Chapter 3
REESE
“You know they rob you blind when you rent a room to yourself at these places,” I announce, as I stumble into Ben’s hotel room. It’s the cookie-cutter design—two queen-sized beds covered in tropical floral bedspreads and adorned with swan towel creations, the walls plastered with tacky mass-production artwork.
I hear the door lock click behind me. “Yeah, but it’s worth it on nights like this. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“You’ve got this all figured out, don’t you, Don Juan.” I half-fall, half-lean against the wall to balance myself as I kick off my flip-flops. Once I got past the whole red shirt issue—I hold a special kind of grudge against that color—I realized that Nicki may have called forth the perfect exorcism candidate after all. As if his dazzling blue eyes and deep dimples weren’t enough to win me over, the second Ben pulled his shirt off in the middle of the lounge and stood there like an arrogant bastard, that incredibly ripped body of his on proud display, I knew there would be no pretenses with this guy. No confusion. No false promises of a life together. Or even a phone call.
But what makes Ben the most compelling candidate is the fact that he has effectively distracted me from all thoughts Jared. I mean, he’s about as opposite as you can get. Ben is rugged and blond, whereas Jared is “pretty” and dark. Jared’s chest and arms are covered in tats, while Ben’s body boasts a naked—and appealing—canvas. And where Jared is quiet and introverted, Ben is as outgoing and obnoxious as you can get.
An interesting bonus? He’s had me laughing all night long. Granted, I was usually laughing at him, but still.
Thanks to Ben, I’ve had several hours’ respite from excruciating thoughts of my ex-husband and his elaborate wedding to her in Savannah, Georgia, happening at this very moment. I only know about the wedding because I stalk Jared’s Facebook profile daily. While he has never been good at posting status updates, Caroline could join an Olympic Facebook team the way she plasters pictures and wedding plans and “I love you’s” on his wall like unsightly graffiti.
Unfortunately, even a guy like Ben couldn’t cure me of all thoughts completely and the second they crept out from the dark recesses—the moment I felt the drunk-girl tears about to erupt—I told Ben that he was bringing me to his hotel room.
Wandering farther in, I throw an arm toward the bed not covered in his clothing and suitcase. “You sleep in this one?”
Heavy footsteps approach behind me. “Yep.”
“Okay then.” I lean forward to shove everything from the unused bed.
“What are you doing?” Ben asks with a chuckle.
“I’m assuming you’ve had your other conquests over there,” I mutter, his suitcase making a loud thud as it hits the ground, the contents spilling out. “I want an untainted bed.”
“Hey, you’re the one who grabbed me by my belt and demanded that I bring you here. I was just as happy hanging out by the bar.”
I snort. “Yeah. I don’t think I’ve ever seen as bad a case of eyeball static cling as tonight.” If his eyes weren’t on my boobs or my legs, they were glued to my face. I’ll admit, his undivided attention on me felt damn good. A real ego booster when I needed it most.
Strong hands grasp my hips and pull me back toward him. Even in my drunken state, it’s impossible not to notice Ben’s prominent erection digging into my ass. “How long have you had that problem?” I joke as heat rushes to my thighs. Am I actually going to go through with this? I’ve had only one other one-night stand before and I don’t even classify that as such because I knew the guy. I just didn’t particularly want to date him. He was arrogant. Just like this one.
He chuckles softly. “Since I watched you fall off your chair. And I don’t consider it a problem as long as it’s dealt with before the morning.” A large hand curls around to my abdomen and starts sliding up along my rib cage, guiding my body upright. “I don’t fly out until eleven, so we’ve got lots of time.” Spinning me around to face him, he lifts my arms to settle on his shoulders before his hands fall down the length of my arms and farther, his thumbs running over the contour of my breasts on their way to wrap around my waist. His eyes rest on my mouth. “So . . . invertebrate zoology? Biotechnology?”
“Your dirty talk is going to make me lose control.” What the hell is he talking about?
“Why’d you lie, Miss Marine Biologist from Seattle?” I can tell by his smile that he’s not angry, or even annoyed. Amused, if anything.
Oh . . . I shrug. So he figured that much out. Doesn’t seem like he’s picked up on the fact that we’ve been using cast names from Charlie’s Angels all night. I’m actually surprised. I could see him being the type of twelve-year-old boy to jerk off to reruns of a young Farrah Fawcett. “I don’t know. I like to role-play.” Adding coyly, “Sometimes I like to play dress-up, too.” I actually fucking hate costumes, but judging by the spark of excitement in Ben’s eyes, his imagination is taking that and running to all kinds of filthy places.
He’s fun to toy with.
That’s exactly how I ended up here.
That and too much tequila.
He leans in. His lips—so contradictorily sweet next to that obnoxious mouth—land on the nape of my neck, eliciting an embarrassing groan out of me as I tip my head back and coil my arms around his head. It’s not Jared’s mouth, but it will work.
The room is beginning to spin, but this feels so good that I force myself to ignore the revolutions as I lean farther into him. I continue to ignore them as his fingers slip under the hem of my tank top to pull it up and over my head. Tossing it aside, his hands quickly find and unfix the clasp to my bra.
“Damn, I knew it.” He shifts back to get a good look at my bare chest as cool fingers graze the silver hoop through my left nipple. He gives it a skilled tug, just enough to elicit a gasp and a burn in my lower belly. With a devious smile, he murmurs, “What else you got?” He has my shorts and panties on the floor before I know what’s going on.
“I thought there was no rush?” I mutter, grabbing Ben’s arm to stop myself from toppling over as I step out of them, a spike of nervousness jumping in me as I acknowledge that I’m completely naked in front of this fully clothed and fit man who works at a freaking strip club. I have a small waist and decent boobs, but the package comes with a tiny abdominal “bump” and an ass that’s a tad fuller than I would like.
I hope he’s too drunk to notice.
A frown mars Ben’s forehead as he peers down at my face. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
“Because your eyes just crossed. That’s usually not a good sign.” The crease deepens. “Are you sure you haven’t had too much to drink? Because I don’t like to—”
I answer by grabbing the front of that red shirt and yanking him down into my mouth for what I hope is not a sloppy-drunk-girl kiss. But probably is. That seems to be all he needs, because his arms snake around my body to crush me against him. It may just be the alcohol but, damn, does this obnoxious bouncer have some skill. I hadn’t expected it. In truth, I thought he’d be the “no kissing on the lips” kind of guy. Now, though, I find myself mesmerized by him, letting my hands crawl all over his chest, ready to find out exactly how skilled he is.
If only this spinning would stop.
And this uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach . . .
Oh . . . no.
Call it gut instinct, an ounce of good luck buried within a pit of bad, I don’t know . . . but I intuitively peel myself away from Ben’s lips a second before a night’s worth of margaritas rushes up my throat and shoots out of my mouth.
All over the front of Ben’s red shirt.
Oh my God.
Did that just happen?
I’m temporarily frozen, staring at the streaks of green-tinged sludge all over his body.
“Oh, man . . .” Ben groans, the disgust plain in his tone.
Yes, that just happened.
I don’t even have to look at Ben’s face to know that all thoughts of getting laid have vanished from his mind. They’ve certainly abandoned mine, leaving me doused in an icky coat of mortification. That alone has my stomach churning more. I sense an encore performance coming. The hell if I’m puking anywhere in front of or on him again! Clamping two hands over my mouth, I turn and make a run for the bathroom. Unfortunately, something jumps out and trips me and a second later I find myself sprawled across the floor, the cool tile chilling my completely naked body, a dull pain beginning to ache in my toe.
“Shit, are you okay?” I hear from behind me.
I’m going to puke. I’m going to puke doing a facedown starfish if I don’t get up right now. The bathroom is no more than six feet away and I know I’m not going to make it all the way back to my feet. So I do the next best thing.
Scrambling to my hands and knees, I crawl toward the bathroom.
The bellow of laughter from behind me—oh God, the view he must have of me right now! I didn’t think this through!—only makes me pick up speed, until I’m crossing the threshold, slamming the door, and flipping the lock. I lunge for the toilet just as another wave of green shoots out, filling the bowl.
When I’ve purged my stomach of its toxic contents, all I can do is lean my forehead against the toilet seat and relish the cool porcelain as my rib cage throbs and my body breaks out in a sweat.
A soft knock sounds on the door. “You okay in there?”
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
Why! Why did this happen to me? I’m not a puker! Lina is the puker!
“You know, if you hated the shirt that much, you could have just asked me to take it off. I was about to anyway.” I don’t know how he could possibly be making jokes about this. He’s the one covered in vomit. Just the thought has me shuddering. “Look . . . Some chick just puked on me and I really could use a shower. Can I come in?” The door handle jiggles and I thank baby Jesus for having given me the good sense to lock it. The last thing I want is to have him come in here and see my naked body hunched over his toilet. I need to get my clothes and get out of here without facing him. Ever again.
“You’re alive, right?” There’s finally a hint of worry in his tone. “I don’t have to bust down this door?”
That’s the last thing you have to do. “I’m good.” I pull myself up to the sink to splash my face with some cool, fresh water. Reaching for his mouthwash, I dump a mouthful in and begin gargling.
“Come on, Jill. We’ve all been there. I’m sorry I laughed.”
I’ve never been so happy that I used a fake name. The story will go down in history as a puking purple-haired girl named Jill who crawled to his bathroom, her naked fat ass wiggling the entire way. I’m fine with that.
There’s a long pause and then I hear his heavy sigh. “I’m leaving some bottled water next to the door for you. Don’t drink the tap water or you’ll be spending the rest of your vacation in the bathroom.” His footsteps move away just as another wave of nausea hits me, courtesy of my minty-fresh breath.
I dive for the toilet again.