Waking Up in Vegas

by Stephanie Kisner

  I had expected this closed-mouth resistance, anticipated her little gasp of shock.

  I hadn’t expected to be blindsided by the soft fullness of her mouth, instantly addicted to the heady toffee flavor I tasted hints of, hiding behind the rigid line of her lips.

  This wasn’t about getting her to shut her mouth any more.

  I feathered my lips over hers again, coaxing her to let me inside. The set of her mouth softened, but still she kept me out.

  Then I heard the slight sound of a swallowed moan, rough and intoxicating.

  I lost the last shred of restraint that I’d convinced myself I had so much of.

  With a groan, I took and I teased and finally her lips parted just a fraction, allowing me inside to taste her sweetness full-on.

  I became aware of where my hands had landed; one was behind her head, guiding her, and the other was cupping her cheek. I realized my thumb was tracing circles under her jaw. Her skin was softer than I’d expected.

  I plundered my tongue alongside hers, and at last, she met me without reservation.

  There was a roaring in my ears and a weird buzz had started low in my belly, tickling and humming. Or maybe the humming was coming from my throat.

  I have kissed many women, and not one had ever affected me like this.

  Her hands crept up my shirt, tugging me closer. I was sucked under and poleaxed.

  I told myself thinking about sucking was dangerous right now.

  But it was too late.

  My hips jacked into her soft stomach, seeking, and my hand slipped down her back to pull her closer. The other kept with the circles, and I felt her arm slide around my hips to press me in deeper still. Another groan rumbled through my chest and I was nearly gone.

  Outside slipped away and I lost track of where, exactly, we were. I just knew she had the only thing I wanted and if I couldn’t get her under me, then sandwiching her against the wall was the next best thing. Her throaty sigh dimly registered, outweighed by the feel of her rapid breathing skimming over my cheek.

  In the not-too-far distance, I heard a car horn honk a little too long, making her jump and shattering the magic. I stepped back, slowly shaking my dazed and spinning head.

  Jensen was still gripping my shirt, looking as astonished as I felt. For once, she was quiet.

  I had managed to shut both of us up.

  She swiped her keycard and ducked inside; I slogged through the sludgy grass to pick up the ruined photos. I kind of wished the sprinklers were still on. The cold shower would’ve been handy.

  By the time I got inside with the shit-ton of dripping photos and my muddy car cup (I dropped both into the nearest trash can), Jensen had the coffee brewed. She was reading something on her laptop, or maybe just pretending to. But it was okay; I didn’t feel much like meeting her eyes, either.

  I really had no idea why I kissed her. Sure, she’s attractive, but she was also annoying as all hell. Yes, her voice was like someone stroking my dick with velvet from the inside, but just because I reacted like any guy would to that throaty porn-star purr didn’t mean there was more to it.

  So why did I feel like I’d just stuffed firecrackers into my skull and lit them off?

  I grabbed a couple of coffee filters to wipe the mud off my hands, then filled my mug. I lost track of the spoonfuls of sugar, though, and it was way too sweet. I drank it anyway. The taste reminded me of something else, but I couldn’t put my finger on just what.

  Until Jensen spoke. Then it hit me where I’d gotten a shot of that flavor.

  “Lindsay Lohan alright for today? She got arrested over the weekend again.”

  “Lindsay Lohan is always okay. It’s unlikely we’ll ever have her in the studio.” Lord, we were stilted now. Not that we were ever all that easy with each other—it had only been a week—but I went and wrecked what we’d managed to achieve by kissing my fucking co-host.

  And—

  Instead of her being taught a lesson about flirting, I got schooled myself.

  I think neither one of us wanted to address the elephant lying spread-eagled smack-dab in the middle of the counter we sat on opposite sides of. Other than my very first time (Tina Crawford, fourth grade, spin-the-bottle, no tongue), I’ve never in my life felt this awkward and embarrassed after a kiss.

  I couldn’t blame it on lack of skills. My kissing knowledge has increased a millionfold since Tina and that Coke bottle.

  There was no way I could fault Jensen’s abilities, either. And you can bet that I already tried. My ego would have given me a blow job in gratitude if I could have pointed the finger at the way she moved or the feel of her lips. But they were, in a word, perfection.

  And in the guy-tionary, that means danger, Will Robinson.

  There’s no casual with perfection. By its very nature, it makes you want it again, and you end up comparing everything else to it and coming up short. Perfection makes a man start thinking permanent, and who in hell wants that?

  No man in his right mind, that’s who. I like to sample everything on the menu, hit the smorgasbord, taste the rainbow. And when the only flavor you’re allowed to have is Cherry Garcia—well, good as it is, it can get pretty old, pretty fast.

  Even if Cherry Garcia is built like a porn star and has the pipes of a phone-sex goddess.

  “What did you just say?”

  “What?”

  “Did you just call me a sex goddess with the pipes of a porn star?”

  Fuuuuck. And no, not quite. You have it backwards. But there is no way I said that out loud. I just tossed her a dirty look and pretended that the upcoming playlist needed my attention.

  “Taaack,” she said in that confess-it-to-me-now way that only women have.

  Shit. We were playing a block of songs and there was still a song and a half to go. She had time.

  “I heard you.” She hopped off her stool and laughed, coming over to my side of the counter. “Is that what you really think?”

  “It’s what the listeners think. So we have to deal with it.” I spun to face her, grabbing the headphones to keep one can over my ear to track when the last song was running out.

  “I don’t want to deal with it.” That bit was said with a cocked eyebrow and an arm-cross. “I think we should use it.”

  And that was my second gobsmacking of the morning. My usually glib tongue, the thing that got me my paycheck and my buffet of sex partners, was utterly failing me. “No.” I shook my head, and the rest of my vocabulary refused to surface.

  Yay me with the banter.

  “What do you mean, no?” Jen asked. “What kind of double-standard are you playing at, Tack? It’s only fine for you?”

  All my words returned in a rush, making my head ring. At least, that’s the reason I gave myself, and I’m sticking with it. “That’s exactly it. Everyone knows how I am. My reputation’s been in ruins for years. You don’t want yours in the gutter, too.”

  “What’s with the sudden gallantry? ‘Cause I refuse to believe it’s about me.”

  Why did I feel like I’d just been lassoed? “Jensen, people think you slept with me to get your job. They ask if they did me better, would they be able to replace you.”

  She barked out a laugh that had me flicking my eyes to the open doorway, expecting… well, I don’t know what, in all reality. It was just the kind of sound that brought people running.

  “You actually thought they were—” Cue the frantic giggling. “Oh, that’s fabulous, Tack.” Her laughter kicked into high gear and she wrapped a hand around her stomach. Every time I thought she was done, she’d glance at me and start all over.

  The last song was almost over. Damn. I quickly queued up another and lined up the commercials. No open mic when my co-host is in hysterics.

  And snorting.

  That was definitely attractive.

  I was sticking up for her and she thought it was the funniest thing she’d ever heard? This was precisely why the relationships I had with women were short-lived and on
ly from the lips down. Their minds were indecipherable. I just stared at her. She eventually wound it down, gasping and panting like she’d just run a marathon. Or had the best sex of her life.

  It was my turn for the arm-cross and stink-eye. “Please share.”

  She puckered her lips and blew out a long breath. Her eyes blinked brightly and I could tell she was on the verge of losing it again. “As much as I appreciate that you thought you were defending me, Tack—”

  “I was defending you,” I said, even more annoyed now.

  “Tack, your dick leads you around and everyone knows it.”

  This was news? “I’m a guy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Duh. But do think it might be possible for you to process information with your other head for a moment here?”

  “Just spill it already, Jensen.”

  She did this giggle-hiccup-snort sort of thing that sounded painful. “Tack, they think everything you do is sex-related. And only sex-related. That it’s all about you, and the woman who is on the receiving end is both irrelevant and interchangeable. Do you get it now?”

  “So you’re saying that’s bad?”

  She mumbled something; there were a lot of words in there, but I could only pick up oh my dear God. “Tack, they think you’re a shallow man-whore. That you’re all about your magazine covers and scoring the next one-nighter.”

  Truth, but boiled down like that made it sound empty and lonely. My life was anything but, and her opinion that it was left me raw. “And you know this after a week and a half in town?”

  She came close enough to laugh right into my face this time. “Your reputation as a manslut is legendary in radiodom. I was warned about you before I left, Tack, by my station manager. In Kansas City.”

  “Really?” I tried to hide it, but a molecule of pride must have leaked out somewhere, because Miss Smackety smacked me.

  “You know, up until this very moment, I truly thought it was all an act.” She was shaking her head and walking back to her side of the counter.

  I flicked a glance to the time remaining on the playlist. “What was an act?”

  “That you’re such a dog.”

  We didn’t talk to each other, on-air or off, for the rest of the show, just pointing when it was the other person’s turn to take over microphone duties. And though deflecting her opinion was a pain in my ass, I was still grateful for it. That way, she didn’t ask, and I didn’t have to attempt to explain, why I had kissed her.

  Which was why her bid to make conversation as we exited the booth came as such a surprise.

  “I’ve been trying to decide… should I be flattered? ‘Cause, coming from you, I’m not sure being called a sex goddess is exactly a compliment.”

  “What do you mean, coming from me? What’s wrong with my opinion?”

  She smiled, slow and sly. “Nice sidestep, Tack. But you just admitted that you think of me as a porn star.”

  “Can I help it that you sound like a porn queen after she’s screamed her throat raw?”

  “Now just you hold on a second—”

  “Tack, I need to speak to you in my office. Right now.”

  I trudged along, trailing behind the Big Kahuna on the way upstairs, wondering what the hell. Bill Kalani never ever came down the hallway where all the booths were, so why today?

  I followed him into his office. All I got was, “Close the door and take a seat.”

  Fuck.

  He must have been told about the ruined photos. Deciding to be pre-emptive, I said, “I’ll pay for the reprints. It was all my fault.”

  “What are you talking about, Tack?”

  So this wasn’t about the wasted black-and-whites. Uh-oh.

  “I dropped the box of promo eight-bys and the sprinklers got them wet. I already ordered a new set. Sir.”

  He waived his hand like that didn’t matter, and paced behind his own chair. I’m not a fidgeter, so I folded my hands in my lap and waited. I’d been in this seat only a couple of times, and learned that the heat was turned a lot lower if you swallowed your questions and let the man take his time. And stuck in a sir whenever possible.

  “I’ve been told some things, Tack,” he said after a few more passes behind his desk, “and I’ve let them slide. But this time, I just can’t.”

  Told some things? About what?

  “Up to now, what people thought about you and your—exploits—were part of what drove your ratings and, as a byproduct, your high ad rates. But Jensen MacKenzie is under contract to Cirrus Radio for two years. That means that we pay her, whether or not we utilize her talents, for the next twenty-four months. Are you with me so far?”

  I nodded, wondering where this was going. Jen and I hit an awkward patch this morning, but we got along. Mostly.

  “So when I hear you sexually harassing her, right there in the open hallway for anyone to hear, including the other women who’ve complained to me, I can’t let it go anymore. Embarrassing your co-host will not result in a bigger ratings share.”

  Well, fuck me with a chainsaw. The one time he decides to walk the broadcast corridor is when he can overhear something that he can take out of context. Could this morning get any worse?

  “You will attend mandatory counseling for a minimum of six weeks, twice a week.”

  Yes. Yes, it definitely could.

  He stopped long enough to fish in a desk drawer, then extended a business card between two fingers; I took it without reading it.

  “You will make your first appointment for this week. I don’t care how you have to rearrange your schedule. Make it happen.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Then it was the usual BK dismissal, which is to say that he pretends you’re no longer there, and it’s best if you quietly make that happen, too.

  I didn’t care who overheard things about my bedroom exploits, but to let them hear that they’re responsible for putting the kibosh on them? No. There was really no private place in the building to make the call, so I walked straight out the front doors to my car, neatly managing to avoid everyone but Carmen, the receptionist. That’s when I read the card and saw it was the same counseling service who held our annual Sexual Conduct in the Workplace seminars. Which I’d paid very little attention to, because the woman who headed the meetings was hot.

  I blew out a breath so I’d be relaxed and, hopefully, sound a little pathetic so the receptionist would take pity on me and schedule meeting number one of this stupid farce as soon as possible.

  The voice that answered was sweet and soothing and vaguely familiar. When I explained who I was and she’d replied that they’d been anticipating my call, I nailed it. This was the babe with the legs that went clean up to her neck, the one who conducted our meetings every year.

  “Why were you expecting my call?” I mean, seriously, was I that blatant that they’d been pre-planning an intervention?

  “Bill Kalani’s secretary called to set up the billing, and to brief me on what their expectations were.”

  I nodded, although she couldn’t see me, and asked when we might start so that we can get the twelve visits over with.

  She laughed, a rich sound that tickled up my spine. “It’s a twelve visit minimum, Mr. Morgan. If you make reasonable progress, we could be done in twelve. Then again, you might need more. We’ll just have to see. Are you free at two today?”

  “I normally sleep during the day, actually.”

  “For the next six weeks, I suggest that you act like the rest of us and sleep at night. Our latest appointments are at four. And those are all pretty well booked.”

  Unbelievable. So now, not only did I have to change my personality because of Jensen MacKenzie and her joking, but now I got to rearrange my whole life. Hoo-fucking-rah.

  I took the appointment and went home for a nap.

  ***

  I admit it freely—I was a little nervous about letting someone crawl around inside my head. Especially someone of the female persuasion who was holding my job in her han
ds.

  No, that was not a euphemism for my junk.

  My own contract was up for renewal in eight weeks. In the past, the only worry I had about my continued work for the station was whether or not the salary was going to increase, and by how much.

  Now? It was astounding to me that my favorite body part could actually cost the rest of me my paycheck.

  While I sat in the waiting room, I resolved to downplay anything the doc had been told. They were all misunderstandings and things taken out of context.

  At two on the dot, Dr. Cheska came out and introduced herself.

  “I recognize you,” I said. “From the seminars at work.”

  “Which we will have to revamp, since they’re obviously not working.” She smiled and gestured for me to follow her down the hall.

  “You don’t have to change your shtick; I’m sure I can explain anything you’ve been told about me.”

  We reached her office; she told me to pick a chair and, as she closed the door, I took a moment to appreciate the way her ass filled out her skirt.

  Dr. Cheska circled behind her desk, flattened one hand on a file folder that was straining the rubber band wrapped around it, and said, “Do you want to start with the most recent complaint, or the very first one lodged against you?”

  I eyed the thick folder and backpedaled a bit. “They gave you my employee file?”

  “No, just the disciplinary one. Which would be more accurately called the lack of discipline file.”

  In more ways than one, apparently. I’d never heard about any of them. I looked at the ceiling, blew out a breath, and said, “Pick one at random, and let’s see if I can’t shed some light on it.”

  She settled into her chair, snapped off the rubber band, and flipped to the middle of the stack. “Tack Morgan stares every time I walk by.”

  I snorted. “Staring is now a punishable offense?”

  “It is when the line beforehand is Tack Morgan told me I have an outstanding ass, then went on to make cartoon ooga-horn and panting sounds.” The doctor raised an eyebrow and her mouth was a thin line. “Do you want to hear the line after the one about the staring?”

  I remembered that conversation. “One of the women in promotions had bought some panties with butt padding. She was asking the receptionist how it looked. And since she has the kind of flat ass that normally comes along with those big tits of hers, and she used to complain about it to anyone within earshot, me included, I wanted to let her know that it was an improvement.”