Provocative Professions Collection (23 page)

I can block out a lot, the master of completing tasks at work amidst constant chatter and interruptions, but I cannot stay ensconced in ecstasy with "Crazy Train" rattling the foundation of the building.

Even Max comes up for air, panting, a shocked gape at the ceiling. "How is that possibly allowed? No wonder you can't sleep."

"You tell me." I sigh in frustration, my hand now lax at my side. No way am I gonna be cock-blocked by Ozzy! "I've complained multiple times."

"You want me to go say something?" he offers chivalrously.

"No," I huff, righting my bra back in place and nudging him to get off me, "I got it."

"Amelia, let me."

"No." My aggravation turns to a building fire of anger. "I'll handle it. This is
my
home and my problem to fix, once and for all. Wait here."

Fully recomposed clothing wise, I stomp up the stairs and bang on the door with a closed fist. "Hello!" I scream, my pounding relentless. "I know you're in there!" I add my foot, kicking the door, but it hurts, and the addition of a throbbing toe fuels me. "My sleep is one thing, but I'm about to get laid, finally!" I scream.

Two revelations make themselves known in my slightly buzzed, lusty, angry mind at once. First: the person inside
with
the music probably
can't
hear me. Second: everyone else in the building
can,
and
did
hear me just admit my state of sexual desperation. Including Max.

Humiliation has a way of instantly changing the tide. I'm suddenly completely sober and over it all. I turn and drag myself embarrassingly back inside my apartment.

Max lifts his head from where he sits on the couch and smiles sadly at me. "So, um…" he yells over the music, now impossibly louder.

I slump down beside him. "Rain check?"

He nods and runs a hand over his face. "Seriously though, Amelia, call the cops or something. You don't have to put up with that."

"Yeah, I'll think about it."

He turns to me, his hand grazing my cheek. "We'll try this again another night."

I nod and despite the shaking walls, relax just enough to enjoy the feel of his lips once more. He kisses me and I wonder if it's now sympathy driving his actions instead of lust. My pussy is rapidly becoming the Sierra Desert at the thought.

I stand and open the door. "Goodnight, Max."

"See you tomorrow."

Triple locking behind him, I feed my pissed-off cat and strip my way down the hall. I'm under the covers in only now completely
dry
panties, about to slip in the earplugs I'd bought…when the music stops.

What a pussy blocking prick!!

I growl and turn over, punching my pillow, then perk my ears. "Almost Lover" begins to play. I know that song, even if the title didn't speak for itself…and do not think he's fucking funny.

But I
can
fall asleep to it.

Chapter 8

"As pleasant as you are today, you look like shit and I feel pissy just sharing air space with you. Go home, Amelia, you deserve a break."

"What?" I stare at Ashley over my Thursday lunch like a pouty, scolded child. In all the years I've worked here, she's never,
ever
not needed me. And this morning had been pleasantly uneventful, no notes or awkward visits from Max, so I'd thought I was fine.

Obviously not.

"You heard me, go. And take tomorrow off too. But," insert Cheshire Cat smile, "part of the deal is you
must
actually attend the office Halloween party this year. Costume mandatory, and pissed-off, sexless, frumpy secretary is
not
a costume. Saturday night, eight o'clock, here. You'll be well rested." She uses her fingers to "shoot me," and clicks her tongue. "See ya there, Sparky."

An afternoon and whole Friday off? What's a boring girl to do with herself?

"Spa day!" Ashley announces, popping her psychic head back around the doorframe. "Ang's Oasis. Your full treatment is scheduled in one hour. Chop, chop."

Clearly in an alternate universe, I walk zombie-like to the elevator and barely make it to my car. Things like this never happen to me; I've never won a drawing or won more on my scratch-offs than I spent. Hell, every penny I spot on the ground is always tails up.

So you can understand, with my luck, why I'm absolutely expecting my well-worded
admirer
to turn out Bundy's crazed imitator. Or why I'm shocked to the edge of incoherency at surprise time off
and
a spa gift.

I look up at the clouds—
right now, do it
—nothing even resembling a silver lining on a damn one—told ya.

When exactly I became Debbie Downer, the cynical lady always knitting wool mittens for friends she doesn't have, I'm not sure. No one big moment or breaking point, just years of lackluster, damn near unnoticed existence building up into a giant ball of skepticism.

But not today!

Today I'm gonna get plucked, waxed, painted, and pampered like the worthy girls. Like Ashley, like Mabry, like…close your eyes and point at anyone but me—her, yep, she'll work.

Walking into the salon is a completely new experience for me. I'm immediately hit with the smell of ammonia and burning…wax? Hair? Something scary.

"Can I help you?" An orange more than blonde, rouge more than face, woman approaches me. I'll run out on her if she's my
attendant
, no lie.

"I, um, have an appointment. My name is Amelia Hill."

Four hours later, I walk out eighty-five percent the happiest, most glamorous I've ever felt in my life. The other fifteen percent died alongside the nerve endings in the fragile, never before brutalized skin surrounding my lady parts.

My natural, plain brown hair has been graced with very minuscule caramel and blonde streaks, freshly trimmed on the ends with edged bangs long enough to be versatile…I love it! And my facial felt splendid. I have to resist petting my own skin. My nails and toes are both buffed and polished "a woman on a mission" red and my eyebrows are thinned, making my green eyes "pop." I've never felt better about my outsides in my life.

And even though I'm walking like a lame duck and fear sitting—anytime this year—I must say, great afternoon.

I'm as positively euphoric as I have the capability to be and can't wait to pick out a totally "not the old, but definitely the new Amelia" Halloween costume!

Pretty peacock costume and keys in one hand, juggling my dinner and boring, not even a little sexy, witch costume in case I revert back to "shrink behind the ficus in the corner" me in the other, I sigh in reprieve as I enter my apartment and set everything down. I'm tired, but how nice would it be to not ever have to work again?

Of course, then I'd have no social interaction whatsoever, no party invites, and certainly no complimentary spa packages.

Half a dozen of one…

Another classic cliché? All good things must end.

My text tone chimes and I'm immediately confused. I come by my perfected Admin/OCD skills naturally—my mother calls every Tuesday at noon, on the dot, my father Sunday night at 7:35 pm exactly.

I fill the thirty minute gap, less five minutes for him to use the bathroom, between his shows—
Kodiak
and
Finding Bigfoot
—which,
no
he can't believe it either, they
still
haven't found. But because people just like my father tune in each week as though the
one
episode they even contemplate skipping is
the one
where they find the elusive creature, the show hasn't been cancelled.

It's not Tuesday nor Sunday and I don't have a lot of friends, so unless this is Ashley checking in after she promised not to… Looking at the screen, vertigo creeps in—my ears ring, vision rapidly narrowing inward, a full deep breath nearing impossible.

Unknown: You said no more letters & I'm always interested in trying something new. Texting it is. Now tell me Amelia, did you enjoy your afternoon off? Was the spa to your liking?

Any other time, I'd be petrified, and I do cast a quick glance confirming my door's locked, but then New Amelia refuses to let some nut job be my puppeteer, ruining my day, controlling and manipulating my moods and comfort level.

Me: WHO IS THIS? THIS IS WORSE THAN LETTERS, ASSHOLE! IF YOU'RE GONNA TORTURE AND KILL ME, HURRY UP BC THE GAMES ARE GETTING TIRED. OR GET A LIFE AND A REAL GIRLFRIEND.

My finger hovers over the send button as I struggle to swallow, throat constricted and tight as though I just ate a tennis ball.

Don't poke the hornet's nest. Let sleeping dogs lie.

Both classic, and probably best advised, clichés ring in my head, and I hesitate…but then, louder, "it rubs the lotion on its skin" prominently sounds off.

The
one
girl who kept her skin during that whole movie was the feisty, bitchy one. The one with balls enough to threaten the dog
fought back
.

I hit send then nervously begin to pace,
perhaps
toward the kitchen where I can grab the biggest knife I own, as I wait for a response.

Unknown: As fiery and courageous as you are sexy & beautiful. The only torture I have planned right now is to make you beg to come. Licking til it tingles everywhere, bringing u right to the edge of explosive orgasm, then I'll stop, enjoying your exquisite whimper, crawling up me and impaling your tight cunt down on my cock before I can stop u.

Okay, the sickos on the news have yellow teeth and one wandering eye, unable to speak without revealing their low IQ and self-esteem issues. This guy…if he can say things like that—
like that—why
the need to stalk me? I'm lost in my head for so long without replying my phone dings with another message.

Unknown: Amelia, think of this. You'd be surprised at how easy it is to land a phone number at that office. Even a simple request from a mutual friend. And let me make something clear: this isn't stalking, it's anticipation, pursuit. I admit my approach could be perceived as a "creeper," but I need you to be ready for what I'm going to do to you. Yes, I could get a date or find a girlfriend tomorrow, but I want you. And you, my diamond in the rough, need certain things.

Do to me? I blanch, icy wonderment washing over me. Okay, think! You run the HR issues of a 600-bed hospital, Amelia, break it down; columns, rows, deficits, and surpluses. Very few people know my cell number, so unless my mother actively followed through with the "I Need a Grandchild" flyer with tear-off strips of my digits on the bottom, there are maybe fifteen people he could have asked for it. And all fifteen I do trust to know who to, and not to, give my number. Or maybe he's lying and got it another way by hacking into the so-called secure database.

Still, if he's telling the truth, it's one point in the "hold the 911 call" column for eerie guy.

And…he left the door open for some fact-finding responses.

Me: What are the "certain things" you perceive to know me well enough to know I need?

50/50: (yes, I assigned his contact a title. 50% chance he's shy, 50% I'm gonna be bagged and tagged soon). The real-life experience of your beloved novels. I'm guessing the perfect balance of subtly domineering. Someone who will tie you down, prop your ass up high, and fuck you senseless and the gentle romantic who builds you the house of your dreams and helps you fill the acreage with babies and pets. Oh & those ménages? No. I'll gladly stuff the hole my cock's not conquering with a toy, but no other men. And FYI, I lack the ability to become a vampire, though I will happily suck each and every part of you. By me alone will your needs always be met.

Me: How do u know what I read????

I start running around my apartment like a madwoman, searching every corner, behind mirrors, under lampshades for hidden cameras, nothing.

Me: SEE—that is scary!

30/70: (obviously needed adjustment) You read publicly, Amelia. Think about where you take those books, everywhere you go. Not only am I fascinated by everything you do, but I have stellar vision and can also read. I promise, more people know your fetish than you think, I'm sure. What'd I like to know is, why the books? Why not get a life, a REAL boyfriend?

Wh—uh, throwing my words back at me? How rude and unoriginal.

Me: Touché. Because you're right. Maybe no one would measure up, so why bother?

30/70: Did Max measure up?

Me: Not going there with u.

30/70: Something tells me there's little to discuss there anyway, but you still agreed to go out with him. Why? Because he's a doctor?

Me: No! BC I was horny! Not shallow, just human.

Yep, I was going for honesty hoping he'd follow suit. Nothing to hide from a man that spends his time spying on me anyway.

30/70: Next time you have an itch, call this number and I'll do more than scratch it. So many things I have planned. You're going to enjoy them, Beauty.

Me: I cannot believe I'm still entertaining this
Cold Case Files
script, but…no, I won't be giving u a call! So tell me, why me? No, strike that, I don't fish for compliments. Tell me something about you.