Page 13 of Some Like It Hott

Except I have no place to go. No place to live. And no money with which to remedy the situation. No couch to crash on, unless I want to beg Lloyd or my parents.

My parents have never approved of the fact that I didn’t go to college, my choice of careers, or pretty much anything else about me. In fact, the one thing they think I’ve ever done right is dating Lloyd.

I don’t even want to tell them that he and I broke up.

And at the end of the rainbow (or shit show), there is a pot of gold. A ten-thousand-dollar raise, no rent for a year, and guaranteed housing as long as I have the job.

Which means I’ll be able to save for a degree or certificate; pick a lucrative, stable career; and finally stop being the fun-times girl, the slacker daughter, and the woman who can’t quite get her shit together.

So. At least for a while, until I have enough money to be choosy, I’m going to be working with Mr. Asshole.

I take the elevator up to my room and hold my keycard to the touchpad on the door. It beeps and lights up green, and I turn the thick brushed-nickel doorknob and admire my new surroundings. I checked in yesterday, and I still haven’t stopped gawking at the space.

Cream-colored walls. Exposed beams. Big, hewn-wood trim, including huge split-pane windows. A rustic armoire, a butter-soft brown leather arm chair, a Persian area rug, gorgeous kilim pillows. And the bed! Queen sized, with thick rough-cut head- and footboard, a luxurious cream-colored duvet, heaps of pillows, and a cozy-looking woven-wool blanket.

I didn’t get a chance to unpack yesterday, so I take out my phone, cue up my favorite good-mood playlist, jam my wireless earbuds into my ears and start unpacking. I hang some clothes in the armoire. I toss my cosmetic bags onto the bathroom counter and stop to admire (again) the deep soaking tub and big-headed rain shower.

Free! I mean, long term, I’ll be in a cabin, not the lodge, but still. For someone who thought she’d have to wait tables at three jobs to pay for school, this is…pretty damn amazing.

I toss T-shirts, underwear, and PJs into the dresser. I stack a few thrillers neatly on the nightstand. Big Bob and Mack, my vibrators, go in the nightstand, too—Big Bob’s cord curled up, Mack’s glittery purple shaft nestled in his black velvet carrying bag. I treat my boys right.

I look at my watch. Just enough time to call for room service. I reach for the hotel room phone and order a steak salad and glass of wine. The woman on the other end of the line tells me fifteen to twenty minutes.

While I’m waiting, I could take a quick shower, get in my PJs, and start a new book. Get my mind off the events of the last week. Lloyd. Mr. Asshole. The fact that I have a week to come up with ten programs and test them out at a family party.

Just then, though, “Try Everything” by Shakira comes on. This song always makes me want to dance. It’s my girl-power anthem, for when I’m feeling like I need a lift.

Time for a pump up.

I wiggle my hips. Do a little shimmy, setting the girls in motion. For better or for worse, and it depends on the day, my bra size delves deep into the alphabet, so there isplentyof motion. I grab the tall floor lamp and execute a pole maneuver. Okay, so floor lamps aren’t intended for pole dancing, but I’ll make it work.

Whew. I’m already sweating. I was in pretty good shape when I was working at the nursing home. I always took the stairs, never the elevator, and did a lot of active stuff with the residents. But since then, I’ve been spending too much time sitting at a desk combing through job listings and tweaking my resume to try to get results. I shed my socks, and then—okay, what the hell, I’m wearing a bra—tunic, too. Now I’m in just cropped black leggings and my favorite bra—black, plenty of support, but also loads of lace and frills.

I’m starting to feel more like myself.

I decide maybe I need my favorite party shoes. Hot-pink, spike-heeled, closed-toe sandals. They look great with tight, ankle-length jeans, but for now, they’ll be fine with leggings.

YES.

I close the two tiny clasps and admire the strappy pink result.

Walk the Moon’s “Work This Body” comes on, andperfect.

My hairbrush is a microphone, the lamp’s my pole, this room is my court where I will beat whoever it is fair and square (Lloyd) and?—

Damn. The ache is back.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. I turn the music up one more notch. I eye the desk.

It looks pretty sturdy.

I use the ottoman as a step, and?—

Now I’m not in my room. Instead, I’m dancing on a bar in my spiky hot-pink heels. Mirror behind me.

I have my earbuds jammed in and my eyes closed, which is why it takes me a while to notice that?—

Preston Hott is standing in the door of my room.

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