"I'm pretty sure I still breathe when I'm having an orgasm."
Adrian raises an eyebrow. "I've had my doubts." He reaches for my beer, and I almost successfully dodge him, but I don't want to spill it. Setting both of our drink down on the table, he takes my hand.
"Come on. It's not a prom if we don't dance."
My heartbeat quickens, even though I'm pretty sure he just wants to outdo that cover model. Most people here are dancing solo, or sock-hope-style with their friends. But Adrian, of course, knows how to dance.
With his hand on my waist, he leads me around the room, and I don't know what kind of dance this is but I clearly don't need to.
"You're good at this," I murmur, because clearly what he needs is another ego stroke.
"I know." He's very close to me, and he smells like thrift shop, and that's got to be the first time that's ever been true of Adrian Risinger. But I lean in closer, anyway. "I've had lessons."
"Really? I just figured you were naturally a genius at everything."
"Yeah, I've got everybody fooled. I'm going to dip you. Just hold on."
Before I have a chance to protest, he does. The head rush if spectacular, and as he pulls me back upright, I hear a few people tittering and clapping quietly.
"To impress the kind of people I need to impress, you've got to leave the impression that you popped out of the womb sounding like Alec Baldwin in Glengarry Glen Ross," he says, with a grin. "We all know it's not true, that it can't be true, but it's a shared delusion we all participate in. Learning how to do something isn't sexy. Knowing how to do it is."
The song ends, and my head's still spinning. I don't really want to examine why.
"I'm gonna sit down for a while," I tell him, and he follows me.
Something seems to have subdued him, and he sits quietly with his drink while I scan the room. Izzy's managed to bend the ear of some big-deal agent, so I'm not going to blow up her scene.
"I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this," I comment, glancing around the room again. "It's just an iPod and a bartender with a one-free-drink limit. Not exactly my idea of a party."
Adrian sets his glass down. "Well, it probably helps if you already know all these people. There are convention cliques. They hang out at every conference and plan out their coordinating costumes and who knows what the fuck else."
He knows about this, I realize, because of Kara. She's the one who's kept him informed about all of this stuff, and I kind of hate the idea of him looking to her for guidance.
"I used to always try and start a game of truth or dare at boring parties," I comment. "Probably not a good idea here, though."
"I'm game," says Adrian, smiling again.
"Ugh, no. Definitely not."
"Come on." His foot nudges mine under the able. "Keep it PG-13 for the benefit of the other guests."
"Okay. Fine. I dare you to tell me one weird-as-fuck thing about yourself that will make me do this face." I give him the best impression of my own what the fuck, Mr. Risinger? expression. Over the years, I've perfected it, but it's hard to do on cue.
"Fine." He grins. "I only fuck in hotels."
I blink a few times. "You mean, only when you're out of town?"
"God no." He frowns at me. "I mean, if I'm going to have sex with someone who doesn't want to host, I get a hotel room. They don't come back to my place. I don't think it's that odd, but I've gotten some reactions before."
Shrugging, I pick up my drink. "Well, you probably have a lot of valuable shit. Don't want some stranger in there while you'll sleeping. That doesn't seem too weird to me."
"That's not why, though," he says. "It's not about them spending the night. No one except me, my housekeepers, and a few very select people have even seen the inside of my bedroom. I like it that way." He shrugs. "Sleep better. Do I get the look yet?"
I'm laughing now. "Honestly, this is getting kind of creepy. If I'd known how much you want the look, I never would have offered it in the first place. Want me to tell you what a bad boy you've been, too?"
"Oh, I think you know my tastes don't run in that direction." He leans across the table slightly. "I don't know if this has caught your attention yet, Natalie, but we happen to be in a hotel right now."
"Yeah, and you're wearing a powder-blue tuxedo." I smirk at him. "Pass."
"I will astonish you with how quickly I can make it disappear," he says. "Promise."
Suddenly, I feel a distinct presence. Glancing towards the doorway, I see Kara drifting into the room. She's wearing leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweatshirt - Flashdance, I realize belatedly as she gets closer. Not exactly 80's prom, but I'll give her points for effort.
She gives us both a look, and then slides into the chair next to Adrian's. He glances at her sidelong, but doesn't say anything.
"Having fun?"
The question is clearly directed at me.
"Yeah, thanks," I tell her. No idea what I'm supposed to say, but that seems good enough.
"I hope we're getting some networking done," she says. "That is why we're here, after all."
Adrian sighs a little. "I told you, there's nobody here who can give me a push that I don't already have."
"You're wrong." Kara's shaking her head, and my jaw drops. I've never heard anyone talk to Adrian that bluntly - except maybe me. "The old publishing structure is dying out. You've seen the pricing disputes. We need to court all the influential bloggers. The top reviewers on Goodreads. They're the ones who can sustain us through any kind of behind-the-scenes changes. The publishing arm of Risinger is already the redheaded stepchild - I don't have to tell you that."
"Yes, but I can keep it going," he says, stubbornly. "That's my prerogative."
"You've already lost twenty percent of your authors this year to self-publishing," Kara says. "How much collective bargaining do you think you'll really have, when it's just you and a tired old backlist nobody wants?"
A heavy silence reigns.
"I'm sorry if I was supposed to be doing something and I didn't," I interject, softly. "I've been trying to talk to people … "
Kara makes an irritated gesture, hushing me. "It's not your fault. You didn't know. He was supposed to give you the down-low while I worked other angles, but I have a feeling he's been busy with something else."
Her eyes flick between us, like she's trying to ferret out whether her assumption is correct.
"Kara." Adrian's voice has a warning - a subtle one, but I can hear it, and I'm sure she can too. "I've got thirty business cards in my suitcase already. Natalie's made some new friends. This has been a productive trip, and if you don't agree, I'm sorry. But it's a bit late to do anything about it now."
"Well if you're just going to sit here playing footsie, then I'm not even sure why you're at the party at all." Kara stands up, bristling. "Why don't you head back to your room and continue the important work you've been spending all your time on?"
"Kara." Adrian's eyes turn to stone. "Stop it."
"Sorry," she says, not looking sorry at all. "I'll withhold my advice until it's more welcome."
As she disappears, I look at Adrian with my eyebrows raised. "You still think she's not jealous?"
He lets out a little humorless laugh. "Maybe a little."
"Maybe a lot."
"I knew things would get complicated once you were involved," he admits. "I guess I just didn't realize how complicated."
I'm not sure if he's really talking to me. "Complicated. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be complicated."
"I know you don't," he says. "Complicated's not bad. It's just … complicated."
Chapter Twelve
Complicated.
I'm complicated.
When we get back from the party, I start drifting around Adrian's room, gathering my belongings. He reminds me I can pack in the morning, that the jet will wait for us, because of course it will. But I tell him I need to unwind. What I really need is to get away from him for a minute, to clear my head, but here I am, with my stuff in his room. Everything. Including my toothbrush.
I wonder if the maids notice my bed hasn't been slept in. I wonder if they care.
"I'm just going to make sure I didn't leave anything behind," I tell him, walking through the connecting door. He nods.
I close it, and I walk into the middle of my empty room and stare at nothing.
The chair's still by the sliding glass door, where I left it. My striptease certainly had the desired effect, but what was my long play? Do I really want something ongoing with Adrian Fucking Risinger?
Really, I can't believe I've let my hormones get the best of me like this. I should know better. There's no good outcome here, though … is there?