my grocery list.

  Yeah, this is a no-go.

  I pull out of our kiss and push gently on Noah’s chest. “Sorry,” I breathe, wiping my mouth. “I don’t think this is going to work out, Noah.”

  Noah looks stricken. “What do you mean? We can take it slow if you want. However slow you need to take it.”

  I suppress the urge to smirk. If I had any doubts about Noah Endicott not being my type, he just confirmed it. Poor guy. He’s the kind of guy who thinks I want to take it slow when I’m actually aching for him to muster the balls to rip my clothes off and fuck me so hard I’m screaming his name. “It’s not you,” I lie. “I just got out of a relationship, and I just realized I’m not ready to date again. Sorry. I didn’t mean to be a tease. It took me kissing you to fully realize where my head and heart are at.”

  Noah takes a deep breath. “I understand. No worries. Whenever you’re ready to jump in again, just let me know. Standing offer.”

  “Thanks, Noah. You’re a sweetheart.”

  We stare at each other blankly for an awkward half-beat.

  “Well, I guess I’d better go,” I finally say.

  Twenty minutes later…

  I practically sprint through the door of my apartment, grab my laptop and headphones, and careen into my bedroom. Without a moment’s hesitation, I strip off my clothes, hop into bed with a bottle of lube, my vibrator, and “Shattered Hearts” blaring into my ears. I furiously search the internet for the unedited version of Lucas’s already infamous sex tape, but it’s nowhere to be found. Every site that claims to have it shows an error message when I click on the link. Damn.

  Finally, when my throbbing clit won’t be ignored a moment longer, I begrudgingly click on a link promising the edited version of the video. I watch with my vibrator pressed firmly against my tip on the lowest possible setting, intending to prolong my arousal as long as humanly possible. But my body is too wound up to hold off. In less than a minute, I come…so damned hard, in fact, I leave a massive wet splotch underneath me on my sheets.

  Chapter Eight

  After an unusually high volume of late-night check-ins and noise complaints and other assorted first-world fiascos, Danica and I have finally reached The Dead Zone.

  “So, did Mr. Rock Star hit on you when you brought him food last night?” I ask.

  “Nope,” Danica replies. “He didn’t hit on me at all. And not only that, at the beginning of the shift he called down asking for you.”

  I smile broadly. Is it wrong everything Danica just said thrilled me? “What’d you tell him when he asked for me?”

  “I told him you were off for the night but that you were scheduled to work tonight.”

  “And then what happened?” I ask.

  “He asked for food to be sent up. I tried to flirt with him during the call, but he’d already hung up. And when I went to his room with his food, he barely looked at me. God, I was so bummed. I mean, I knew—” She abruptly smashes her lips together. A man and woman dressed in eveningwear cross the lobby, arm in arm, looking like they’re ready to go upstairs and maul each other.

  “You knew…?” I prompt after the couple has disappeared into an elevator.

  “I knew he didn’t come onto you,” she whispers. “But I just figured that’s because you’re you. I mean, no offense, but you look like you’re going to sell him Thin Mints.”

  “No offense taken. I love Thin Mints.”

  “I never thought for a minute he wouldn’t hit on me,” Danica says, pouting. “I mean, look at me!” She motions to her slammin’ body. “Nobody’s thinking about Thin Mints when they look at this.” She sighs. “It just makes no sense. I know his reputation. It’s well known he screws a different woman after every concert. And yet, when I got up there with his food he barely looked up from his guitar.”

  “Oh, well, I’m sure it’s nothing personal. The other night, he mentioned he had to write a ‘stupid fucking song for his label.’ I’m sure he’s just stressed out.”

  Danica pouts. “Well, if he’s stressed out, I’ve got his stress-relief right here, baby.” She smacks her own ass. “Maybe the next time I bring him food, I’ll—” She abruptly stops talking again, this time because a woman in pajamas and bedhead is approaching the front desk.

  “Yes, ma’am?” I ask politely. Oh jeez, the poor thing looks like a shit sandwich.

  “Could I get some ibuprofen, please?” the woman chokes out, a pained expression on her face. “I’ve got a terrible headache and I forgot to pack my migraine medication.”

  I quickly take care of the woman, and the minute she’s dragged her poor ass back onto an elevator, Danica continues talking again.

  “Next time I go up there with food,” she whispers, “what if I say, ‘Hello, Mr. Ford, I’m Danica and I’m here to serve you in any way you’d like.’” She imbues those last words with unmistakable innuendo. “What do I have to lose?”

  “Your job?” I reply. “Your self-respect?”

  Danica makes a face that tells me she doesn’t value either of those things more than the chance to have sex with Lucas Ford, but before she can say anything about that, the light on the phone panel flickers, signaling we’ve got an in-house call…from none other than the guest in Penthouse A.

  “Speak of the devil,” I say. “Now’s your chance to tell Mr. Ford you’re here to ‘serve’ him.”

  Danica motions for me to pick up the line. “He’s just going to ask for you again.”

  “No, he won’t. He only asked for me the other night because I left my blazer in his room.”

  Danica’s face lights up. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Ha!” She greedily picks up the phone. “Good evening, Mr. Ford. No, this is Danica. The brunette who brought you food last night?” Her smile falls. “Yes, Abby’s standing right here. But if this is about her blazer, I’d be happy to…” Danica’s face morphs into a full-blown scowl. “Yes, of course.” She holds the phone out to me, her eyes hard. “He wants to speak to you.”

  I don’t look up from the computer. “No, thank you.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’ve got reports to write and I don’t want to talk to him.”

  “Abby.”

  “Tell him I said, ‘No, thank you.’ Or, hell, tell him I said, ‘Go fuck yourself, asshole.’”

  Danica’s jaw drops. She stares at me for a while before putting the phone to her ear. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ford. Abby’s occupied with something. Can I take a message and have her call you back?” She listens. “Yes, sir, she’s standing right here, but she’s… Okay.” She puts the phone to her chest. “He says he has your blazer and now would be an excellent time for you to come get it.”

  “Please tell Mr. Ford I said, ‘Thank you for your offer, sir, but I’d rather send housekeeping to retrieve my blazer than come up personally.’”

  Danica looks positively floored. “Abby Medford, what’s wrong with you?” She stares at me for a long moment, the phone pressed against her chest.

  “If you love me at all, tell that man what I said, word for word,” I say evenly. “I promise you won’t get in trouble.”

  Danica stares at me again, obviously considering what to do. I say nothing more, and my darling friend puts the phone to her ear and repeats everything I said, word for word, God bless her. When she’s finished talking, she listens for a long beat and then says, “Sure thing, sir. One moment.” She looks at me, obviously flabbergasted. “Mr. Ford said, ‘Fuck the blazer. Tell that stubborn woman to get her ass up to my suite right fucking now. And t
ell her that’s an order from a VIP guest of your fucking hotel.’ And then he slammed the phone down.”

  Oh, jeez. My clit is vibrating. My nipples are hard. The devil sitting on my left shoulder has not only knocked off the angel sitting on my right, she’s now stroking her tiny devilish clit with firm, confident strokes. “Call him back and tell him, ‘Abby says she has more important things to do than go to the hotel room of an egotistical rock star who doesn’t know how to treat women like human beings.’ And also tell him, ‘She says she couldn’t care less if you’re a VIP guest. You can go fuck yourself, regardless.’”

  Danica gasps. “Abby, you’re going too far. I can’t say any of that to Lucas Ford or any other guest, especially a VIP like him. Have you lost your mind?”

  “Call him and tell him what I said, Dani. Word for word.”

  “What’s going on? You said nothing happened when you went up to his room.”

  “Nothing did.”

  “Well, then, what’s your deal? Was your ego bruised that your teenage crush didn’t hit on you? Is that it?” She looks at me sympathetically. “Abby, come on. He’s Lucas Ford. He dates boobalicious models and actresses and makes sex tapes with them. You’re really pretty, honey, don’t get me wrong, but in an Emma-Stone’s-kid-sister-who-sells-insurance-and-Girl-Scout-cookies sort of way. Some guys love that kind of fresh-faced girl, but that’s obviously not his thing.” She grins. “I must say, though, I’m impressed you gave it the ol’ college try by leaving your blazer in his room. I didn’t know you had it in you to pull a stunt like that.”

  “I didn’t leave my blazer in his room on purpose,” I say. “And I’m well aware I’m not that bastard’s physical type, trust me.”