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This didn’t have to be bad. Maybe it was a sign that after three years he was finally through sulking about the failure of his marriage? It didn’t have to have anything to do with Tally—as long as he got these freaky heart bumps under control.
He rolled out of bed, his boner having got the message that there wasn’t going to be a repeat performance. Rather than risk taking a shower—because no way in hell would he be able to resist inviting Tally to share it with him if he woke her up—he hunted up his clothes in the suite’s living room and dressed. He’d catch a cab and grab a shower at home before heading into work. But as he dug his feet into his shoes, he spotted the stuff he’d dumped out of Tally’s purse the night before scattered across the couch.
The urge to shovel her stuff up wasn’t entirely innocent, especially when he spotted the slim pink case he guessed had to hold her business cards. He could hit Sam for her contact details if he wanted to see her again—which was doubtful, given the heart bumps. But the guy was already going to crow like a rooster when he heard what had happened. So why give him more ammunition?
All thoughts of Sam fled, though, as he frowned at the two lines printed on the white card in a fancy blood-red serif font.
Looking for the Perfect Hot Date?
Check out @BlindDateBitch
He flicked it over—no info on the back. No telephone, no email, nothing. Not even her name. Just a quote: “She Won’t Stop Till She Gets Her Rocks Off!”
His smile flatlined as the events of the night rushed back and all the things Tally had said blasted back into his frontal lobe. And the creeping tide of humiliation that had consumed him while his marriage was disintegrating swept through him like a tsunami.
‘Just think of me as your willing and able sex toy.’
‘Whatever your pleasure, I’m happy to supply it.’
Blood fired up his neck to scald his cheeks. He collapsed onto the couch, her purse dropping from his numbed fingers, his breathing laboured as the truth of what last night had really been about struck like a sucker punch.
Tally hadn’t been a bold, sexy bad girl who loved it as rough and ready as he did. She’d come on to him so strongly and turned out to be the perfect wild ride for one simple reason: she was a goddamn professional. Sam had set him up with a fucking call-girl.
The sickening roll of shame made him feel like gagging.
You schmuck. How could you have been dumb enough to think that was all for real?
Tugging his phone out of his pants, he stabbed in Sam’s number, his palms sweating. Why hadn’t he listened to his instincts when he’d first met Tally and figured this was another of Sam’s dumb jokes?
Of course Sam wouldn’t have expected him to take her straight back to a hotel suite and spend the whole night boning her senseless. Sam would have expected him to figure out he was being punked—’cause they’d been doing this shit to each other since college. Ever since he’d borrowed a tow-truck to haul Sam’s treasured Mustang round the corner so he’d think it had been stolen. After that they’d played some pretty neat tricks on each other, like when he’d hired a handful of semipro basketball players so Sam couldn’t make a single slamdunk during their team’s preseason try-outs. Or when Sam had gotten his friend Marilyn to try picking him up at their college reunion last year.
So why hadn’t he figured out Sam’s latest joke? Before things had gone too far?
The humiliation crawled across his scalp at the thought of how easily he’d fallen for Tally’s act.
I was slumming with you, Brent. And everyone knows it.
Della’s parting shot echoed in his head. And the humiliation turned to paranoia, scorching through the last of his self-esteem like napalm.
He’d been dumb enough to think Della loved him, that the sizzle and spark between them hadn’t been just sexual chemistry. And while it had been a kick in the nuts to discover he’d never really touched Della’s heart, worse had been the knowledge that she’d never touched his either. He’d u
sed Della to shore up his ego. And now, just when he’d got to thinking he was finally through with beating himself up about it, he’d sunk a whole lot lower. And unwittingly slept with a call-girl. Because he’d been flattered and grateful for her attention.
That didn’t just make him a schmuck, it made him a schmuck whose dick couldn’t be relied upon to make good decisions.
Sam’s number rang twice then went straight to voicemail. ‘This is Sam Grady. Don’t tease—leave a message.’
‘Sam, you son of a bitch,’ he whispered furiously into the phone. ‘How could you set me up like that? Next time I see you you’re a dead man.’
He shoved the phone back in his pants, paced to the door. He had to get out of here. But as his hand closed over the knob, it struck him exactly how big the shitstorm he had happily jumped into could potentially be.
Had Sam paid for Tally’s services? Sure, he might have given her some money for the set-up. But would he have paid for the whole night? What if he hadn’t?
It was bad enough that he’d crossed a line he had never intended to. But not paying what he owed would only make him more of a slimeball.
For Chrissake, what the hell was the going rate for a hooker these days? Especially a class act like Tally? As he’d never paid for sex before, he had no freaking idea.
He pulled out his cellphone and opened the internet, but his fingers stopped dead on the keypad.
