The Perfect Plans Series [Box Set] (79 page)

“OKAY, I ADMIFF it,” Emily begins through a drunken hiccup, “…the shots are much better than my red wine. Cause you know, well, for one,” she holds her finger up, trying to focus on it, “…my teeth aren’t purple.”

“Yup, that’s always a good thing,” I nod in agreement.

“And!” she continues, as though her next point is very important, “…wine always makes me…what’s the word?”

“Drunk?” Stacey asks.

“Noooo,” she replies like it’s a dumb answer. “All needy and shit.”

“Ahhh,” Stacey replies, nodding her head. “Like, ‘Give me wine, and tell me I’m pretty”, stupid shit?”

“Yes!” she shrieks at Stacey’s apparent brilliance.

“As opposed to ‘Give me tequila, and call me a whore’?” I question, feeling rather witty. And horny.
Damn tequila
.

“You can always drunk text Alex,” Emily nudges me, winking.

“Brilliant idea!” Stacey agrees.

“Okay,” I smile, pulling my phone from my bag.

“I spy with my little eye…something HOT!” Emily suddenly stands, heading across the bar towards what’s caught her eye.

“Abs, I was kidding,” Stacey mutters as I fiddle with my phone.

“
I’m
not. I’m sooooo not. He needs to know what he gave up. What time is it in L.A. right now? Screw it,” I start typing…

Subject: You suck, but I’m horny

If I sit on your face, will you tell me I’m pretty?

Aby

“Sent,” I announce aloud on a cheeky smile, proud of my possibly dumbass rambling.
Wait, what did I type?

“Give me that,” Stacey grabs it from me. “
Ugh
,” she replies, reading it. “If you’re going to do it, it has to be done right. And that, my little slurring whore, is why it’s good to have me around…”

Subject: Be still, my beating vagina

You gone long time…Confucius say, he who masturbate only screwing self.

Aby

We can’t stop laughing, until my phone suddenly vibrates on the table.

“Oh. My. God,” we utter simultaneously, staring at each other momentarily in shock before bursting into laughter once more.

“Well, what did the
amazing
Alexander Tate say,” I ask, laced with a snarky edge.

“Ummm…Abs, he’s asking where you are.”

“What?
Now
he wants to know where I am? Why the fuck does he care - he’s in L.A.?”

“Well, what do you want me to tell him?”

Grabbing the phone from her I begin commentating my reply as I type, “
Where am I? I’m at FUCK YOU
,” I hit send.

“Well, you certainly weren’t ambiguous,” Stacey laughs.

“He was an arse,” Emily plops back down.

“Yes. He. Was,” I add. I know damn well that Emily was referring to the guy she just walked away from, but the timing of her statement was perfect.

“What did I miss,” she asks, clearly confused.

“Let me tell you what I
don’t
miss,” I quickly reply, “…Alexander-fucking-Tate.”

“Ahhh, Aby? Did you know you have an old
unread
message from Alex?” Stacey asks, scrolling through my cell.

“I’m sorry, what? How old?”
How the hell did I miss that?

“Like, this morning old,” she replies, pausing to read it before looking at me, eyes squinted in confusion.

“Well? What did it say?”

“It says, ‘I need to’, and then…
jibberish
,” Stacey reads it aloud.

“He needs to
jibberish
?” Emily questions as I stare at Stacey, holding my breath.

What?
My gaze darts to Emily, “Is that some British thing? What does that mean?”

“No! I don’t know,” she replies, her drunken defense laced with
what the fuck
.

“You dummies. It means the text didn’t come through. It was cut off in delivery, hence the bunch of weird symbols, a.k.a.
jibberish
. You fuck-tards,” Stacey holds it up quickly for us to see, before pulling it away again in scrutiny.

“Humph,” I snort, “…you never know, maybe he was drunk too. I could see how his
whore
-able replacement for me could drive him to drink. So, what, no subject line?” I ask, pulling down a drunken mask of bravery.

“The subject says, ‘I’m so sorry for everything’,” Stacey begrudgingly meets my gaze, pausing at whatever she sees flash across my face. “You don’t know what his text said, Aby.”

I stare at her for a moment, my broken heart begging my head to ignore what I know is true. It doesn’t matter what it said. He’s gone.

Gulping down the remains of my drink, I slam the empty glass down with a bang, standing to exit our little booth. I can’t shake my anger at Alex, my frustration, and now Stacey’s hopeful mixed messages on top of that.
Fuck him.
Not even losing myself in a drunken stupor is doing the trick - though I’m surprised I’m even standing at this point.

“Where are you going, Aby?” Stacey questions.

“That way,” I point to the crowded dance floor.

“Go girl!” Emily calls after me, “Shake your bootay.”

Forcing my way through the throng of sweaty patrons, I settle in the middle of the crowded space, closing my eyes to will thoughts of Alex and his message from my mind, my body giving in to the rhythm of the track. I just want to forget. I want to feel numb. Yet I can’t seem to let go.
Damn you, Alex Tate
.

I love him.

I hate him. For what he’s done.
Julia
.
How could he go back to her?

Even in my drunken state, rationality answers that question -
He never stopped loving her
. The bitter poisonous bile builds in my throat and I reach to caress it away in the sensual beat, desperate to lose myself to the consumed alcohol, the erotic tempo of the song.

Swiping my hands through my hair, I pull it over my shoulder, the strands cascading along my chest as I sashay my hips in a slow rhythm. I startle at the feel of large hands circling my waist, fingers spread wide, engulfing me. I fight the urge to imagine they’re Alex’s. I know they’re not. His are likely wrapped around
Julia Sucks-Cox
.
That fucking whore
.

The vile poison rushes through my veins, contorting my irritation and anger into a meaningless grind against the stranger behind me. I cover his hands with my own, leaning my head back to rest on his shoulder. I don’t open my eyes. I don’t want to. I have no desire to give in to reality. No care to know who’s holding me, dancing with me, his hips mimicking my side-to-side gyrations. I just want him to make me feel numb.

“Yeah, baby…you like that?” the man asks, annoyingly pulling me from darkness.

I say nothing in return. I have nothing to say to him. I don’t care who he is, or what he has to say. I just want him to dance with me. Help me forget for just a moment that the man I love is currently with another woman.
Just let me forget
…

The abrupt absence of his strong hands from around my waist jars my renewed escape into ignorant bliss, his large body no longer behind me.
Jeez…I guess I should have replied
.

Although I don’t really care that he’s gone, curiosity wins out and I open my eyes to turn around, no man in sight.
Fuck it
. I continue swaying to the music, arms raised, losing myself.
I don’t need a man’s arms around me
.

Sensing a penetrating gaze, my eyes dart in the direction of its pull.

The sight of Alex, standing at the edge of the dance floor, takes my breath away. Dressed in a light beige sweater, lightly tucked into loose fitted jeans, his hands in the pockets, his eyes bore into me. Alexander Tate, in the flesh, a glimmer of anger flashing in his eyes as he moves to make his way towards me.

I stare shell-shocked at his beautiful face, unable to formulate a word in my drunken haze.
Am I hallucinating?
I’m flooded with emotion, gawking at him, shaking through the beer goggles. I’ve missed him so damn much, his presence is like a knife twisting my broken heart.

“Having fun, sweetheart?” he spews sarcastically, his eyebrow arched.

What the fuck?
My momentary forgotten anger instantly courses through my veins, returned full force.
Am I having fun? I was!
He has the gall to stand here and judge me dancing with another man when he’s…he’s…“Fuck you!” I blurt, pushing past him to march off the dance floor.

Escaping through the crowd, I mutter to myself at his audacity -
He shows up after two weeks and thinks
I
owe him some kind of explanation?
How did he even know I was here?
The question pops from my bubble of inebriation, before it hits me -
Stacey.
I throw a dirty glare in the direction of our table - I can surely wager a guess that she’s responsible. I head in the direction of the ladies room, deciding it’s a viable hideout until
Mr. Uninvited
hits the road as quickly as he came.

“Aby, where are you going?” he calls from behind me.

Ugh. Go away!
Screw the ladies room, I need to leave.
There has to be an exit back here somewhere…
“I’m leaving, that’s where I’m going! Getting the hell away from you!” I yell back, my words slightly slurred as I blindly attempt to maneuver the darkened hallway, praying it harbors an escape.

“You’re going the wrong way, sweetheart.”

“Don’t fucking call me sweetheart! I know where I’m going!” I lie, huffing as I scan for exit signage.
Ugh! Where the hell is the goddamn exit?

Reaching a dead end, I’m trapped with no escape as Alex’s large hand wraps around my arm.
God, don’t...I’m done if you touch me.
Pulling away instinctively in self-preservation, I take a step back. “Don’t touch me! You lost the right to touch me,” my anger and hurt is seething through my every word, biting in its harness.

“Sweetheart, I
own
the right to touch you,” he reminds me, that sexy as sin smirk donning his delicious face, his large muscular body taking over my proximity.

I gasp at his cocky, yet incredibly erotic words, evading him with a backward step, my back hitting the wall.
Holy shit
. Even madder than all get-out, he can still turn me on in an instant, take me prisoner of his desire with mere words.

I want so much to believe that he’s still mine…to feel that he’s still mine. But it’s a lie. A lie I saw with my own eyes, and I lash against his imaginary binds, “Oh really? Am I branded somewhere?” I spew with sarcasm, searching up and down my body before looking back to him slyly. There’s no need to willingly admit that my implication is a boldfaced lie - I
am
branded by him, deep down to my soul. Utterly ruined for any other man. Yet, I want to hurt him. I need to hurt him, as much and as deeply as he’s hurt me. “Andrew didn’t seem to think so,” I mutter, my cruel tone unrecognizable to my own ears as I purposely launch the silly kiss in his face.

“What the fuck does that mean?” he snarls.

“Do you really need me to spell it out? It was really
good
,” I spew, my venom and will to cause him pain in full effect with wicked ambiguity. I don’t care that it was meaningless - a kiss that felt more like sucking face with my own brother than sparking any form of passion. Again, I’m utterly
ruined
by the man standing before me. What’s worse is that he knows it, and I watch as slight recognition that I’m lying passes across his face.

“You’re angry with me, I see that. And drunk.”

“Don’t flatter yourself, my actions have nothing to do with you,” I inwardly cringe at my desperate attempts to carry on the charade.

His tilted head and knowing grin tell me he calls bullshit. Stepping towards me, he pins me against the wall with his masculine frame, his scent invading my psyche, sending me into a spiral, thickening my drunken haze. I reflexively brace my hands against him to maintain his distance.

My efforts to keep him at bay are for naught, as he pulls my hands from his chest, pinning them above my head on the wall, holding them securely in his large grip. My chest juts out, colliding with his, and I’m panting as his warm breath fans my cheek.

“How
good
was it?” he questions sardonically, gliding his tongue along my jaw.

On a stifled gasp, my fingers flex within his grip as he glides the palm of his free hand across my ribs and around my hips. His expert touch - the touch I’ve missed so much - is delicious torture, igniting my accelerated breaths. The stutter of my heartbeat in my chest is exaggerated in the echoed beat of the club.

His hand slides along the front of my belly to my aching nipples, the swipe along the puckered flesh beneath my silk top sending a wrack of desire along my spine.

“Did it feel like this?” he growls in my ear, nipping the lobe, his sensual tone and seductive work of my body stealing my gasp.

Oh, God. No, it didn’t
…And he knows it.

“We take a break and you think we’re done…you’re over me?” his lips suck and lick along my neck, my pulse careening out of control beneath his magical tongue.

The alcohol burns through my veins, heating to a boiling point of lust. I’m drunk with desire, whimpering as his fevered hot kisses on my searing flesh instantly spike my need for him.

“
Are
you over me?” he whispers huskily, brushing past my lips with his to continue his teasing along my jaw, his hand slipping under my skirt to slide along my saturated core. “Were you this wet for him?” he growls with a harsh grope of my sex.

I moan at the touch, my pussy clenching in desperate need for him, pulsing uncontrollably at the claim of his hand before he abruptly pulls it away.

It’s sudden absence jars my lust-filled haze as he places his hand on the wall, caging my gaze to his, locked onto his brilliant, angry, blue eyes. “You’re
mine
, Aby. Do I need to help you remember?” his lips take mine, his tongue invading my mouth as he releases my hands to cup my face, tilting my head to give him better access.

I tremble in his grip, falling mercy to his attack. How easily I lose myself in him. I kiss him back with a vengeance, hungry and desperate to reclaim what’s mine - the sudden need catapulting me back to reality.
He left me. He’s with her now
. Why is he doing this? Playing with my broken heart with cruel implications that all of the torture and heartache was nothing more than a temporary time break.
Well, I know different!