Filthy Gorgeous (16 page)

Professor Bernstein just happens to be the department head of a leading veterinarian school. He knows everybody who’s anybody in the world of healing sick animals. Can you see where I’m going with this? I’m helping her take that first step toward her dream career. I’ve got to get brownie points for that, right?

Or a blow job. I’d rather have a blow job.

Ella accepts his handshake, but she’s glaring at me like she wants to kill me. “Hi, actually I didn’t finish college.”

He adjusts his glasses, no doubt to get a better view of her rack. I’m not being rude—having a high IQ doesn’t preclude sexual deviance.

And now I’m staring.

Jesus, being this horny always makes me hungry, so I politely excuse myself and leave Ella and the Professor alone to discuss deworming strategies while I hunt down the canapé guy.

But I don’t manage to find him.

Why?

Because God hates me, that’s why.

“Alexander!”

Wait a moment ...
I know that voice
.

It can’t be.

I spin around.

Yeah, it can.

Well, if it isn’t my very own fun-filled stalker triple-dripped in psycho: the one, the only, Lisette Strevens.

Live in person.

I shit you not.

Before you can say rat-down-a-drainpipe, I commando roll underneath the nearest table. There’s a horrified chorus of gasps; my stalker has just upended two dozen champagne flutes to get her hands on me. Now she’s down on all fours, too, glaring at me through mascara-streaked eyes like a rabid poodle baying for its bone.

My bone.

Have you ever seen the TV game show
Gladiators
? Good—well look at me go. I grit my teeth and make a bid for freedom by crawling through a gauntlet of broken glass under an adjacent table. I finally reach the end and look up to find a wild-eyed Lisette staring right back at me.

Wow.

My father wasn’t kidding around—Bunny Boiler really
has
tattooed my initials on each earlobe. She reminds me of one of those Dementors from the
Harry Potter
movies; one kiss and she’ll suck your soul dry. It’s a crying shame she didn’t apply the same technique while giving head, but I’ll let that detail pass under the circumstances.

And now here’s Ella. She clocks the proximity of Lisette and stops dead in her tracks. “Alex! Are you okay? Your hand is bleeding.” Stalker’s head turns Exorcist-style toward Ella and she unleashes a super laser stare so intense it’s capable of destroying the Death Star.

Lisette stutters before letting out an ear-drum busting wail. “You … you … and
her
?”

Ella eyes me with mock suspicion. “Is this one of your Sladies?” she asks in what I’m sure she thinks is a quiet voice. It’s wasn’t.

Watch.

Oh, God.

Lisette opens her mouth like she’s about to unleash a plague of locusts. I’d ask her to chill the fuck out, but it would be useless. Asking an angry woman to calm down is like trying to baptize a cat.

Anyway, I must be a lucky guy because it seems that I don’t have to. My stalker has just fled the building; no doubt straight home to her wax effigy and pocket full of pins.

I down the nearest alcoholic beverage in exasperation.

Ladies, please forgive and forget any of my previous boasts; being this handsome isn’t a blessing.

It’s a fucking curse.

***

Two hours later, and Ella and I are both pretty drunk.

We’re hammering the Prosecco and marveling at a stuffed giraffe in the safari exhibition. I see my relationship with Ella as being somewhat similar to the mating ritual of giraffes.

Let me explain.

Have you ever heard of the Flehmen sequence? If you have any kind of social life, then I guess the answer is no. Then allow me to enlighten you.

While mating, male giraffes take a mouthful of the female’s urine to determine if she’d be a good mate.

Sounds gross, doesn’t it?

The male giraffe approaches a female from behind and nuzzles her ass until she takes a pee. Not content with a massage, he’ll drink it to see if she’s keen to get down and dirty. If she gives him the come hither signal, the male giraffe will then proceed to stalk the shit out of her.

More often than not, the female will walk or run away from him.

Why is the female giraffe acting like a giant prick tease?

Easy.

She’s testing the persistence of her male suitor. She’s trying to see if she can attract a more worthy male. The giraffe that fights hardest, and chases farthest, wins. It’s kind of applicable to dating, don’t you think?

We all know Ella can attract a better man than that fucktard she’s dating.

Calm down—I’m not going to drink her pee. That would be gross. I’m all for whips and chains, but I don’t do golden showers. The real reason why I invited her out tonight was so I could test the water. Before I knew about Jockass, I was going to ask her to be my Friday night girl.

But now the harem is no more?

I’m free to do her every goddamn night.

Kinda.

I need to wait until the campaign is over. Then I’ll make my move. And I don’t want to scare her away before then, so I’ll try to behave. Instead, I’ll show her that she can trust me. Call me deluded, but I can tell by the way she looks at me that she’s had naked fantasies about me on more than one occasion this evening.

She tugs at her silver necklace. “You know, I hate to admit it, but I’m having a great time, Alex.”

“Me too. And judging by the way Bernstein was checking your ass, I’m pretty sure he’d agree.”

She jabs my arm as she giggles. Yeah, she’s drunk. “Don’t punch me,” I tell her. “He’ll be a great contact to have once you go back to school.”

She smiles and rests her head on my shoulder. It feels nice, even though we’re not naked.

“It’s just a pipe dream, Alex. I’m too old, anyway.”

I chuckle. “Get out of here! Never give up on your dreams, Ella.”

I know what you’re thinking. Why is he spouting verbal diarrhea like a Mormon missionary? Blame the alcohol. Blame the raging boner I’m sporting. Truth is—I’d recite the entire Encyclopedia Britannica right now if it meant I’d get inside Ella panties.

Every. Goddamn. Volume.

Don’t worry, I’m not going to kiss her. It’s not easy, but like I said, I have to hold back. Play the long game. Prove I have some self-control.

So, instead, I whisper. “I like you.”

But she doesn’t reply.

She didn’t hear; she’s fallen asleep on my shoulder.

Chapter Eleven

After the charity ball last week, Ella wound up back at my apartment. Can you believe it? I had every intention of taking her home—scouts honor. It was only when I’d carried her halfway down the museum steps I realized I had no fucking clue where she lived.

I did what any respectable gentleman would do; I took her back to my place.

Ella Bryant was semi-comatose and buck naked in my bed.

Let me say that again:
In. My. Bed.

Before you pump me for details, the answer is no, I didn’t take advantage of her. The sexiest part of the night was when I removed her shoes.

She has lovely ankles, by the way. Very delicate.

I slept on the couch that night, and by the time I woke up, she’d already made a French exit.

When I called her later that day, she was apologetic about the whole episode. According to her, we’re now ‘friends.’

God, I hate word.

Nauseating, isn’t it? My dick thinks so, too.

Does still being stuck in the friend-zone preclude naked wrestling with Ella?

No?

Killjoy.

As Tyler and my team were still away, I begged her to watch a movie with me. To my surprise, she agreed. She had two free tickets to an advanced preview of a chick flick called
Austenland
.

Fuck me
. That’s two hours of my life I’ll never get back. I could have done something productive, like cut my toenails. Or worked. Or masturbated.

Let me save you the cost of an entrance ticket. I knew girls loved the Darcycock, but this abomination was a whole new level of crazy. It was about some chick who’s obsessed with Mr. Darcy. She keeps a frigging cardboard cut-out of the guy in her bedroom.
Freak
. As if that wasn’t bad enough, the weirdo spends her entire life savings on a Darcy-themed holiday in England where she hopes to find Mr. Right.

What do you mean, did she choose Darcy or Wickham?

How the hell should I know?

I fell asleep, and I only woke up after Ella elbowed me in the eye when the credits were rolling. Don’t look at me like that. Trying to keep my dick in my pants is exhausting.

The important thing is that Ella enjoyed herself, which means I’ll be number one on her bachelor list in no time—trust me.

Now I’m in my office, and I’m waiting for my father. He returned from vacation this morning and he called a meeting. He’s been full of piss and vinegar since I broke the news about Aubrey.

Here he is now.

My father barrels through the door and greets me excitedly. Look at that tan. Tom Selleck, eat your fucking heart out. “Great job with Aubrey, son.”

See what I mean? I’m hi-fiving myself in my head, but I know this will be a short-lived celebration. There’s always a ‘but’ when it comes to my father. He’s not the kind of guy to dwell on platitudes.

Wait for it …

“Son, I’ve been thinking. You didn’t … you didn’t fuck her, did you?”

“Who?”

“Juliana.”

I pull a Beaker face. “Christ, no. My presentation was rock solid. Cougar loves our ideas.”

Visibly relieved, he pulls a cigar from his pocket and makes himself comfortable on my couch. I crack my fingers. I figure it’s now or never. Let’s get to the elephant in the room.

“Dad, I’d like to talk about my inheritance.”

He cuts me off. “Son, I promise we’ll discuss it after the wrap-up party tomorrow night. I’ve got some imminent business that I need to deal with. I have a special assignment for you, son.”

I cock an eyebrow. “Really?”

He nods in the affirmative. “Yes, it’s urgent. Postpone your meeting with Maricrate this afternoon. I want you to take Tyler Strickland over to Piping Rock on a golf-and-dining offensive. It’s all arranged with his agent—just be there for two.”

I blink.

See, what did I tell you? There’s always a catch. What could be more thrilling than a day out with Jockstrap?

***

Balls. Birdies. Hole-in-ones. Shaft-pullers.

What do they all have in common? They’re all golfing terms. I bet your dirty mind told you otherwise, didn’t it?

I arrived at Piping Rock just in time for the Slade vs Strickland showdown. I know what you’re thinking. Golf is for coffin dodgers. You’d rather spend the afternoon arranging paper clips with Raj while drinking shots of vinegar than watch me wipe the floor with this sleazeball.

Trust me—I don’t want to spend any more time than necessary with this cum stain, either. I figure my father must be trying to cut a better financial deal with his agent, so I’ll play nice … until I get on the fairway.

Parker is my caddy. He’s doing a great job so far. The Teflon brain left my golf clothes back at the office. He holds a bright orange polo shirt against his torso. “I borrowed these from the club. They were left over from a charity event.”

I remove two pairs of retina-damaging slacks from a plastic bag.  “Figures. Who do you want to be, John Daly or Payne Stewart?”

I pull on the purple plus-fours, leaving Parker to huff over the tangerine diamond pants.

He screws up his face. “Can’t we just wear regular slacks?”

“Parker, if I’m going to look like an idiot, you’re coming along for the ride. Besides, my vow of sexual abstinence has left my balls bigger than Jupiter. I need room to swing.”

Parker rolls his eyes. “Riiight. Because forced abstinence is always a successful endeavor. Who’ve you been taking your Sex Ed classes from? Bristol Palin?”

I flip him the double bird and we head outside to the golf cart. Jockass is already here, flanked by two scantily dressed blondes in pink checkered mini-skirts. “Guys, you look so pretty! I’m really appreciating the effort here. Meet my caddies, Brittany and Lucy.”

They wave and pout in unison, like a couple of blow-up dolls he just picked up from a nickel ’n dime store. I swear I’ve jumped in deeper puddles than Tyler Strickland. Is it just me, or do you want to punch him, too?

Fuckface pulls a coin from his pocket. “Heads or tails?”

“Heads.”

He flips.

It’s tails.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, should have been my cue to head home and jerk off for the rest of the day. It’s all downhill from here. Cocksucker tees off and hits a perfect stroke straight down the middle fairway.