Part 2 (1/2)
”Then you shouldn't have asked me to marry you, idiot.”
”You wanted me to.”
”That's why you asked? Because I was perfectly happy with having a nice boyfriend I could trust, not a husband who cheats. You should have never asked me!”
He chuckled as if this was just a little incident to him. ”Honestly, this is just a silly case of cold feet. You,” he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling, ”you have been so busy with dress fittings, food tastings, and registries, it just seemed like you were too busy for my needs...”
”f.u.c.k you. f.u.c.k you, f.u.c.kyouf.u.c.kyou! I was left alone to put together this stupid wedding. With your mother calling me up every day, inviting all her friends, and making a list of baby names for me. Baby names, Kevin!”
”It was cold feet, that's all it was, babe, please! I'm so sorry. You have to take me back. Let's just forget it, please.”
”Take you back? For what? So I can worry the next forty years that you're sticking your thing in other people. You might call me petty, but guess what; I'm allowed to be petty right now. You would have kept her as a sidepiece well after we were married. I heard the things you said to her. Did you even use a condom?”
His face blanched.
”Oh, my G.o.d! I'm supposed to let you double-freaking-dip? Three weeks! Three weeks before our wedding and I find you b.a.l.l.s deep in someone I work with and you want me to forgive you?” Oh h.e.l.l no. No, it's all about me now. ”You selfish a.s.s, there's no CLEAR HISTORY b.u.t.ton on your p.e.n.i.s. I can't forget it.”
”Lexa, please. I know you think this is all my fault but, things weren't...”
Sarcasm boiled my skin. ”No, Trager, it's not you-this isn't your fault-any of it. It's my horrible choice in men. My mistake.” I grabbed his bag, the same one I had packed for two hours before my bachelorette party, opened the hotel room door, and tossed it out into the hallway. It smashed loudly against the far wall, spilling clothes and personal items across the floor. I couldn't have planned it better if I'd tried. ”As soon as we get home I want your belongings packed and gone from my apartment.”
”What? Are you serious? We are supposed to get married in a few days.” He held his hands against the frame of the door as I pushed him into the hallway.
”Not any longer. You and your cold feet are off the hook.”
”What? I'm not. I'm not leaving. We can get over this. I'm not moving out.”
”Yes, you are. You cheated on me. I saw you. Do you even understand how I feel right now?”
He stood in the middle of the hallway, shoulders slumped, eyes wide and staring at me. He looked pathetic and guilty, even remorseful, but I couldn't not see what I saw. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw it. Every time I looked at him, I saw it. I leaned against the door for support. ”Just leave, Kevin. Just leave me be. You've hurt me enough.”
”But...but...but what about the cat?”
That's what he was concerned with at the moment? ”I'll tell him you died,” I snapped, slamming the door in his face. In my head, I was writing his eulogy and speaking about the numerous reasons he deserved to be thrown into traffic.
Finally alone in the room, I flipped off my shoes and flung them into the air. I dug through my suitcase for a pair of pajamas and of course came up with the s.e.xy lingerie that I bought to surprise the stupid, cheating a.s.s. There was no way in h.e.l.l I was going to sit alone in my hotel room in lingerie feeling sorry for myself. I slapped on a pair of boy shorts and a sports bra and flopped on the bed. As soon as the hotel pool opened at one o'clock, I was going to put on a bathing suit and go for a swim. Forget everyone.
I leaned back against the headboard, cold hotel room sheets soft and cool against my skin, and folded my legs underneath me. I turned on the television and flicked through the channels while I waited, the slow hard thud of my hangover still pounding against my temples.
Sleep instantly claimed me.
Blinking my eyes open, I glanced at the clock. It was three in the morning. The sky outside the window was dark and the television was playing a late night infomercial about mops. What a waste of an entire day. I counted the hours I had slept on my fingers and cringed-that must have been some hangover. My stomach rumbled violently in hunger and my hair was a mess of wavy knots, my tight no-nonsense bun having somehow vanished.
I flipped open the hotel booklet and skimmed for the time room service was open. The kitchen closed at midnight and opened again at six. There was no way I could wait three more hours to eat. I'd have to hit a snack machine.
Grabbing my key card and wallet, I opened the hotel room door and slipped out. The hallway was silent, just the soft overhead buzz of the light bulbs hanging behind the sh.e.l.l-shaped sconces near the ceiling could be heard. Ugly, creepy looking decorations. Padding quickly over the plush business level carpet, I followed the maze of hallways, listening for the hum and groan of any vending machines.
After a five-minute search, I found one in a small corner.
Unfortunately, someone else seemed to be hungry in the wee hours of the morning, because Jameson Holt was sprawled out on the carpet, leaning against the machine. An array of wrappers and two cans of soda sat next to him. He had a bottle of water to his lips when he noticed me walking towards him.
I jerked to a complete stop, dead center of the hall. Slowing my steps, I wondered how insane I'd look if I just ran like heck the other way.
A splash of spilled water spread over his t-s.h.i.+rt as he fumbled with the bottle. He looked down, shook his head, and laughed at the wet spot on his s.h.i.+rt. Feeling a bit self-conscious, I folded my arms tightly across my chest then gasped aloud when I realized I was wearing practically nothing and standing in front of one of my bosses. How much of an idiot could I be to not even notice what I was wearing when I walked out of my hotel room? My face heated. I mean, I was seriously almost naked standing there. What a lovely way for my boss to see me: awkward, clumsy, half dressed, and freshly cheated on. If he calls me Nipples too, I'm quitting my job. Oh, screw this! I straightened my posture and sucked in my gut. Might as well pretend not to feel completely humiliated. Though my flaming cheeks were probably giving me away.
I tried for a smile. ”You holding this machine hostage, or can a ravenous girl get a snack?”
He brought a chip to his lips and crunched. His eyes slowly grazed up and down my body without pause then quickly flitted to the huge pile of snacks on the floor next to him.
”Sit.” His voice was husky and thick, like melted caramel and chocolate, and I wanted to pour him all over me. My stomach fluttered as a fantasy of Mr. Holt, me, and a slew of syrupy condiments slammed into my head, and my shame wasn't strong enough to stop it. I'm a dirty, dirty girl. Well, at least in my own imagination anyway.
Stepping back until my shoulders. .h.i.t the wall across from him, I slid my body down. My back sc.r.a.ped against the wall, making my pulse race and my stomach quiver with nerves. His eyes never left mine; light hazel eyes, almost green, yet almost golden. A strange, intoxicating mix. Darn, I was caught in his playboy mating call, wasn't I? He had those super testosterone laser eyes that made women just want to hand him their panties.
I did-I wanted to hand him my panties.
Instead, I sat down with a little oomph; eye contact never broken. There are a handful of times in your life when looking someone straight in the eye for so long seems like the most dangerous and frightening thing. For some reason this felt like one of them.
I tried averting my eyes to the floor, but they magically got pulled right back to him, as if magnetized, no, more like captivated, and I found myself looking at all of him all at once. Holy freaking h.e.l.l, I'm going to have a panic attack sitting here half-naked, gawking at my boss. Kill me now.
Dark blond hair, messy, tapered on the sides and a short mop of bed head on top. Streaks of a golden blond mixed in, the kind you get from the brightness of the sun always falling on you. Broad shoulders, solid arms, angular features. Gorgeous. And those eyes, sage green with flecks of gold; just a look in that overly intense gaze and you get that heated b.u.t.terfly effect low in your belly. A tight fluttering and achiness-the kind that needs immediate filling. He had the allure of a bad boy and successful businessman blended perfectly together-like he majored in it in college.
”What do you want,” he asked as a ghost of a smile pa.s.sed his lips.
Why, why, why did that sound s.e.xual to me?
5.
Jameson
”It's a fallacy that men can't focus on two things at once. Example: b.o.o.bs.” @Kavon #b.o.o.bS I'd been staring up at the squiggly lines on the wall since I sat my sorry a.s.s against the snack machine. My head was a mess. Christ. My whole life was a mess.
Sophia slept with the Mailroom Guy. What in the actual f.u.c.k? I mean first off, he was a punk a.s.s kid. He couldn't have been more that twenty-two. Second, he was the mailroom guy. What in the actual f.u.c.k? You put us in a line up and ask a bunch of woman walking down the street which of us they'd want more. You can bet I'd be the one they'd choose every time.
Every time but where Sophia was concerned.
The mailroom guy?
I busted open another bag of chips and peeked inside. Wonderful. I bought a bag of air with one mouthful of chips inside. What I needed was a d.a.m.n sandwich, or a steak. Gulping at my water, my gaze moved restlessly around the narrow hallway. The need to crawl out of my own skin was infuriating. I was Jameson Holt, d.a.m.n it. People wanted to be me, not the other way around. Squeezing my eyes shut, I crushed the bag of chips in my hand.
Hearing a shuffle along the rug, I looked up.
h.e.l.lo.
Cascades of wavy, ink black hair, plump, rosy lips, and stunning blue eyes. And she was wearing...Jesus...what was she wearing? A hooker on the business level of a hotel? That's not stereotypical at all. I wondered which of the losers I worked with had to pay to play, and how much, because that was the best-looking prost.i.tute I'd ever seen. I'd only seen the crackhead kind on the corner of 42nd in New York, black-toothed and track-marked.