That Guy

by Kim Jones

  I toss my bag of shit on the bar and open the massive, stainless steel refrigerator. It’s stocked with the type of groceries that can only come from one of those fancy whole food stores.

  Both doors opened wide, I snap a picture. I close them and get a few more pictures of the kitchen and all its state of the art appliance glory. Then I take a picture of the view. The living room. Long, glass dining table.

  “Yeah, baby.” I drop to one knee for a different angle. “That’s the one. Smile for the camera.”

  To the right of the kitchen, there’s a small bathroom that really could be a little more elaborate, but it’s nice enough. Another door off the living room leads to an office. I recognize the aroma of spice and the hint of eucalyptus. Mr. Swagger smokes cigars.

  Visions of my That Guy sitting behind his desk wearing nothing but a cigar and a smile causes desire to pulse through me. I want to dry hump his chair and rub my vagina on the walls to mark my territory.

  Chill, pervert.

  My eyes drift to the tall shelves lined with endless books that stand on either side of the door. A massive, wooden desk sits across on the other side of the room facing the entrance. I take a seat in the thick, leather chair. I spin until I’m dizzy, then check all the drawers. They’re locked.

  No computer. No stationary. No personalized pens. I lift the big, gray rock on the corner of the desk that I guess is a paper weight. I touch the lamp and it lights up. I touch it again and it brightens. Six touches later, it starts to dim. Then I have to touch it eight more times just to turn the damn thing off. The only other item on the desk is a sleek, black phone with no cords that must be from the future.

  I take a picture.

  Upstairs, there’s a guest room with more of the same fancy décor shit. I roll across the bed that’s probably never been slept in—messing up the pillows as I do. My elbow bangs on the light gray nightstand that matches the other furniture in the room. It hurts like a bitch.

  I trail my finger across the soft, white curtains on the wall opposite the bed. Behind them is another view of downtown. It’s a different part of the city but is still just as pretty as the view from the living room.

  Back in the hall, I pass a door bigger than the rest with a small keypad next to it. I squeal when I try the handle and find it locked.

  OMG…

  It’s a sex room.

  I just know it.

  Filled with all sorts of torture devices and spanking benches. Walls the color of red. Shackles and crosses and nipple clamps, oh my!

  I skip to the last door and nearly piss myself. It’s the master bedroom. Or suite. Whatever. It’s the epitome of a CEO’s bedroom. King sized bed. Navy, silver and wood accents. Another view. An oversized chair and ottoman where That Guy sits and reads the paper. Puts his shoes on. Or cradles a sub after he spanks the shit out of her.

  There’s a walk-in closet lined with CEO suits. I sniff them. Drawers of ties and watches and folded socks and white button downs and boxer briefs. I touch them all. Shoes that I can see my reflection in. I smudge them with my fingers.

  “Ray Donavan, meet Christian Gray.”

  I take a selfie with all the cool shit in the background. I’ll put it on Instagram later.

  #guesswhereIam

  Nothing can compare to the master bath. Of course there’s a shower that will easily accommodate twenty people. A massive Jacuzzi tub. A towel warmer. Double vanity. Linen closet big enough to sleep in. But no one ever talks about the toilet.

  Ever.

  And this toilet?

  It’s a toilet fit for a king.

  Not only does it sit at just the perfect height, but it’s in a small nook all to itself with a door for privacy. There’s a magazine rack. An iPad. The fanciest damn toilet paper holder I’ve ever seen. And if you close the door, there’s a T.V. behind it.

  A T.V.

  A damn T.V.

  In the bathroom.

  The damn bathroom.

  I spend the next two hours of my life in the bathroom. First, on the awesome toilet that comes equipped with a censored courtesy flush. Then in the shower. Then a long, hot soak in the Jacuzzi.

  Every once in a while, my nerves get the better of me and reality infiltrates my mind with stupid questions.

  What if the real Miss Sims shows up?

  What if Mr. Swagger comes home early?

  With each worrisome thought I find something new to distract me. Like the button on the side of the tub that illuminates a touch screen which allows me to control the temperature of the water, the lighting, the music and the pulse of the jets.

  I let the sweet, instrumental music take me away and the jets lull me nearly to sleep until I’m like a raisin. Then I get out. Put on a little Maroon 5. Grab a towel from the warming rack. Almost die from a heat stroke. Lie down on the floor in the hallway to cool off because the tile in the bathroom is heated. And then I saunter naked into the closet and pick out one of the white, button down shirts that is a million percent cotton and feels like clouds on my skin.

  “Sugar” plays—my jam.

  I jump on the bed like it’s a trampoline. Fall flat on my back and look up. I wonder if this is what Miss Sims would do. She obviously doesn’t live here. Or if she does, she doesn’t dress here. Unless her room is the locked room. What if she comes home?

  Don’t think like that.

  She will not come home.

  This is God’s plan.

  He will not let her come home.

  But what if Mr. Swagger isn’t the Mr. Swagger whose babies I want to have? He might be ninety. Batshit crazy. And smell like mothballs—which I highly doubt considering his clothes smell like the richest, most wonderful scent of clean with just a hint of the kind of cologne you can’t even get at Macy’s.

  He’s not old.

  He can’t be.

  Remember….

  This is God’s plan.

  I trust God. Really, I do. But I search the apartment for a picture of Mr. Swagger anyway. Just to be sure. After digging through every drawer and looking in every room, minus the locked one, I come up empty handed.

  In the office, I use the phone and hit the button labeled, concierge, and Alfred picks up on the second ring.

  “How can I help you, Miss Sims?”

  “Y’all got a restaurant here that’s open?”

  “No, Miss. We don’t have a restaurant on site. But I can certainly refer you to one in the area.”

  “Well, I don’t really feel like going out. And it seems the only restaurants in this part of town are really expensive…” What kind of apartment has a concierge but not a restaurant?

  I flip my hair over my shoulder. This place is so cheap.

  “No worries there, Miss Sims. I can assure you there’s not a place in the city that I can’t order from. Whatever you want is available.”

  Wow. Mr. Swagger has the hook-up. Which means as his guest, I do too.

  “Might I suggest Alinea? They have the finest salmon and terrine Chicago has to offer.”

  What the fuck is terrine?

  “Um…well I had that at lunch. You know any good pizza places?”

  “Of course, Miss Sims.” I can hear his smile. “Tell me what type of pizza you prefer and I’ll give you my opinion of the best.”

  “Yeah, I just like pepperoni with lots of cheese. And lots of pepperoni. And Dr. Pepper.”

  “Very well, Miss. I’ll put the order in right away and will ring you before I come up.”

  I hang up with Alfred, take a spin in the chair, stumble into the living room and curl up on the couch with the big fluffy blanket that’s draped across the ottoman. A scary movie seems fitting. But I can’t figure out how to turn this damn T.V. on. I’m still struggling with it when Alfred arrives with my pizza.

  He turns on the T.V., shows me how to dim the lights and even offers to get me a glass from the kitchen for my drink. Then he leaves with his signature instruction for me to call him if I need anything.

 
That damn Alfred…such a nice guy.

  If I ever decide to write one of those age-play stories with the hot, older man who plays “Daddy” to the chick in her twenties, I’ll use him for my muse.

  It only takes me an hour to figure out it is not a good idea to watch a scary movie in a place that has floor to ceiling windows with no blinds or curtains.

  Every few minutes, I look over my shoulder and have a mini freak out thinking the creepy bitch from the movie is staring back at me. Then I realize it’s only my reflection—not some grotesque woman who could use a shower and some leave in conditioner.

  I settle back into the couch that looks like something from the Star Trek Enterprise but is actually quite comfy. I throw my leg over the back of it and pull the blanket up to my chin—ready to cover my eyes the next time something or someone in the movie jumps out of a dark hallway.

  I’m fully prepared to have the shit scared out of me. But I’m not at all prepared for the voice I hear on the other side of the door, or the soft click of the lock as it opens.

  You know that moment when terror seizes you? When your stomach drops and your heart stops and you hear a faint whistling deep in your ear because you’re straining so hard to figure out just what the noise that has you so terrorized actually is?

  That’s where I am.

  “What the…”

  I can’t be any more afraid than I am in this moment. Perhaps because of that, my brain takes on survival mode and focuses on something other than my fear—like the deep tenor of the booming voice radiating around me. Then a light comes on, temporarily blinding me, and after I blink through the shock, my brain begins to process the person that voice belongs to.

  And holy mother of fuck.

  It’s him.

  That Guy.

  Chapter Three

  I could tell you the sight of him has my nipples tightening.

  Thighs clenching.

  Heart shattering.

  Pussy watering…

  But there’s no need. Because when you see this guy, you’re going to experience all of that shit yourself.

  Cue walk out music. Maybe something by The Weekend. Or the theme song from Jaws.

  Standing 6’2, weighing in at two hundred and thirty pounds, wearing an Armani suit and a look that would kill me dead if it was lethal, I give you...

  Shit.

  “Are you Mr. Swagger?”

  His hands move to his hips. “Yes. I’m Jake Swagger. Who the fuck are you? And what the hell are you doing in my house?”

  “One sec.” I hold my finger up and fall back against the couch, breathless.

  Jake…Jake Swagger.

  It just doesn’t get much sexier than that.

  “What?” Oh man, he’s even sexy when he’s confused.

  “I just, I just need a minute for my head. It’s a writer thing. You wouldn’t understand.”

  I disregard his incredulity. I overlook his anger. I completely ignore reason. How can I not in a moment like this?

  Before me stands a man with messy, charcoal colored hair. You know, the kind he runs his fingers through. The kind you fist your hands in when he has his mouth suctioned to your vagina.

  His jaw has all those masculine features that authors use words like chiseled, strong, square, dusted-in-hair-as-if-he-hasn’t-shaved-in-a-day, to describe.

  Lips ripped straight from Tom Hardy’s mouth.

  A nose that can’t be defined because, who the fuck knows how to describe a sexy nose.

  And those eyes? Blue like the ocean—maybe. I can’t see them from here. And they’re narrowed in curiosity? Lust? Probably anger…

  My gaze moves south. Over the small dimple in the center of his chin. Down his Adam’s apple that bulges slightly when he swallows. Lower to the little bit of chest visible from the opening at the collar of his white shirt.

  The dark suit jacket hugs his long arms. I follow it from his shoulder to his wrists. Son of a bitch he’s wearing cufflinks. And a belt. Hard, flat stomach above it. Outline of a big cock below it.

  Long legs.

  Hard thighs.

  Shiny shoes.

  You get the picture. But in case you didn’t, Jake Swagger is really fucking hot.

  And super fucking pissed.

  “Who the fuck are you?!”

  I shake away my stupidity and scramble to get up. The half empty pizza box slides from my lap to the floor. It lands right side up—next to my dirty napkins and the two-liter Dr. Pepper bottle.

  I stand in front of him and a shiver of fear snakes up my spine from the silent anger he emits. I want to disappear back into my writer brain. Run away from reality and build a perfect, fictional world where he is my That Guy and I am his heroine. But there is no escape from his scrutiny.

  Dressed in nothing but his shirt, he has a full view of my legs. My collar bone. The top swell of my breasts. And Jake Swagger doesn’t just flick his eyes over my body. He drags them heatedly over every inch bared to him. He might be angry, but there is no mistaking that he is a man who likes what he sees.

  As he should.

  I’ve been killing myself at the gym. It’s about damn time somebody notices. And who better to notice than my That Guy?

  His attention settles on my face. “Do I know you?” He tries to place me. Like maybe he’s seen me before. There’s only one reasonable explanation to that…

  “You probably know me from Saving Forever. It’s a book I wrote years ago. I’m kind of a big deal author. I mean, I haven’t written anything in a while, but I still have fans and a bunch of followers on social media. I did a podcast once. Back in like, 2014.”

  “No. I don’t know you. Is that my shirt?”

  I frown down at the pizza sauce on his shirt. I lick my finger then scrub at the stain. Damn scary movie…making me drop shit.

  While I’m scrubbing away, That Guy turns on his heels and disappears up the stairs without a word.

  I glance at the wide open front door. It would be a good time for me to bolt. But I really want to sniff him and see if I can put a name to his scent. I’ve come this far in my research. No point in quitting now. Besides, if he really is That Guy, he’ll feel sorry for me and we’ll fall madly in love before he has a chance to know everything I’ve done.

  I’m folding the blanket and throwing it over the back of the couch when he comes back down the stairs.

  “You went through my house?”

  “What?” I snort laugh—something I always do when I need to kill time to try and think of an answer. “Um. No.” I twist my fingers in the hem of my shirt and avoid eye contact. “I mean. Not really. Hey…” I tilt my head to the side and meet his gaze. “What’s really behind that locked door? Are you a dominant?”

  He doesn’t admit it, but when he straightens to full height and his hands fall from his hips and fist at his side, I know.

  And I swoon.

  “How did you get in here?” He doesn’t ask. He says it in a way that lets me know that he’ll strangle me to death if I don’t tell him.

  “Well, it started when I accidentally got into the wrong car.”

  “MotherFUCKER!”

  He explodes and I stand in silence as he picks up his phone. He shouts to someone to get up here now, hangs up and dials someone else. It must go to voicemail because he tells that person to call him back.

  He places his phone in his pocket and his eyes land on the bag.

  The one I left on the counter.

  He starts to pick it up.

  “I wouldn’t—“

  He gives me that “shut the hell up” glance. I think his eyes are more of a dark gray. Or green. I should get closer. Or keep my distance considering he’s holding the bag now.

  Putting it close to his face.

  Sniffing it…

  “Is this…”

  “It’s dog shit.”

  He drops the bag as if it’s poison. He composes himself, clears his throat and wipes his hands on a towel he retrieves from a drawer. �
��Is there a reason you have a bag of dog shit on my bar? The bar where I fucking eat?”

  “Wow,” I breathe, shaking my head back and forth in awe. “You have a really nice voice. So controlled and deep. You should be a narrator.”

  “Why the fuck would you put a bag of shit on my bar? Are you out of your goddamn head?” So much for controlled…

  “Dude.” I hold my hands up. “It’s just dog shit. You don’t have to be such an asshole. Some people would run through the streets of Chicago during a blizzard for that very bag of dog shit.”

  He might explode again.

  You know how in romance novels the heroine always just “knows” the hero would never hurt her? Like she can sense it about him or something? I’m looking for that in him. Not real sure I’m finding it.

  The door opens and we both turn to find a middle aged man dressed in a suit and a hat like those limo drivers wear.

  “You wanted to see me, Mr. Swagger?”

  Mr. Swagger. That name really does fit him.

  He points a long, manicured, possibly skilled, finger at me. “Ross, who the fuck is she?”

  Ross looks at me, then back at Mr. Swagger. “Miss Sims, sir?”

  “Do you really think this country bumpkin, hillbilly hick could be Miss Sims? She doesn’t look like Miss Sims. She doesn’t sound like Miss Sims.”

  I might take offense at his attempt to sound like a country bumpkin, hillbilly hick, if it wasn’t so damn funny. Or if I didn’t have the pressing need to defend Ross—who I now know is the driver.

  “He didn’t see me. And I used an accent.” They both look at me. “I mean, the chances of that actually being her accent are like, crazy. I’m not even that good at it. I don’t know if I’m Australian or English…By the way, who is Miss Sims? Do y’all really call her Miss Sims? Like, she doesn’t have another name?”

  They’re staring at me like I’m crazy when Alfred walks in.

  “Mr. Swagger, I can assure you this was just a terrible mix-up.” Alfred cuts his eyes at me. The disappointment there has me feeling real guilt for the first time since I got here. “I’ve never seen Miss Sims.” What the hell? Does nobody know what this lady looks like? “When the car arrived, I just assumed the lady inside was her. And she tried to—“