SEXT ME - A Steamy SEAL Romance

by Layla Valentine

  Sinking to the floor, another wave of anguish crashed over me. So, this was how it was going to be now. A pariah of society, a famous freak, I couldn’t even leave my building now without being accosted.

  My life as I knew it was ruined.

  The memory of the insanely high bid returned to me, but I needed to eat first. A look in the fridge revealed that I could, if need be, hide out in my apartment for a few days—there was yogurt, ham and bread galore. What I was looking for right now, however, was in the freezer and in a pink and green tub marked Strawberry Mint Ice Cream.

  I took the tub in my arms and grabbed a spoon out of the drawer and sat on the kitchen floor and dug in.

  It was a slow, miserable sort of eating. The kind that you can only half enjoy, since you fear that when it ends, there will be no more frozen sugar to numb the pain. As I ate, the memory of the million-dollar bid returned to me. It couldn’t have been real, could it?

  I brushed my hair out of my eyes. Well, now that my life was basically ruined, what exactly did I have to lose?

  I stood up, and carrying my ice cream tub with me, I made my way over to my laptop. It was still on my bed; the hated thing had been shoved to the far corner. When I opened it, my recently deceased site popped up, along with that crazy impossible bid: one million dollars. Spooning myself some more ice cream, I stared at it. Even though I had shut the website down, I could still contact the bidder.

  Yeah, contact the bidder, and have whatever 14-year-old sent it start trolling me. Or, maybe, just maybe, talk with a real man, a real interested man who actually was willing to give me a million dollars for a night with me.

  My spoon scratched the bottom of the ice cream tub. Sure, the bid might be—was almost definitely—a joke, but I had to find out. I had to at least try.

  Besides, what else was I going to do? The press waited like piranhas outside my building, and the thought of all the disapproving stares that would surely come my way filled me with terror.

  I clicked on the respond button and typed out a reply: Is this a real bid?

  I clicked send, finished off the ice cream, and, when I checked again, the buyer had responded: Yes. Would you care to meet me at Golden Era tonight, around 9? I’ll get a table under your name. No pressure, I just want to talk.

  I gaped at the response, while my spoon scraped at the bottom of the ice cream tub in vain. There were still nine hours to go until 9 pm. I could definitely make it. I should definitely go. But, as I sat there, a cold wash of fear rolled over me. What if it was still a joke—just some teenaged girl and her friends taking it too far? Or worse, what if it was one of those tabloid journalists down there outside my building, eager to get a juicy story and a big upset? Setting me up to be sitting alone at a table in a fancy restaurant so they could take my photo and laugh at me some more.

  I inhaled, and then exhaled slowly. All those things were possible, but what was also possible was that this bidder, this man, was real, ready and willing. At this point, it wasn’t like I had a reputation to maintain anyway.

  I clicked Respond, typed in “Okay,” and then shut my laptop.

  As I sat there, the ridiculousness of the situation once again occurred to me. Before I could stop myself, I was looking up the bar’s phone number and dialing it.

  “Hello, this is Golden Era, how may I help you?” a high-pitched female voice answered.

  “Hi,” I said, “Do you have a table booked for a Kristin Denton?”

  There was a pause, and I fretted as to whether the woman was wondering if I was the (now-infamous) Kristin Denton. But her voice came back as smooth as before: “Yes, Ms. Denton, are you calling to change your reservation?”

  “No, no,” I said, “I just wanted to check, thank you.”

  I hung up and put my phone face-up in my lap. So, the bidder, whoever they were, was serious. This was really happening.

  Lying in one ball of limbs on the floor, Romeo and Juliet were eyeing me warily. I walked over to the mirror and made myself smile at the pathetic mess I saw. Her hair was sticking out in five different places on her head, as if she’d been electrocuted, while her face was still red from crying, all puffy as if she’d been beaten up. There was pinky green ice cream smeared around her gaping lips, mascara smeared around her red eyes, which looked ready to cry again at any moment. But they would not cry again, no.

  I opened my laptop, searched for an “Uplifting anthems” playlist, and clicked on the first one that popped up. As an irreverent fuck-you of a punk pop beat blared on, I got to work. First was throwing out the ice cream tub, cleaning up the moderate mess I had somehow made in only a few depressed hours. Next was the harder job: cleaning up myself.

  A long shower worked wonders. Thirty minutes of spurting nice-smelling shampoo on my head then equally nice-smelling conditioner did the trick for my hair, while an after-bathing dose of vanilla skin cream all over my body helped combat the redness. Sticking my head out of the window on the opposite side of my building (away from the nosy press brigade) calmed me down enough to attempt the colossal task that was deciding what to wear.

  I didn’t want to wear the red dress from my website photos, that dress had betrayed me; now even the thought of it made my stomach turn.

  Opening my closet revealed that I had quite the job ahead of me. My closet was almost like a diary of my life these past few years—of slowly but surely giving up. It was made almost exclusively of shapeless drab shirts and ill-fitting pants and leggings. There were a few skirts, sure, but they were all either outdated or baggy. My old prom dress was even stashed in there somewhere, although there was no way I wanted to look at it, let alone touch it.

  I flipped through hanger after hanger, hoping that despite everything there would be one nice outfit I’d forgotten about, some too-fancy top or nice-fitting shorts that I had never had the occasion to wear. But the longer my search extended, the more hangers I shoved to the left with all my other failures, the more reality sunk in: I had nothing decent to wear, I shouldn’t even bother going. And yet, I continued searching, even as I knew there was no point.

  The possibilities dwindled until I was at the last hanger, the last failure wrapped up in a garment bag. I didn’t remember what was inside, but it hardly mattered. The past had already proven what would be in there: another unfortunate reject, another pathetic piece. I almost turned away. There was no point, really, in checking, but I did.

  I unzipped the garment bag and my jaw dropped. Hanging there innocuously, as if it wasn’t the only beauty in a sea of ugly, was a dress. A silver-sequined, glistening vision of a dress.

  Taking it off the hanger with trembling hands, I quickly undressed and slipped it on. Walking over to the mirror, I froze. The girl in the mirror was not me. She was rosy-cheeked with bright blue-eyed, porcelain skin, slight curves and was, undeniably, beautiful.

  I stared at the girl for a few minutes as, slowly, the two images coalesced into one: the pretty one in the mirror and the me I was used to seeing. Yes, that girl in the mirror was me. This dress was more than perfect; it was a life-saver.

  With this dress on, figuring out makeup was a breeze. I looked up a few online tutorials on how to do a smoky eye, dabbed and blended some black on my lids, put on my usual concealer and pink lips and bam, I was ready.

  Once I was done, I sat in front of the mirror for a few minutes, smiling at myself, at the pretty brave woman pictured there—the pretty brave woman I was.

  I could do this. Yes, I was going to do this.

  Chapter Five

  Clark

  I was late, but once she saw who I was she’d see that I had been worth the wait. Or not. What if Kristin didn’t forgive me?

  A pointless question, look at the amount I was offering her, after all. And I had arrived anyway. Walking in, I saw just how busy the place was. The Gold-Rush-themed bar was packed with people who look appropriately ritzy—gentlemen with cigars and tall tipping drinks, ladies with beadwork dresses and charcoal stares. Perhaps I s
hould’ve asked what Kristin would be wearing, but…in the corner there, that couldn’t be her, could it?

  That silver sparkling dress, those big blue eyes that are looking at me… Why yes, yes it was.

  As I sat across from her, poor Kristin Blair was speechless. It was cute, so I waited, gave the girl time to collect herself.

  “It’s you…” she said in a low voice, which sounded surprised but not angry.

  “I’m sorry for keeping my identity a secret,” I said, “But I figured if I did tell you, you probably wouldn’t come.”

  Her eyes narrowed, then she nodded, laughed.

  “You’re probably right.”

  I took her hand and gazed into her eyes.

  “I know it’s ancient history, but I have to apologize, Kristin. I am truly sorry for what happened at prom. For standing you up.”

  Kristin nodded, drawing her hand away.

  “Thank you.”

  Our gazes met, then hers flicked away. Then, silence. It was weird; I would’ve thought she’d have been happier to see me. Most girls would kill for a date with Clark Denton, but maybe Kristin was still resentful about what had happened at prom.

  “Well, what have you been up to?” I asked.

  “I’m an IT contractor,” Kristin said, “Looks like all those computer science classes paid off.” She laughed. I had forgotten how pretty she was when she laughed.

  “And I don’t have to ask what you’ve been doing,” she said, with a shy, admiring smile.

  I waved my hand and shrugged, the magnanimous picture of humbleness.

  “Let’s not talk about me. Tell me more about yourself, you certainly have more going on than just your job I presume.”

  Irritation flickered through Kristin’s eyes, and then she shrugged.

  “What, other than the fact that I’m now an infamous tabloid celebrity?”

  I laughed.

  “Well, I was going to wait until dessert to mention that but…”

  At this, our waitress glided up.

  “Can I get you two anything?”

  “Two glasses of Pinot Grigio,” I told her, and the pert little blonde zipped away. Kristin was eyeing me steadily.

  “What if I didn’t like wine?”

  I grinned.

  “More for me, then. Now, tell me about this website.”

  Again, Kristin’s brow crinkled. I was about to tell her to forget it, when she said, “It was a mistake. I’m horribly embarrassed about it.”

  “So, what? The offer’s off the table?” I asked, and now Kristin looked downright angry.

  “What about you, Clark Denton? I presume you have more going on in your life than just work.”

  Her tone was sarcastic, so I give her an equally sarcastic answer.

  “Oh, you know. The usual, tropical vacations, a new girl about every week, a scrawny cat who doesn’t love me.”

  The last part came out accidentally, so I paused. Kristin was tilting her head at me, as if she wasn’t sure what to make of me. Then, she burst out laughing.

  “Really?”

  “Really what?” I asked.

  “You have a cat who’s indifferent to you, too?”

  I found myself grinning.

  “What, do you have one as well?”

  Kristin shook her head.

  “No, I have two. Two completely in love, completely indifferent to me cats.” We laughed and she continued, “I even spayed them, but that only made it worse: the hours-long cuddling sessions, the intense licking sprees. Though they were named Romeo and Juliet when I adopted them, so I don’t know what I expected.”

  “Here you go,” our waitress said, her fake nails flashing as she placed our wine glasses on the table with a clink.

  “What about you,” Kristin asked as she took a sip of her wine, “What’s your indifferent cat like?”

  I took a drink, then shrugged.

  “Just a scrawny princess, really. Can hardly stand to be in the same room as me, though it was my mother who got her for me, so she must have learned it from Mom.”

  Kristin nodded.

  “How is your mom?”

  I took a longer drink of my wine.

  “Oh, you know, about the same. My sister even has a kid now.”

  Kristin’s face lit up.

  “Oh yeah? A girl or a boy?”

  “A boy, really cute kid. His name is…” I paused, as I tried to picture the name of the fat-cheeked kid I saw on Yvonne’s Facebook. “Sam. His name’s Sam.”

  Kristin was looking at me oddly, but she only nodded.

  After another silence and sip of her wine, she finally asked, “Why did you come here, Clark?”

  As her blue eyes scanned my face I smiled.

  “What, you don’t think I came just for old time’s sake?”

  Now, Kristin was outright scowling.

  “Is that all this is to you, a joke?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, it isn’t a joke. I just…when I saw you online, I was reminded of what I’d done. I felt bad. I want to make it up to you, make things right; give you the night you were denied.”

  At my admission, Kristin’s face looked less thrilled then I’d expected; she actually looked like she was thinking it through! This was starting to get annoying.

  But then, in a small voice, she said, “Okay. But how will it work?”

  I flashed her a patented Clark Denton smile and told her my plan: “A date doing whatever your heart desires, then back to my house for the grand finale. You can even stay the night if you want. Then, in the morning, I’ll wire you the money.”

  Kristin nodded, chewing at her lip. “Okay,” she said, then smiled. “Okay, let’s do it.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Wednesday?” Kristin asked.

  I nodded. “I can pick you up at 5.”

  Kristin smiled, and then rose from her chair.

  “What, going so soon?” I asked.

  “I’ve had a rough day,” Kristin said in a quiet voice. A shadow passed over her face, and I saw just how truthful she was being, “I’m going to go home and sleep.”

  I checked my watch. It was only 10:30 pm, but I would be getting her all night in a few days anyway.

  “All right,” I said, “Give me your cell number just in case, though.”

  Kristin nodded and gave me her number. Leaning in, she pressed a light kiss to my cheek, and then strode off. I watched her sparkling form go, enjoying the lingering looks she inspired as she passed the other bar patrons. Yes, in only a few days, I would have that in my bed. And yet, there was something about her, something different and a bit unsettling.

  I took a last swig of my wine, and then stared at the door she had exited from. Yes, I wasn’t sure how I felt about Kristin Blair now, and I didn’t much like it at all.

  Chapter Six

  Kristin

  The next few days were an exercise in hiding and killing time. I used big coats and elaborate wigs to get in and out of my apartment without having to deal with the army of paparazzi that seemed only to grow each day. I messaged my clients to tell them that unfortunately, due to unforeseen circumstances, I wouldn’t be available for work for a short period and hoped that they would understand as I recommended other freelancers. Meanwhile, I developed a policy of answering my phone only when I knew the caller; one which wasn’t even foolproof as it was.

  On Wednesday, just as I was about to get ready for my big date, my sister called.

  “Kristin,” she said in the usual, wait-until-you-hear-my-latest-greatest-life-happening tone. I exhaled, thinking I was off the hook until she said “Mom and Dad are beside themselves with worry.”

  “Oh,” I said, “Why’s that?”

  “Why Kristin, do I really have to say it out loud?” Veronica’s reply came back, sarcastic and harsh.

  “I mean,” she continued, “We all knew you were having… troubles, but we had no idea it was this bad.”

  I said nothing because I wasn’t s
upposed to.

  “Darling Kristin, if you really needed money you could’ve borrowed from Mom or Dad, or me, or—”

  “I already owe them thousands for school,” I said, even though she knew that already, “And it was all a big mistake; it wasn’t supposed to blow up like it did.”

  There was a silence, and then Veronica clicked her tongue.

  “Whatever, Kristen. Since you clearly can’t take care of yourself, we think you should move home for the time being. Just until this whole crazy thing blows over and you don’t feel like you have to prostitute yourself anymore.”

  I was silent as her words sunk in, with all their humiliating implications: move back home. Me, the 28-year old virgin, moving back home like the loser she was. No thanks.

  “Thank you for your concern, Veronica,” I said, trying to steady my voice, “And you can thank Mom and Dad too, for wanting to look out for me.”

  There was another long silence, then Veronica’s demanding voice: “Well, Kristin, you don’t mean to tell me that you intend to actually go through with this, now do you?”

  I let her listen to my own silence for a moment before I said “That is exactly what I intend to do.” And, just as her politely appalled voice came back, I hung up.

  In shock, I sat down, stared at my phone for a moment, and then turned it off. I looked at my hands: they were still clenched, the veins standing out.

  Had I actually meant what I had said? Was I really going to go through with the whole thing, sleeping with some guy for a wad of cash?

  I walked over to the window, climbed through it, and sat in my usual position, with my legs hanging down, gazing out over the trees. Well, it wasn’t just any guy and it wasn’t just any wad of cash. It was Clark Denton, who was, undeniably, incredibly attractive, even if he was clearly pretty full of himself nowadays. And it was one million dollars. This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

  But the longer I sat there in my usual spot, the more I breathed in the fresh outside air, the more I wondered if I would really be able to go through with it at all.