Part 5 (1/2)
The treadmill leveled out and I slowed to a clipped walk for the cool down portion of my final run. It was all I could do to put one foot in front of the other as I prayed my d.i.c.k didn't get any harder.
When the belt beneath my feet finally came to a stop, I all but sprinted across the gym to the locker room and slipped into the first available shower stall.
The spray of cold water slammed into me like a truck and stole my breath away as it soaked into my gym clothes and filled my shoes.
”Get your s.h.i.+t together, Porter,” I chastised myself as I kicked off my sopping shoes and tossed my soggy clothes into the corner.
Completely ignorant of the frigid stream dousing the rest of my body, my d.i.c.k stayed stiff as steel and pointed accusingly at the shower handle.
Flashes of Holly's creamy skin sliding over every inch of my body played through my mind and I realized there was only one way to resolve the problem of my arousal.
I gripped my disobedient shaft and quickly worked my strokes into a brutal pace. The muscles in my exhausted thighs tightened more with every thrust of my bucking hips.
I felt the deep tightening in the pit of my stomach as my b.a.l.l.s drew up against my body. I lost all control when my thighs finally cramped and my abs seized up to force my o.r.g.a.s.m out of me like a gunshot.
”f.u.c.k!” I yelled as my legs gave out and I dropped to my knees.
The tiles at eye level were covered in jets of my s.e.m.e.n. My vision went fuzzy as my softening c.o.c.k unloaded the rest of its payload into the drain at my knees.
My head spun around at the sound of the shower curtain behind me being ripped open. One of the personal trainers I had worked with on more than one occasion stood there in his gym shorts and company polo. He looked from me to the wall and then back to me before his eyes dropped to my a.s.s and a grin flashed across his face.
”I thought someone was dying,” he explained before turning away and closing the shower curtain behind him, ”Clean up your mess before you leave, Ryder.”
”What the f.u.c.k is wrong with you?” I asked the smug piece of flesh, now napping between my burning thighs.
I reached up and increased the temperature of the water before halfheartedly tossing water at the wall in a sad attempt to rid the shower of any evidence left behind.
How the h.e.l.l was I supposed to sit through an entire meal with her across the table from me? I couldn't even make it through an hour at the gym with her halfway across the county.
”This isn't going to end well,” I muttered as the last of my e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n swirled down the drain.
”So this is what a Monday is supposed to feel like.”
I had managed to make it to my office without turning around and climbing back under my blankets, but hadn't actually done any work yet. I sat there staring at my computer screen waiting for it to give me instructions on how to do my job.
”Serves you right for actually enjoying your weekend.”
My eyes went to the doorway where my favorite member of my support staff was leaning casually.
”Shut it, Mitch. I liked it better when I didn't bother with silly things like days off.”
Mitchel Michaelson, gay secretary extraordinaire, pushed himself away from the doorframe and strode into my office like he owned the place. He was one of the three people on the planet who could do so without losing life or limb. The other two were Becks and the man who wrote my paychecks.
”As your executive a.s.sistant, I have to agree with you. More s.h.i.+t gets done that way. As a gay man who loves to party on the weekends, I feel like I need to organize a festival to celebrate the fact that Holly Nash does indeed have a life outside of work.”
”You're a b.i.t.c.h,” I turned away from him and pretended to work on my computer.
”A b.i.t.c.h who's right. Now give me all the dirty details! How was the party? Did you get gang-banged while dozens of creepers stood around the room jerking off and filming it with their phones?”
I deadpanned him. He knew how ridiculous his question was and I wasn't going to warrant it with a response. Instead of balking as I had hoped, he waved a perfectly manicured hand at me and continued.
”Did you at least get to see one of the Princes of p.o.r.n get his freak on? I mean, those parties are pretty legendary. I have this friend whose cousin knew this guy that went to one of them and totally got banged by Roman in the middle of the kitchen. Not a single appetizer was spared from their bout of p.o.r.nographic pa.s.sion. Rumor has it there's a tape of it out there somewhere.”
”You're disgusting,” it took everything I had not to smile at him, ”I imagine there's a reason you came in here beyond just grilling me about the Hale brothers and their s.e.xual practices.”
”Nope,” he rose from the chair he had draped himself across and made his way back into the hallway, ”You should really work on your storytelling, Holly. It'd make my life much more interesting.”
The soles of his steel gray Cole Haans snapped sharply on the marble hallway as he sashayed his way back to his desk. Moments later, the phone on my desk lit up and his voice boomed from the speaker, ”Your two o'clock is cancelled, your two-thirty has rescheduled to three, and the producer for the new Michael Bay flick wants you to call him as soon as possible.”
”Thank you, darling. I'd be lost without you.”
”Don't you forget it!” The line went dead.
I absently scrolled through my emails and compulsively rearranged everything on my desk in an effort to convince myself that I was too busy to call the producer. Talking to the people behind the cameras is my least favorite part of the job. I get the scripts, I attend the meetings, I find the faces. That's my job and I'm d.a.m.n good at it. I don't need some overbearing, half-psychotic perfectionist flaunting his budget in my face and telling me how to do the one thing I'm really good at.
When I had organized the crumpled up headshots in the garbage can under my desk, I finally admitted to myself that I couldn't justify putting the call off any longer. If I was going to get to my lunch break at a decent hour, I'd have to get it over with sooner rather than later.
I should've called sooner.
After three hours of being lectured on the importance of the eye and hair color for the leading man and how it was imperative for the leading lady to have an impossibly tiny waist, it was a quarter after two. I had thirty minutes to find food, devour said food, and get my a.s.s back to the office to prepare for the meeting I had at three.
I was nudging my way toward hangry and knew better than to go into a meeting with a potential client in that state of mind.
I had just bent to grab my purse and sprint for the parking garage when Mitch came strolling back into my office with a Styrofoam container in his hands.
He set it on my desk and walked away without a word.
I opened the container to find a BLT on whole wheat bread with a grilled chicken salad on the side.
I mashed the intercom b.u.t.ton on my phone, ”Remind me to give you a raise.”
If he responded, I couldn't hear him over the sound of the perfectly cooked bacon being crunched between my teeth.
After devouring the entire sandwich and half the salad, I started to feel human again. I stopped shoveling food into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in days and took a more civilized approach to the last half of my lettuce and chicken. I picked up my fork and used that as a shovel instead of my fingers.
I sat back, sated and borderline comatose, as the urge to drink the last of the dressing out of the container dissipated.
”Your three o'clock just called to confirm his appointment.” Mitch announced from the doorway, ”He's about ten minutes out. Get your life together, wipe the ranch off your face, and for the love of Gaga, buy some granola bars to keep in your purse. You're a scary woman on a good day, but you turn into some kind of angry black hole for food when you're hungry and G.o.d help anyone who gets too close.”
”I'll see what I can do. Can you grab me the script for this project? I want to glance through it one more time before I listen to this guy drone on for the next two hours about his 'artistic vision' and how his movie just has to star Angelina.”
”And that bulls.h.i.+t is exactly why I just guard the door,” Mitch spun on his heel, snapped his fingers out to the side, and shook his head. His inner diva always did a h.e.l.l of a job expressing his distaste.
My phone vibrated on my desk as Mitch dropped the miniature ma.n.u.script on my desk.
”Thanks, Snook.u.ms.”
”Mmmmhmmm,” was the only response I got as he flitted back to his desk.
I decided the text message would be more fun than a read through of a script that was doomed to be completely rewritten at least three times during production.