Oh-you want to know how? You want to hear my sob story? Okay, then. It all started a few months ago, on a normal Saturday night.
Well, normal for me anyway.
Four months earlier
“Fuck, yeah. That’s good. Yeah, like that.”
See that guy-black suit, devilishly handsome? Yeah, the guy getting the blow job from the luscious redhead in the bathroom stall? That’s me. The real me. MBF: Me Before Flu.
“Jesus, baby, I’m gonna come.”
Let’s freeze-frame here for a second.
For those ladies out there who are listening, let me give you some free advice: If a guy who you just met at a club calls you baby, sweetheart, angel, or any other generic endearment? Don’t make the mistake of thinking he’s so into you, he’s already thinking up pet names.
It’s because he can’t or doesn’t care to remember your actual name.
And no girl wants to be called by the wrong name when she’s on her knees giving you head in the men’s room. So, just to be safe, I went with baby.
Her real name? Does it matter?
“Fuck, baby, I’m coming.”
She removes her mouth with a pop and catches like a major leaguer as I jizz in her hand. Afterward, I move to the sink to clean up and zip up. Redhead looks at me with a smile as she rinses with a travel-sized bottle of mouthwash from her bag.
Charming.
“How about a drink?” she asks, in what I’m sure she thinks is a sultry voice.
But here’s a fact for you-once I’m done, I’m done. I’m not the kind of guy who rides the same rollercoaster twice. Once is enough, and then the thrill is gone and so is the interest.
But, my mother did raise me to be a gentleman. “Sure, sweetheart. You go find a table, I’ll get us something from the bar.” Redhead put in quite an effort sucking me off, after all. She’s earned herself a drink.
After leaving the bathroom, she heads for a table, and I go toward the oh-so-crowded bar. I did mention it was Saturday night, right? And this is REM. No, not R.E.M.-rem, like REM sleep, as in when you dream. Get it?
It’s the hottest club in New York City. Well, at least tonight it is. By next week it will be some other club. But the location doesn’t matter. The script is always the same. Every weekend my friends and I come here together but leave separately-and never alone.
Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a bad guy. I don’t lie; I don’t sandbag women with flowery words about a future together and love at first sight. I’m a straight shooter. I’m looking for a good time-for one night-and I tell them so. That’s better than ninety percent of the other guys in here, believe me. And most of the girls in here are looking for the same thing I am.
Okay, maybe that’s not exactly true. But I can’t help it if they see me, fuck me, and suddenly want to bear my children. That’s not my problem. Like I said, I tell them how it is, give them a good time and then the cab fare home. Thank you, good night. Don’t call me, ’cause I sure as shit won’t be calling you.
Finally getting through the crowd to the bar, I order two drinks. I take a moment to watch the writhing, twisting bodies melt into each other on the dance floor as the music vibrates all around.
And then I see her, fifteen feet from where I’m standing, waiting patiently but looking a bit uneasy amongst the arm-raising, money-waving, alcohol-craving herd trying to get the bartender’s attention.
I told you I’m poetic, right? The truth is, I wasn’t always. Not until this moment. She’s magnificent-angelic-gorgeous. Pick a word, any fucking word. The bottom line is, for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
Her hair is long and dark and shines even in the dim light of the club. She’s wearing a red backless dress-sexy but classy-that accentuates every perfectly toned curve. Her mouth is full and lush, with lips begging to be ravished.
And her eyes. Sweet fucking Christ. Her eyes are large and round and endlessly dark. I imagine those eyes looking up at me as she takes my cock into her hot little mouth. The appendage in question immediately stirs to life at the thought. I have to have her.
I quickly make my way over, deciding then and there that she is the lucky woman who’ll have the pleasure of my company for the remainder of the night. And what a pleasure I intend to make it.
Arriving just as she’s opening her mouth to order a drink, I intervene with, “The lady will have…” I look her over to surmise what she would be drinking. This is a talent of mine. Some people are beer drinkers, some scotch and soda, some an aged wine, others are brandy or sweet champagne. And I can always tell who’s what-always. “…a Veramonte Merlot, 2003.”
She turns to me with a raised brow, and her eyes appraise me from head to toe. Deciding I’m not a loser, she says, “You’re good.”
I smile. “I see my reputation precedes me. Yes, I am. And you’re beautiful.”
She blushes. Actually turns frigging pink in the cheeks and looks away. Who blushes any more? It’s goddamn adorable.
“So, what do you say we find someplace more comfortable…and private? So we can get to know each other better?”
Without missing a beat, she says, “I’m here with friends. We’re celebrating. I don’t usually come to places like this.”
“What are we celebrating?”
“I just got my MBA and start a new job on Monday.”
“Really? What a coincidence. I’m a finance guy myself. Maybe you’ve heard of my firm? Evans, Reinhart and Fisher?” We’re the hottest boutique investment bank in the city, so I’m sure she’s duly impressed.
Let’s just pause here again, shall we?
Did you see the rounding of this gorgeous woman’s mouth when I told her where I am employed? Did you see the widening of her eyes? That should have told me something.
But I didn’t notice at the time-I was too busy checking out her tits. They’re perfect, by the way. Smaller than what I usually go for, no more than a handful. But as far as I’m concerned, a handful’s all you need.
My point is, remember that look of surprise-that will make sense later on. Now, back to the conversation.
“We have so much in common,” I say. “We’re both in business, we both like a good red…I think we owe it to ourselves to see where this could go tonight.”
She laughs. It’s a magical sound.
Now I should explain one thing here. With any other woman, on any other night, I’d be in a cab by now, with my hand up her dress and my mouth making her moan. No question. For me, this is working for it. And strangely enough, it’s kind of a turn-on.
“I’m Drew, by the way.” I hold out my hand. “And you are?”
She holds up her hand. “Engaged.”
Undeterred, I take her hand and kiss her knuckle, grazing it ever so slightly with my tongue. I see my reluctant beauty try to suppress a shiver, and I know, despite her words, I’m getting to her.
See, I’m not the type who really listens to what people say. I look at how they say it. You can learn a lot about someone if you just take the time to watch the way they move, the shift of their eyes, the rise and fall of their voice.
Doe Eyes may be telling me no…but her body? Her body’s screaming, Yes, yes, fuck me on the bar. In the span of three minutes, she’s told me why she’s here, what she does for a living, and allowed me to fondle her hand. Those are not the actions of a woman who is not interested-those are the actions of a woman who does not want to be interested.
And I can definitely work with that.
I’m about to comment on her engagement ring; the diamond is so small that even on close inspection, it can’t be located. But I don’t want to offend her. She said she’s just graduated. I have friends who had to put themselves through business school, and the loans can be crushing.
So I go for a different tactic-honesty. “Even better. You don’t do places like this? I don’t do relationships. We’re a perfect fit. We should explore this connection further, don’t you think?”
She laughs again, and our drinks arrive. She picks hers up. “Thank you for the drink. I should get back to my friends now. It’s been a pleasure.”
I give her a wicked smile, unable to help myself. “Baby, if you let me take you out of here, I’ll give the word pleasure a whole new meaning.”
She shakes her head with a smile, as if she’s indulging a petulant child. Then she calls over her shoulder as she walks away, “Have a good night, Mr. Evans.”
Like I said, I am typically an observant man. Sherlock Holmes and I, we could hang out. But I’m so enraptured by the view of that sweet ass, I miss it at first.
Did you notice? Did you catch the little detail that passed me by?
That’s right. She called me “Mr. Evans”-but I never told her my last name. Remember that too.
For the moment, I let the dark-haired mystery woman retreat. I intend to give her some slack, then reel her in-hook, line, and sinker. I plan to pursue her the rest of the night if I have to.
She’s just that frigging hot.
But then Redhead-yep the one from the men’s room-finds me. “There you are! I thought I lost you.” She pushes her body up against my side and rubs my arm intimately. “How about we go to my place? It’s just around the corner.”
Ah, thanks-but no thanks. Redhead has quickly become a fading memory. My sights are set on better, more intriguing prospects. I’m about to tell her so when another redhead appears beside her.
“This is my sister, Mandy. I told her all about you. She thought the three of us could…you know…have a good time.”
I turn my gaze on Redhead’s sister-her twin, actually. And just like that, my plans change. I know, I know…I said I don’t ride the same coaster twice. But twin coasters?
Let me tell you, no man would pass up a ride like that.
Chapter 2
HAVE I MENTIONED that I love my job?
If my firm were Major League Baseball, I’d be MVP. I’m a partner at one of the top investment banks in New York City, specializing in media and technology. Yes, yes, my father and his two closest friends started the firm. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t bust my ass to get where I am-because I did. It also doesn’t mean I don’t eat, breathe, and sleep work to earn the reputation I have, because I do.
What does an I-banker do, you ask? Well, you know in Pretty Woman, when Richard Gere tells Julia Roberts that his company buys up other ones and sells them off piece by piece? I’m the guy who helps him do that. I negotiate the deals, draw up the contracts, manage due diligence, draft credit agreements, and many other things I’m sure you have no interest hearing about.
Now you’re probably asking yourself why a guy like me is quoting a chick flick like Pretty Woman?
New Book: Back Home to Marry Off Myself
Loredana’s father left the family for his mistress, leaving them to fend for themselves abroad. When life was at its toughest, her father showed up with “good news” after 8 years of absence: To marry off Loredana to a paralyzed son of the wealthy Mendelsohn family.