That Man 2 (6 page)

While two women were fanning themselves over a heated discussion of billionaire racecar driver Colton Donavan, the damaged hero of K. Bromberg’s
Driven
trilogy (books high on my list to make into a SIN-TV
telenovela
), the door to the observation room burst open. Blake.

“What’s going on?” he growled, grabbing a coffee. He didn’t seem to be in a particularly good mood.

My eyes met his and my heart hammered. He looked sexy as sin—in a pair of faded jeans that hugged his long, muscular legs and a simple white tee that exposed his mountainous biceps and chiseled pecs. His dark hair was perfectly mussed up, and a fine layer of stubble lined his strong jaw.

“Did I miss anything?” he asked, crashing down on the couch, uncomfortably close to me.

“Not too much. The briefing and the books these women are passionate about. They’re discussing them now. Libby is videotaping the focus groups so you can watch anything you missed later.”

“Good.” Blake sat back in the couch and stretched his long legs on the coffee table in front of us and his toned arms across the back of the couch. One arm draped behind me.

The warmth of his body radiated through mine. I immediately sat forward and pressed my legs together to quell the fluttering sensation that had gathered between my thighs.

I tried to focus on what the group was saying, but his presence was distracting me and knotting up my stomach. Why was he late? And why did he have that just-fucked look going on? Had he slept with that flirtatious cocktail waitress after I’d left him last night?

The latter question sent a shiver up my spine. Why should I care? I was engaged and he was a player. He had the right to fuck anyone he chose; I had the right to fuck no one but Bradley.

I forced myself to focus on the group discussion and engrossed myself in taking notes. Libby, as group moderator, was doing a great job extracting information from the talkative woman. In truth, it wasn’t difficult. The enthusiastic bunch couldn’t stop blabbing away about their favorite book boyfriends, as they called them. If anything, Libby had to work hard at controlling the group from getting out of control and talking over one another. The women couldn’t spit out their opinions fast enough.

“Alexandre Chevalier. One word. Sex on a friggin’ stick.”

“Lane Wild. Holy hotness Batman! I need a cold shower.”

“Jesse Ward. I can’t get enough of that fucking crazy, hot alpha male.”

“Drew Evans. Sexy arrogant man whore!”

“Remington Tate. One sweet, confusing, fucking hot beast of a man!”

“Ethan Blackstone. Oh my God! Sex in a suit! So smoking hot!”

“James Cavendish. Whew! I need me some Mr. Beautiful now!”

My body heated. Everything these women were saying mimicked how I felt about my boss. Drop dead gorgeous Blake Burns. My Mr. Beautiful. That these zealous women were confirming my programming instinct took a backburner position in my muddled mind.

I glanced over at Blake, soaking in his handsome profile. His expression was impassive. “What do you think about the group?” I ventured, butterflies aflutter.

“Except for the blonde at the end of the table, they’re not very attractive.”

Bastard.
I clenched my teeth and balled my fists. I wanted to throw my notebook at him. Mr. I-Hate-Research was just not going to acknowledge I was right—that there was a voracious appetite for erotic television programming targeted at women. And then his cell phone rang. He picked it up after the first ring.

“I have to call you back, baby.” He ended the call, and I fumed. Keira? Kirsty? Kitty? Kat? Or maybe that damn cocktail waitress. Her name tag popped into my head. Her name started with “K” too—“K” for Kay. I suddenly regretted spending last night with him.

Libby’s zinger question enabled me to refocus my attention on the group discussion. “So, ladies, what would you think if some of the books we talked about today were made into television series and movies?”

The women broke into orgasmic shrieks. “Yes!” “Now!” “Holy fuck!” “Oh baby!” “Bring it on!” “I’m on fire!” These were just some of the words that spilled from their lips.

A smug smile crossed my face, and I turned to face Blake. His hands were tightly folded across his chest, his brows knitted together, and his lips pressed into a thin line. The look of defeat.

Libby wrapped up the group and handed the respondents their incentives—each an envelope containing a crisp one hundred-dollar bill for their time followed by a choice of a signed paperback from a myriad of books she scattered across the table. The women went at the books like sharks in a feeding frenzy. After thanking the ecstatic women, Libby joined us in the observation room.

“Well, I think this group proved that Jennifer’s right—there’s a huge opportunity to develop programming based on popular erotic romance novels. The next group, women 35-49, starts in a half hour.”

Chugging his coffee, Blake rose to his feet. My eyes roamed up his fit body until they met his gaze.

“I don’t need to see another group. Jennifer, please option some of these books and put development on the fast track.” His voice was businesslike, bordering on gruff, and intimidated me.

“Yes, sir,” I said meekly. I’d lined up the three cherries—the right idea, the right time, and the right person. But victory eluded me as he blew out the door.

Blake

L
ast night, this girl had emotionally blue-balled me. She’d split from the night club and left me bereft. The cocktail waitress with the mother fucker big tits had propositioned me, and I could have had her. But I didn’t want her. The only woman I wanted was Jennifer McCoy, and she wasn’t mine to be had. She plain and simply walked out on me. My cock aching, I headed back up to my hotel suite alone and wanked off before collapsing into bed. The exercise was in vain. Another ache tugged at my heart that wouldn’t go away. I spent a restless night, tossing and turning, wondering why this girl was affecting me, and woke up late in a fucking bad mood.

As if she hadn’t pissed me off enough, now she’d mind-fucked me. Ms. Smarty Pants had just proven she was right—there was a tremendous, untapped market for erotic programming targeted at women, and SIN-TV had to be the first to tap into it. I called my father immediately after the group to tell him the findings before that know-it-all research girl got to him. He uttered three words: “Run with it.”

I’d had enough. I wanted to get the hell out of Vegas, but I’d scheduled dinner with my Vegas affiliate manager at Valentino, a swanky restaurant at the luxurious Venetian hotel. I didn’t want to cancel it because Vegas was one of SIN-TV’s strongest and most important markets. Having time to kill, I decided I might as well check out the erotic book signing convention.

I’d been to numerous adult entertainment conventions in Vegas before, but this one topped them all. I was able to get into the convention hall with a VIP pass, evading the long line of women eager to get in. Many held copies of their favorite books in their hands while others held scrapbooks and Kindles in brightly colored fabric cases.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Women were lined up at authors’ tables waiting to get their books and Kindle cases signed as well as to collect swag. These authors were like fucking rock stars to them. Except for a handful of male book cover models who’d come along for the event, I was the sole male in the vast room. I felt like any minute I would be tackled by a pack of man-hungry wolverines.

And then the inevitable happened. A voluptuous brunette, sporting a sinister snake tattoo, sprinted up to me. Her eyes lit up. “Aren’t you Blake Burns, that famous model?” She was practically drooling.

“You’ve got the wrong person,” I begged off.

“No, I don’t. I’ve followed you on Facebook. It’s you! Would you sign my Kindle case?” she asked breathlessly.

Before I could say, “fuck off,” a hoard of women swarmed me. I frantically began signing Kindle covers. Damn. What had I gotten myself into? My eyes darted left and right in search of an escape. And then to my utter disbelief, one of the crazy women tore open her blouse. Out popped a pair of knockers that belonged in
The Guinness Book of Records
. Her puckered nipples looked like fucking walnuts.

“Ooh, would you sign my tits?” she cooed, literally shoving them into my face.

Holy shitballs! Get me out of here! And then I saw her. Jennifer. She was heading my way, wearing a what-the-fuck expression on her face.

Brainstorm! Faking a big smile, I feigned an excuse. “Can’t. My girlfriend’s on her way over. That’s her over there in the black slacks and cream blouse.” I pointed in Jen’s direction. The women dropped their jaws and turned their heads in unison.

“Hi, Blake,” said Jennifer, weaving through the swarm of crazies. “Looks like you’ve got yourself some fans.”

Before I could respond, one of my fan girls hugged her and blurted out, “You’re so lucky.”

Jennifer scratched her head in confusion.

The wide-eyed woman zeroed in on her engagement ring. “Oh my God! When are the two of you getting married?”

Jennifer screwed up her face. “You mean to my fiancé?”

The women responded in unison: “Yes!”

Jen’s expression grew more perplexed, her face flushed. I was enjoying every minute.

“Um, uh, sometime this summer.”

I broke into a devilish smile. “You can read all about it. I’ll post it on my Facebook page. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I need to spend time with her.” I looped one arm into Jennifer’s and, with my free hand, blew the lovely ladies a kiss. As I whisked Jen away, a chorus of sighs and pants surrounded me.

“What was that all about?” asked Jen, jerking free of my grip. She sounded more miffed than curious.

I answered with one word. “You.”

“I don’t need you to broadcast my private life.”

I tugged her ponytail. “Don’t worry I wasn’t. I was sharing mine.”

“Whatever.” Furrowing her brows, she was clearly none too pleased.

“What are you doing later for dinner?” I asked, heading toward the exit.

“I’m going out with a bunch of authors. Do you want to join us?”

“Can’t. I have a date.”

“Oh.” Her voice grew small and then she recovered.

“A really interesting idea came out of the second focus group. Which
you
should have stayed for.”

Ms. Chastising emphasized her last words. Without reacting, I asked, “And what might that be?”

“A talk show. Something like
The View,
but hosted by a popular book blogger in which real women discuss their favorite books and get to meet their favorite authors.”

“What the fuck is a book blogger?”

“Someone who has a website and/or Facebook page who reviews popular erotic romances. Some of these women have over twenty thousand followers. They could be extremely helpful with promoting our daytime block.”

I had to hand it to her. She didn’t stop at programming ideas. Her mind was full of ways to market and promote. Today, social marketing and promotion was everything.

She glanced down at her watch. “I have a meeting with one of the writers I’m pursuing in a few minutes. You’re welcome to come.”

My cock jerked at the word “come.” I so badly wanted to kidnap her and take her back to my hotel suite. And show her what it
really
meant to come.

Swallowing a gulp of air, I responded. “Pass. Maybe we’ll catch up later.”

Unsure of what the rest of the day would bring, I let her go.

Jennifer

T
he rest of the day couldn’t have gone better. I met with one writer after another. A dozen in total. They were all so down-to-earth and excited to be part of the programming block I was developing. Over an early dinner at the Hard Rock Café, which Libby came to, I explained that I envisioned them having executive producer responsibilities, which would allow them to have input into the scripts and casting. They were in a word: thrilled. Wine and beer flowed, and by the end of the dinner, we were almost like best friends. I had learned a lot about this amazing group of writers. Several had been on the edge of bankruptcy before their writing careers took off while others had been in unfulfilling high-powered jobs. The road to self-publishing wasn’t easy, but the rewards were well worth it. The pressure these women felt to please their passionate fans was daunting. Most were later judging a contest—The Best Male Abs in Vegas—along with the organizers of the book signing event. They invited Libby and me to join them. While party-loving Libby was tempted, we ended up politely declining and stuck to our plan of taking in The Strip. After paying the bill and a round of endless hugs and kisses, Libby and I found a cab and took off to the famed thoroughfare. Just as planned, we went hotel hopping. We started at the pyramid-shaped Luxor and ended at the magnificent Venetian where we took a gondola ride in a man-made canal. As we hopped off the boat, my eyes widened and my heart skipped a beat. Heading into one of the hotel’s expensive restaurants was Blake Burns and on his arm was a tall gorgeous blonde. I’d had plenty of drinks but suddenly found myself wanting one more. I gulped past the lump in my throat. What was wrong with me?

Eager to leave, I begged Libby to head back to the Hard Rock. Reluctantly, she agreed with the condition we go to one of the hotel’s many nightclubs. Libby was one tireless party animal.

The nightclub we ended up at was a karaoke bar. It was crowded, but Lib and I were lucky enough to get a large corner booth. Another one of those attractive blond, big-boobed cocktail waitresses came by to take our drink order. She could have easily been the sister of Kay.

“Have you ever had a chocolatini?” asked Libby.

“What is it?”

“It’s like the most amazing martini ever. It’s made with chocolate liquor.”

I’d had a ton to drink. Mostly white wine. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to have another or mix drinks. I just didn’t have the alcohol tolerance that Libby had. I’d seen her polish off a six-pack of beer at USC frat parties and then make it through several shots of tequila. I didn’t know how she did it.