Best Laid Plans
Authors: Robyn Kelly
Text copyright ©2015
Robyn Kelly
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
scanned, or distributed in any form or by any means, printed or electronic,
without written permission of the author.
Best Laid Plans
is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business
establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The best part of
working for yourself is never having to take a job you don’t want—unless it’s
the only job you can get. Which is why I’m the event planner for Lois Amsford’s
fiftieth birthday party. The theme is “Fifty Shades of Anything but Grey,” and
whenever anyone within two hundred miles of San Francisco wants a
Fifty
Shades
party, I am the person they call.
It’s not what I dreamed of when I started JW Events (JW are
my initials—Jillian Whitkins). I thought I would be doing weddings, art
openings, charity balls, fashion shows, and elegant, sophisticated events. But
in 2011, Jenny Mitchell wanted a bachelorette party with a
Fifty Shades of
Grey
theme.
At that time, I didn’t know the difference between a flogger
and a cat o’ nine tails, so I spent a weekend reading all three of the books. I
found male bartenders slash strippers who could pass for deeply disturbed
billionaires, scoured every thrift store for gray neckties, and turned a corner
of the Starlight Room into the Red Room of Pain.
I had a makeup artist create
little plastic burn scars, and we glued them on our shirtless staff. They
walked through the party with trays of
hors d’oeuvres
, stopped
at groups of women, and with smoldering eyes, held out the tray and barked, “Eat!”
We ran out of food within the first hour.
My guys loved it. If they
didn’t want to be touched, they could grab the offending hand and say, “Don’t. It’s
the way I am.” And if they
wanted
to be touched, all they had to say was,
“You’re biting your lip. You know what that does to me.”
Everyone had a great time and
by midnight, Facebook was flooded with selfies of drunk women and shirtless
Christian impersonators. Jenny thoughtfully tagged all the pictures to my
business, and the next three years were a blur of whips and chains and a
healthy bank balance.
I make it very clear to
clients that I do not do sex parties. My events are fantasies. The birthday
girl may get a spanking, the bachelorette may be blindfolded, there may even be
a gentle flogging demonstration, but nudity and sex are not allowed.
Despite my rules (someone
actually called me a prude!), no one wanted to hire me for those elegant events
I wanted to do. Blushing brides didn’t want to look into the eyes of the woman
who saw them do Jell-O shots off the belly button of three different men at
their bachelorette party. In fact, I was about to fold the business entirely
when the movie came out and we had a brief revival.
That has come to an end. Tonight
is the only event I have on the books. It’s time to move on, but I feel bad
having to let go of my only employee, Robert. He’s been with me from the start.
He provided the “servers” (which is what we call them because it sounds more
professional than “hot shirtless guys”) at my first party. When he found out
what we were doing, he had so many good ideas and valuable contacts that I
started using him at all my events. He’s great at organizing, planning, and
general herding—and I couldn’t have done it without him. When he hinted he was
looking for work, I hired him on the spot. I’m surprised he didn’t leave me
years ago, but he’s a free spirit and wouldn’t do well in a nine-to-five
environment, which makes me feel worse about letting him go. People think we’re
a couple, but we’re more like brother and sister. And, unlike me, Robert has a
husband.
By ten, the party is in full
swing. The theme of her fiftieth birthday is “Anything But Grey,” so Lois has
insisted that no gray hair is allowed. We have a selection of wigs at the coat
check for those with the offending color (including the men), but anyone who
wants a secret identity for the night is free to wear one (including the men—and
a surprising number of them are).
The downside of a secret
identity is that some of the guests are getting a little bold. Our servers
started to complain about being accosted and so Robert and I are on guard duty,
monitoring the room to protect the virtue of our shirtless staff. I wonder whether
it’s a full moon tonight.
“I don’t remember buying a
Cher wig,” Robert says under his breath.
I turn to look in his
direction. “I think that’s her real hair,” I mutter, trying to keep the
jealousy out of my voice. My hair has always been a mess of curls. It’s a burnt
copper color and I like how it looks when I straighten it, but that takes more
time and patience than I have these days. I’ve always wanted long, straight
hair and that’s what this woman has.
She’s young. Mid-twenties
maybe, and short, even in those four-inch heels. But it’s the hair you have to
notice. Black, straight, and hangs past her dress (granted, it’s a
very
short dress). It surrounds her, frames her face, and she wears it like a cape. It’s
both a thing of beauty and kind of creepy. “She looks like Cousin It from the
Addams Family.”
One of my assets is a sense
of humor. And one of my character defects is a sarcastic sense of humor. I
normally keep it in check, but when I’m nervous or tired, my mouth overrides my
social filters.
Robert laughs. “Yes, she
does! Miss It!”
“Don’t be sexist,” I scold
him. “It’s Ms. It.”
She is texting on her phone,
completely oblivious of the party around her, or our stares. Luke, who’s
probably the most stunningly handsome of our servers (and he would be the first
to agree), approaches her with a tray of champagne flutes.
Robert nudges me. “I think
Luke is going to make a move.”
Ms. It looks up from her
phone, and I see her face. She is a pale white, almost vampire white, with
black bangs that are cut just above her eyebrows. Her makeup is very deliberate
and dramatic, with bright red lipstick and enough eyeliner and shadow to give
her raccoon eyes. She takes a glass from Luke’s tray and I watch her lips move.
I don’t know what she says but Luke steps back and then hurries off.
Robert and I look at each
other, and then he motions to Luke. When Luke reaches us, I notice how pale he
is under the spray-on tan.
“What happened over there?”
Luke glances cautiously toward
Ms. It to make sure she isn’t watching. “I gave her my standard line. ‘I’d
like to bite that lip of yours.’ And she looked at me and said, ‘And I’d like
to bite that dick of yours. Hard!’ And then she snapped her teeth together!”
I put my hand on his arm, and
instantly regret it. Luke likes to oil his body and now my hand is greased. “When
you finish handing out those glasses, why don’t you take a break. And you can
avoid her for the rest of the night.”
He flashes me his $28,000
smile (he didn’t cap his four wisdom teeth), and thanks me before he heads back
into the crowd. Robert hands me a napkin off Luke’s serving tray as it passes.
It’s a simple gesture, and reminds me how grateful I am to have him for a
friend. “I’m going to miss this. You always seem to know what I need. I wish…”
Robert grabs my clean hand. “Don’t
cry. I only took one napkin.” He smiles warmly at me. “This has been a great
ride. The last few years…it was a dream job. Thank you for giving me that.” I
notice Robert’s eyes are getting a little misty, too. “Let me go check on the
cake.” He heads to the kitchen, even though we both know there’s an hour before
the cake is served.
I follow Robert’s lead and take
a lap around the room, checking that the bar stations are well stocked. It’s
busywork, but it’s better than wallowing in self-pity.
When I finish the circuit, Ms. It
is still glued to her phone, while knocking back a glass of champagne. There
are three empty ones next to her, lined up like dominoes. News travels fast and
my guys must be too scared to come near her. I grab a cocktail tray and head
over.
She’s talking on her phone by
the time I arrive, too absorbed in her conversation to notice me pick up her
empties. I am not an eavesdropper, but it is my duty to evaluate her state of
inebriation for insurance exposure purposes. At least, that’s the excuse I give
myself.
“That’s so unfair. You don’t
care about me. Now what am I supposed to do?” she whines into the phone.
My guess is that Ms. It
has a drinking problem because I’ve heard all those phrases from the drunks in
my life. I don’t need to hear any more. I’ll let the staff know that she is cut
off. And to expect her to make a scene about it.
I circle through the party, telling
my servers and bartenders. She’s easy to describe and most of my team know
exactly who I’m talking about.
I head to the bar near the
entrance where Kyle is stacking the champagne flutes into a tower. I know it’s
Kyle because the tattoo on his back has his name spelled out in big letters. I
once asked him why and he said, “So women will know me coming and going.”
I never feel comfortable with
stacking glassware, especially in a city with a history of earthquakes. I am
about to say something when I spot Ms. It sitting on a stool. She doesn’t
have her nose buried in her phone now. She is staring into the eyes of a man. Well,
trying to stare. She’s so drunk her eyes keep crossing. All I can see is the
back of his head as he hands her a drink—which is totally irresponsible. She
says, “Thank you, sir,” and he responds, “Call me Jackson.”
I am not a snoop (I keep
telling myself) but the low rumble of his voice—with just those three little
words—piques my interest. Her hair starts to sway and I know she’s wobbly. The
man who says his name is Jackson (can you trust a man who gives a drunk woman more
alcohol?) puts his hands out to steady her. The most beautiful hands I’ve ever
seen. I don’t notice men’s hands normally, unless they’re really dirty or
touching me inappropriately, but his hands are sexy. They’re large, and
masculine, and…I don’t know how to describe the appeal of them, but if you
think the word manhandled is bad, you haven’t seen this man’s hands.
I want to see his face. I’m
not a…oh, who am I kidding? I have been snooping and spying and stalking Ms. It
since I saw her, and now I’ve moved on to the man sitting next to her. Maybe it
is a full moon tonight, or maybe I just want to see the face that’s attached to
the first hands I ever found sexy, or maybe I want to know who would hit on a
drunk girl when a perfectly wonderful, responsible, single, clear-headed woman
is standing right behind him. For some reason, that thought makes me angry
enough to act on this crazy impulse.
I slide behind the bar,
keeping my back to the two of them. Several boxes of champagne are on the floor,
and I bend over to pick up a bottle. My plan is to turn around, set the bottle
on the bar, and open it while discreetly giving the man the once-over. I know
from experience that a hot voice doesn’t necessarily go with an attractive
face, but I have no experience with sexy hands.
The first problem is that
this box of champagne is glued shut, and I need to rip it open without breaking
a nail. It takes several tries until I finally get enough of the lid pried back
to pull out a bottle. Now, for the big reveal. I turn, keeping my eyes down,
and peel the foil that covers the cork. This is actually fun. Maybe I’ll become
a private investigator. Robert keeps telling me I have world-class snooping
skills.
“Oh, champagne! Let’s have a
toast, sir,” Ms. It drawls. She must be too drunk to remember his name.
“Jackson. Call me Jackson. Finish
the one you have, first.” His tone is so authoritative. He probably has to
speak that way to get it into her alcohol-soaked brain. Now is the perfect
moment to look, when he’s talking to her.
I lift my eyes, targeting the
prey in my sights.
If I had to pick a face in a
police lineup that went with those hands, it would be his. I’m around
attractive men all the time. Every event I do has shirtless waitstaff, so I’ve
become immune to male beauty. Don’t get me wrong: I can still appreciate a
finely chiseled chin and buff body, but experience has taught me that if any of
those men had a choice between staring in my eyes and staring in a mirror, I
would be a distant second.
Yet next to him, those men
are pretty. He is
hot
. And it’s not just physical. There’s a sexual
energy that radiates off him like Sterno under a chafing dish. I could stare at
this man’s profile all day. His skin is the color of the salted caramel ice
cream at Bi-Rite Market, and his lips point to the dimple in his cheek. His
hair is damp, which makes the wavy, light-brown mass glisten under the lights.
I suspect it will dry to a dirty blonde hue. I smell the faint scent of
chlorine, and visualize him stepping out of a swimming pool wearing nothing but
a smile.
From somewhere deep inside, I
let out a little “Ohhh.” Not like in “Oh, dear.” More like “Ohhh Santa, bring
me
him!
”
When his head turns in my
direction, I know I should look away. I know I am going to flunk the PI aptitude
test if I let this man catch me staring. Yet I can’t
not
see what he
looks like. I’m hoping that there is a tremendous scar across the far side of
his face (that he got in a duel) because then he wouldn’t be perfect, and if he
wasn’t perfect, I might have a chance. Yet when his head turns and his eyes
lock on me, I can see there’s nothing marring his square jaw and sensual full
lips.
The corner of his mouth curls
up into something like a smile. A self-satisfied one. I know I am gawking but I
can’t look away. My gaze moves up from his mouth to his liquid blue eyes. If I
had to match them to a linen sample, Topaz Olympus is the closest. They’re
hypnotic and seductive and I feel like a deer in the headlights. Topaz Olympus
headlights.