I hope the cab comes before Curtis and Jamie take their leave. I have no desire to make small talk with White out on the sidewalk, much less suffer through another round of “I’m sorrys.”
Mercifully, the cab arrives in short order. I make a mental note to give Curtis the weekend off.
He opens the rear door for White, who turns to me.
“Mr. Stone, I’m—”
“Sorry,” I say. “Yes, I’ve heard. Goodnight, Ms. White.”
Her eyes drop and her shoulders slump a bit. Defeated, she climbs into the cab. It pulls away from the curb and disappears around the corner at the end of the block.
Well, I think, at least that’s one problem gone.
“Trent?”
It’s Jamie. Maybe I put the wrong woman into that cab.
Before she can go on, I flick my eyes to Curtis, who nods almost imperceptibly.
“Ms. Wells?” he says, stepping forward. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll see you home.”
She looks at me for a moment, then follows Curtis to the car. Soon, they’re gone as well, and it’s just me and the fire chief.
“Mr. Stone,” he says, “I know this looks bad, but it could have been a hell of a lot worse. At least no one got hurt.”
“Yes,” I agree. “At least there’s that.”
Plus it gets me off the hook with Jamie, I think. Probably the most expensive bail-out of my whole life, though.
Chapter 3 - Steph
Slamming doors doesn’t help my anger, but I keep trying—first the door of the taxi, then the front door of my apartment building, then my own door. Each time just seems to limber me up more for slamming the next door shut. Eventually, I’ve run out of doors.
I resort to slamming cabinets closed. Out comes a glass. Bang. Out comes the vodka. Bang.
“Ohh!” I exclaim and slam the cabinet door over and over. Bang, bang, bang.
I am furious on so many levels; it’s like an angry onion. I am angered at life in general for putting me in that situation to begin with, especially when I didn’t want to be there. I am angry at myself big time for making such a stupid blunder. Visions of money swirling down a drain flicker through my brain over a picture of my restaurant falling into neglected disrepair.
But most of all, I am full of the most scorching fury at Trent “Goodnight, Ms. White” Stone. Packing me off in a cab as lightly as tossing out a bit of trash into the wastebasket.
To make matters worse, not to mention confusing, I found and, in spite of everything, continue to find him to be incredibly sexy. You’re not supposed to think of the person whom you are completely pissed at as being attractive, but there it is. I had seen little of him during the course of the evening, but I have to admit I had been curious to see more.
I still manage to blacken the air with rants about Stone, everything from his treatment of me to his stupid, no-doubt-stupidly-expensive stupid tie. I become aware of two things: that I am pacing my apartment in wide circles like a crazy person and that I’m carrying along an empty glass.
I turn back to the kitchen, meaning to stomp there and retrieve the bottle of vodka from the counter when I catch myself. Now might not be the best time to have a drink. Instead of taking the edge off my seething indignation, it would probably make things worse. Plus, enough trying to take the edge off and I’d just wake up nauseated and with a headache. That wouldn’t do. I have a feeling that it’s going to be hard enough getting through the day tomorrow anyway. Putting myself at a physical disadvantage doesn’t seem very smart.
“Smart” makes me think of smart looks and smart clothes, which is Stone in a nutshell, and I’m raging all over again. I have to do something to calm down.
The vodka goes back into the cabinet (door banged shut, of course), and I go back into the bedroom.
The room is very minimal—bed, nightstand, lamp, a few pictures on the walls, and that’s it. No television. I have long subscribed to the belief that the bedroom is a place for only two things: sleep and sex.
I don’t feel at all sleepy.
I undress down to the skin and lie back on the coverlet, eyes closed. Breathe, I tell myself. In. Out. In. Out. Eventually, my breathing slows and I’m calm enough to register the soft caress of the comforter on my bare back.
Comforter. That’s a good word. I need comforting. Having no time for dating, though, that means no one around to make me feel better. I would need to do all the comforting myself.
It’s cool in my apartment—we’re just coming off an unseasonable minor heat wave—and my skin is extra sensitive to the touch. I slide one hand over my belly, up to my breasts. My nipples, already hard in the chill of the air, scrape deliciously across my palm, and I shiver. I pinch one lightly and feel a stab of pleasure.
My other hand coasts down over the tops of my thighs teasingly. I knead the flesh there, feeling the jumpiness, the tension in the muscles. It’s been a long time since another person has done this, but I imagine that the hand belongs to someone else. It’s surprisingly easy, as it feels so good.
I’m working my breasts a bit harder as I move my right hand up the inside of my thighs. I think of past lovers and try to put their faces with the situation,
