Filthy Gorgeous (12 page)

I rip the magazine away from his face and a book falls to the floor.

I pick it up.

Spanked by the Secretary
by
P.L. Underlust.

I flick through. Whole passages have been annotated and tabbed with pink sticky notes.

I clear my throat and read aloud. “‘Bend over and let me show you, baby,’ he growls and throws me a wink. I catch it with a smile, bend over his desk and await my punishment. My Adonis raises a hand and I pool myself …”

“Enough!” Karl spits out his drink. “Pool myself? Is she incontinent?”

I shrug. “It’s up for discussion, Karl. Raj, I thought that we’d successfully steered you out of this phase. No more trashy romance novels, you hear me?”

Raj shrugs. “I just want to know what women want.”

I laugh and put my hand on his shoulder. “That’s easy. Read my lips—multiple orgasms.”

Karl shakes his head. “Ignore him, Raj. There’s more to it than that.”

I interject. “It’s all sales—you just need training. Then Bangalore you shall, Raj. Bangalore you shall.”

I’m feeling impatient. “Let’s start with first lesson: the successful procurement of alcohol.”

Raj smiles nervously as we drag him to the bar. “What does an alpha drink, Boss?”

I hook an arm over his shoulder. “An alpha drinks what the hell he likes and doesn’t give a shit what other people think.”

Raj stares in wonder at the rows of brightly colored bottles on the shelves before finally announcing. “I’ll take a virgin mojito.”

I facepalm. “Two whiskey sours please, Delphine. Easy on the lemon.”

He’ll learn.

A short while later …

“Is he dead?” 

“I don’t think so.”

Karl jabs a green cocktail stirrer into Raj’s ear. “How long has he been drinking?”

I check my Rolex. “Half an hour. Let him sleep it off.”

We count the empty glasses on the bar. Six shots of rum and three whiskey sours. Not bad for a beginner, but there’s still hard work to be done. Speaking of hard work, Jockass joins us at the bar. He’s fucking wasted. He hooks a thumb over his shoulder.

“Did you see that? That twink winked at me!” He turns around and grabs his crotch. “You want some of this!”

I let out a controlled sigh. If ignorance ever hits five dollars a barrel, I want drilling rights to Tyler Strickland’s head. “Live and let live. Take it as a compliment. Watch your back or you’ll wind up on the front cover of the
National Enquirer
.”

And if Tyler Strickland winds up on the front cover of any rag for anything other than match-winning touchdowns, it would be a fucking disaster for our ad campaign. Call me a hypocrite, but I think I’m finally beginning to understand how my father feels.

I wave at the bartender. “Cancel those whiskey sours, Delphine. We’ll take a dozen Pink Sladies. Give one to the gentleman over there—it’s on the house.”

Tyler takes a step back. “What the hell? Pink Sladies? You have a drink named after you?”

From the look of incredulity on Tyler’s face, I’d say he conjectured that scoring the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl final would be the ultimate achievement for an alpha male.

I don’t think so.

I got a goddamn cocktail named after me.

Beat that, Jockass.

Undeterred by my superiority in the field of alcoholic beverages, Tyler makes his next move. He shows us a home video of him receiving a blowie from two cheerleaders. Make no mistake about it; this isn’t about male camaraderie.

This is about his dick.

For guys, penis equals power. The bigger the cock, the more power you’ve got. Nowhere is safe from our phallic hijinks. The boardroom. The bedroom. The playing field. There isn’t a man alive who hasn’t sized up his penis against another guy’s crown jewels in the locker room.

I know you’re wondering how I size up against a brute like Strickland. Let’s just say, I’m not left with feelings of inadequacy.

A smug smile spreads over his face. “Meet Brittany and Kylie. They’re twins.”

Karl peers over his shoulder. “Great point of view footage. If your glittering career goes belly-up, be sure to give Spielberg a call.” He turns and whispers in my ear. “Pray tell me, how long do we have to babysit this baboon?”

“Two weeks, Karl. Two long fucking weeks.”

Raj wakes up with a jolt. Confused and intoxicated, he grabs the phone from Tyler. “Is that a carrot?”

And then she slides down the bar, landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Thud.

Tyler grunts. “Is he for fucking real?”

Yep. Meet Raj Kapoor—probably the only guy in Manhattan naïve enough to mistake a dildo for a carrot. Parker scoops him from the ground and hoists him fireman-style over his shoulder. “Let’s get Cinderella home.”

Tyler busts a now-or-never move on Delphine and her friend, gesturing for me to join them. The party may be over for Raj, but for some of us it’s only just getting started.

***

It’s the morning after the night before.

“Uh, yeah … uh, yeah, uh, uh.”

Thud.

“Uh … uh … uh.”

Thud.

I’m back at my apartment, but I’m not alone. The orchestra of grunts coming from my bedroom has nothing to do with me.

I’m innocent.

Jockass thought it would be bad PR for him to be seen hooking up with a bartender, so he asked if he could bring Delphine back to my crib to fuck her senseless.

Before you beat me up for being a sexist asshole—those were his words, not mine. As I’m under strict instructions from Juliana to acquiesce to anything this jerk wants, I had no choice but to agree to his demand. 

I feel like an extra on a goddamn porn flick.

“Stick it in there … fuck yeah … three, two, one, touchdown!”

I lay back and smile to myself.

Did you hear that? Jockass is a two-pump chump. He completely skipped the pre-match warm-up and went straight for the end zone. If Delphine had been lucky enough to hook me, you can bet your bottom dollar she’d still be bucking like a bronco right now.

“Touchdown!”

“Shhhh, Petie.”

I turn onto my side and pull a cushion over my head to try and block his wailing. I need some goddamn sleep. Not just because of Jockass, but every time I close my eyes, my mind races with dirty thoughts about Ella. I stare longingly at my kitchen countertop. I’m going frigging insane here.

I grab my cell.

Still nothing.

Now there’s a pounding at my door.

I groan and check my watch. It’s six-thirty in the morning.

“Okay, okay, I’m coming!” Yawning, I stomp over to the door and unchain the lock. When I open the door, I take a step back.

Look who’s here.

It’s Ella Bryant, harbinger of erections.

See, what did I tell you? I knew she’d be back.

I’d go straight in for the kill—her neck looks very tempting right now, but she’s scowling like she’s pre-menstrual. I casually brace an arm against the doorframe and flash one of my trademark smiles.

Her eyes rake over my disheveled appearance. The scruffy hair. The stubble. The raging boner that’s blossoming underneath my tighty-whities.

I yawn sleepily and rub my eyes. “Well, hello, Miss Bryant. You’re just in time for breakfast. I know a great place—”

“I’m here for Tyler.”

What the hell?

Her words hit me harder than a kick in the balls from a sensei. I’d respond, but I’ve been rendered temporarily speechless. I bet you didn’t think that was possible, did you?

She’s here for Tyler.

My Ella.

Except that she isn’t my Ella.

Ella is with Tyler?

It’s Tyler and Ella.

Ella and Tyler.

Holy shit.

They can’t be together. My beautiful Goddess and Jockass are knocking boots? My stomach twists in disbelief. I stand in the doorway, gaping like a zombie from
Night of the Living Dead
.

When I eventually speak, all I can say is. “Right.”

Pathetic, I know, but it’s all I’ve got.

Her voice is quiet when she explains. “He called me. He said he needed me to collect him.” She pauses for a second and looks at me blankly. “How do you two know—?”

We’re interrupted by a booming voice. “Babe, so glad you could come.” Tyler skirts past me and stoops down to plant a kiss on her forehead.

Get me a bucket. I want to gag.
Now
.

Did you hear that? Me neither. There’s not a shred of repentance in his voice.

I make eye contact with Ella, but she’s glaring at Tyler. And just when you thought that things couldn’t get any worse, my bedroom door creaks open.

Delphine emerges.

Shit.

The good news? She’s not naked.

But she is wearing my best Saint Laurent shirt—the very same I wore to dinner with Ella. Not that anyone’s checking the label with nipples like that on show. Delphine waves and settles down on my couch.

I close my eyes and say a silent prayer.

Let’s just pause here to examine the evidence.

I answered the door with a raging hard on. Then a semi-nude girl emerged from my bedroom wearing my shirt. Does this look suspicious? Does a bear shit in the woods?

Ella’s voice is cloaked in suspicion. “You guys look worse for wear.”

Tyler grunts and pulls on his brogues. “It was a heavy night. Slade is a demon with the cocktails.”

She zeroes in on me. “I can imagine. Actually, he’s my bachelor of the month.”

“Is that so?” Jockass looks entertained. He leans into Ella and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. “Take it from me, babe, he knows what he’s doing.”

I blink in horror.

Irony, thou art a cruel mistress. This is my longest dry spell since scout camp and now I’m a manwhore? If only that motherfucker knew I’d tongued his girl in this very room.

He gives me a conspiratorial wink as he spirits Ella out of my apartment. “Catch you later, Slade. I’ll let you know about that round of golf.”

They leave.

What the hell just happened?

You’re probably wondering why I went along with that charade rather than calling them both out? 

Let me explain.

You’ve just witnessed the Guy Code in action. The Guy Code pertains to a guy’s interaction with his friends, especially when relating to their significant other.

Make no mistake about it; I don’t consider Tyler Strickland a friend. Not even close. I loathe that smarmy motherfucker with every inch of my body, but for the sake of my father’s business, I have to play nice.

If I don’t, our campaign will derail faster than an A.A. meeting in pub during happy hour.

Violation of the Guy Code is a serious infraction of male-male relations, with suitable punishments being a serious beating, followed by a rearrangement of facial features leading to hospitalization.

Do you want to know what these sacred rules are?

Sure you do.

Rule number one: never fuck a friend’s sister, girlfriend, or ex-girlfriend.

Ever.

You should probably add their mother to that list. And grandmother. Anyway, this rule stands even if she’s already halfway down your dick and begging for anal.

Unless it’s Parker’s mom—she’s smoking hot.

Rule number two: a man should never tell his friend's girlfriend if he finds out that his friend is fondling the lady goods of another. Do this and your mutual friends will beat your ass for being in violation of rule number three, which is;

Bro’s before hoes: friends and clients always, always come before women. Adhere to this rule and all violations of the guy code will be forgiven.

So, there you have it. The Guy Code.

Pretty simple, huh? 

Of course, now I’m the scapegoat. The patsy. It’s like Watergate all over again, but with added sex.

And you remember what happened there, don’t you?

It’s not the crime that causes the biggest fallout.

It’s the cover up.

And that, my friends, is a lesson that I’m about to learn the hard way.

***

Later in the day …

My team and I are having lunch at our favorite Japanese restaurant. I’m relaying the sordid details of last night to the guys. Karl hands me an uramaki roll. I feel like a goddamn uramaki roll—inside out and the fucking wrong way around.

I poke it with a chopstick. “And then she rocks up at my crib this morning to pick him up. That shithead has balls of steel.”

Parker smirks. “I can’t say I blame him. I’d like to put Delphine in a glass and drink it. You’re just jealous he’s getting more pussy than you.”