THAT MAN Trilogy Page 9

  Just as the host was about to give advice to Rose, the car door swung open. Bradley scooted inside with a bagful of takeout. He turned the radio off and backed up the car. The pungent smell of curry and garlic filled the air, and I began to feel nauseated. As Bradley took off, I lowered my window and inhaled some fresh air to clear my passageways. And to clear my mind of the fantasies dancing inside it. When we pulled up to Bradley’s condo, Blake Burns had just ripped off my dress in my fantasy world. I had totally lost track of place and time.

  In a haze, I followed Bradley into his condo. He flipped on the light, illuminating a roomful of monotone brown furniture that looked like it came out of a furniture-for-rent catalog. Actually, it did.

  Bradley set the food down on a Formica counter that divided the kitchen and the living room.

  “I’m going to put my pajamas on,” he mumbled, already heading to the bedroom down the hallway. “Help yourself to some food.”

  Listlessly, I ambled over to the counter and removed the three containers of Vegan Delight from the brown paper bag. I tore open the lids. Upon eyeing the vomiticious (yes, that made-up word again) concoctions of strange looking vegetables disguised in assorted brown sauces and inhaling their unpleasant, incongruous aromas, I decided to pass on dinner and plunked down on the massive brown corduroy couch. It faced the built-in plasma TV—the one thing in the condo Bradley had splurged on. Bradley loved to watch TV—especially reruns of the nineties shows he’d grown up with. Home Improvement was his very favorite. He’d seen every episode dozens of times, yet each time he watched one, he bellied over in laughter as if he’d never seen it. Our mutual love for television—especially the shows from our childhoods—had been one of the things that had brought us together and bonded us, but his obsession with them was now a door that shut me out of his life.

  In a flash, Bradley was back—in his crisp blue and white striped Brooks Brothers pajamas (last year’s splurgy Christmas present) and with a carefully arranged plateful of Vegan Delight. He plopped down next to me, with the plate on his lap and his legs stretched out on the oak coffee table facing us. With one hand, he shoveled forkfuls of the saucy mush into his mouth, while the other, with the bandaged fingers, deftly channel-surfed until he landed on Teen Nick. His eyes lit up and a wide grin spread across his face.

  “Yabba! My favorite episode of Kenan and Kel is on.” He noisily masticated his hodgepodge of food.

  Big whoop. I inwardly sighed. Kicking off my heels, I bent up my knees and curled my arms around them. Yet another romantic Saturday night with Bradley. My mind wandered. What were Libby and Chaz doing? Were they still at the art gallery? And what was Blake doing? The thought of him hanging with that blond buxom predatory beast sent a shiver to the base of my spine. Why should I care? He was my boss. He was entitled. I was engaged. Period. I glanced down at my engagement ring, the luster lost in Bradley’s dimly lit shades-of-brown living room.

  Halfway through the episode, Bradley’s landline rang. The phone was located on the counter where he’d set the bag of food. Setting his now empty plate on the coffee table, he jumped up to get the phone. Eager for a distraction, I studied Bradley as he took the call. The expression on his face and tone of voice alternated between extreme pleasure and extreme distress. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, ending the call, oblivious to my eavesdropping. After filing to the kitchen to get a glass of water, he returned to the couch.

  “A patient?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Yep. She’s in desperate need of a filling but can only come into the office tomorrow morning due to her job. Hope you don’t mind.”

  A Sunday? I half-smiled. “Sure, no problem. A patient’s needs come first.”

  And lately they had. Broken promises. Broken dates. He’d even missed my engagement party. I mentally pinched myself, reminding myself that Brad was consumed with building his dental practice. Building our future. We were just going through a challenging phase. That’s all. I lovingly gave his hand a squeeze. To my surprise, it was cold and clammy.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  Bradley didn’t answer. I turned to look at him. He was green and shaking like a leaf.

  “I think I have food poisoning,” he muttered, leaping to his feet.

  I trailed behind him as he raced to the bathroom.

  Crouching to his knees, Bradley began to retch into the toilet. The stench sent my own wave of nausea to my chest.

  “Are you okay, sweetie?” I rubbed his back.

  “Don’t touch me,” he hissed.

  Taken aback, I abruptly withdrew my hand and stepped back. I was just trying to help. Put his needs before mine. Isn’t that what lovers did? Be there for one another. Like my parents did time and time again.

  Another loud belch sounded. He was puking his guts out.

  “What can I do to help?” Desperation filled my voice.

  “Nothing,” he choked. “This is all your fault.” Belch.

  “My fault?”

  “If we hadn’t gone to that goddamn art gallery opening, none of this would have happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We could have stayed in and ordered from Mr. Vegan.”

  I was wordless. We’d had takeout food from Vegan Delight countless times before, and neither of us had ever gotten food poisoning. This was just a fluke thing. And maybe it wasn’t food poisoning. Instead, a stomach virus. It was going around. Several co-workers at my office had, in fact, come down with it.

  Another loud heave hurled me back to the moment. My fiancé, Bradley Wick, was puking his guts out, and there was nothing I could do. Because he didn’t want my help or my love. I felt helpless, hapless, and hurt.

  Finally, after five long, wretched minutes, Bradley staggered to his feet. His thinning hair was matted to his head, and his chalky face was spattered with sweat. He flushed the toilet, and then stumbled over to the sink where he rinsed his mouth with one of the dozen mouthwash products he had neatly lined up along the tiled counter. And then he vigorously brushed his teeth. After brushing, he splattered some cold water onto his face with his good hand.

  “You need to sleep on the couch tonight.” His voice was hoarse.

  “Okay.” As hurt as I felt, I was relieved.

  We exited the bathroom and parted ways.

  “Wake me up, if you need me.”

  Without responding, Bradley shuffled down the hallway to the bedroom we’d shared every Saturday for the past few years. But not tonight.

  In the darkness, I found my way back to the couch and turned off the TV. The peaceful quiet and stillness of the night enveloped me. I was still in my little black dress. Starting at my shoulders, I traced my fingers over the silhouette. I moved them slowly down to the rise of my breasts, where they lingered making wide circles. My nipples hardened and heat soared in my core. My hands continued to slide down my torso until they splayed on my bare thighs. They slid up and down my smooth limbs, and I felt myself succumbing to my arousal. My breathing shallow, I lowered the side zipper of my strapless dress and let if fall to the floor. Stepping out of it, I was naked except for a black lace thong that Libby had given to me for my last birthday.

  Spreading my legs apart, I dipped my right hand under the waistband. My fingers latched on to my wet folds, caressing the hills and valleys. And then they found their way to my aching clit. My breathing grew heavy, my body feverishly hot. My left hand joined my right, and I shoved two fingers into my hole. Thrusting them up and down the slick, heated walls. Fast and hard as I rubbed my clit in tandem.

  My eyes squeezed shut, I arched my head and bit down on my lips to suppress moans that might awaken Bradley. I was on the verge of an orgasm.

  A heart-stopping second later, I came with powerful waves of pleasure. The image of Blake Burns’s beautiful face filled my mind and the image of his beautiful cock filled my core.

  Still trembling, I collapsed onto the couch and pulled the chenille blanket over my head. Sweet dreams knocked at my
doorway to pleasure. With Blake Burns’s magnificence embedded deep inside me, I fell blissfully asleep.

  When I awoke Sunday morning, I was blissfully still wet. And didn’t give a damn when I heard Bradley sneak out the back door.

  Chapter 16

  Blake

  Monday mornings always began with a staff meeting at nine a.m. I was taken aback to already find Jennifer in the conference room at eight forty-five. With her lustrous hair loose and minus her glasses, she looked as beautiful as she had on Saturday night.

  Tensing, I settled into my seat at the head of the large conference room table and bid her good morning. “How was the rest of your weekend?”

  “Great.” She beamed.

  Fuck. She had sex with Dickwick.

  “How ’bout yours?”

  “Great,” I mimicked. Actually, it fucking sucked. Kat, pissed off by Jennifer, had thrown an embarrassing tantrum at the gallery and then followed me home, demanding retribution sex. None of my hook-ups got to spend the night with me. A rule was a rule. And she was the last person I wanted to spend any time with. I almost had to call the police to get her out of my building. Then yesterday, I’d had a touch of that flu that was going around the office and stayed in bed all day. For the first time since my balls had dropped, my cock didn’t come out to play all weekend.

  “Did you stay for a long time at the gallery?” She held her mesmerizing green eyes in mine. Her gaze was inquisitive.

  “Not really.” I felt my cock jump. Why did she do this to me? I hadn’t stopped thinking about her all weekend. Even lying in bed yesterday fighting off a tinge of nausea, I thought about her and got a boner.

  “Oh. Did you and your date go somewhere afterward?” Her voice was tentative, like she was afraid to hear the answer.

  Before I could respond, the rest of my staff filed in. Everyone took seats around the large conference room table. My eyes circled the perimeter. Only one person was missing—Myles Harding, my head of current programming.

  “Where’s Myles?” I asked my secretary, Mrs. Cho.

  “He no come in today. Flu major case.”

  Damn. That meant there would be no one to supervise the season finale of the Wheel of Pain tonight.

  I looked at Jennifer. “Are you free tonight?”

  Her eyes lit up and then she nodded.

  “Great.”

  An eager smile flashed across her face.

  “I need you on the set of Wheel of Pain to cover for Myles.”

  Her smile morphed into a frown. She murmured one little word: “Oh.”

  “Ms. McCoy, my father always says the cream rises to the—”

  She cut me off. “I’ll be there.”

  “Excellent. After the staff meeting, please meet with me in my office so I can brief you.”

  Jennifer nodded. Nervously.

  Well, at least I’d have some one-on-one time with her. Though not the kind I craved.

  Sitting on an armchair in front of my desk with her legs crossed and a notebook on her lap, Jennifer took notes while I explained what she needed to do at the taping. It was more like babysitting—just making sure the contestants behaved and followed the rules of the game and the crew stayed on schedule. I also told her to look out for any technical issues and to be sure there was a lot of camera coverage.

  “Our audience especially likes close-ups of big boobs, pans of hot bodies, and lots of angles when it comes to fucking—especially head shots.”

  She looked up at me, puzzled.

  I laughed silently. I’d missed my own double entendre. “I mean facial expressions—both ecstatic and tortured.”

  “Okay.” She squeaked out the word.

  Fuck, she was cute. “Don’t worry about moans, groans, or screams. We can always add canned sound effects in post.”

  “Post?”

  “Post-production. Editing, sound, and special effects. And then the final mix.”

  “Of course. I learned about that in grad school.”

  “Do you have any questions?”

  Chewing her lip, she shook her head. She looked anxious. Like a frightened little kitten—hardly the tempestuous tiger I’d interviewed only a week ago.

  “And one last thing. The producer, Don Springer, can be a bit of a prick. Don’t be offended by him. And importantly, don’t let him go too far with the stunts. This is supposed to be a fun game show, not a death match.”

  She nodded like one of those bobblehead dolls.

  More uncomfortable silence.

  “You can leave now,” I finally said.

  Because I can’t take sitting here with my cock roasting. It had taken all my effort to be businesslike. The whole time I had been mentally undressing her and imagining what it would be like to fuck her over my desk. And hear her roar my name.

  As she rose to her feet, I checked my calendar to see what the rest of my day was like. Fairly light, but at twelve thirty I had lunch with Jaime Zander to talk about the upfront presentation. The sound of her sweet voice drifted in my ear like a magic carpet.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burns, for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  My cock sprung up. Another opportunity clicked in my brain.

  “What are you doing at lunch?”

  “I’m Skyping an author who lives in France at noon. I can’t cancel it.”

  “I understand, but I want you to join me as soon as you can at Factor’s. I’d like you to meet my friend, Jaime Zander. He’s doing our upfront presentation.”

  Her face brightened. “I’d love to. I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

  “Perfect.” Perfect indeed. Hopefully, she’d get there a little late so I could have a little bro time with Jay-Z. I was eager for him to meet her.

  “See you later.” She pivoted on her heel and headed out of my office with that sexy little bounce. My eyes never left her ass.

  Factor’s was a popular deli on Pico Boulevard close to both Conquest Broadcasting and our main competition, FOX. It was no secret in this town that my father and Rupert Murdoch were archrivals, going head-to-head in the ratings. This season, the CBC was again killing it. The only thing Rupert ever beat my father at was the number of wives he had. He’d recently divorced his third.

  Jaime was already seated at our favorite table in the corner. But I had unexpected company. His twins were there too. Both in high chairs. Their stroller was folded up and leaning against the back wall.

  “Hope you don’t mind,” he said as I lowered myself into a chair opposite him. “Gloria’s out of town on business, and I had to take the little munchkins in for their ten-month checkup.”

  Man, they were almost a year old. It felt like just yesterday they were born. “No problem, but I can’t write them off,” I joked.

  “Fuck you.” Jaime laughed. “Shit. I’d better watch my mouth. They’re going to be talking soon.” He turned to the babies and gave them each a big, juicy kiss on the head.

  “Sorry, guys. Daddy’s a very bad boy.” He put his index finger to his mouth. “Shh! Don’t tell Mommy.”

  The babies giggled.

  It was my turn to laugh. I had to admit—it was endearing to watch Jaime interact with his little ones. He clearly adored them. An unexpected frisson of jealousy shot through me. Oddly, I’d never thought about having a family and kids or the concept of fatherhood.

  Jaime handed me a menu and smiled. “You don’t have to worry. I’m buying. You’re the client.”

  The truth: Jaime and I had the kind of relationship where no one counted. He enjoyed treating as much as I did. After perusing the menu, we ordered our usual from Marge, the buxom, bottle-blond waitress who’d been here forever. Two hot pastrami sandwiches on rye, a side of fries, and two Doctor Brown cream sodas. And for the babies, a couple of water bagels and a side of sliced carrots. They were already fingering some Cheerios that Jaime had brought along. Milk bottles and assorted plastic toys were also scattered on their high chair trays. In no time, they would be playing with cell
phones, I mused as Marge came right back with our beverages.

  “So how’s it going with your ‘girlfriend?’” Jaime asked, making mock quotation marks with his index and middle fingers.

  I twisted my lips. “Not well.” I launched into my Operation Dickwick story.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? You almost bit off his fingers?” By the end, Jaime was laughing so hard he was crying.

  I felt my cheeks flare. In retrospect, it was a really dumb-ass thing to do.

  Jaime took a sip of soda straight from the bottle and calmed down. “Man, you’re doing it all wrong, Blakester. The way to a girl’s G-spot is through her heart. You’ve got to romance her. Compliment the way she looks. Buy her presents. Come to her rescue.”

  I digested Jaime’s words. I’d done all those things. Well, except for the presents. Maybe I had to work at it harder. Except there was still that one little problem…

  “Jay-Z, she works for me. I’m her boss.”

  Jaime’s eyes widened with surprise. “That does make it a little harder.”

  A little harder? He had way too many Cheerios on his brain.

  “Do you have a company fraternization policy?”

  I told him that Conquest Broadcasting frowned upon inter-office relationships but didn’t forbid them as long as employees maintained transparency with Human Resources. Most of them, however, had ended up in disaster—with one or both of the individuals quitting their job or getting fired. There was too much riding on the line. Jennifer McCoy had a bright future ahead of her. I didn’t want her to get fired. And I didn’t want her to quit. The bottom line: I didn’t want to lose her in any way possible. I wanted her to be mine.