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“So, listen, Libby,” I start.
“Chris, please don’t turn me down,” she begs as her eyes begin to water.
I sit down next to her and place my arm around her shoulders. “Libby, I can’t. You deserve better than a one-night stand — and I can’t even commit to a cable company.”
Sobbing, she mumbles, “I know. But maybe that’s what I need — one night to feel something, anything.”
Libby is attractive and nice but her divorce comes with baggage. Although her baggage isn’t really the main issue, it’s more that I’m focused on my career and only have time for casual sex. If I met her at a bar, I would totally take her home, but this is awkward because I know she needs more. And hey, what’s the best solution in an awkward situation? Laughter.
Smiling, I say, “Libby, I can make you feel something, if that’s all you want. Would you like that? Lay down and hold still.” We both laugh as I attempt to unbuckle my belt. “C’mon, girl — let’s do the Texas Tangle.”
We fall back on the bed laughing, my hand resting on her hip.
“Oh, Chris. I needed that,” Libby says breathlessly.
“Animals need sex, humans want companionship.” Sitting up from the bed, I rub her leg. “You need to find a man that can give you both.”
Libby exhales and then buttons her top. “Easier said than done — seeing as how my first attempt didn’t go so well.”
“Libby, I’m the one that’s embarrassed.”
Libby sits up and rests her head on my arm. “Let’s just agree to never talk about this night?”
Can this night get any stranger?
I stand up from the bed and smile. “Deal.” After pulling her up from the bed, I twirl her around and do a two-step toward my closet. “I want to show you my costume,” I say. As I remove the plaid shirt and belt buckle from the Salvation Army bag, Libby laughs and shakes her head.
“I don’t get it?”
“A cowboy in Manhattan.”
“But what about the large hat and boots?” she asks.
With a smirk, I kick open my closet door to reveal my favorite boots beneath my tailored suits. Proudly, I point to the upper shelf housing my vintage, black Stetson. “Will these do?”
8:24 p.m.
After presenting Trent with the candy liquidation, I decide to take a cab to Lena’s apartment in fear of being unfashionably late. I read her text to the cab driver, repeating the address several times before he understands. My accent’s not that bad. When we arrive at the location, I remove ten bucks from my wallet and pay the driver. He grunts in appreciation and then speeds off into traffic. Dumbass.
Lena’s building is ten times more posh than mine. Not a single doorman with a pumpkin-themed tie. Nope, her doormen are dressed in wool suits with gold-fringed lapels.
“May I help you, sir?”
“Sure. I’m meeting Lena White,” I answer.
“There’s no one here with that name, sir. Please follow me to the desk so I may assist you.” The doorman leads me to a gold desk straight from textbook pictures of Versailles during the French Revolution.
I remove my phone and text Lena.
ME: I’m downstairs in the lobby.
LENA: I’ll be right down.
“Hey, she’s coming down to meet me,” I say arrogantly as I walk toward the elevators.
Against a wall, I pose like Clint Eastwood during the final sunset of a western flick. Head down, hat tipped, and one boot lazily crossed over the other. As the elevator door opens, I see the tips of her black pumps first, then raising my head, take in the rest of her outfit. A little black dress, off the shoulders and sexy as hell.
She gives me a tiny smile before stepping back inside the elevator. Holding the door, Lena suggests, “Let’s have a drink upstairs before we leave.”
Joining her in the elevator, I ask, “So what’s your real name, Ms. White?” I move within inches of her body, staring down and eliminating any doubt she may have of my objective. The tension is unbearable — the sexual tension is unbelievable.
Lena returns my concentrated gaze, but her full lips twitch into a smile. “My name is Lena. Do you want the drink or not?” she asks, enunciating every word.
Ready to challenge her smart, ruby-stained mouth, I’m interrupted by the opening of the elevator doors. She quickly exits the elevator, looking over her shoulder at me just once. But goddamn, that look she gives me … I’m in way over my head.
Lena leads me into her apartment, or rather, a temptress’ bachelorette lair. The first things I notice are the chill in the room and the multitude of closed doors. It’s cold and mysterious, like an elegant catacomb with secrets — possibly a dungeon or two as well. Every wall is painted charcoal gray, except for the one wallpapered in gray and black plaid. The lighting is minimal, seeing as how the chandeliers are candles and the lamp shades are red silk. Black velvet furniture, gray carpet, red pillows, and an entire wall that resembles an ancient library. The only lightness in the apartment is a large white canvas above the sofa — but even that has what appears to be a blood spatter.
“So, Adam told me you were researching a case.”
Pouring cognac into tiny black glasses, she says, “Mr. Ford shouldn’t have told you that. Shall we toast?”
I’m a dude, and I take masculine pride in never saying omigod in public — I even avoid it internally for fear it could slip out, but … Oh. My. God! Somehow, I just walked onto the set of American Psycho, cue Huey Lewis and the News.
I take the glass from her hand and casually sniff the liquid. “To new friends,” I declare in a scratchy voice.
Lena smiles and taps her glass against mine. “Yes, to new friends and new experiences.”
I take a drink, letting the cognac swirl around my mouth before swallowing. It’s pretty good, and it’s fucking sexy that this woman drinks like a man. “Shall we retreat to the parlor for a cigar?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.
Lena places her glass on the bar cart and then takes mine, her red nails scraping against my hand as she transfers the glass. She removes my hat and tosses it on a chair with a tiny smirk. Her hands then glide over my chest, teasing and mocking my thrift store shirt.
“These clothes won’t do,” she scorns. Lena unlatches my stubborn belt buckle, the difficulty of the task forcing her tits to press together and spill over her dress. After noticing the name engraved on my rodeo buckle, Lena’s mouth curls into a genuine smile. Then with her smile disappearing, she rips it off and throws the belt to the floor, the tacky gold contrasting against the chic gray carpet.
I place my hands on her hips but she viciously slaps them away. All right, Lena — take control. My shirt comes next. Lena traces each button with her finger before finally setting it free. Her cool hands reach inside my shirt, caressing my sides and delicately massaging my shoulders. She shakes the shirt off and kisses my chest. One, two, three pecks. Red stains from her lips form a trail of feminine seduction along my chest. I inhale and hold my breath as her hand slides inside the waistband of my jeans.
“Lena,” I moan.
“Shh,” she commands.
Unbuttoning my jeans and pulling them over my hips, she follows them to the floor. Her hands squeeze my thighs, holding her weight as she positions herself on her knees. More kissing. She kisses every inch of my legs, leaving me covered in red lipstick. When her mouth nears my briefs, I nearly lose it, especially when she grabs my ass. I stay still and give her what she wants. After her hand grazes my nuts and then slowly glides along Big Tex, I smile — this blow job is going to be amazing.
Looking up at me, she says, “Wait here.” With a gentle squeeze of my crotch and tiny bite on my stomach, Lena stands and walks away. She opens one of the many doors and closes it behind her.