She seemed to hesitate.
“We could have some fun while you interview me. So you’d still be working,” I said, trying to sound convincing.
I thought her lips parted to say yes, but then the pizza man showed up, interrupting our conversation. She handed him the twenty and took the pizza. She held it in her hands, shifting from foot to foot in her doorway. Did she want me to leave?
“I can’t picture Todd Morris at an amusement park,” she said with a soft laugh.
“Hey, I’m not allowed to chase an adrenaline rush any way else. Roller coasters are allowed. I checked.”
Her smile displayed an amusement for not only the thought of me on a kiddie ride but also for my charm. I watched her lips carefully as they parted once again. My chest tightened as I anticipated her response, hoping it to be a yes.
“I just ordered this pizza,” she said, looking over her shoulder at the work she had spread out all over the room.
“Put it in the fridge. You’ll be up late working it looks like. You’ll need a snack. There are amazing corn dogs down on the pier.” I smiled and winked, hoping that would push her over the edge of her reluctance.
“Okay.” She turned, walked the pizza to the fridge, slid it inside, and then met me back at the door.
“You don’t want to change?” I asked, checking out her high heels and business suit.
“Oh.” She quickly turned back, stepping toward her work. I watched her grab a notepad and a pen, and stuff it in her purse before meeting me at the door once again.
“No, this is fine,” she said.
Okay, I get it. Keep it professional. Damn, she turned me on.
I followed her to the elevator, leaned in to push the button and got a whiff of her sweet perfume. She seemed nervous as we waited for the doors to open, and even more so once we were inside, alone. “This is strictly professional,” she insisted.
“Of course,” I agreed, fighting back my smile. In the lobby, I called a cab and then led her into the small lounge past the front desk. “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you,” she replied, her professional air firmly in place.
The bartender was a tall man. He had thick blond curls and an out-of-date mustache under a large pimpled nose. His skin was leathered, most likely from the hot Florida sun. “What can I get ya?” he asked.
“Yuengling draft.”
“And for the lady?” He shifted his attention to Katrina.
I was hoping she’d change her mind, but “nothing for me, thanks” was all she said.
He gave me a look of condolence and turned to get my beer. “The cab company said it’d be a few minutes,” I explained, taking my beer from the bartender and slipping him a twenty-dollar bill.
He returned with my change, slapping it on the bar in front of me. I smiled, nodded, and took a long sip. “So, what can you tell me about Todd Morris that the fans would love to know?” she asked.
“The fans? How about what you’d love to know?” I answered her question with a question.
She smiled, shifted in her seat, and cleared her throat. I couldn’t believe I made her nervous. After last night. After what we’d done together. I figured she’d be as cool as a cucumber around me.
“What about family?” she asked.
“A brother, a sister, a mother, no dad.”
“Where’s your dad?”
I chugged a large slug of my beer and the bartender nodded toward the door. I looked over her shoulder the parking lot. “The cab’s here.”
“Your change,” she said, motioning to the money I’d left sitting on the bar.
“That’s his.”
I offered my hand to help her down from the tall stool. Her skin was warm to the touch, delicate and soft, just as I remembered. My cock twitched at the memory of her taste, of how she felt, of how her skin reddened when smacked with the leather flogger.
In the cab, Katrina immediately continued her questioning. “So what happened to your dad?”
“He was never around much. He took off when I was young. I barely remember him.”
“You ever thought of looking him up now that you're…” she paused.
“A baseball star?” I asked.
“An adult,” she clarified.
“He passed away ten years ago. I looked him up. Just a little too late, I guess.”
The cab pulled up in front of the large hotel that offered a quick entrance to the boardwalk. “You ready for some fun?” I asked, opening the door, and sliding out of the backseat. I extended my hand. She grasped it, smiled, and slid out into my arms.
“I didn’t mean to bring up your dad,” she whispered.
She was so close. Her body was pressing against mine. The urge I had to kiss her, to stroke her hair from her face, to tell her how beautiful she was in the sunlight was almost too much to control. “It’s okay. But, I’m sure that’s not the stuff the fans want to know.”
“You’d be surprised,” she said.
I pulled away. I didn’t like the idea of being placed in the spotlight for something that didn’t define me. I wasn’t an amazing baseball player because my dad left when I was a kid. I wasn’t anything because of that fact. It was useless information. Next question.
“What else do you want to know?” I asked, changing the subject quickly.
It was obvious she was reluctant to ask anything after her first bomb. “You tell me something you want me to know,” she said. Nice save.
“I’ll tell ya what. You ride a ride with me, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Her eyes widened. “Anything?”
“The bigger the ride, the bigger the information,” I clarified.
We walked out onto the Boardwalk. The shops lined the concrete path with neon colored shirts, plastic sunglasses by the droves, and sunscreen displayed neatly on spinning racks. The smell of fried food took over the ocean’s salty air as we neared a small restaurant with café style tables out front and arcade machines blasting inside. “You still hungry?” I asked.
She nodded.
I gripped her hand, pulled her toward the counter, and stared up at the menu. “I heard they have the best corn dogs on the beach.”
She grinned. “Well, then I have to try one.”
“You heard the lady,” I told the aging man wearing a colorful hat and pink-rimmed sunglasses behind the counter. He smiled, showing every single one of his yellowed teeth.
“And make me four,” I added.
Katrina’s eyes went wide. “Four?”
“I’m a big boy.”
“Yes, you are,” she half mumbled, half laughed.
My cheeks hurt as they pressed upward into a broad smile. “Easy now, Kitty-Kat. We’re supposed to be keeping it professional.”
“My dad called me Kitty-Kat,” she said softly, the smile fading into oblivion.
I looked for that sadness, but it wasn’t there. She rallied and smiled, took the corndog from the man behind the counter, and laughed as I reached with both hands to grab mine. “Ketchup or mustard?”
She rolled her eyes. “Mustard of course.”
“My kinda girl.” I gripped the mustard from the small counter along the wall, and she held her dog out for me as I squirted the yellow goo onto the top, then down the side.