Page 6 of Vicious Arrangement
Forget the guilt relief brought.
Forget the grief.
Forget it all.
“So forgive me,” I mutter to my rain shower as I wash my hair, “if I got absolutely, balls to the wall drunk.”
I rinse my hair, rinse my body, and turn off the water, feeling marginally better.
“And what did I get for it?” I dry off, and get dressed and open the giant windows to the terrace of my duplex penthouse that wraps around the living quarters and let the warmth of the spring breeze in .
The clouds and rain are gone, and it’s just me.
And my hangover.
I grind some coffee and set about making an espresso, then, eyeing the bottle of whiskey on the counter in my open plan kitchen, pour some in a mug, then pour the coffee over it and order breakfast.
Bagel, lox, cream cheese, and some fruit from a very fine spot I like.
When it arrives, I’m on my second cup and feeling better.
What the fuck did I get for getting drunk, anyway? Oh, yeah, a ruined suit.
And an angel with curling blonde hair in a low-cut red dress.
“Bad angel who ruined my shoes.”
In my head, I picture her, how she went straight for it, boldly going where no girl has dared to go quite so publicly and began to mess with my junk. Not that I minded. I know it was an accident. The water sloshed out, but she really got in there, feeling the lines of my cock, stroking up and down and continuing after I got hard.
And she didn’t leave.
In fact, I think she was into me. I held her wrist. Her pulse fluttered and jumped. Yeah, she liked me. Was turned on.
Pupils dilating, licking her lips to make them wet, the banter she stayed for. I wasn’t holding her with any strength.
She could have run. She could have shoved the napkins into my hand.
The bad angel did none of those things.
She. Flirted. Back.
In fact, we had a vibe, one of those natural things that held real sparks, and a wild edged vibe, and I’d fucking planned on getting her back here, a sweetly whispered invite, a suck on her earlobe, shit, maybe some promises of what, exactly I’d do—and then her drunk friend turned up and they disappeared.
I looked for her, I’m not an idiot. Even drunk, I know when something is hot like her, and I needed that fun, that escape.
I don’t know how to explain the pull to her, but it was there, singing and pulling us into each other’s orbit. Neither one leaving until that friend arrived.
But I looked for a while and then I got fucking sick of rejecting other come-ons. Shit, I should have taken one of them home.
The sound of traffic below soothes me, and I breathe in and pop another raspberry into my mouth, as I contemplate a third drink but decide it’s a bad idea.
Hair of the dog is good. Getting drunk again with the dog is not. Besides, I don’t like dogs.
I rub a hand over my face and go into my office to answer the pile of emails of condolences that are building up. Better to get it over and done with now.
But that angel lingers. I liked the sweetness of her, her sass, and her humor. I liked how she blushed and smiled and the way she held herself like she didn’t realize just how hot she was.
I liked that it felt like we had a connection.
