And Holy. Shit buckets.
I don’t know another way to explain it.
Sam is still hard inside me, his body sprawled out over me. He’s heavy, but it feels good. Comforting. We’re both trying to force air into our lungs and with his chest pressed against mine, our erratic heartbeats are slamming into each other’s.
I’m completely spent. I admit to myself that this may have been the best idea that I have ever followed through on. It’s a shame I will probably never see this sexy man again. But, for now, I will enjoy it. I close my eyes and try and catch my breath. Once I get all sorted out, I am totally game for round two. I am not letting this night go to waste. Just a few more minutes and I will be good to go.
It’s a shame that before I hit the end of minute one, I pass the fuck out.
I’VE NEVER BEEN ONE to sleep in because I feel like it’s a waste. Life is a fast-paced thing, and if you sleep in, you miss half the day. I roll over in my bed, thinking that today, I will go against that motto and sleep in. I snuggle into my comfy sheets and the smell of cologne tickles my senses.
“Mmmmm,” I moan. Smells so good. Like the male scent of…of…wait…what!?
My eyelids bolt open. The sun shining through the window shoots me straight in the eyes sending a horrible current to my brain. Ugh…what the shit? I try and sit up, but a wave of nausea sends me back down.
Tequila hangover.
Tequila, and dancing. And sex. Totally hot animal sex. And Sam.
Sam.
Sam.
Sam
Oh shit.
I slit one eye back open and slowly turn to my right. Before me is a naked back.
“Oh my God.” I’m still in his room! I pull the covers to my chin. I’m naked too. Oh God. Shit! Did I pass out? I look over at him again and find that he is dead to the world. My eyes travel down his back to the sheet that’s resting just below his tight butt cheeks. God, even his butt crack is perfect.
I search the room for a clock. I see that Sam is wearing a watch so I lean over to try and get a peek at the time.
“OH SHIT!” It’s 7:34 in the morning! We’re scheduled to de-board the ship at 8:30! I jump out of bed, frantically searching for my dress.
“Come on come on…where is it…” Bam! I see it sleeping on the floor next to my ripped panties. I debate grabbing them too but decide there’s no time. I snatch my dress and throw it over my head. Nothing like the walk of shame, on a ship. This is definitely a new one for me. I’m running around trying to find my shoes. I am two seconds away from ditching them when I find one of them. I grab at it just as Sam’s phone starts going off on the nightstand.
“Oh no, come on…” I’m starting to panic. I really don’t want to have that morning-after awkward conversation with the random guy I just slept with. He’s probably annoyed I passed out in his room. Oh God, he is probably fake sleeping right now so I’ll just leave. I decide that I am willing to part with my Jimmy Choos, ugh not really, but I need to get the hell out of here. Like pronto.
Just as I hit the door, I hear his groggy voice as he answers the phone. Before the door shuts completely and I race down the corridor, I hear it.
“It’s what time? Oh shit!” and then what sounds mostly like a body falling out of bed.
I make it back to my room just in time for Patti to kiss off her date. “For the love, you look like shit! And where have you been?! We have to be out of here in like twenty minutes!”
I race into the room and jump at my stuff. I look at my bed and suitcase to see that it’s already all packed and ready to go.
“I know. I’m the best. Now, you have seventeen minutes to take a shower because you smell like tequila and sex. Then we have to bolt.” I give her a hug and jump in the shower. I almost don’t want to wash the scent of Sam off me but I do also have tequila seeping out of my pores so the latter wins. Shower it is.
With four minutes to spare, we’re out the door and heading down the docks. Patti makes a wise choice and doesn’t hound me for dirty details about my night. Not that I’m not willing to share, but right now I feel like my stomach is going to get up, crawl up my throat and punch me in the face for how much I drank yesterday. By the time we get into a cab and to the airport, I’m sure I’m pale green and will spend the whole flight home crammed in the plane bathroom yacking my brains out.
THERE IS ALWAYS THAT feeling when you finally make it home from a long trip. No matter how long you have been gone, it’s always good to be home. I practically crawl into my apartment and dump my suitcase by the door. I call out for Chelsea, and she meows the whole way out of my room to my feet.
“Hello, sweet baby girl. Did you miss mommy?” I pick her up and snuggle her into my face. “Was Mrs. Andrews a good girl to you?” I ask her like she will confirm or deny how she was treated by my neighbor all week. She gives me a solid purr which means she’s a happy camper. Good girl.
Monday comes way faster than I’d like. I basically blinked my Sunday night away and now the worst day of the week is here to torture me. I feel like I might be hungover for the rest of my life and my head just doesn’t want to stop pounding. I’m way over the Advil limit and I’m in major need of a caffeine jolt. I jump in the shower to wake myself up and it barely does the trick. Blow drying my hair is painful and the noise that radiates from my dryer causes my brain to rattle. I knew this would be a bad idea. I knew booking a trip home on a Sunday, knowing I had to work the next day, was a horrible idea. And if I thought that was a horrible idea, getting blitzed the night before traveling was even worse.
I run through my closet and find something that doesn’t consist of a long librarian skirt, because I’m over that phase, and grab a gray pencil mini-skirt. I dig through my tops and find my white blouse to compliment the skirt, and snag a pair of my Jimmy’s. I look at the lonely shoe on my rack and sigh. “I’m sorry Jimmy pair #3. But I had to abort the mission. Your other half is now lost to us.” I bend down and pat my shoe. When you pay close to a month’s rent on a pair of shoes, they become people too. I have to admit I regret not sticking around, but it was better this way. Saved some dignity. I wish I could put the whole fiasco out of my mind, but the pleasant soreness below is a friendly reminder that I am a huge hussy who, not less than twenty-eight hours ago, got thoroughly banged.
Sigh…
Happy dance.
I throw my outfit together and head into the bathroom to put on some makeup. I look like a total zombie and it will take less than three seconds for Mr. Wellington to rip my appearance to shreds when he sees me. I can almost hear his condescending voice now, “Ms. Summers, providing a professional appearance is an important part of this company. I suggest you remember that.”
Seriously, it’s not like I have purple streaks in my hair and piercings alongside my… “WHAT THE FUCK?” I swipe my hair away from my neck and stare at the mark glowing on my base of my neck. I loudly gasp, sucking in half the air inside my tiny bathroom. Is that a bite mark? It… It is…
More memories come flooding back and, holy moly, I clench my legs at the imagery. If I had more time I would continue to ponder, in my shower, with the spout, but I need to skedaddle. I throw my hair in front of my shoulders, hiding my sex bite, and hit the road. I need enough time to stop at Amelia’s for an extra jumbo coffee and if that doesn’t happen, I might as well quit. With no coffee there is a huge chance I will end up getting fired. Because no one and I mean no one functions on a Monday without coffee.
I step into Amelia’s, and tag Jake right away. I go and wave at him, but he less than smiles back at me. Geez. Not sure what his problem is, I continue to make it to the counter. “Hey Jake, how’s it going?”
“Fine, Ms. Summers. What can I get you today?”
Okay someone’s a little bit crabbier than I am today. “The usual Jake thanks.” He doesn’t continue his usual morning conversation with me. Just steps away from the counter to construct my order. He returns and places the coffee on the counter. “That will b
e three dollars and seventy-two cents please.”
I halt for a moment and then realize my error. I’m not a part of the Henry-please-pass-go committee anymore, therefore, I’m just another paying customer. I search inside my purse and hand him a five-dollar bill. He takes it and silently taps my order into the register for my change. “Is there something wrong, Jake?” I have to ask.
“Yes, Ms. Summers. That stunt you pulled the other week almost cost me my job. Mr. Berkshire did not approve a house full of drinks and I almost got fired.” Oh ooops. “Geez. I’m really sorry. I guess I must have misunderstood him. I’m really sorry.”
Shrugging, he says, “Yeah, it’s fine now. Mr. Berkshire allowed the charge to go through but also told us that you were no longer on his tab and to restrict you from any future usage.” What a prick. That guy has enough money to afford my coffee habit for the rest of his life. Over it.
“The truth is Jake, I’m embarrassed to admit that he broke up with me that day. Dumped me because he didn’t think I was good enough and then left. I guess I was just really upset.” I frown.
Jake looks at me appalled. “He did not.”
“He did.” I confirm sticking out my hand and reaching for the large to-go cup he offers me.
“Penny, I think you’re way awesome, so pretty, and you always smell like flowers. And if he didn’t see you for who you were, it’s his loss. I would take you out and show you how awesome you are.”
Oh my word, is my favorite barista hitting on me? I think I’m actually touched!
How sweet is this? “Awe well, thanks, Jake. That’s very sweet of you to say. I’m kinda off the dating wagon for a while. But thanks for the offer,” I smile.
He presses a few buttons and his register pops open. He fiddles with some change and then hands me back the money I just gave him.
“Oh no, it’s okay. I’ll totally pay. I don’t need you getting in trouble.”
He continues pushing the money at me, leaving me with no choice but to accept. “Don’t worry. It’s not free. It’s on Mr. Berkshire’s tab,” he says and winks at me.
Well played Jake, well played.
I wave him off and head out. I didn’t factor in the additional time I spent in Amelia’s, so once again I am hustling into work. I make it just in time for the elevator to shut and stand the whole ten floors feeling a bunch of annoyed eyes darting at my back.
I jump out and run through the receptionist area, this time avoiding a run in with Marianne. She sees me coming, and attempts to flag me down.
“Penny!”
“Can’t talk, Marianne. Super late. We’ll catch up later.”
“Mr. Wellington is looking for you. He’s on the warpath! I’m just trying to warn you.”
“Thanks!” I wave her off and jump into my cube. Great. It’s not even a quarter after eight in the morning and Mr. Wellington is already looking for someone to yell at. All that running makes my stomach want to hurl and all I want to do is hide under my desk and drink my coffee.
I wonder if I slam it down, if the effects will sink into my bloodstream before I up chuck it. Before I have the chance to figure it out, I’m shocked the hell out of my chair by the roaring sound of Mr. Wellington.
“Ms. Summers! It’s about time you decided to grace us with your presence, please let me know how I can further thank you for your employment with us.”
Is this guy serious? It’s like seven minutes past eight o’clock! I mask my fury with innocence, “I’m so sorry Mr. Wellington, there was a fire in the elevators and I had to walk the entire ten floors.”
“Well I suggest you plan better for tomorrow in case it happens again.”
Ugh jerk, I don’t even get to spit out my “will do” before he cuts me off. “We have an impromptu meeting with a very important client today. I need you to drop everything you’re working on and make this the top priority.” He drops a thick folder in front of me. Dresden Architects. Also read as blah blah who cares, my head is going to blow up. I can’t believe he is making me cut numbers on a Monday! This is going to be a disaster.
“Mr. Wellington, what happened to Kimberly? I thought she had the client numbers covered in my absence. I think she would surely be able to handle this one.”
Yep, wrong thing to say. “Ms. Summers, is it not your job to construct these numbers?”
“Well yes…”
“Then I expect you to do so.”
“Yes, but…”
“Ms. Summers. If I wanted Kimberly to take control of this account, I would have asked her. This is a high-profile company. Mr. Dresden and his team of consultants will be in later today. This has been set up since last week, but he moved the meeting up. I expect you to put your brain to work today and make sure everything is exactly where it needs to be. If this does not end in a successful business agreement, it will be your job. Do I make myself clear?”
Totally, Prick. “Yes, sir.”
I don’t even know if he heard my compliant response. He’s already storming off down the hallway. I cannot believe this! There is no way my brain is going to allow me to crunch numbers and analyze data for the next four hours. I might as well pack up my desk while I calculate.
I sit down and open up the file. Dresden Architects seems to be a company responsible for the hot posh hotels that have been going up in the downtown area. The owner, Jeramiah S. Dresden, looks pretty powerful on paper and seems to need somewhere to invest his sitting gold mine. When we begin relationships with clients this big, we like to dig into their brains about what they are like personally and professionally. It’s important to know the type of person or company that we’re working with so we know exactly how to invest and where. I flip through the pages to get to the interesting part. This is kind of like reading a client’s diary. They write what they enjoy to do and what sort of goals, both personal and professional, they want to reach. It seems like Mr. Dresden is huge into water sports and would enjoy investing some of his money into marine biology. Pfft. This probably translates into wanting to build an aquarium in his mansion and have his own personal mermaid. None of these rich snobs ever use money for the betterment of mankind. Lame. Already bored of this guy’s profile, I flip to the even more boring stuff.
I get to the nitty gritty, which are the numbers. The worst part of my job. I don’t know why it’s so bad, I’m actually pretty good at crunching numbers and analyzing data. I can’t say I would be in the position I am in today if I wasn’t. I know if I got up and left today, no matter how hard Mr. Wellington is on me, he would be up shit creek.
Four hours later—two coffees and five trips to the bathroom to dry heave—and it’s time for my meeting. I’m sweating a bit because I’m just not one hundred percent sure about the final numbers. I want to swear that they are all correct and Dresden Architects has a bright future of investing in the go-green market but I’m also off my game. I reviewed the numbers as best I can so it’s now or never. I will have a job at the end of the day or I won’t. And If I don’t, I can at least spend the rest of the week lying in bed and eating ramen noodles, curing my everlasting hangover.
I grab my presentation and the copied portfolios for these clients then head out. I run into Marianne again and she looks frantic. “Oh good, there you are. You need to hurry. Mr. Wellington has that look about him. You know the look, where he has laser beams shooting out of his eyeballs ready to fry anyone if they don’t jump at his demands.” I want to move faster and hurry, because I don’t want to fry today, plus I got so caught up in making the last of my copies that I forgot to run to the bathroom for my, on the hour, gag session.
I scurry down the hallway, hoping a fire breaks out and the alarms start roaring. That would be my saving grace and I could beeline it into the stairwell and vomit. I swear, if I ever make it through today I will never touch tequila again. Like ever. Like… Let’s be honest. I swear I won’t touch it until the next time I go out drinking. Ugh, I can’t think about that. I make it to the conference room and grab
the door, throwing it open. Unfortunately, a little too aggressively, and it slams against the wall causing everyone in the room to stop what they’re doing and stare my way. Great way to start my meeting.
“Oh goodness, I’m sorry. That door. Like a feather.” I try to make light of the situation, because I can feel Mr. Wellington’s beady little eyes staring me down.
Professional. Stay professional. I’m chanting this mantra in my head. I can do this. I step forward determined to get this disaster of a meeting out of the way so I can spend the remainder of the day sleeping under my desk. I.can.do.this. Number one rule in Mr. Wellington’s book is to make eye contact. I straighten my back. Chin up. Posture is a must.
Smile, check.
Posture, check.
Color, negative.
Pretty sure I’m still a pale shade of green. I step forward toward the conference table and move along down the long table making eye contact with every suit in the room. My smile is soft, but strong. Suit, suit, suit, him, suit, suit, wait… I back track, him. HIM. I freeze and try to refocus my vision on the man who is sitting at the head of the table next to Mr. Wellington.
The important client.
As I halt in my spot at the sight before me, my heel decides to stop one foot before me and I trip on absolutely nothing. My body jerks forward and my presentations go sailing. Like in the air, hitting the first row of clients in the back. I stare at the disarray of papers, mortified. I do something that seems so natural at a time like this but is so completely unprofessional… I swear. In slow motion, “Oh shit” climbs up my throat and out of my mouth. I can’t stop it. It happens.
I think the look of pure shock on my face matches that of the man at the head of the table. The face of a man I never thought I would see again. I snap out of my state of what the fuck and quickly bend down to pick up my scattered presentations. Thankfully a nice suit bends down to help me. What the hell is he doing here? How is he the client? My brain is going crazy spinning with what is before me. How the hell am I supposed to get through this meeting? With HIM!?
Life as We Know It (Love Not Included) (Volume 4) Page 5
