Misadventures on the Night Shift

by Lauren Rowe

  The song ends, and much to my dismay the audience applauds only tepidly.

  Lucas wipes his sweaty brow, thanks the audience politely, and says, “So I’ve got one more song off my last album that I want to—”

  But he’s cut off by the person behind the recording device shouting, “‘Shattered Hearts!’”

  Darkness overtakes Lucas’s beautiful features. He tries to smile but fails. “I’ll get to that one,” he assures the crowd. “But first I want to play something special to me I don’t usually play off my third album—”

  “‘Shattered Hearts!’” the voice behind the camera commands again from the front row, and the sentiment is quickly seconded by another nearby audience member. And then another.

  All of a sudden, a chant of “Shattered Hearts!” sweeps through the audience like a forest fire as Lucas stands frozen at his mic, clearly bewildered at how quickly the audience has rallied around their shared cause.

  As the audience’s chanting quickly gains momentum, Lucas’s jaw noticeably tightens. “You want ‘Shattered Hearts’?” he bellows into his microphone.

  The audience roars at their victory, clearly missing the subtext of Lucas’s booming query.

  “You don’t want me to play any song but ‘Shattered Hearts’?” Lucas asks the crowd, his features hardening even further.

  An avalanche of cheers and shouts of “Shattered Hearts!” slams into Lucas, making him visibly flinch.

  The tortured look in Lucas’s eyes is breaking my heart. How the hell does this audience not see the torment they’re causing their supposed idol? I want to reach through my computer screen and hug him and say, “Play your song for me, Lucas.”

  “This sucks,” Lucas mutters into his microphone, looking at his bass player, but the audience doesn’t seem to hear him. Or maybe they just don’t care. In a flash, rage ignites across Lucas’s face. “Fuck you!” he shouts, flipping the audience off with both hands. He rips his guitar strap off, thrusts his instrument at his bass player, leans into his bass player’s microphone, and shouts, “If you want to hear ‘Shattered Hearts,’ then listen to it on the goddamned radio. I’m done playing that fucking song forever.” And off he goes, exiting the stage as the crowd unleashes a tsunami of boos and taunts at him.

  After Lucas has disappeared, his band members remain awkwardly onstage, apparently not sure if their fearless leader is planning to return. The crowd absolutely explodes with fury and indignation. Whoever’s behind the device that’s recording yells, “Fuck you, Lucas Ford! You’re washed up, anyway!” and then the video abruptly ends.

  I touch my fingertip against my screen, right against the spot Lucas’s tortured face occupied a moment ago. “Lucas,” I whisper, my heart panging. That’s what Lucas endured mere hours before he dragged himself into the lobby of The Rockford, slumped into an armchair, and got berated by a haughty hotel clerk about the Colorado Clean Indoor Air Act of 2006?

  With a heavy sigh, I grab my phone, open iTunes, and download Lucas’s third album. The album I never bothered to purchase three years ago because I’d heard someone say it was a “sharp departure” from Lucas’s previous music and “not nearly as catchy.”

  I grab my earbuds, intending to listen to Lucas’s album from top to bottom, but an incoming call on my phone interrupts my agenda. Mom.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Hi, Mom,” I say, picking up her call. “How are you?”

  “Are you okay?” Mom asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, trying to make my voice sound like I’m fine.

  “You sound upset.”

  “No, I’m good.” I wipe my eyes. “I’m just exhausted, that’s all.”

  “Did you go to class this morning?”

  “Yup. Environmental law followed by employment law. Plus, I worked a full shift last night at the hotel before my classes and studied at the school’s library in between. I’m about to take a quick shower and head off to bed before starting it all over again tonight. Welcome to my glamorous life. So what’s up?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just calling to say hi.” Mom proceeds to tell me she’s decided to redecorate the lake house again and that she’s agreed to organize a charity gala for a hospital.

  “Sounds great,” I say, my eyelids heavy.

  But Mom’s not nearly done talking. She goes on for a while about how the new maid she hired to replace the old one—who retired after eleven years of loyal service—is sweet as can be but doesn’t seem to possess enough attention to detail for her liking, which is a real pity, seeing as how Mom’s got particularly high standards for cleanliness.

  “Sounds like a first-world problem, Mom.”

  “Well, I didn’t say it was a tragedy. I’m just giving you a rundown of my life.” She pauses. “Are you sure you’re okay? You sound a bit off.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “So are there any handsome future lawyers in your new classes this semester?”

  “Yes, a few, but nobody I’m even remotely attracted to,” I say, and instantly regret it. Shit. Why do I constantly poke the snake? I’m pathological.

  “Abby,” Mom says, years of exasperation with me instantly boiling to the surface. “Please try to give nice boys a chance for once. Would that be so hard?”

  “I’m sorry, Mom,” I say. “I’m just cranky because I’m tired. The truth is I don’t have time to date anyone these days, whether they’re a ‘nice’ future lawyer or a diabolical rock star.” Unless the rock star’s Lucas Ford, of course, and then I’ve got all the time in the world.

  I can almost hear my mother’s furrowed brow across the phone line. “Well, that’s not healthy, either. You’ve got to have a little fun. Have you considered making an appointment with Dr. Carlson, just to check in?” she asks. “A little tune-up might be in order.”

  “I don’t need therapy, Mom. I haven’t had an issue in years.”

  “What would be the harm in a little check-in? Better safe than sorry.”

  “It’d be a colossal waste of my time and money, both of which are in short supply these days.”

  Mom makes a sound of complete exasperation. “Oh, Abigail, let’s please not talk about the money thing again. You know Daddy’s and my thoughts on that.”

  “Mom, I wasn’t talking about money. I was only trying to say—”

  “One day, you’ll thank Daddy and me for not giving you a handout for your education. Daddy didn’t get a handout from his parents and look what he wound up doing all on his own. It’s like Daddy always says, people value a thing so much more when they scratch and claw to pay for it themselves.”

  “I wasn’t implying I need or want your money,” I say evenly. “I was simply trying to explain why I don’t need more therapy, that’s all. It’d be a pointless exercise because I already know exactly what we’d both say in the session. I’d say, ‘Hi, Dr. Carlson. Yes, I still lead an excruciatingly boring life. Yes, I’m still making healthy choices. Every day. Yes, I’m still fully committed to respecting myself and my body and I understand my sexuality isn’t a weapon that should be brandished to conquer men, especially not unattainable or unavailable ones. Rather, sex is something special that should be engaged in by two adult people in order to create intimacy as part of a committed relationship.’ I’d say all that and Dr. Carlson would reply ‘Wonderful, Abigail! Keep it up!’ and then I’d pay her an exorbitant amount of money and leave. I truly can’t fathom what would be the point of going to all that trouble when I can give myself an hour’s worth of therapy for free.”

  “And here we are right back to money again.”

  “What? Mom, no. That’s not what I meant. Are you listening to me at all?”

  “Well, regardless, you know what Dr. Carlson says. You have triggers, Abby. Hit one of them hard enough on any given day and the floodgates might burst wide open on you.”

  “My floodgates are firmly battened down, Mom. Don’t worry. They can’t possibly open even a crack when all I do is work, study, and sleep. Gi
mme a fucking break.”

  “Abigail!” my mother gasps. “I will not tolerate that kind of language from you.”

  I really am pathological. Why do I constantly do this? “I’m sorry, Mom. It just slipped out. I’m sleep-deprived. Forgive me. Please, don’t start thinking one F-bomb is a sign the ‘floodgates’ are opening. They’re not, okay? I’m battened down and buttoned up and making healthy choices every day of my life.”

  There’s a long, awkward silence.

  “Mom, please don’t worry about me. I know I put you and Daddy through a lot, and as I’ve said a thousand times, I’m genuinely sorry about all that. But that was a long time and many therapy sessions ago. I’m twenty-four now, not nineteen. I’ve got my head on straight, I promise.”

  Mom sighs with relief. “I’m glad to hear it.” Her voice breaks. “I only worry because I love you so much.”

  A lump rises in my throat. “I know. I love you, too. And Daddy. Will you tell him I said ‘hi’? I texted him yesterday and he hasn’t replied.”

  “Oh, that’s because he’s in London on business. I’m sure he’ll call you when he’s got a minute.”

  “That’d be great. Okay, well, I’d better get some sleep. I’ve got to work another full shift again tonight.”

  “All right, darling. Sweet dreams.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I love you.”

  I hang up the phone and bring my half-empty plate of eggs into my kitchenette. I wash and dry my plate and put it neatly away, take out the trash, scrub my counters and pan, and then drag my tired ass into the bathroom for a shower.

  Hot water pelts my sore shoulders and back, and my mind wanders. I don’t mean to do it, but I start thinking about how much pain I’ve caused my parents in my short lifetime. How much embarrassment. And then I think about how tired I am. How tired I always am. And, finally, I think about the tortured expression on Lucas’s face when the audience at his Denver concert demanded he perform the one song he simply doesn’t feel like playing ever again.

  When I’m done showering, I slip into my pajamas and fuzzy socks, pull down the shades in my bedroom to block out the glorious, sunny day beckoning me, and lay my weary head on my pillow. Finally, I’m snuggled nice and cozy in my bed. I put an eye mask on, push earbuds into my ears, and press play on the first song on Lucas’s third album, letting Lucas’s beautiful, soulful voice usher me into blissful sleep.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I stand in front of the door to Penthouse A, clutching Lucas’s signed non-disclosure agreement in my hand, my jaw clenched. On the drive into work, I had a brilliant idea about how to get Lucas to claim me sooner rather than later. And now I’m bound and determined to execute on my strategy.

  I take a deep breath, shake out my arms, and knock on the door…and not ten seconds later Camden Donnelly’s standing in the doorway.

  Holy hell, Camden’s an attractive guy—even more so than that video of him playing drums led me to believe. He’s got strawberry-blond hair, blazing blue eyes, muscles, tattoos, and facial hair. Most importantly, he’s got swagger. I’ve got to think there aren’t too many situations in life where Camden Donnelly considers himself any girl’s consolation prize.

  “Hey, Abby,” Camden says, his voice low and masculine. He leans forward and kisses me gently on the cheek like he’s done it a thousand times, and my skin pricks at the sensation of his short beard and soft lips against my flesh. I inhale deeply before he retracts from me and take in the scent of him. Soap. Faint cologne. Nice.

  I open my mouth to reply to Camden, but my brain is hijacked when I spot Lucas over his shoulder, inside the suite, staring at me with eyes like a sniper’s. I look at Camden again and smile for Lucas’s benefit. “Hey, baby,” I say, speaking loud enough for Lucas to overhear. “I’ve been fantasizing about you all day. In fact, I’ve already gotten myself off twice today watching a video of you pounding away on the drums.”

  Camden’s eyebrows shoot up.

  “Gimme a kiss, baby,” I say. “I’ve missed you so much.”

  Camden leans forward and whispers, “You’re sure you’re okay with all this?”

  I take a step forward, slide my arms around Camden’s neck, and press my body into his. “I’m great with it,” I whisper. And then, at full voice, I add, “Kiss me, Cammy. I’ve been aching all day to kiss you.”

  Camden makes a face that says, “Why the fuck not?” and then, without further ado, he wraps his muscled arms around me and lays a gentle introductory kiss on my lips. And then another. And another. And when my lips tell him I’m a willing and enthusiastic partner, he gets down to business, opening my mouth with his lips and introducing his tongue to mine with languid, sensual swirling motions.

  Wow. This is a surprisingly pleasant kiss. Camden tastes minty and fresh. He smells lovely. And, most of all, the movements of his lips and tongue against mine are confident but not overbearing. The whole experience is highly arousing, actually. I press myself into Camden’s body with increased fervor and grind my crotch against his, and I’m rewarded with the sensation of his steely hard-on.

  Without hesitation, I reach down and gently stroke his bulge. He jolts with surprise at my touch but then presses himself into my hand and lets out a little moan of excitement as he continues to kiss me. I stroke his hard-on enthusiastically, and he slides his hands down my back and gropes my ass, a move that prompts me to work his bulge with even more zeal.

  Camden lets out a soft noise that tells me what I’m doing is working mighty fine for him, thank you very much, and our kiss ramps up even more until we’re basically standing in the doorframe dry humping each other. Holy crap, this is unexpected. And insanely exciting. I can honestly say whatever trepidation I might have had about this bizarre game is long gone now, just this fast. If Camden screws like he kisses, I’m in for a delicious treat.

  Finally, Camden’s hungry lips lead mine to closing and he disengages from our kiss.

  I open my eyes, still stroking the intoxicating bulge in his pants, and flash him a beaming smile.

  “Jesus Christ,” he says, pressing himself into my hand. “Your motor runs hot as hell, huh?”

  I nod vigorously and grip his hard dick. “White-hot,” I reply—again, loud enough for my audience of one to overhear me. I steal a quick peek at Lucas, eager to find out if he’s been watching and coveting me like a good boy…and it’s quite clear to me that, yes, he most certainly has. Lucas is absolutely rooted to his spot, his eyes on fire, looking like he wants to fuck me more than he wants to breathe. Well, either that, or he’s a serial killer who’s plotting his next kill.

  I resist the urge to wink at Lucas. Careful what you wish for, sweetheart.

  “You’re completely sure you’re up for this?” Camden whispers, drawing my attention back to him in the doorway. “Luke wants us to stay in character. No breaks, ever.”

  I nod. “Go for it. Let’s give our boy a sexy show and have a little kinky fun for ourselves in the process.”

  Camden’s smile is positively wicked. “My thoughts exactly.” He grabs my hand, leads me into the suite, and speaks at full volume again: “You want a drink before I fuck the living hell out of you, beautiful?” he asks.

  “Thanks, love. I’d love one.”

  Camden deposits me onto the couch with a passionate kiss, mere feet from where Lucas is standing, gawking at us, and then he strides toward the bar across the room, strutting like a man who’s about to get laid. “Luke? You want a drink, brother?”

  “Thanks,” Lucas mutters, his dark eyes fixed on me. Jesus God, the way he’s looking at me, I can’t tell if he wants to kiss, fuck, or murder me. Frankly, I’m so turned on, I’d be game for any of it.

  “Hi, Lucas,” I say, my eyes locked with his. I pointedly hold up the envelope with the signed NDA inside it and toss it onto the coffee table.

  Lucas nods his acknowledgment of the contract. “Hi, Abby,” he replies, his eyes on fire. He points to the coffee table where there’s an envelope with the w
ord “Assassin” scrawled across it, and I nod my acknowledgment of the first half of my payment. He sits down in an armchair across from me and immediately shifts his hard-on in his jeans. “How are you this fine evening, Assassin?”

  “Horny,” I reply. “And happy to see my boyfriend. I’ve been aching for him all day.”

  Lucas’s jaw muscles pulse. He doesn’t reply.

  “Cheers, guys,” Camden says, returning with whiskey shots and beers. The three of us knock back our shots and clink our beers, and then Camden seats himself next to me on the couch, grabs my face, and kisses me like I’m oxygen and he’s a drowning man.

  Well, all righty then. Here we go.

  I hike up my navy-blue pencil skirt to allow free movement of my thighs, climb aboard the SS Camden and straddle his lap. “I’m aching for you, Cammy,” I say, my palms on his cheeks, my crotch grinding into his bulge, my bare ass jutting out of my raised skirt to give Lucas a show. “I’m so wet for you, baby. Feel how wet I am for you.”

  I don’t need to ask Camden Donnelly twice. He glides his hand down my ass crack along the path forged by my G-string, and when he reaches the crotch of my itty-bitty panties, he slips his fingers underneath the fabric and straight inside of me.

  I shift my body to give Camden a better angle on fingering me and he lets out a groan of excitement. “You’re soaking wet,” he says, his fingers dipping into me with enthusiasm. “Jesus, it’s like I’ve gone down on you, you’re so wet.”

  I’m dying to know what Lucas is doing behind me and what his face looks like right now. But that’s okay. A girl can imagine. With visions of Lucas’s blazing face flashing across my mind, I begin humping Camden’s hand slowly and methodically, sliding my swollen clit against his finger to drive myself wild. “Oh, God, that feels good,” I whisper.