by JA Huss
“Yeah, stop,” I growl. “Save your breath for tomorrow’s meeting. Because I’m out of here. Thanks for the drink. We can pick this up again on the clock.” And I hand the empty glass off to a smirking Claudio as I exit the room.
Chapter Three
The door slams behind him so loud, it makes me jump. I am instantly pissed that he had that effect on me. Especially after what he did tonight. How dare that man? How dare he—
“Tiffy,” Cole says, walking to the door and looking out the peephole. “This is a problem.”
“Which part?” I ask. “The part where he gyrated his hips in my face tonight? Or the part where he placed my hand over his…” Jesus. That really happened. And I didn’t pull away.
“No, Tiff. The part where he says you propositioned him. What exactly did you say to him when you answered the door?”
“What? You’re kidding me, right? That jerk has been using his… position to…” Damn. I can’t even have this discussion with Cole.
“To pick a booty call out of the audience,” Claudio offers up with a smirk. “Is that what you were trying to say, Tiff?”
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, thank you, Claudio. That’s what he’s been doing, Cole! And my father is going to have another heart attack if he finds out how dirty this show is.”
“Oh, relax, girlfriend,” Claudio says, filling up his glass with Scotch and then pouring more into mine. “Your old man has been around more than one block. He knows exactly what’s going on here. He could’ve shut this show down months ago and he didn’t.”
“Yeah, he thinks he knows. But he has no idea that the star of the show is using his hotel to drum up…” Shit. Why does Cole have to be here? I can’t even with him.
“Sex,” Claudio offers again.
Oh my God. I’m really having this conversation in front of Cole. I might die of embarrassment.
“Yeah, Tiff,” Cole says as he gives my arm a comforting pat. “Your father isn’t the one I’m worried about. Did you proposition Novak at the door?”
“What? No!”
“Did he ask to come in? Or did he really ask you to dinner?”
“He did, but—”
“Shit,” Cole says, making a serious frown that causes his eyebrows to knit into a furrow on his forehead. “We’re going to have to tread carefully here.”
“I did not proposition him! I asked him if he wanted to come in! That’s all!”
“I don’t think that’s all, Tiff,” Claudio says before taking a long gulp of his drink. “You did kiss him.”
“What?” Cole exclaims.
“No! Look, Cole. He was just being all…” Fuck. Why can’t I talk about this stuff with him? I’ve known the guy for eight years, since I was a teenager and he just started working for my dad. And yeah, I have a little crush on him, but holy mother, I can’t even think about sexy stuff with Fletcher Novak without blushing in front of Cole. “You know, playerish and stuff.” Playerish? Something is seriously wrong with me.
“Flirty?”
“Shut up, Claudio! You’re making things worse here.”
“OK,” Cole says, gathering up his laptop from the table near the bar. “We’re just gonna go to bed…”
I lose track of his words as I stare at his mouth. He said bed. I’m like a fourteen-year-old boy.
“… and regroup in the morning. I have a call I have to take at eight-thirty, so if you see him before I get there, do not engage. Got it?”
“Got it,” I say with a nod, finally managing to pull myself together.
“Goodnight then, Tiffy.” He leans down and kisses me on the cheek like he’s done a hundred times before. I have been holding my breath ever since the very first time he did it, hoping it would progress into something more. Like a real date. Not a business meeting, or a working lunch, or even one of the many corporate parties we’ve attended together. A relationship.
But Cole must be the most patient guy in the world. Because that innocent cheek kiss has never strayed. Much to my dismay.
“Good night, Cole,” I whisper softly as he leaves my room.
“Oh my gawd,” Claudio says with a dramatic wave of his hand in front of my face. “I’m gonna throw up if I have to keep watching this desperate plight of yours. He’s not interested in you, honey. That kiss will never change. He thinks of you like a sister.”
“Just stop, OK? He does not think of me like a sister. He just hasn’t had a chance to see the grown-up me, that’s all.”
“Pathetic,” Claudio says, bouncing his ass down on the couch and kicking his Jimmy Choos up on the glass-top coffee table. “You’re pathetic. Trotting around like a bitch in heat. That man is not interested. I mean, what good is a gay friend if you don’t trust his manstincts?”
“Manstincts? Really?” He is always making these ridiculous frankenwords.
“What?” Claudio says, giving me one of those famous smirks that make men melt. “It’s a good one. And it applies,” he says, closing his eyes and lifting his face up like he’s so superior. He feels superior the way most people feel hungry. Three to six times a day. “Because I know what I’m talking about. I see what you cannot. Cole is not interested in you.”
“Oh,” I say, plopping down on the couch next to him with my drink. He always makes me feel better. “And you’re the expert in what straight men want, I suppose.” I wrap my hand around his biceps and curl into his chest.
He wraps his arm around my shoulder and starts playing with my hair. “I am, Tiffy. Give up on Cole, please. It hurts my heart to think you might waste your life on that guy. He’s all wrong for you. He’s not even straight.”
“Liar,” I hiss softly into his suit coat. “You say that all the time, but even my gaydar knows he’s into women. Besides, I’ve seen him date a few. He’s not gay.”
Claudio sighs. “Yeah, you’re probably right. But a guy can hope.”
I pull away and look up at him.
“No, no, no, you sweet idiot! I’m not interested in him! He’s portly.”
I giggle. “He’s not portly. He’s muscular.”
“OK, slightly chubby.”
“Asshole. I like him like that.”
“Pfft. No. He’s not one of those giant men. You know, the big and tall guys. I call them linebackers. Those guys are hunky.”
“Right? I totally agree.”
“Cole isn’t on the football team, Tiffy. He’s that nerdy kid who wants to run the film projector.”
“You’re an idiot.”
“Now, that Fletcher. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmm. He’s better than a linebacker. He’s like a combination of linebacker and tight-end. Yeah,” Claudio says, still playing with my hair. “Fletcher Novak is a tightbacker. I’d like to get a look at his back end, that’s for sure.”
“Perv. And that guy is not better than Cole. Not at all. He’s a stripper, for Pete’s sake.”
“Mm-hmm. Exactly.”
I giggle, thankful that Claudio and I have been a team since we graduated college four years ago. He wasn’t interested in grad school, but my father said I needed an assistant, and Claudio was more than happy to step in and run my life. I love him for it too. He’s more than my assistant though. He’s been my best friend since high school. We’ve been inseparable since the ninth grade and as soon as I finished my MBA two years ago, my father hired me as a junior account executive and I kept Claudio. I run fourteen hotel accounts in Northern California and Nevada, and Claudio is my right-hand man.
But he’s wrong about this Novak guy. I can see through Fletcher Novak a mile away. He’s a player. And I hate players. He’s also a slut. I hate them too. And a stripper? Please. Who wants to date a stripper? I mean, I get watching them for a few hours. But date one? No way.
“OK, toots, I gotta hit the sack. I’m gonna have so much fodder for my wet dreams.”
“Gross, Claudio! No!”
He pushes me off him and gets up laughing. “Night, babycakes. Sleep tight.” He turns back to me and winks. “And don’t
say I didn’t warn you when you dream about the stripper instead of the spare tire.”
I throw a pillow at him, but he dodges and jogs away to his end of the penthouse suite.
He’s wrong about Cole. And Cole is not fat. Not even chubby. He’s just thick, that’s all. He’s muscular, but instead of being lean, he’s got some extra weight on him. I kinda like it. When he puts his arm around me it feels soft and comforting.
Fletcher Novak is nothing like Cole. And I don’t mean that in a good way. He’s crass and he sells himself on stage every night. What a stupid way to make a living.
And after reading through Amy’s reports on him, I just know he’s up to something. She didn’t have any details, but she said she’s heard rumors that he’s some sort of pimp.
Imagine! A pimp working in my father’s casino. He’d definitely have a heart attack if that got out.
No. Fletcher Novak needs to go. And I have plenty of reasons lined up to fire his ass tomorrow.
Chapter Four
I toss and turn in bed as I imagine how tomorrow might go. Cole’s reservations are playing on my mind. I fluff up my pillow and close my eyes for the millionth time.
But the only thing I see is that stupid Fletcher Novak. I know I’m right about him. And asking him to come inside my room wasn’t a proposition. He was the one propositioning me.
I fling the white cotton sheet off me and pad out to the living room in my bare feet and nightclothes to find my laptop. He’s up to something here, I just know it. So I’m going to do what I should’ve done straight away. Google him.
I settle down at the bar with my laptop and put in his name. And oh, yeah, baby, he’s there. Pages of results for Fletcher Novak. And all of them seem to have something to do with the Mountain Men Male Revue Show.
I scroll down and make a face. This asshole has a Wikipedia entry. How can he be that big? He’s a stripper, for Pete’s sake. I click on it anyway. Who wouldn’t? And up comes his face.
Fletcher Novak, no middle name. Hmmm. He’s two years older than me and grew up here in Lake Tahoe, on the North Shore—in Incline Village—and his parents worked at one of the resorts while he was growing up. Mother and father both died when he was eighteen. Brother, unnamed, three years later.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Almost.
Went to Berkley. Really? He does not look smart enough to go to Berkley. Majored in psychology. Dropped out senior year.
I do a quick date check, and yup, that’s the year his brother died.
The next thing on his biography is the Mountain Men show here in Tahoe. But the years between are missing. Another red flag. He was probably in prison. I wonder if we did a background check on him before he was hired? You’d think the Wiki geek who wrote this up would’ve found a little more info.
But maybe no one is that interested in him?
I’m certainly not. I just need to know what I’m up against. Because there is no way Fletcher Novak will still be part of this show after I get done with him.
I grab a glass and some ice and then pour myself a little bit of Scotch. Maybe a drink will calm my nerves and let me sleep. Get this asshole off my mind.
I sit back down on the barstool and click out of Wikipedia, going back to my search results.
He even has videos and all of them seem to be of the strip show.
My finger hovers over the pad of my laptop. Don’t click those, Tiffy. You do not need to see him in action to get the info you need.
Truth. But I can’t help myself.
I click and the video opens up. The music is loud, so I scramble to turn it down and look over my shoulder, hoping I didn’t wake up Claudio. He would never let me live this down if he caught me.
The MC of the show, Chandler something, calls out the names of each Mountain Man, and they appear on stage one by one, lining up along the back curtain as the women in the crowd start screaming. Then the music thumps, the dancers do some fist-bumps, and they start walking slowly forward on the stage, each one unfastening buttons down their dress shirt.
Wow. That’s sorta sexy. Not Fletcher, per se, but the whole act. There’s smoke and lights. The film quality is good too, like this might be a paid promotion. And the guys seem focused and serious.
When they get to the edge of the stage, the shirts come off and are thrown aside. Then they all reach down, grab their pants, and pull them off in unison.
The crowd of crazy lust-filled women goes wild.
My eyes go big.
Jesus. Every one of them is in metallic silver briefs. And their… yeah, it’s all packaged up into one nice neat little—maybe not so little—ball.
Oh my God, I said ball. I giggle and take a long sip of my Scotch.
Then each of the guys is featured one by one. Fletcher is last. The star of the show, it seems. How does a guy do all this in only nine months? It’s like he’s got his own PR campaign going.
But that speedy intro is not enough for me. There’s something about him. Something that says he’s hiding something. And that gap in his Wiki profile was the first clue.
Yes, Fletcher Novak is not what he seems. That might not even be his real name.
So I go looking for more videos. And there are plenty. Some professional ones just like the last one. But lots of them are from women who went to the show. Fletcher has more than all the other guys put together. And in all of them he has the same charming smile, the same wandering hands, and the same raunchy hips in a strange girl’s face as he had for me.
It was an act. No, I correct myself. That is his act.
I go back to all the other guys and watch their routines in various clips. They have their own style. And in most of the acts you can tell they are singling out women to make them feel good. Some who look reserved and nerdy. Some who are heavier than the rest of their companions. Some who are older. Some who are even very old. That makes me smile. It’s sweet to give a grandma a thrill, I think.
But Fletcher picks the sluts. They are all sexy, just like him. They have confidence and big tits. They scream his name and paw his body when he approaches.
I know why he picks them. Because he wants to fuck them afterward.
So why did he pick you, Tiffy?
I fill my glass again and gulp it down.
Why did he choose me? I’m not any of those things he looks for. I was frowning, buttoned up in my work suit, and out to get him—but not in a sexual way.
Hmmmm.
It wasn’t innocent, I know that much. He wanted to fuck me. And if I wasn’t Tiffy Preston, and if I wasn’t sent here to check the place out, and if I wasn’t—such an uptight prude—so serious, I might be in bed with him right now.
Warmth floods between my legs and I blush, even though no one is here to see me, let alone read my thoughts.
He is sexy, that’s for sure. But he’s a liar too. I just know it.
I pour some more Scotch and go back to my search results, paging through videos until I get one that has different lighting and style from the ones with the show and there’s a girl on the still image.
Now we’re talking.
I click it and she whirls around, slapping Novak in the face with a crack. “Asshole,” she screams at him.
“Haha,” the girl behind the camera laughs. .
It cuts away to another scene, which plays out the same way. An angry girl, a slap across the face for Fletcher, a laugh from the cameraman, and a fuck you from Fletcher.
He seems to have a pattern.
And let me guess who these girls are. The one-night stands after they realize he’s a bullshitter.
Oh, fuck, yes. I have this asshole now. All I have to do is walk in to that meeting today and show this to Cole. Then he’ll be on my side and Novak will be history.
I gulp the rest of my drink and go back to the videos. There might be more evidence, after all. And I need to watch every single one.
Chapter Five
“You whore!”
“What?�
� Oh my God. My head. It’s spinning.
“You stinky whore! You stayed up all night getting drunk and watching videos of that dreamboat? I should slap you.”
“Why are you yelling? My head.”
“Tiffy,” Claudio says, pulling me up off the bar. I stumble trying to step down off my stool and fall into his chest and knock us both down. “You’re gonna pay for this, toots. I swear. You’ve got a meeting in one hour and you’re still drunk! What the hell happened last night after I went to bed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Get up off me, you ungrateful—”
“Stop insulting me!”
Claudio manages to push me aside so he can scramble out from under me, then stands there, tapping his slippered toe in front of my face. “You’re going to blow this, Tiffy. And you’re the one who dragged me up here in these godforsaken mountains to help you fix this hotel. I could be on vacation right now. I could be sucking down margaritas with Raul in the Bahamas.”
“I know. I’m sorry. Help me up.” I reach for him, but no help comes. Claudio is a grudge-holder. And he’s right. I did drag him away from that trip with Raul. But Raul is an asshole. He can do better. I feel justified. “Fine, don’t help me up. I can get up myself.”
I brace my hands on the floor and manage to make it to my knees. But then my head starts spinning and I have to take a break. I’m not sure how long I kneel there looking like I’m waiting for someone to take me doggie-style, but in the end, Claudio gives me a hand before I make it to my feet.
“Thank you,” I squeak. My stomach is a mess and it starts to rumble loudly.
“Your meeting is in forty-five minutes, Tiffy. Now what?”
Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Fletcher Novak’s final hour is upon him and I’m not even coherent. “Call Cole and tell him he should take care of it.”
“No can do, girlfriend. He’s been texting you all morning. In fact, he called just before you woke up and said he might be a few minutes late to the meeting. You need to handle this. And if I was a betting man, I’d predict that Novak has something up his sleeve. He’s not going down without a fight.”
