Filthy Gorgeous (14 page)

When we arrive at my pad, I scan the room for any incriminating evidence.

Damn my maid for doing her job. Any trace of dipshit’s indiscretion has been wiped away with her feather duster.

I grab the wallet from the dining room table and hand it to Ella. Her eyes meet mine. Then she takes a step backward and hesitates. She makes the briefest of eye contact. It’s as if she wants me to beg her not to leave.

“Stay for a while,” I say in my best non-threatening voice.

I don’t want her to leave, but I don’t need to beg.

Why?

I have a secret weapon.

Women subconsciously equate coffee with sex.

All ad agencies know it. Remember the coffee commercials of the nineties? The sagas in which couples confess their burning loins for each other over a mug of black gold before ripping each other’s clothes off and copulating like wild stags on the dining room table?

Watch.

I lean against my kitchen island. “Coffee?”

She hesitates for a moment, so I raise a hopeful eyebrow and smile.

She licks her lips. “Alright, but I’ll skip the foam this time.”

What did I tell you?

Works like a goddamn charm.

I watch my beauty as she slowly stalks around my apartment. Her eyes dart from wall to wall as she studies my artwork and other paraphernalia from my overseas travels. She stills next to a framed black and white photo of my parents.

“Wow. This must be your father. He looks just like you.”

“Sure is. It was taken on Mom and Dad’s honeymoon. Have you ever been to Paris?”

She replaces the photo on the cabinet. “No. I was supposed to spend a term there during school, but it didn’t happen. I’d love to go some day.”

I hand her the mug. “You’d love it. All those galleries and shit, though I’m more of a Moulin Rouge kind of guy myself.”

“Figures.”

We sit down at opposite ends of my couch, the very same one I laid on while her boyfriend humped Delphine in my lair of deceit. We drink and talk.

She tells me about her first crush, David Bowie in
Labyrinth
. I hate him. I tell her about mine. Jane Fonda. Apparently that’s not a cool thing to admit. I was wild about the leotard and spandex pants. So, spandex pants and a mullet are sexy when they’re on a guy but not a woman?

Go figure.

“You must love your job, Ella. You get to wine and dine some of the most eligible bachelors in the city.”

She shrugs and rolls her eyes. “My boss is a slave driver and I spend all day writing about bachelors.” She waves her hand dismissively. “It’s always the same. ‘Hey, princess! Suck my dick!’ or ‘hey gorgeous, why don’t we do this interview from my bed?’ Most of these so-called bachelors would stick their dick in a vacuum cleaner if they thought that it would suck hard enough.”

Her smile fades. “No offence, I mean … I didn’t mean you.” 

“None taken.”

She has a point.  Men are dogs. We’d lick our own balls if we were agile enough.

I raise my eyebrows. “So, what would you do instead?”

While she speaks, I help myself to a view of the girls. Just look at them, I mean, they’re just right
there.
I force my eyes away from her cleavage. “… I love animals. I studied at Cornell for a semester, but I didn’t finish school.”

“Seriously?”

She nods stiffly. “The fees were too high.” 

She had a lucky escape as far as I’m concerned. Paying fat stacks to stick your hand up a horses’ ass?

Gross.

Anyway, I figure that if I’m going to overpower my enemy then I need to find a weakness in his defense. A chink in his armor. So, I pump Ella for information about Jockass. His career. Their relationship. Apparently he’s a doting boyfriend, blah blah blah.

I want to hurl him through a window … of a piranha tank.

“Tyler is earning the big bucks now. Go back to college. You hate your job. He has the cash. Seems like the obvious thing to do.”

It’s an act of kindness that I don’t expect from a guy with his level of moral fortitude. Ella wraps both hands around her mug and clenches it tightly. “I guess so, but we’ve been so busy with endorsements and interviews since the Super Bowl.”

I ask her an innocent question. “Do you and Tyler, do you go away together much?”

Okay, so it’s not an innocent question, but my curiosity got the better of me. Somebody needs to keep an eye on that asshat and his wandering one-eyed jackhammer.

“I try to attend the away games as often as I can, but it’s difficult with work. Even when I do go with him, I rarely get to see him.”

Yep, because he’s too busy banging cheerleaders. I slowly bang my teaspoon against the mug and imagine its Tyler’s head.

Against a big fucking rock.

I grit my teeth.

Christ, I can’t look her in the eye. So I settle for her legs, instead.

Bad move.

I discreetly slide a cushion over my crotch. I don’t think I need to tell you why.

Enough of the small talk—let’s get down to business.

Though I sound blunt, there’s genuine concern in my voice when I ask. “Is everything okay between you and Tyler?”

She blows out a semi-annoyed breath. “Sure.”

“Riiiight. So how come you wound up having angry foreplay with my good self?”

She circles a thumb around the rim of her mug. “Like I said, Alex, I was confused. Can we just forget it? Tyler just needed some space, that’s all.”

Let’s stop right here.

When a guy says he needs space, he means it. He needs space, alright; space to fuck other women. Ladies, let’s clear this up once and for all. Maintaining a healthy relationship with an emotionally unavailable man is like a threesome with Brad Pitt and George Clooney—it’s only ever going to happen in your dreams.

Got that?

Harsh words, but true. All Ella does want to talk about it. Her lips wouldn’t be moving otherwise.

“How long have you been together?”

Anything less than three years and I’m going straight to fourth base.

“Seven years.”

I splutter. “Seven years?”

Un-fucking-believable.

I measure monogamy in dog years. By that yardstick, she’s been dating Jockass for forty-two goddamn years. Women of Ella’s caliber are like Halley’s Comet; they only enter your orbit once in a lifetime. If you’re stupid enough to retire your dick for life, you seal the deal within two years,
max
.

She’s spent seven years with that one-push wonder.

The girl needs a Pink Sladie, stat. 

Ella picks at the hem of her skirt nervously. “Like I said, things have been difficult since the Super Bowl final. Girls approach Tyler all the time.” I nod sympathetically as she continues. “We’ll go for dinner, and they come over and ask him to sign their breasts right in the middle of the restaurant.”

Nice.
Sorry. Okay, okay—that was inappropriate. Remind me, why the hell is she with this asshole again?

Her voice sounds defeated when she tells me, “God knows what they ask him to sign when I’m not with him.”

She doesn’t need to tell me—I’ve seen the sex tape. Ella opens her eyes. Don’t worry; I’m not going to pounce on her yet. It’s too soon. Women are like ovens; it takes them fifteen minutes to warm up. Have you ever been down a water slide when it isn’t wet?

Trust me—it’s no fun.

I slide my arm around her shoulder.

And that’s as far as I get.

“Touchdown!”

Guess who?

That fucking bird. I swear I’ll ring his neck.

Ella jumps off the chair. “Is that Petie? He sounds distressed.”

I shrug dismissively. “He’s okay, Ella. He just needs to get laid.”

She squints in disapproval. “Are you sure? Where is he?”

“In my bedroom.”

She looks at me with suspicion. “Still? Cockatoos are social animals, Alex. You need to put them in the busiest area of your home or they go crazy.”

I smile proudly. “I did. My bedroom has more traffic than the Suez Canal.”

Ella hauls a cushion at me and laughs. Well, it’s more of a snort, but it’s a start. I follow her into my bedroom and tap on the top of his cage. Christ, it’s like a jungle in there. Raj really went to town with the plants. It’s frigging impossible to see him.

I tap again. “Don’t be shy, Petie. Come and say hello to Ella.”
Strange.
There’s no sign of him.

“Petie, come here, boy.”

Making tweeting noises, I poke my finger through the wire. Ella traces her hand over the cage and tugs at the corner.

“Alex, is this the new cage?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Is it zinc?”

I shrug. “I have no clue. Raj ordered it.”

“Zinc can be toxic for birds. Look, I think I see him behind those branches.”

She opens the door, pulls back the leaves. It’s only then that we see Petie is cowering in the corner. His eyes are half-closed and he’s surrounded by empty chocolate wrappers. And cockatoo vomit.

Ella covers her mouth with her hand. “We need to get him to a medical center right now.”

She rolls up her sleeves. Ella Bryant is going into full-out veterinary mode.

Do veterinary nurses wear candy striper uniforms?

No?

Well they damn well should.

***

A frantic half an hour later and we’re at a clinic. I’m pacing up and down the examination room like a first-time father. Ella is talking to Dr. McCann.

Would you look at that? Now Dr. McDouchebag is flirting with her. He touched her arm, and now he’s asking her all kinds of questions about college that I don’t understand. Benzodiazepines. Seizures. Anti-arrhythmic what-the-fucks. I have no fucking clue what’s going down.

“He’ll be fine in a couple of days,” he assures me as he snaps off his latex gloves. “He’s vomited most of it back up.” And then he winks and hands Ella a business card. “Call me if you need any help in the future.”

Slimy motherfucker.

I hook an arm around Ella’s shoulder and usher her back toward the parking lot.

Once outside, she leans against a nearby streetlamp as I load Petie’s cage onto the back seat of my car. I catch a glimpse of her legs through the rear window.
Good God.
I want to take her right there against that post, and I couldn’t give a damn who watches.

Handcuff me now, officer; I’d happily violate section 245.01 of the New York penal code if it meant that I could stick my head up that dress.

I brace my arm against the post and smile. “Dr. McDreamy loves you. Petie loves you. You drive cocks crazy, you know …”

She smiles and those hazel beauties sparkle. Christ, I’m aching.
Burning
.

Did you hear that noise? That was the sound of my willpower breaking. Before my brain can catch up with my dick, my hands are exploring her waist. She gasps when I attack her neck, nibbling, biting, and sucking at her juicy sweet-scented skin.

“Alex … no, please stop … we’re just friends,” she moans softly.

I ignore her.

Why?

Because her hands are all over my ass, and my father once told me that actions speak louder than words.

I stroke back her silky hair and press my mouth to hers. Her lips part and I ease my tongue inside her inviting mouth. Slow, fast, firm, soft—it’s warm and wet and reminds me of her beautiful pussy.

Then she presses her palms against my chest and pushes me away.

“Friends!” She turns a stern eye on me. “That’s all we’ll ever be. Got that?”

Friends-fucking-schmends.

She’s obviously never seen
When Harry Met Sally
. 

Newsflash: Men want to bang an attractive woman.

Being put in the friend zone is like being stranded on a deserted island paradise; you’re surrounded by something beautiful, but staying there will eventually kill you.

I don’t want to inflame her, so I step back and coolly adjust my collar.

A devastated look sweeps over her face.

I open my car door. “Ella, let me at least give you a ride back to the office.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’ll ride the subway. Trust me; it’s better this way.”

Before I can protest, she’s retreating from the parking lot, leaving me stewing on my deserted island paradise.

I’d better start building that goddamn raft because, otherwise I think I might drown.

Chapter Ten

Remember how I bragged about a guy’s ability to compartmentalize his life?

Well forget it.

It’s been shot to shit.

I don’t think I need to tell you that this isn’t typical behavior for me. I’m not the type of guy who holes himself up in their bedroom, penning idiotic love songs, but my borderline obsession with trying to nail Ella Bryant is a self-revelation that scares the bejesus out of me.