Operation One Night Stand (31 page)

Christine Hughes is a former middle school English teacher from New Jersey.
After nine years teaching others to appreciate literature, Christine decided to take the plunge and write her first novel,
Torn
—a YA paranormal released by Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing in August 2013.
The sequel,
Darkness Betrayed
, and a third novel, a stand-alone NA Contemporary titled
Three Days of Rain
, were released by CHBB as well.
Though she loved writing for the YA set, she really found her love with
Three Days of Rain
—writing for more mature audiences.
And though she loves it, it was heart-wrenching to write, and she found herself drawn back into romance with a fun voice.

Christine has attended numerous book festivals such as the Baltimore Book Festival, YA Fest, the Collingswood Book Festival, BooksNJ, and, most recently, the Princeton Public Library’s Local Author Day.
Additionally, she’s attended a SCBWI conference and a Writer’s Digest Annual Conference.
In 2012, she traveled to Hollywood, California, to receive an award for
Torn
.

Christine currently stays home to write while her husband works and her two boys attend elementary school.
Don’t bother her too much during football season—she’s either cheering on her boys or crying in her pint glass over yet another Jets loss.

Learn more at:

Christine-Hughes.com

Twitter @HughesWriter

Facebook.com/ChristineHughesAuthor

W
ith nothing but a towel wrapped tightly around my head, I padded barefoot to the kitchen to open a bottle of wine.
Turning up the music, I shimmied around the room as I searched the drawer for the bottle opener.
I was giddy after checking the time; Zac would be at my apartment in an hour.
For the first time since, well, the first time, he’d be on my turf.
There would be no sneaking around the office, no stolen kisses when no one was looking.
No rushing out of bed at three in the morning to take a cab to the train that would bring me home by four only to head back into the city by nine.
He was coming to my place.
My place.
Sleeping over.
Spending the night.
Spending the weekend.
And if I had a say in it, the weekend would be spent in bed.

I’d put on the slinkiest, sluttiest underwear I could find—purchased specifically for the occasion—perfected my barely there makeup, and dabbed on the expensive perfume he’d purchased for me during his last visit to France.

With thirty minutes to go, I pulled the towel off my head, and used the diffuser to ensure the honey-blond curls he loved so much were intact and full.
I lit candles and slipped on my barely legal black dress in time to pay the Chinese delivery guy, whose eyes bugged out of his head when he saw the surgically enhanced cleavage I presented him with when I answered the door, and set the table.
Looking around my ridiculously spacious apartment, I smiled because everything was perfect.
Early dinner meant more time in bed.
Or on the floor.
Or in the shower.

After I polished off my second glass of wine, I shot him a text and picked at the dumplings.
Within thirty minutes, there were none left and I was still starving.
I checked out the market recap and flipped through the channels until I landed on a sitcom that highlighted one of the characters turning thirty.
I opened the second bottle and lamented the fact that I’d be thirty in less than a month.
I wasn’t
not
looking forward to it, but I didn’t see the big deal.
Unfortunately my mother didn’t agree.
Especially since she’d learned my friends were moving in a direction I clearly was not.
I mean, who cared if Caroline moved in with Brian?
Why did it matter if Sarah was dating Drew regularly?
Who said I needed any of that?
I was an attractive young professional woman.
I was successful.
And I liked to have sex.
Lots of it.
And I liked to sample all the different varieties of dick being single introduced me to.
At the moment, I was having lots of sex with my boss, Zachary Waterman.
The things that man could do with his hands.
The thought gave me goose bumps.

I reached across my chocolate leather sofa and grabbed a four-hundred-dollar pillow to rest my laptop on.
Maybe he’d e-mailed.
I’d eaten both eggrolls and started the second bottle by the time I finished perusing through the spam and department store sales advertisements.
It wasn’t a total loss.
I’d ordered a sexy new pair of peep toes to go with the entirely too expensive suit I’d purchased the week before.

I clicked off the television and walked to my bedroom as wine sloshed from my glass due partly to my overpour and partly to my impaired balance.
I call it my two-bottle strut.
Everyone has one.

Relighting a vanilla candle that had snuffed out, I picked up my never-used landline and dialed my cell phone to make sure it was still working.
He was an hour and twenty minutes late.
I took a deep breath and reminded myself not to panic.
Of course, he was a busy man.
He ran a multimillion-dollar company.
There was no need to worry.

Refreshing my makeup, I told myself over and over again not to worry.
The voice in my head, unfortunately, was growing more frantic by the minute.
I was never one to get all swoony and girly over a man.
I had no time for relationships, no time for anything other than casual and mutually mind-blowing sex.
I had a black book.
I had notches on my bedpost and a belt with more holes than I cared to admit.
It’s not that I didn’t care about the guys I slept with, it’s just that I cared more about myself and my orgasm.
Not a bad thing.
I certainly wasn’t selfish, any bedmate could tell you.
I just wasn’t relationship material.
And it pissed off my mother.

So why were my panties in a bunch over Zac?
What the hell made him so special that I’d sit home and wait for him?
It was because he was unavailable to me in the relationship department.
His wife would agree with me.
I’d been involved with my still-married-but-going-through-a-divorce boss for the past five months.
Not exactly going through, per se.
More like promising-to-end-it-but-hasn’t-yet.
My friends thought I needed a new hobby.

I dialed his number and was slightly surprised when it went straight to voice mail.
I didn’t bother leaving a message.
Instead I threw the phone on my couch and slinked back to the kitchen to grab a third bottle.
I sat on the floor between the hallway and the kitchen cracking fortune cookies that gave shitty advice and refilling my glass until my vision clouded.
It wasn’t until that third bottle of Pinot sat unopened in my lap, mascara stained my cheeks, and he was officially two and a half hours late that I realized he wasn’t coming.

That isn’t true.

I realized it when he didn’t return my text.

Calmly I walked to my bedroom and stripped off the slinky black dress I’d picked out for the evening, now noticeably stained with drops of wine, and let it fall to the floor.
I yanked on the rattiest pair of sweatpants I could find from my drawer and pulled my old college T-shirt over my head.
Even that had holes in it.
Perfect metaphor for my life at that moment.
Full of holes.
I was crying by the time I called Sarah.

“Hey.”

She was out somewhere.
I could hear other people talking in the background.

“He didn’t come.”
Unsteadily I made my way back to my living room.

“Oh, sweetie.
I’m sorry.”

“I’ve eaten five dumplings and two eggrolls.
I have a pile of fortune cookie crumbs in my hallway.
I am going to open my third bottle of wine and eat the lo mein I ordered without a fork.
I will gain ten pounds and I don’t care.”

“We’ll be right there.”

“I will stick my face in the lo mein and eat it like a caveman.”

“Do not eat the lo mein like a caveman.
We will be there in less than twenty minutes.”

The best part about having two best friends was there were no questions when one of us was down.
I didn’t have to ask.
They’d be there.
They’d answer the phone.
They’d respond to a text and, barring a life-threatening accident, they wouldn’t be two and a half hours late.

I barely heard them come in my apartment.
It wasn’t until Sarah plopped down on the floor next to me that I opened my eyes.
Thankfully, I never opened that third bottle.

“You okay?”

I rolled my head and rested it on her shoulder.
“Yeah.
I’m okay.”

“Can I be blunt?”

“I don’t think it’s a good time to be blunt.
Caring and understanding.
Not blunt,” Caroline said as she settled on my other side and handed me a cup of coffee from my favorite place.

“It’s okay,” I reassured her, “I can take it.”
I sipped the strong black coffee and knew sooner rather than later, I’d be perked back up.
I didn’t want to be perked back up.
I wanted to wallow and woe is me in the dark depths that only sleeping with a married man could bring you.

“How long are you going to keep doing this to yourself?”

“Oh, at least another dozen or so times.”

Caroline was right.
I didn’t want to hear what Sarah, the constant voice of reason, had to say.

“He’s married.”

“I am more than aware.”
I rolled my eyes and tipped my empty wineglass, hoping to tease out one last drop.

“He’s done this to you more than once.
He’s a no-show.
Doesn’t call.
Doesn’t text.”

“That isn’t fair.”
With a bit of latent enthusiasm, I shot forward and pointed a perfectly manicured finger at her.
“The last time his mother was in the hospital.”

“And the time before that he was stuck in traffic and the time before that—”

“I think she gets it, Sarah.
Just like I think it’s time for you, my dear, to get dressed.”

Caroline stood, scooped her hands under my arms, and pulled me to my feet.

“I am in no shape to go out.
I’m drunk.”
My point needed a drunk-girl arm flail but I was too tired to attempt it.

“It’s nine o’clock.
Since when do two bottles stop you?
You’re fine.
Besides, if you stay here, you’ll be in a food coma.
Jesus”—she walked over to the dining room table—“how much did you order?”

“A lot.”

“Drunk is fine.
Drunk and holed up in your apartment crying about a married man who didn’t show up is not.
Don’t be silly.
We’re just going to Murphy’s.
It’s time for target practice.”
Sarah winked at Caroline.
I had the feeling they’d been planning this for a while.

Target practice.
Almost a year ago Caroline’s boyfriend-turned-fiancé of five years broke up with her in the douchiest way imaginable—she walked in on him banging the intern.
Needless to say she retreated, hid, gained ten pounds, and became a disheveled mess.
Until Sarah and I stepped in and forced her to see herself without Steve.
Target Practice: Operation One Night Stand was born.
After a few bumps in the road, Caroline ended up with Brian, the bartender who owned Murphy’s Bar.
He was supposed to be a rebound, someone to pull her out of her funk.
Two weeks ago, they moved in together and bought a dog.

Go figure.

“I don’t need target practice.”
I moaned as the girls walked me back to my room.

“You need a distraction,” Sarah piped in.

“Operation Distraction?”
Caroline said with too much enthusiasm.

I shook my head and laughed.
“Whatever.”

Sarah and Caroline convinced me that night to shower, dress, and head to Murphy’s.
They reminded me that they’d warned me numerous times that getting involved with Zac wasn’t the brightest of my ideas and eventually, I had to agree.
After much discussion, it was decided that I would choose my target the following week, after, of course, dodging calls and advances from Zac and solidifying the platonic work-only relationship that was probably best but certainly not as fun.

With reluctance, I allowed Sarah to delete Zac’s number from my phone, which would have been the perfect solution did I not work so closely with him.
And if he were not the definition of tall, dark, handsome, and fucking sexy as hell.

I just needed to get through the week.