The Duet(5)
His dark brows tugged together as he pushed up off the bed. “I thought we could have another go this morning?” he said, his pouty lips trying to entice me back in. When I thought back to how fuck-tastically terrible the sex had been the night before, it wasn’t hard to shake my head.
“I’d love that, really, but I am now—” I glanced at my clock and my eyes bulged out of my head. “Ten minutes late to a meeting with my label!”
I didn’t even bother waiting for his reply. Once I saw the time on my bedside clock, I flew into action. I am not a late person. I am responsible and polite. I show up on time to everything from doctor’s appointments to Bat Mitzvahs – you name it and I’m there five minutes early smiling and proud of my timeliness. (Side note, I’m not Jewish, but I get invited to a strangely large number of Bat Mitzvahs.)
My massive closet presented me with every clothing option under the sun, but I tossed on a pair of skinny jeans and grabbed the first shirt I saw hanging up. I shoved my makeup bag in my purse, gripped my brown leather flats under my armpit, and then grabbed a banana from the counter.
All the while, Model Man just posed in my bedroom doorway like he was in the middle of a Fruit of the Loom photoshoot. Before, it’d been a tinsy bit cute, now it was just creepy.
“Dude, you have to leave,” I said, walking toward the door and hoping he’d follow suit.
“I think you should stay with me and we can make love in this bed for hours and hours,” he said with his thick Brazilian accent. I could imagine that fifty-percent of the female population would consider him a wet dream come to life, but seriously, he needed to get out of my condo so I could lock up.
“Yeahhhh, no. I’m sorry, but I have to go, so you can hangout here or you can—” I glanced around my spacious condo, trying to figure out what to say to this guy to get him to leave. Was he just going to live here full-time? I’d come home from work and he’d be on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table? I was not prepared to give up my condo just because this guy had an accent and a cute butt.
Instead of thinking of something to say, I just turned and left. If Model Man wanted my condo for the morning, then so be it. I knew my driver would be waiting for me downstairs. I’d have ten minutes to brush my hair and make myself presentable in the backseat on the way to my meeting. My meeting with Jason Monroe. Dammit, I couldn’t believe I was already ten minutes late. I glanced down at my watch. Make that twenty minutes late.
I flew down the stairs while slipping on my flats, too impatient to wait for the elevator, and then shouted out to the concierge as I passed by in a full-run. “Could you make sure that the person in my condo leaves? I’d like it to be discreet so have him leave through the back entrance. And maybe give him some kind of parting gift or something!”
The concierge eyed me suspiciously, but I didn’t have time to explain any further. Whatever. I couldn’t worry about my new roommate; I had to start focusing on the meeting.
My driver, Jerry, was standing in the private garage with a frown pulled tight over his mouth. It was hard to see it beneath his bushy, brown mustache, but I knew it was there.
“I tried to call you, Ms. Heart, but you never answered. I was about to go up and knock on your door,” he said, pulling the back door open for me.
Poor Jerry, he always did his best to look out for me.
“I’m so sorry. My alarm didn’t wake me up. We have to be downtown at Global Records as quickly as possible,” I said, sliding into the back seat.
Jerry ran around the front of the car and in two seconds flat we pulled out into Monday morning traffic. Most of the time Jerry drove at the precise speed limit, offering a smooth and comfortable ride. But that morning he was a speed demon and I almost poked my eye out with my mascara like four times. After I’d spun my hair into a low bun and applied what I hoped was enough make-up to cover up last night’s hangover, I realized that I’d forgotten the most important parts: I hadn’t brushed my teeth or put on deodorant.
Awesome. Great. I tried out the standard blow-into-the-palm-of-your-hand to test my breath and yes, on a scale of one to ten, I could kill a small puppy with that wretchedness.
“Jerry, you don’t have a breath mint, do you?” I asked, leaning forward toward the front seat.
“No ma’am. Would you like me to stop and pick some up?”
I glanced toward the car’s clock and flinched. “No. We don’t have time, but thank you.”
I sat back and glanced down at my lap, trying to find inspiration to cure my hygiene woes. I had a make-up bag and my purse. My make-up bag was out unless I wanted to coat my tongue in foundation and hope that would mask the stench. I turned to my purse, and thanked the holy lord, because stuck at the very bottom was a half opened piece of gum. Sure, some of it was coated in an unidentified, pink glitter substance, but I was desperate.