Written By Fate (2 page)

“Hey! I’m no P.J., there will be no puke and throw from this
gal.” I point at myself and attempt to laugh.

“Oh my god! Do you remember that?” Amanda asks and doubles
over with laughter at the memory. Our friend P.J. was disgustingly wasted,
interestingly enough at the bar we just left, and he threw up in his hand,
cupped it, then threw it behind him. He repeated the act until he was finished
throwing up. Seriously. Amanda and I had caught him in the act as he stood in
the corner discreetly covering his mouth then whipping it behind him. “That was
the most disgusting yet hilarious thing I’ve ever witnessed,” I chuckle. A wave
of nausea rolls over me, stopping my laugh. I groan and turn away from my
friends while I try to fight the impending doom lurking in my stomach.

“Ew. Are you going to be okay?” Marg asks.

“Mmhmm...why don’t you head home? I'll text you tomorrow for
brunch,” I mutter between deep breaths.

“Alrighty.... Amanda, see you tomorrow. Love ya, Clara!” she
calls, her heels clicking and clacking on the sidewalk as she hails a cab.

“Offer still stands,” comes that voice that’s like dark
chocolate and silk. I want to look up but I can’t move so I stay doubled over.

“I don't think you want her riding in your car,” Amanda
giggles, pointing at me I’m sure.

“You look tired. Why don't I have my driver take you home
and I’ll stay with Clara until she sobers up,” he offers. I want to protest but
my stomach is rolling and I need to continue my deep breathing and
concentration to keep everything contained.

“That sounds wonderful,” Amanda elates. What the fuck! Why
is she throwing me under the bus? “Hoes before bros” apparently has no meaning
to her. A strangled groan escapes me and Amanda is instantly at my side.

“What are you doing?” I hiss at her.

“Shut up, Clara. I'll see you in the morning when you’re
ready to thank me,” she snips. I want to strangle her and her good intentions.
A car door shuts and I hear Amanda call out “have fun” before wheels screech
and I assume she’s taken off by Dominic’s driver.

“Clara. Can you stand?” he asks hesitantly.

“Of course I can stand you turd,” I say and straighten, pushing
off the wall and immediately wishing I hadn't. Everything tips sideways and I
feel like death. My crouched position was a much, much better one. His arm
darts out steadying me and I clutch it for dear life. “Wait a moment,” he grumbles.
“Yes. The Harp. Thank you,” he clips into his phone. Jerk. Who is he talking to
with such attitude? “Clara, I’m going to pick you up,” he says softly, the
irritation in his voice from a moment ago gone.

“Nooo,” I groan. “Feet need to stay on ground.”

“Sorry, darling, but we need to move and I don’t think you
can keep up.” My feet leave the ground, making my stomach turn or maybe it was
the pet name; I detest pet names. I wrap my arms around his neck and press my
head into his shoulder, trying to mentally right myself and tamp down the bile
rising in my throat. He walks swiftly, as if I weigh nothing, to the curb and
waits as a man opens a car door for him. Squatting down, he slides into the car
with me still attached to him. I’m positioned on his lap and although I really
dislike this weirdo I’m relieved to be on my way home. I don’t dare lift my
head so I keep it buried in his neck and, surprisingly, he holds me tightly to
him, silently. God, what kind of cologne does he wear, I want to get some for
Sawyer because I need to smell this smell all the time. His fingers move gently
through my hair and I want to tell him to cut the shit but I can’t make my
mouth perform the task. The longer I keep my eyes closed and the firmer he
holds me the more the spinning sensation subsides and sleepiness takes over. As
I drift off to sleep it occurs to me that he didn’t ask for my address, but
maybe Amanda told him when she left.

Sweatsuits

Oh my god do I have a raging headache. My mouth is so dry
and my eyes are crusty. I feel like death. No, scratch that, I feel like a bag
of smashed assholes. Why are the curtains open, is Amanda trying to kill me? I
squint through the blinding light towards the offending open curtains. Shit!
Where the fuck am I? I jackknife up. Wrong move. I feel myself pale and my
stomach churns. I quickly collapse back onto the fluffy down pillows and
squeeze my eyes shut. It’s chilly. Why am I cold? Chancing another vomit attack
I open my eyes and peer down at myself. I’m wearing a t-shirt. A plain white
men's t-shirt. No. No. No! I reach under the blanket and feel. No underpants.
What the hell is going on?

As if on cue, the bedroom door opens and the Devil himself
appears, disguised as a sexy-as-sin beefcake.

“Clara. Glad to see you’re awake,” the Devil says. My mind
goes into overdrive trying to piece together what happened last night. I don’t
remember anything after stepping outside The Harp. “RAPE!” I scream in full-on
panic. The Devil smirks and sits on the end of the bed as I tightly wrap the
blankets up around my neck and tremble.

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t scream that,” he says dryly.

“Wh..what the HELL is going on?” I stutter.

“You fell asleep. I didn’t know where you lived so I brought
you here to sleep it off,” he explains calmly.

“Why, then, do I not have any UNDERWEAR on!?” My voice is
unusually high and hurts my eardrums. Guilt flashes across Dominic’s face but
quickly morphs into a grin before answering. “I changed you. I thought perhaps
you’d be more comfortable in my t-shirt.”

“Perhaps you should have checked with me...PERHAPS you
should have woken me up and asked for my address! PERHAPS YOU SHOULD HAVE LEFT
MY CLOTHES ON!” All right, I’m in full-on freak-out mode here. I need to
collect myself before I strangle this man and have to take Allie and Sawyer on
the lam with me. I’m not usually so easily riled but this guy seems to bring
out the worst in me.

“Perhaps, you should calm down,” he snickers. It’s official.
He’s a douche and I loathe him. Just get out of here, Clara.

“Where are my clothes?” I clip.

“They're on the chair.” He nods at the chair in the corner
where my clothes lay folded and places a hand on my ankle.

“Out!” I bark. He shakes his head as he stands. Before
shutting the door behind him he calls out quietly, “You have an amazing body,
Clara.” The door latches and I vomit in my mouth a little bit before stumbling
from the bed with the blanket still wrapped around me. I know I have a t-shirt
on but I feel like I’ve been violated. Scooping up my clothes I hold them and
the blanket to me precariously as I fumble with another door in the room,
hoping it leads to a bathroom. The room is immaculate. King-sized four poster
bed that, I’ll admit, was comfortable. The carpet is a deep gray and plush.
Everything in the room is done in various shades of cream and white. It screams
money and luxury. I stumble over the end of the blanket into the bathroom and
have to pick my jaw up off the floor.

This is the kind of bathroom every woman on the planet
dreams of. A toilet is separated from the rest of the bath by a half wall,
there's a large marble double sink and the most luxurious-looking deep
claw-foot bathtub next to the glass-tiled shower with three, I repeat, three,
shower heads. An unopened toothbrush and toothpaste sit on the counter next to
a blow dryer and hairbrush, and the shower is stocked with Fekkai shampoo and
conditioner and Creed Spring Flowers body wash. That makes the toiletries total
well over a hundred dollars. Nothing compared to my Dove collection at home.
What the hell, I might as well enjoy it all while I’m here. I turn the shower
on as hot as I can stand it before stepping in and relishing the spray from the
various shower heads. It’s heavenly. I can feel the tension being beaten out of
me with every well-placed spray of water. I wash my hair twice--the shampoo
smells delicious--before moving on to the conditioner. Once I’ve completed all
my washing duties I realize that I’ve probably spent a ridiculously long time
in the shower uninterrupted--something that never happens at home--so I shut
the water off and hop out.

Tagging the robe on the door I notice that it’s 100%
cashmere. Who buys a cashmere robe--for guests, no less? I tie it securely,
brush my teeth and hair, and exit the bathroom. I really don’t want to put my
dress, dirty undergarments, and boots back on so I snoop around the drawers of
the dresser in the room until I find a Princeton sweatshirt and matching sweat
pants. Figures, Princeton. Oh my, aren’t we just too cool? They are so huge on
me I have to roll the waist of the sweatpants and draw the strings tight to
keep them up. Tugging on my cowboy boots I realize I look like a strange
combination of a hobo and a cowgirl but I really don't care, I’m comfortable. I
hang the robe on the hook in the bathroom, grab my dress and undergarments, and
exit the bedroom. The hallway, or corridor more likely, due to the size of it,
screams wealth and power. Artwork, not prints but actual art, hangs on display
as I wander down until I come to the living room. Maybe it’s a sitting room--I
don’t really know and I sure as shit don't care. Everything but the bathroom is
ostentatious.

“Hello, Clara,” Dominic says and smiles, uncrosses his long
legs, and sets his paper aside.

“Uh. Morning,” I stammer.

“Would you like something to eat? Coffee, perhaps?” he offers.

“Not really. I have brunch plans,” I bite out.

“At one?” he questions.

“ONE?! Crap! Why didn’t you wake me up? Amanda and Marg are
probably freaking out right now,” I argue. Why am I arguing? Just get out of
here, Clara.

“No worries, I responded to their texts for you this
morning,” he says triumphantly.

“You what? Where is my phone? My purse?” My heart rate has
spiked through the roof.

“It was ringing and ringing. You needed the sleep,” he
explains, as if he did me a favor.

“Give me my shit now. I’m leaving,” I say through clenched
teeth.

“In that?” he gestures to my outfit.

“I will mail it back to you.”

“I didn’t mean that, I meant you’re going out in public
dressed like that?” His tone of disdain is really starting to irk me.

“Yes. I am. And I will return the sweat suit to you, not
that you probably ever wear it,” I say flatly. He stands and stalks over to me,
stopping just inches from my body. He’s in khakis and a crisp white button-up
shirt. The sleeves are unbuttoned and rolled to his elbows. I have to tilt my
head up to keep his gaze. Everything about him screams “alpha male.”

“Well then,” he breathes. “Let’s get your things.” Why does this
man smell so delicious and why does he make my blood boil?

“Yes, let’s,” I clip. His hand snakes around my waist,
landing at the small of my back as he ushers me in the right direction. I like
the feel of it.

“I’m not sure what I’ve done to warrant such hostility, Ms.
Lord. You’re quite the curious creature,” he chuckles and I bristle.

“You think that just because you have money you’re entitled.
I’ve endured that type of man before and it honestly is quite the turn off if
you must know.” I can’t believe that much honesty just shot out of my mouth. He
pauses mid-step to peer down at me.

“Endured, eh? Interesting choice of words. You have no
interest in money?” he asks curiously. I choose to ignore the “endured” portion
of his comment; I don't owe him an explanation.

“Not the kind of money you have. Of course I’m interested in
money, in being financially secure and not living paycheck to paycheck but
beyond that, no, I have no interest in it or the people that come with it,” I
fire back.

“Interesting,” he grins.

“Not really,” I retort.

“Oh but it is. Most women would love to gain the interest of
a man with my standing.”

“The fact that you just referred to yourself as ‘a man with my
standing’ is completely disgusting.” I want to barf all over his expensive marble
flooring.

“Is it now?” His eyes are like storm clouds. I think maybe
I’ve driven the point home finally as we resume walking toward the door.

“Yes. I know wealth. I know poor. I prefer a happy medium.
Money doesn't equal happiness, Mr. Napoli. It creates a prison that you’re
forced to conform to. It’s...it’s sad. I feel bad for privileged people. They
aren't really free to live how they want,” I ramble. Why am I even bothering to
explain myself to this nitwit?

“That’s quite the take. No one’s ever had the balls to be so
frank with me about my lifestyle.” His fingers move a little at the small of my
back causing fire to bubble in my belly. I feel entirely too hot in this
sweatshirt suddenly.

“Well, you’re welcome,” I snip, and he chuckles again. His
voice is smooth and husky and it chafes me that it affects me at all.

“Here you are, Clara.” He hands me my bag and I double check
to make sure that my phone really is in it before looking back to him. He
extends his card to me. “So you know where to return my clothes,” he explains,
dangling the card. I snatch it from his hand and toss it into my purse without
care.

“Thanks,” I bark.

“Till next time?” he asks.

“Uh.” There is no way there will be a next time. As if
sensing the impending verbal abuse he’s about to encounter, the hand at the
small of my back tugs just enough to send me flying into his torso. His arms
wrap around me. One snakes up my back to the nape of my neck. His fingers
tangle in my wet hair and tug gently until I’m looking up at him. I’m speechless.
I’m never speechless. His face lowers to mine until our lips are a whisper
apart and I swear I can hear myself panting with anticipation. He holds my gaze
and presses me firmly to the length of him. “Goodbye, Clara.” His breath washes
over my face. It’s minty. I have the urge to push up on my toes and press my
lips to his but I don’t. His head dips lower and left as he brushes a tender, barely-there
kiss in the hollow of my collarbone then abruptly releases me.

Goosebumps break out all over me as I stagger back a few
steps, wide-eyed and unsure of how to respond. I want to slap his pretty face
and jump him all at the same time. My feelings are way out of control. I choose
fumbling with the doorknob instead and darting down the hotel hallway towards the
elevators without any farewell at all. In the elevator I try to control my
ragged breaths. What the hell is wrong with me? Dominic Napoli is an ass and
hot and infuriating and sexy and I think I want him.

“Are you serious right now? He kissed you in that?” Amanda
squeals at me.

“Slow your roll, homegirl. What’s wrong with this?” I Vanna
White my hand down my torso, making her snicker.

“Well, on any other day, nothing,” she says and shrugs.

“Exactly. This is any other day, Dominic Napoli or not,” I
snort.

“I guess. So nothing happened? Nothing?” she pleads for
information.

“Not unless you count undressing me without my consent while
I was passed out,” I counter.

“Ya know, that is a little creepy...no panties?” She crosses
her arms over her chest and shivers.

“Nope. Just his t-shirt. Who removes a woman’s underwear in
that situation? It’s like begging for a lawsuit,” I quip.

“I’m with ya on that one. Sorry. I should have just taken
you home with me.” Her face falls as she looks guilty.

“It’s all right. I was too drunk to do anything stupid--well,
beyond passing out with a stranger in a car.” I shrug and laugh.

“Still, hoes before bros.” Her words spark a memory as she
fist bumps me.

“Crap. I remember thinking that as you left...and I
think...I think he carried me to the car but I don't remember anything else. I
must have fallen asleep on him when we started driving,” I lament.

“He carried you?” Amanda asks incredulously.

“Yeah, I’m almost certain I remember being picked up and
carried.” I drag my hand down my face in embarrassment. “I’m such a lady.”

“Said no one ever.” She giggles and I playfully smack her.

“Well enough about that, what are we doing today?” I ask.

“You hungry?”

“Always.” I smile.

“There’s a good roast beef place around the corner.”

“Roast beef?” I laugh.

“Yeah. They have pastrami, clam strips, and really load the
beef in,” she says, not following me.

“Meat curtains,” I say in a deadpan tone and she finally
gets it and starts laughing.

“Would you like cheese dripping from yours?”

“Ohmigod yes. Think they make a good fish taco?”

“Well, the staff is really friendly...”

“So I could totally get a meaty roast beef sub dripping with
cheese, American or cheddar?”

“American of course... cheddar implies STDs,” Amanda says
and I double over in laughter.

“My mind never seems to leave the gutter, sorry,” I laugh.

“That’s good because mine doesn't either...now roast beef or
pastrami?” she asks.

“Clam strip,” I say again in a deadpan tone, sending us into
another fit of laughter.