Strips of neon-pink bulbs along the perimeter cast an almost strobe-like effect in the room. Ignoring the fact that it's messing with my vision, I pick a booth out of sight of the door. My screen saver lights up when I pull my phone from my purse. It's of the Statue of Liberty. A photo I took last summer when Sebastian and I were goofing off one Saturday instead of looking for wedding locations.
I should have taken it as a sign.
Resolved to stop thinking about Sebastian, I thumb across the picture and go directly to Google. Once there, I search for a picture of something that will have meaning in my new life.
Bingo!
More than satisfied with my choice, I save it as my new screen saver and start singing the song that the bright photo reminds of: "If you like piña coladas . . ."
With a smile on my face, I finish that verse and flip to my message. When I do, I see that I have a text.
Maggie: Are you still out?
Feeling on top of the world that yes, I am, I look at the time and smile. It's 12:35 a.m. And I'm still out. Having fun.
See, I'm so not boring.
Excited about this, I have to retype my reply three times to get the one word correct. Just as I go to hit send, my phone slides out of my grip.
Crap.
Camouflaged beneath the black tablecloth, I lie on the seat and reach onto the carpeted floor. The smoothness of the vinyl bench and soft material of my dress don't exactly see eye-to-eye, and somehow I end up falling to the ground. It's more than a little grimy and I'm more than a little grossed out. With my fingers curled around my phone, I'm about to get off this disgustingness when I hear the sound of voices and the door closing to the private room.
I freeze right where I am.
From under the table I can see two silhouettes. A man. And a woman. I can't see their faces from this angle, only their bodies. Just as I'm about to announce my presence, my eyes drift down to a perfectly shined pair of men's shoes and a very familiar pair of high heels. I know by the Louboutins that the woman is the Megan Fox look-alike.
Like a cat, my curiosity is back.
And when she shoves the man against the door, I feel my heart start to pound. The man is likely Cam-the dark-haired guy she trampled over me to get to and then dragged away from his friends. Getting a better look at him, I can see that his body is taut with tension. A live wire, I think. Definitely an uptight suit.
Trust me-I know the type well.
Right now is when I should announce myself. Yet I don't. Instead, I cover the screen of my phone to shield its glare and watch for what she's going to do next. Maybe yell at him. Cry. Or even break up with him. She's a woman on a mission, and I feel an odd kinship with her because I've been there before.
As if releasing her rage, she rips his shirt apart, and I panic as the buttons jump across the carpeted floor and land very close to my table. The couple doesn't even seem to notice, though, because the woman is already running her palms up his smooth, muscled skin. When she bends, I think for a moment she might bite him or pinch him, and then tell him to go to hell, but instead she starts licking him.
Wait!
She was mad at him.
Wasn't she?
Had I gotten her body language all wrong?
From my downtown view, I can tell she's working his one nipple hard. His hands claw at the door behind him as if he needs the support, but his satisfied groans tell me he likes what's going on. When Megan moves to the other side of his chest, my gaze lands on a tattoo of a scrolling letter B right over his heart, and I think Megan must be B.
Brittney?
Breanna?
Bailey?
Bethany, I bet. She looks like one.
Megan with a B traces the scrolling letter. For some reason, I can't call her Bethany. To me she's Megan. I'll stick with that. "I'm sorry, Cam. I'm so sorry," she whispers.
"Just shut up," he hisses, and I wish I could see his face so I could tell if he's angry or if he likes to be rough.
My thoughts are soon left in the dust because red soles are all I can see when she drops to her knees. Shocked, I have to use my hand to cover my gasp. This is not what I expected. Either way, it's too late for me to say a word.
Slowly, she unzips the fine fabric of his trousers, and I want to die.
I can't watch this.
Yet, I do.
The pink lights flicker over and around me, and if either of them looks toward the corner, they might catch a glimpse of my extremely bold, large silver zipper. Remind me why I suggested this change to the designer? Inching my way farther back, I make sure to blend in with my all-black attire.
"I want you," she moans with a harsh breath.
"You don't get to have me," he sneers at her.
"How about this, then?" she asks as she strokes his cock, which is still covered by his boxers, and then kisses it.
From the groan he makes, it sounds like he's battling himself. "You don't want to do this," he replies, and something in the sound of his tortured, low, creamy voice sets my blood on fire.