Page 5 of Drilled (Dad Bod Contracting 2)
“May I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his voice barely masking his disapproval, even as his eyes suggest something else.
“Yeah, checking out of room six-nineteen.” I toss the little envelope with the keycard onto the marble counter and dig my wallet out of my purse, preparing to pay for the room.
He taps at his keyboard with two fingers, spinning a Mont Blanc pen in the fingers of his other hand—his name tag says his name is Michael and that he’s the General Manager. Under different circumstances, I’d be interested. As it is, at the moment, it takes all my concentration not to think about stupid Franco and his stupid David Copperfield vanishing impression.
“Ah…okay, you’re all checked out. Thank you for choosing Marriott hotels, ma’am.” His smile is, once again, polite and tightly disapproving even as his eyes flick up and down.
I frown. “What about the room charge?”
He taps again. “It’s been paid, ma’am. At…seven-oh-four this morning, charged to the card on file from check-in last night.”
I blink. “Oh. Okay, cool. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, ma’am. Have a wonderful morning.”
“Yeah, you too.” As I exit the hotel, I remember that Franco had put his card down to reserve the room, but I suppose my disquiet at his vanishing act made me assume he’d stick me with the hotel bill, too.
Less of an asshole, but still an asshole.
I get into my car, start it, wait for Bluetooth to connect, and turn on 80s pop in an attempt to distract myself. I sing along to ABBA’s “Super Trouper” before punching the radio off in disgust.
“Damn you, Franco! I can’t even enjoy ABBA!” I shout.
In desperation, I call Imogen, putting it on hands-free while I drive.
It rings four times, and then I hear her pick up the call, followed by shuffling and rustling as she tries to get the phone to her ear. For a lifelong nurse, she’s not really a morning person. “Hunh—hello?”
“This is bad, Imogen, really, really bad.”
“Whassit? Audra? What’s—what’s bad?”
“Why is she calling this early?” I hear Jesse’s voice rumble in the background.
“It’s seven thirty!” I say, “so not really that early.”
“Yeah, but it’s Saturday,” Imogen mumbles. “And we both have the day off.”
“Sorry, sorry. But I just—bad things, Imogen, bad things. I need you to talk me off the ledge.”
“What ledge?” Her voice echoes as she goes into the bathroom; I hear the toilet seat slam down, and the sound of her peeing—we’ve been friends for so long that such things don’t faze either of us. “Is this about Franco?”
“Yes, it’s about Franco.”
“And his magical dick?”
“It’s the most magical. You don’t even understand.” I sigh. “The thing has unicorn magic and fairy magic, and I swear I heard angels singing on numerous occasions throughout the night.”
“So, that’s…good, right?” She puts the phone on speaker as she washes her hands and then takes it off again as I hear her moving throughout her house, probably to the coffeemaker. “Or is this about feeling things?”
“We were only a few hours in when I sent you that text. It only got better, by which I mean worse, from there.”
“I’m lost.”
“Hands down the best sex of my life. Legit, it was—I have no words for how amazing.”
“Still not understanding the negative.”
I sigh. “It was too good, that’s the negative.”
She laughs, and I hear a coffee grinder whirring in the background. “The sex was too good. Are you hearing yourself? You know how many times you’ve called me to complain about lackluster sex from the night before? Now you’re complaining it was too good?”
I groan as I pull up to a red light. “Yes! But the sex itself isn’t the problem—surely you see that. The sex itself was…how do I even put it? I just had sex with a god, an actual god, like from Greek mythology or something. I’m probably pregnant with a demigod right now.”
Imogen laughs harder. “You’re crazy, you know that?” She goes serious, then. “You did use protection, right?”
“Duh, of course I did. I’m forty, not twenty. You think I want to pop out an accidental kid at my age? Hell no. I have a six-pack and my hoo-ha is as tight as a goddamn djembe, and I plan on keeping it that way, thank you very much.”
Imogen snorts. “A lot of moms out there would take exception to that, you know. Moms can have six-packs and a tight hoo-ha too.”
I groan. “I know, I know. You’re missing my point, dammit.”
“Okay, what’s your point, then?” I hear her coffeemaker gurgling and the sound of cabinets opening and closing, the distant rumble of Jesse’s voice, and her voice answering, muffled, the asides of a couple starting their morning.
“My point is, the sex was so good I’m worried I’m not gonna be able to resist wanting more. Hell, I already do want more and I’m still sore from this time! Plus, he snuck out on me while I was taking a shower! No note, nothing, just left. I mean, sure, he paid for the hotel room, but shit, he could’ve said goodbye. It’s not like I was going to fucking propose or something.” I merge onto the freeway for the short jaunt to the gym.
