Loe raamatut: «Easy Ride»

1

KIRBY MONTGOMERY ADJUSTED the long blond wig that seemed to be crawling off her scalp with each step. It was almost as if the ridiculous thing were warning her not to follow through with this supremely bad idea.

As if she needed to be warned.

She’d come to this club specifically in search of “bad.” Her reputation depended on it.

Three young men dressed in Wrangler jeans, tight T-shirts and cowboy hats puffed menthols and sipped longnecks near the front entrance of Deep in the Heart, but they paused long enough to gift Kirby with an appreciative once-over.

Ordinarily, she’d welcome such validation. But validation wasn’t what she was after tonight.

She clenched the valet ticket as she would a set of winning lottery numbers. She needed that piece of paper—to claim her Volvo at the end of the night and to access the part of this joint where the real action took place.

The first step of the process was a no-brainer: present the valet ticket to the gentleman directly inside the door and say, “I have a reservation and here’s my number.”

Problem was, as soon as the phrase spilled from her lips, she wasn’t sure whether she had nailed the sequence. At least, not until the doorman texted someone, returned her ticket and said, “You’re good to go.”

Damn dyslexia. Even though she’d all but conquered the beast, it still had the power to trip her up and strip her confidence bare.

Step two proved to be a bit more challenging: locate the red door in the back of the club. That meant maneuvering around the dance floor, past the tables overflowing with people.

The scents of beer, drugstore perfume and good-ole-boy arrogance made her stomach roil as she dodged the drunks and the dreamers who came to the club to either get laid or find true love.

She’d almost made it around the first curve when one of the drunken dreamers grabbed her arm.

“Dance with me, darlin’,” he said as the deejay cued up Alan Jackson’s “Mercury Blues.”

The valet ticket slithered from her hand as he twirled her onto the dance floor. She immediately lost sight of it beneath the trampling of boots.

Her own feet tangled beneath her, and her emotions became tied in impossible knots as she tried to get oriented. The whole club spun round and round in all its wood-beamed, high-ceilinged, taxidermy-deer-headed glory. She couldn’t even make out the face of her partner, who, to his credit, maintained an abundance of patience with his two-left-footed partner.

Then again, this was his fault for assuming she could dance, much less wanted to.

She somehow made it through the song without breaking the guy’s foot or crushing his ego with the well-chosen words she’d managed to squelch. Once safely grounded on the sidelines, she exhausted every drop of remaining focus to identify a landmark.

Thank God, she’d somehow ended up about where she started, logistically.

Emotionally, the whole unplanned two-step had wrecked her. She couldn’t even bear to think about the physical damage. Was her wig still on her head? If so, how bad did it look?

She reached up. Fortunately, the beast had remained reasonably intact. She scanned the dance floor for the ticket. What was her number anyway? Was it 181, or 818? Or neither? As she was about to go up front and beg for help, someone tapped her shoulder.

Not again.

She spun around and said, “No, I do not want to dance.”

As soon as she saw the man’s face, she wished she could take it back. Sure, it was dark in this place, but that didn’t shroud certain details, such as the pale blue tint of his eyes. It sure as hell didn’t detract from the sensual shape of his lips. And damn, he looked good in a black Stetson.

At such proximity, the part of her that had been refused, rejected and turned away reawakened with unexpected force. It tugged at her like an iron hand, clad in satin. Forceful and sensual, all at once.

“I don’t recall asking,” he said. “I believe you dropped this.”

He produced the ticket, along with a curious half smile and a tip of the hat.

Oh. Of course he wasn’t going to ask her to dance. Why would he?

She accepted the ticket and held it up to the only light she could find. It had somehow survived the stampede, even though boot scuffs and indentions had scarred the surface and ripped the edges.

Her number—181. She was almost certain.

By the time she thought to thank the man, he’d disappeared into the crowd. Just as well. She had work to do.

After dodging more easygoing cowboys, she finally located the red door.

The no-turning-back-once-you’re-inside door.

She positioned her purse so that the miniature camera, disguised as a zipper bauble, pointed forward.

Moments after punching her valet number into a keypad next to the frame, the door buzzed open and the world changed from honky-tonk to urban lounge.

The only design thread connecting the two different businesses was the cowhide rug beneath her feet, though this one was black and white. Colorless, like everything else around her. Like the stark white podium with only an iPad on top, the glossy white IKEA-inspired cabinet and the white semitransparent scrim of fabric that separated the entry from a darkened room beyond.

An antique chandelier overhead added a touch of romance, but the bulbs were much too bright. All of a sudden she felt overexposed. And far too obvious.

Time to lose the wig. No one would recognize her anyway. Nor would they recognize her name, since she remained eternally stuck behind the scenes at the television station. Shivering in the shadow of Seth Wainwright’s reporter-slash-celebrity ego. But this assignment had the power to change all of that.

She deep-sixed the wig in a tall black trash can situated in the corner, then unleashed her long brunette hair from the strict confines of the elastic ponytail holder, which she slipped around her wrist.

Before she had time to retrieve a comb from her purse, a man parted the scrim and approached.

He looked as though he’d been interrupted in the middle of getting dressed. Or perhaps undressed. The white dress shirt had been unbuttoned to reveal his tan, smooth six-pack. That, along with the gray wool pants, black leather belt and shiny dress shoes, suggested business and pleasure mixed quite beautifully here.

He wasn’t the man she had booked, based on the minimal facial features revealed in the portal photos. Not to mention, this one had blond, rather than borderline black, hair. Furthermore, he looked much too tame.

If nothing else, The Deep’s website was an excellent example of male objectification at its finest.

“You must be Kirby.”

And just like that, she felt as if she’d been stripped naked.

“How do you know my name? I thought anonymity was guaranteed.” In fact, she was sure of it.

The man remained gorgeously stoic as he walked around the desk and typed something into the iPad.

“You provided that info when you signed up. But don’t worry. I’m the only one who knows. To everyone else, you’re a number.”

I’ve been a number before.

“I’ll need your valet ticket,” he continued. “You’ll exit out back when you’re done, and we’ll pull your car around. We find most ladies like the extra privacy.”

She handed him the sad shrapnel of paper. “Sorry. Turns out the ticket isn’t very good on the dance floor.”

No response. Not even a smile. He simply turned his attention back to the iPad.

At this angle, his profile and the depth of his concentration seemed familiar.

“Have we met before?” she asked.

Might as well get it out in the open now. Otherwise, her cover could be blown mid-assignment. Better to forfeit the story before it began and cover the oil-and-gas scandal instead, even though this was the story she wanted. Make that needed. On so many levels.

“Not that I’m aware,” he said without so much as looking up. His fingers continued to glide across the screen.

A few more moments passed, but the familiarity wouldn’t allow her to drop the subject.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

He glanced up from the tablet and evaluated her with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen. Now those she definitely didn’t recognize, which was somewhat reassuring.

“Fabian.”

Yeah, right.

While she waited for Fabian, or whoever he was, to finish his task, she imagined what moniker she would have chosen.

The answer was easy. She’d been compared to Sandra Bullock at least a dozen times. Except, her own eyes were an ever-changing hazel instead of rich, movie-star brown. And her teeth were far from perfect, with both cuspids slightly overlapping their neighboring incisors. She’d shared that quirky trait with her mom. To correct it would mean losing her all over again.

“First time here, I see,” Fabian said.

“I guess that makes me a virgin. I don’t mean I’m a virgin virgin, I meant—”

“You booked Easy Ride to pop your cherry. Excellent choice.”

She gulped. But the knot of self-consciousness in her throat didn’t budge, and she could barely speak around it.

“So I’m paying for...sex?”

This story was going to be easier to wrap up than she had originally thought. She’d barely crafted a lede beyond something like “The Deep, an underground male escort service nestled within the popular country dance hall Deep in the Heart, is allegedly serving up more than longnecks and a shoulder to cry on. It is suspected as a front for prostitution.”

“We’re not that kind of club.” He punctuated the straightforward defense with a cordial smile.

“I was kidding. I crack stupid jokes when I’m nervous.”

She flashed her full-on genuine crooked-tooth smile, and he immediately softened. Yet another reason to avoid orthodontics. For some reason, her smile put people at ease, which was a good thing since her mouth otherwise managed to get her into trouble.

He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “Nothing to be nervous about. Come with me. We’ll locate your friend for the evening.”

Friend. The casual way he said it rubbed her the wrong way. A real friend couldn’t be bought. Lovers, however, were a different story. Tailor-made for an exposé. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like this.

Kirby followed Fabian into the main room, where fat white leather-and-chrome Le Corbusier sofas sat empty, except for one in the far, dark corner. A well-dressed woman rested her head on the bare shoulder of a younger, shirtless man, who rubbed her hand as he whispered something to her.

Another man sat alone in one of two black Barcelona chairs, with an ostrich-skin boot propped on the matching ottoman as he sipped wine from an expensive-looking long-stem glass and pressed a cell phone to his ear.

Instrumental lounge versions of pop country singles skimmed the surface of her awareness. It was yet another thread that loosely tied the two establishments together.

Fabian led her out of the main room and into a softly lit hallway lined with closed and semiclosed doors and enclaves with curtains. A black-and-tan patchwork cowhide runner cushioned their footsteps.

As they walked, Kirby reviewed the details of her heartbreaking script. Her persona’s husband had been an emotional abuser, a withholder of affection. Her persona hadn’t had sex since her engagement. Not even on her wedding night.

If that didn’t bring out the so-called friend in a man, nothing would.

She never thought her own life story could be used for something good. Never thought she’d have the nerve to talk about the unspeakable situation she’d found herself in. Being untouched, unloved and disrespected by the person who had stood in front of God and everyone and promised otherwise.

Kirby swallowed back the unscripted tears, along with the shame they carried. This wasn’t the time or place to fall apart for real.

“You’ll find Ride to be a caring individual. And I can vouch for his integrity,” Fabian said as they entered a cozy room at the end of the hallway.

The room didn’t have a door. Only an extrawide gas fireplace on the far wall and a solitary tan Le Corbusier sofa facing it. An exit sign midway down the hall had caught her eye as they walked by. She didn’t plan on needing to make a quick exit, but the knowledge felt comforting nonetheless.

Fabian did a three-sixty. Confusion twisted the near-perfect features of his gorgeous face. “Ride is usually here. This is his territory.”

“You make him sound like some sort of animal.”

“I guess that would be a fair description. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll find him and let him know you’re ready.”

Fabian exited the room, leaving her alone. And uneasy. The positioning of the sofa, with its back to the door, made her feel like fresh meat in a lion’s den. But this particular assignment required bait, so she sat.

She placed her purse on the near edge of the coffee table, adjusted the camera bauble, then leaned back and waited.

The fireplace felt warm. Too warm. She slipped the elastic band from her wrist and wrangled her long strands into a messy bun on top of her head. It wasn’t as if she were trying to impress the guy. For what she was paying, he’d act impressed anyway.

The air-conditioning mercifully kicked on and soothed the back of her neck. In fact, the room started to feel a little too cool.

As she was about to release her hair from the elastic’s grip once again, a pair of warm hands slid onto her shoulders, and adept fingers slipped beneath the neck of her cashmere sweater and proceeded to massage her muscles.

Panic comingled with pleasure. The conflicting sensations swirled in her stomach before descending straight to her sex. She never knew a shoulder massage could be so erotic.

The man pressed his lips close to her ear and whispered, “I couldn’t find him.”

From the corner of her eye, she noticed the rolled-up sleeve of his white unbuttoned shirt.

Fabian.

He smelled exceptionally good. Like vanilla and pine. He must have splashed on some aftershave or cologne, just for her. Maybe since her scheduled friend was nowhere to be found, the host felt obligated to step in.

Awesome. She hadn’t even met Easy Ride, and he’d already rejected her.

Not that she was complaining. In fact, she might have to reconsider her choice. For now, she’d play along.

“Who were you looking for? Refresh my memory,” she said.

“Anyone who can satisfy you the way I can.”

Kirby’s breath hitched. She hadn’t expected that kind of talk. At least, not so soon.

His touch deepened, his thumbs working the knotted muscles of her upper back. She didn’t dare move. Still, she had questions. Lots of them.

“How do you know what will satisfy me?” she said nervously. “Maybe I have exotic tastes.”

He leaned in again. “Give me an example, and I’ll tell you exactly how I could satisfy you. In great detail.”

The jagged lump that had settled in her throat dissolved as sweetly and easily as cotton candy. His rich voice alone satisfied her hungry soul. No details required.

With this guy, straight missionary would be enough.

Forget Easy Ride. Fabian was definitely her man tonight. Besides, he was probably the gatekeeper of all the secrets, and would make a great friend. And an even better canary.

But that was secondary. She finally understood what it meant to mix business with pleasure, to live in the moment. To be touched this way again. No wonder ladies came here in droves after a heartbreak. When reality ripped a person to shreds, there was no better medicine than a three-dimensional and utterly willing fantasy.

A paid-for fantasy, she reminded herself.

She leaned into the shoulder rub completely, which now included an upper-arm massage.

“I can’t get over how good you smell tonight. What kind of perfume are you wearing?” he asked.

Now there was a line if she’d ever heard one. She wasn’t wearing perfume. It almost jolted her out of the fantasy. Almost.

“It’s called soap and water.”

“No, that’s not it. It must be you that I smell.”

A flush of warmth spread through her entire body. He didn’t clarify what he meant. She was more than willing to fill in the blanks.

He delved even deeper into her tense shoulder muscles.

“That feels so good,” she said, although certain syllables came out as an embarrassing moan.

“And you feel good. Those extra pounds are definitely your friend.”

Huh?

She tried to peel away from his touch as she struggled to rationalize the backhanded compliment, but he reeled her back in with those amazing hands.

Still, such a comment couldn’t go unaddressed. Not for what she was paying.

“Are you insinuating I’m fat?”

“Not at all. But I love the extra meat on your bones. Brings out the animal in me.”

Kirby’s mind swirled, and not in a good way this time. In fact, it didn’t swirl. It shook rather violently. Even though the guy was sexy as hell, there was definitely something wrong here. As in, mentally.

She was halfway tempted to deliver a strong elbow to the groin and get the hell out of there.

No sooner had the impulsive thought crossed her mind, than the tip of his finger traced an invisible line along the base of her neck and stopped at the most sensitive point on the side, as if marking the spot. He planted the softest, warmest kiss right at the destination, causing an unbearable stimulation. How could he have landed on the exact spot that could launch her straight to the heavens and beyond?

Then he whispered, “Your breasts look especially amazing. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear they were natural.”

Seriously? She leaned forward and reclaimed her back, as well as the backbone that went with it.

“We’re done here. Go find my scheduled friend.”

There. She’d said it, even though part of her wanted to continue this messed-up game they’d started, if only for more neck kisses and shoulder rubs. Maybe she could pay him to not talk.

Kirby stood as best she could on legs that had all but turned to marshmallows.

What little strength she’d managed to compose quickly decomposed when she turned to find an over-the-top-gorgeous brunet stranger staring back at her. His expression could easily be described as horrified. Perhaps as horrified as she felt.

He didn’t seem to have a clue as to who she was.

It took a moment, but she sure recognized him. His white shirt was now unbuttoned, and he’d removed his Stetson since rescuing her valet ticket from the dance floor.

His expression remained as distressed as his jeans, yet he looked nothing short of gorgeous. Infuriatingly so, because she didn’t want to feel attracted to this nutcase. The image of a black horse, which was inked on his now-exposed chest, seemed to breathe heavily along with him.

“You’re not Lydia,” he said.

“And you’re not Fabian.”

He ran both hands through his beautifully disheveled hair, and gripped it down to the roots, as if anchoring himself amid the confusion.

In her opinion, all he did was elevate the bed-head look to a whole new level of sexiness.

“There you are, Ride. I see you two have met,” Fabian said, entering the room as if nothing remotely weird had happened in his absence.

For Kirby, the moment had a distinct ménage feel about it. And not in a good way.

As much as Easy Ride had awakened something within her—something completely capable of muddling her emotions—her head began to clear. Obviously, this guy was into some woman named Lydia. Or else he had the ability to cook up some seriously tasty lines that contained no sincere ingredients, and then serve them to everyone. Along with a few borderline-offensive ones specifically for her.

No matter. Kirby smiled, from the inside out. She’d have no problem doing what she needed to do for the story. And maybe doing a few things she wouldn’t ordinarily do along the way.

As imperfect as their introduction had been, Easy Ride was perfect story material.