Still In Love With Her (11 page)

“You’ve already chosen to live without me.”

Vince holds up his arms. “Come here.”
 

I slowly stand and go to him. He puts his arms around me, and we embrace. His chest feels so familiar against my face. Unlike Robert, I feel safe in Vince’s arms. He kisses the top of my head.
 

“You changed your hair?” he asks.

I nod.

“I like it. Your neck is beautiful.”

“Thank you.”

“Maggie, I’m going to work some shit out, and I’ll be in touch. We’re going to start from scratch, you and I. We’re never coming back to this place ever again. Is that okay with you?”

“It is.” I squeeze him tighter. “I’m sorry.” My voice cracks.

He looks at the door. “I’m going to lie down with you because I can’t leave you right now.”

“Okay…”

Vince walks me to my bedroom. He takes off his shoes and jacket. We lay on the part of my bed that’s not burned, and he holds me. He doesn’t massage my nipples or grind my ass as he usually does. He’s not even hard. We’re too hurt to have sex. Our souls need time and space to cleanse themselves of the traces of other lovers. So I fall asleep in Vince’s arms, but when I wake up in the early afternoon, I’m alone.

If what has happened in the last four days of my life was an event, then how would I assess it? Have I gained anything from the experience, and how much have I lost? I study the ring on my finger. When I first took it off, I’d explained to Vince that the ring is wrapped around my heart, not my finger. All he’d said was “right,” and then he kissed me. Maybe he should’ve said “bullshit” so that I knew he didn’t accept the concept.
 

I shake away all my thoughts about Vince and turn to Monroe. We’re on our way to London to chat with Francesca Bell.
 

On Tuesday, I’d called Jack and asked if I could be put in contact with the woman who’d accompanied him to the wedding. He was adamant about me not having any contact with her. Instead he asked for my list of names and promised to get back to me as soon as possible with any information he found. Four hours later, he’d faxed me a three-hundred-page report. I have no idea how Jack can be so resourceful. He’s so secretive about his business contacts. Regardless, I was thankful for what he gave me.
 

Angelina called before I could start combing through the information. She wanted me to sit down with her and Charlie and devise a plan to get Jack and Daisy back together. I told her I’d fly out to New Orleans on Saturday. Ten hours later, after reading every word on every page, I concluded that Francesca’s popularity and Delta’s meshed the best. She’s a twenty-six-year-old blockbuster film star. Hair: Brown. Eyes: Blue. Height: 5’4”. Face: Standard Hollywood beauty. Acting Abilities: Questionable. She hasn’t been linked to any men who are in the public eye, only men who are considered “ordinary.” However, there were rumors that her last boyfriend was bisexual and the one before that was married. The London tabloids loved to eat her alive and doused in ketchup. Monroe and I held a conference call with her manager, Aiden Marlowe. He thinks it’s time to kill two birds with one stone—settle her down with an A-list actor and move her to the United States.
 

So I called Jack and asked if we could use his jet to fly across the Atlantic. He said yes, Monroe flew to Manhattan, and we boarded our flight at midnight so that we could arrive at Biggin Hill Airport in the morning.
 

“But you just skipped over the best part. You banged the scoundrel?” Monroe asks.

I flash back to being with Robert. I’m on my knees, one leg up, the other leg up, both legs up, and sitting on his face. “Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “I did.”

“And?”

I nod. “He has to be the best fuck on the planet. I don’t know how a man gets so skilled at it, but OMG.”

Monroe claps and laughs. “Shit, I knew it!”

“I would totally recommend him. You should try him. He’ll certainly oblige you,” I say.

She narrows one eye. “You have no feelings for him?”

Those images replay in my head. “Oh, what fun we had, but alas, it was only fun. He’s… Robert is… scary.”

“Elaborate, please.”

“He’s unpredictable, but not in a good way. When he’s coming on to me, he can make me think I’m the only one he wants, but I know better.”

“That’s rule number one in the scoundrel handbook.”

“Exactly. I’m pretty sure Robert Tango has already moved on now that he’s finally fucked me. Good for him that I’m not going to go all psycho, ‘you fucked me like you loved me’ on him.”

Monroe has a good laugh. “Boy, have you been having a time. I eat your tits, my boyfriend tries to fuck you on my request, Delta gives your pussy a slob job—”

“Oh my goodness, what was that all about?”

“He’s done it to me three times. I just let him. It’s like going to the spa.”

I chuckle. “Sorry, I know you don’t like me saying this, but you
are
crazy.”

“And you’re about to hop into my crazy world. Hear me good, Mags, Delta’s only the beginning. Most of our clients will want to fuck and eat your pussy. That little cute mouth of yours? They’re going to picture it going up and down their dicks. The all have God syndromes, so they’ll believe you want them to do the shit they want to do to you. Get out now if you can’t handle it.”

“I can handle it,” I say.

“Are you sure?”

“Are
you
sure?”

The flight attendant brings us blankets. She announces the lights will dim shortly and asks if we would like anything else. Monroe requests two glasses of brandy to help us sleep better.
 

“Listen,” I say, “I’ve been off my A-game ever since Friday morning, but I can handle Delta the next time he wants to go down on me or you when you want to bite my nipples. I only have a problem with lying to the world.”

“Well, if that’s your only quarrel, then we’re going to do just fine, because we’re in the business of making lies the truth.”

I shake my head gravely. “I don’t know… What happens when our clients are tired of living a lie?”

“Anything can happen, but we’ll cross that road
if
we get to it.”

I let out an extended sigh. After we’re given our drinks, we outline our immediate plans for Delta and Francesca then grab as much sleep as we can.
 

Robert Tango wrecks my dreams. His mouth is clamped on my clit. We stare at each other. My thighs shiver and tingle like the rest of my groin. Suddenly it stops, and he’s on top of me, thrusting into me nice and slow. I should wake up, but I’m refusing to do it. It’s so real—maybe it’s happening all over again.
 

“Do you really want me to fuck your friend like this?” he asks.

“No.” I’m emphatic about that.

“Am I out of your system?”

“No.”

“You’re out of mine,” he says.
 

I feel as though I’m diving off a cliff. I’m falling fast and far. I try to open my eyes before hitting bottom, which I’m approaching quickly. I wake with a stop.
 

I look at Monroe, who’s snoring lightly with a mask over her eyes. I curl up on my side and stare at the frame in front of my face. I have too many thoughts to go back to sleep. Why did I have that dream about Robert when I’m a hundred and ninety-nine percent clear that I’m done with him? And what are my true feelings about Emily and Vince? Then there’s the thousand-pound ring on my finger. Why does he insist that I wear it, even after he caught Robert going down on me while I smoked pot? I shake my head at how crazy that was. Was my behavior beneath me? No way. I never restrict myself. If it appeals to me, I try it. If I don’t like it, I move on. I’m still not a fan of marijuana. It stinks like chicken shit. It also puts me in a deep sleep, which was why I didn’t hear Vince leave.
 

I don’t have to ask if I’m the kind of wife he wants—the answer is weighing on my finger. But why do we need to get married? We’re not having children. Neither of us needs a green card. There’s no one pressuring me to tie the knot. He’s the one who stands to lose the most if we end up divorcing, because I’m not signing a prenuptial agreement. Really, I just don’t get it. I thought most men would love a woman like me, one who doesn’t pressure him into marrying her. I guess I was wrong.

The airplane soars over England’s plush grasslands. I never miss this part of the flight. Every view looks like the spread on a postcard. Monroe and I freshen up before we deplane.
 

We load my one suitcase and Monroe’s three pieces of luggage into the cab and ride to the hotel, which is settled along the banks of the River Thames. I travel to London so often that it feels as though I already live here. I’ve even considered buying an apartment near the Tape Museum. Usually in the mornings I walk the span of the river. I’m fond of the Tower of London, which housed many of history’s most famous prisoners right before the executioner went off with their heads. I love the narrow cobblestone alleyways—which are swallowed up by Victorian-age architecture—the old tower bridge, and the way they’ve tastefully inserted the new with the old. This won’t be a long trip, and I probably won’t return to London for a while. I’ll try to wake up early tomorrow morning to walk a lap before we fly back to L.A. at ten a.m.
 

The hotel is five stars at its finest. The hotel’s structure is contemporary, made mostly of glass, and shoots into the sky like a phallic wet dream. We check in, and the bellhop takes our luggage to our room on the fifty-first floor. The room is actually a suite. It has three bedrooms, all the bells and whistles, and amazing views of the city.
 

“Did we pay for this out of our budget?” I ask Monroe.

“No way. This grand suite comes courtesy of Delta Foster.”

“Oh, wow. I didn’t know he had an ounce of class.”

“He has at least ten ounces.”

I snicker.
 

There’s a knock on the door. Monroe and I look at each other, puzzled.
 

I count the number of rooms again. “Is that…?”

Delta opens the door. “Honeys, I’m home!”
 

He has a leather duffel bag slung across his body. He bear-hugs Monroe and gropes her ass, and I brace myself for impact. His hands are like tentacles fondling me. I give Monroe a look as he squeezes my pussy.
 

“Tonight, I’m feasting on you,” he says and kisses my cheek. He gazes out of the window then flops down on the sofa in front of it and kicks up his feet. “So when do we meet my future wife?”
 

He’s either high or drunk.
 

Monroe rolls her eyes and sets her laptop on the desk. “You know the paparazzi are ferocious here.”
 

“Yes, indeed,” he sings, making light of it.

“Then where have you been and why are you coked up?”

“I’ve been to the den of sin.”

Monroe kicks his feet off the arm of the sofa. “Sit up!”

“Why don’t you sit on my face? Looking at the two of you has put me in the mood for pussy.”

Monroe looks as if she’s chewing lemons. “What the fuck happened to you when you were growing up?”
 

Delta gazes at the ceiling as though he’s having a religious experience. “When do we meet Francesca?”
 

“Sorbet, tonight at eleven,” Monroe says.

“Wait, I thought we were meeting her at her manager’s office at three?” I say.

She scowls at Delta. “I was just about to tell you before our client showed up unannounced and high as a kite. Aiden sent me a text. Francesca doesn’t want our meeting to be so formal.”

Delta looks at the watch. “That’s nine hours from now.”

“Which gives you nine hours to sleep it off,” Monroe says.

“You don’t sleep off a bump. You fuck it off.”

“I thought you went to the den of sin?” she says.

“I just got blown. I need a fuck. Maggie, are you into anal?”

I blink, taken aback. If it weren’t for that look on his face, I would think he was fucking with me. “No, I am not into anal.”
 

“All right, Monroe, then I need your ass, although Maggie has a better one.”

I shake my head at Monroe. My expression is asking her why we’re dealing with this clown.

Delta says, “I think we should write me having the right to fuck the both of you whenever and wherever I want into our contract.”

I’ve reached my limit. “Listen, Delta, you can fuck whomever the fuck you want to fuck. Hell, you can fuck a peach for all I’m concerned. But Monroe and I, we’re asexual to you. We have no pussies, no dicks, and no mouths or asses for you to stick it in.
Capisce
?”

He smirks. “I’m going to keep trying, Maggie. One day, you’re going to say yes.”

I fold my arms and widen my stance. “You see, that answer doesn’t work for me.
Capisce
means—”

“I understand.” He sits up. “I tell you what. Get in the bedroom, strip, and let me have my way with you.”

I go stand right in front of his face. My pussy is
this
close to his mouth. “Touch it, and I’m out of here. You don’t know my work very well, but I’m a fucking genius at making audiences believe what I want them to believe. You’re not going to get better than me. But my pussy belongs to Vincent Adams.”
I think.
“Now, feel free to call him and ask if you can lick it, fuck it, do whatever you want to do to it, but without his permission, it’s off-limits. Now.
Capisce
?”
 

“What’s his number?”

I toss him my cell phone. “It’s in the contacts.”

Delta looks at me askew. “He your fiancé?”

“Yes.” No need to tell him that I hope so. We’ve taken a free fall after he caught Robert assaulting me with orgasms.

Delta twists his mouth as he ponders. “Fuck it.” He hands me back my phone. “I can respect that.”

Monroe and I look at each other, shocked and relieved that he didn’t call my bluff. I was half hoping he would call Vince. I want to hear his voice. I want him to know that I’ve rededicated myself to him. I sit beside Delta, and Monroe goes back to working on her laptop. She’s letting me handle him.