I'll Be Your Everything (15 page)

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Authors: J.J. Murray

BOOK: I'll Be Your Everything
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And that offer of a partnership. Man, I wish I knew if it was genuine. Part of me thinks he’s probably just trying to get a leg up tonight and an edge up on me tomorrow. He wouldn’t work for Harrison Hersey and Boulder for so long without being super slick like that.
I am either a complete sucker ...
Or it’s going to be a very bumpy night.
Chapter 14
 
A
t the hotel, we stop in the lobby and stare at each other till my neck starts to hurt. Either I need to wear heels (not), or he needs to wear flats.
“Well,” he says.
“Well,” I say.
We’re so eloquent.
“Shari ...”
“Tom ...”
At least we’re still on a first-name basis.
“You’re not making this easy, Shari.”
“I’m not supposed to make this easy, Tom.”
At least we can agree on something.
“Well, could I at least take you
out
to eat?” he asks. “A public place with lots of people.”
“I’m afraid that would be a conflict of interest.” And my heart is right conflicted now. I need an uncluttered heart and an open mind to pull this charade off, not more complications, even if he is so hot!
“Most of this afternoon has been a conflict of interest, Shari.”
True. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Why not? It’s just food and conversation.”
After what his fingers, hand, and leg did to me today, it wouldn’t just be food and conversation. “That could lead to other things, Tom, and, well, I have ... I have this guy friend in my life.”
He doesn’t speak for a full minute. “I’ve never seen you with anyone, I mean, you’ve never mentioned ...”
I nod. “I know. Five years of talking to you, I should have mentioned him, right?”
“Corrine never said anything about it either.”
“I never share my business with Corrine,” I say. “It’s safer that way as much as she runs her mouth.”
He looks at the floor, the chairs in the lobby, his suitcase, his shoes. “Well, wow.”
My heart! Cut it out. Bryan is going to be in your apartment on Friday. “Sorry. I should have told you.”
“Well, of course you have a man in your life. I’m, um, well, just ... hmm.”
I have completely flummoxed this man, and for some strange reason, it makes me like him even more.
He frowns. “Just consider it a compliment then.” He almost smiles. “He’s ... he’s lucky.”
I tap him on the hand. “And you have Corrine.”
He sighs. “I
don’t
have Corrine. She’s my
friend
in Australia, remember?”
Was that anger? I think it was. Wow. “Um, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but the jellyfish stung Corrine on the, um, on the breast.”
He winces. “Ouch.”
I wince, too. “She says it looks like a football. She’s, uh, going to be a lefty for a while.”
“That is such an odd image.” He shakes his head. “Well. I guess the next time I see you will be at the meeting.”
And a part of me thinks that’s so wrong. That’s eight days from now. “Yeah.”
“Don’t beat me too badly.”
“I intend to.” I hold out my hand.
He takes it, but he doesn’t shake it. “Good night, Shari Nance.”
“Good night, Tom Sexton.” Don’t think about what that hand can do to you, Shari. Remove your hand now. That’s it. There’s your hand. Yes, it’s already getting cold, but you can warm it up all by yourself.
Tom gets in the elevator. “Going up?”
Do not, under
any
circumstances, get in that elevator. You might do something incredibly impetuous and regret it in the morning. Besides, that elevator probably has a camera in it. “I’ll, um, I’ll wait for the next one.”
He sighs and throws his head back. “Good night, Shari.”
“Good night, Tom.”
Now don’t stand here looking to see what floor he’s on. The stairs are
that
way. Use them.
I roll my eyes at myself and trudge up three flights to my room. My card key works the fourth time I swipe it, and I enter a suite that is almost as big as my apartment! I don’t throw myself on the king-sized bed and get all dreamy and stupid like the dumb wenches in the movies. I don’t go out and linger in the hallway looking up and down for the man of my dreams.
Because nothing is going to happen.
I set my tote bag in the closet and hit the couch. I check the clock. Five thirty. I should have called Tia to check in. And I should have gotten Tia’s cell and home phone numbers before I left. I’m so bad at being sneaky. I guess it will have to wait. I’ll see her tomorrow morning.
On a lark, I call Corrine just to see if her cell is still wandering the hospital. When it goes straight to voice mail, I decide not to hang up. “Just checking up on you, Miss Ross. I hope you’re feeling better. Give me a call when you can.”
If
you can.
I peel off my clothes and step into the shower—that has a bench seat? Cool. Very cool. It has to save cleaning a tub, I guess, not that I would have taken a bath anyway. I didn’t bring enough lotion, and this hotel only gives you little bottles good for one elbow anyway. I’m about to sit on the bench but keep my booty from hitting the seat. No telling who or what was on that last. Maybe bench seats aren’t so cool. I use up most of a little bar of soap to clean away the day, and when I let the hot water roll over my body, I think immediately about Tom.
I shouldn’t be thinking about Tom.
I close my eyes and try to think about Bryan.
I can’t.
I see Tom’s hand, feel his finger on my hand, feel the warmth of his leg against mine.
I open my eyes.
My skin is ashy. I need to get out of this fantasy before I turn gray.
I turn off the water, towel up, use up all the hotel lotion and some of my own, and put on baggy red flannel pajama pants and a tight white tank top.
Denial. That’s the name of the game. I must deny myself and keep my head clear if I am to succeed.
I look over my notes while lounging on a soft, dark brown couch, digging my toes between the cushions to warm them up. I’ve got some good ideas, but I’m missing billboards. Let’s see ... a picture of a commuter. Definitely a female. Dressed like me with boots. It’ll probably have to be me anyway.
Two
bikes? Who can
afford
two bikes? What one person
needs
two bikes?
Focus, Shari. Stop thinking about the man with the big hands. He is your enemy.
Where was I? The billboard. I’d have to get someone to take my picture as I ... as I do what? Leap over a pothole? I can play Superwoman! I could put a briefcase on the back rack, wear one of Corrine’s fancy tight pantsuits that might fit me—with my boots on, of course—and soar over a Brooklyn pothole. That reminds me of those Virginia Slims ads that said: “You’ve come a long way, baby.” And I have. I’m here! I’m in a suite at the Hilton. I wish I could call and tell someone that. “Yes, darling, I’m at my suite in the Hilton, and it is
fabulous,
darling.”
Okay, should I put any words on the billboard? Maybe the picture and the product name will suffice. If it’s good enough, it could double as an Internet banner. I might have to do one with a man and one with a woman, though. It shouldn’t be too hard to find some big, tall, rugged man in Brooklyn to help me out.
Mmm. There’s one somewhere in this hotel. He has this chest, oh my—
I shake it off. Maybe I should have taken a cold shower.
Um, billboards. Right. New York billboards have to be artsy, though. They have to be thought-provoking, even controversial. A woman flying through the air with the greatest of ease won’t even make anyone blink.
His eyes were so penetrating, so intense, yet soft. Intense and soft. The way they danced whenever he laughed. Not so much sexy as ... genuine. Yeah. He has genuine eyes.
Focus, wench! You do not have eyes for this man. The billboard. Now.
I sigh at myself.
At least whatever I come up with won’t get bad press like some of the fashion ads lurking around New York. Some of the billboards I’ve seen—wow. Some sell the most expensive clothing and fragrances using violence, blood, rape, and bondage. Some only use drug-addicted, bulimic, and plastic models to sell clothing that won’t even be available in their sizes. Some models on those billboards are barely wearing the clothes they’re trying to sell. I know skin is in. I know sex sells, but in the final analysis, these ads sell sex, not the product. But people do talk about it, and talk is the cheapest form of advertising, so, unfortunately, these controversial billboards can be highly effective.
His voice, soft, husky, juicy at times. And the way he looked when I told him about Bryan! He looked like he needed a big ol’ hug, and I could sure use one after the stress I’ve been through since Friday. Oh, he’s so precious and—
Sell the stupid bike, Shari!
I am no fun when I’m alone with myself.
Okay, where would this billboard go? It has to be displayed near a park. Those billboards are hard to get. It would be stupid to plaster it on the subway or on a bus. That would be kind of counterproductive, especially if I add the tag “If you owned this bike, you’d be home by now.” Ha!
I write that one down. You never know what might work in the world of advertising. I mean, “Where’s the beef?” sold a butt load of hamburgers.
As much as I ate today, I should not be hungry, but I am. Being creative burns a lot of calories. I look at the room service menu for the Great American Grill. Hmm. It’s open till nine. I could just put on some more clothes, go downstairs, get fed, and maybe some random guy from Klamath Falls, Oregon, shows up, we eat, have some conversation, laugh at each other’s jokes, rub knees, maybe go somewhere to compare ... notes. Sounds like a plan—
No. I do not need that complication.
I’m still no fun.
I call room service, order a burger and fries and some bottled water, and then begin doodling T-shirts. I put little stick people on bikes and realize that I really suck at drawing, even if it’s only stick figures. I give some riders smiles, others Afros, a few only sideburns and glasses. They sort of look like Elvis. A child could draw better than this with crayons. I am no artist, but at least doodling keeps my hands and my mind occupied.
I should have asked Tom what his major was.
Shari, get back to—
Hush.
Maybe he has an art degree
and
an MBA. That’s a logical assumption. And from Cal Berkeley. Ooh, la la. I’m ODU and now LIU. I have more acronyms than he does but none of the prestige. Why aren’t people paid according to their skills and not their degrees in this country? Some of the most talented people in this country don’t go to Ivy League schools, don’t have MBAs, don’t have silver spoons up their butts—
A knock at the door, and me without a bra.
I look through the peephole at a teenaged girl. I open the door, and she sweeps in, placing my dinner tray on the worktable in the bedroom. Since MultiCorp is paying, I add 20 percent to the tab.
The girl looks at the receipt. “Thank you so much. You know we already added the tip to the bill.”
And she’s honest? “I know. I, um, I just ...”
Don’t do this!
“Well, there’s a, um ...”
Are you even thinking? What happened to no complications? Don’t start something you can’t finish. Leave the man alone.
No.
“There is a man in this hotel who—”
“Two fifteen.”
I look at the floor. Tom is right under me? “Um, white guy, six-two ...” Nice eyes, great big paws ...
“Gorgeous eyes,” she says. “Burger and fries just like you. Some fancy wine.”
They’re not ... gorgeous. They’re soft. She’s so young. “Um, could you ...”
You’re out of your freakin’ mind! Stop doing this!
No!
“Yes?”
The girl seems so willing. Why aren’t I? “Could you ... wait.” I tear a blank page from my notebook while my heart pounds.
What are you doing?
Nothing.
Then why are your hands shaking?
I’m just ... sending a message. One simple message.
You’re going to send him the wrong message.
No, I won’t.
I write: “Why didn’t you tell me you had two bikes?” Just a question, that’s all. No harm in a question. I hand it to the girl. “Just take this to him, and if he has a reply, bring it straight back to me.”
“Sure.” She zips out, closing the door behind her.
It’s just a note. It’s not like I’m asking him up to my room, right? So what if he’s right under right now ... reading my message. I wish the floor was transparent. I wonder if he can hear me.

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