Blindfolded Innocence

  He met my scornful look solidly. “Don’t knock something till you’ve tried it. This lifestyle is what I want right now. I’ll know when I’m ready to settle down.”

  “I take it another side effect was your inability to accept rejection?”

  “If you’re referring to your resistance to spending time with me, I don’t view it as rejection, just an unawareness of the allure of my charms and the inevitability of our friendship.” He grinned at me confidently.

  I took a bite of pizza and tried not to stare into his gorgeous features. “I have a feeling your friends turn into jilted ex-lovers more often than not.”

  “I’d love to show you how wrong you are.” His eyes practically sizzled my skin as they roamed my body, and I had to stop myself from choking on my food. He took mercy on me, though, and changed the subject. “My turn to interrogate. What’s the deal with Bob?”

  “Bob is a guy I met the other night at a bar. That’s about the extent of the story.”

  “Did you sleep with him?”

  “What? No!”

  “Really.” His voice was laced with disbelief.

  “Yes, really. I went home with him, but all we did was make out. I took a taxi home afterward. I’m not a slut—I had just met the guy!”

  “Yet you made enough of an impression that he tracked you down at work?”

  I looked at him cockily over the half slice in my hand. “I guess I make quite an impression.” His eyes darkened and he looked so fucking hot I had to look away. Easy, Julia.

  “How many men have you slept with?”

  I swallowed hard, willing the chunk of pepperoni down my throat while my mind raced. I pretended to chew and waved my hand in front of my face, making the “wait a minute” sign. He looked on with amusement, enjoying my discomfort. Damn man. What is the rule with this? I multiply the real number? Or is it divide? Holy hell.

  In my panic, I just decided to go with the truth. “Two.”

  His look was slightly confused, and then sharpened. “Two? How old are you? Did you have a long-term relationship?” His questions came out in a clump, and faster than I was able to answer them.

  “Yes, two. I am twenty-one. I was nineteen when I lost my virginity, and was engaged to the second guy I slept with. We broke up about six weeks ago.”

  He nodded slowly, wiping his mouth with a napkin. He missed a big glob of marinara, and it stayed on the corner of his mouth. “Two people, huh?”

  “Yes. I don’t believe in sex without commitment and love.” I tried to keep a straight face, but he looked ridiculous with the red sauce that was beginning to drip down his chin.

  “And you loved those two?”

  “I thought I did. I was young.”

  “And you are so old and wise now?” He grinned.

  I handed him a paper towel and indicated the offending area. “I’m wiser. Still young and vibrant,” I said tartly.

  “Do you enjoy sex?” The atmosphere in the room changed, the gradual buildup of sexual tension reaching a peak from where there was no going back. We were really having this discussion.

  “Of course.” And I did. I enjoyed the power and control it gave me.

  “Then why would you limit yourself? Why require that love be attached to the act? There is no sense in living a dry, sexless existence while you wait the years it could take to find your next ‘love,’ in the meantime missing out on some of your peak sexual years.” I opened my mouth to object, but he plowed on. “Most people don’t truly ever fall in love. As you admitted yourself, your first two loves probably weren’t ‘loves’ at all. If you follow the ‘love before sex’ thought process, you will probably just get sexually frustrated and convince yourself that you love someone simply so you’ll allow yourself to sleep with him, which will only end in an unnecessarily long relationship that will end with someone getting hurt.” He looked at me in frustration, his pizza forgotten.

  That was quite a speech. “Look, for you sex might be a sexual release, but I don’t function the same way. Sex for me is more of an emotional thing, not anything that I need.”

  “Bullshit. Everyone needs sex.”

  “That is a man talking. You have a need to release your...stuff. We don’t operate that way, or at least I don’t. Like I said, it’s emotional, not physical.”

  “You make love, but don’t fuck.” The expletive sounded dangerous and incredibly sexy in his voice.

  “No. I fuck. I just do it more for the control aspect rather than the physical.” This was the most honest conversation I had ever had with anyone—I was revealing all my secrets. There was a certain freedom in knowing that this was the last time I would see him, and that nothing I said could be used against me.

  His eyes narrowed, a flash of understanding in them. “You’ve never had an orgasm.”

  “What?”

  “Orgasm. Have you ever had one?”

  I didn’t really know how to answer the question, and it wasn’t because I was being evasive. I rolled my paper towel on the table until it formed a strawlike shape. “I don’t think so. Sex feels good, but the way I hear orgasms described, it seems to be this earth-shattering experience, and I feel like that is something I wouldn’t be unsure of having.” I shrugged nonchalantly, my face starting to burn. “Some women can’t orgasm. Like fifteen percent of the population. I’ve tried, both through sex and on my own, and nothing happens. My gyno says not to worry about it. Sex can still be enjoyable, and it is.”

  He chuckled to himself and then placed both hands flat on the table and leaned forward, looking at me. “You can orgasm.”

  “Oh, because you know so much about the inner workings of my body in the forty-five minutes you’ve spent with me.”

  “All women can orgasm. Your gynecologist and whatever women’s magazine you got that ridiculous statistic from don’t know what they are talking about.”

  “You are so bullheaded! You don’t know everything about everything!”

  He leveled me with a confident stare. “I know everything about sex, and pleasing a woman.”

  I’ll bet you do. “I’m sure you don’t. Maybe your conquests were faking.”

  He smirked at me, nothing but ego in his face. “They weren’t faking.”

  “How would you know?”

  He sighed, exasperated. “I don’t need to try and convince you of something that I could easily show you, if you weren’t so obtuse on the whole idea.”

  I would absolutely love to have you show me. I tried to keep a blush from my cheeks, tried to not picture his hands on my body, that mouth on my skin. “Whatever. My turn. You just had like nine questions.” I pushed the pizza box away from me, worried that I would keep eating it if only to keep my hands from reaching over to him. I grabbed Brad’s can of soda, feeling its weight, and got up to get us both fresh Dr Peppers. I mulled over my next question as I bent over the minifridge, reaching in to get our drinks. Feeling eyes on my ass, I quickly glanced over my shoulder, and caught him staring. A normal individual would have averted his eyes and played it off, but he let his eyes linger, smiling slightly and letting me see his appreciation. Pig.

  “Has anyone ever sued you for sexual harassment?”

  He was offended. “That would assume that harassment had occurred. I assure you, I don’t make advances unless the women are clearly receptive.”

  I stalked back to the table with the sodas and slammed them down on the table. “Do I seem clearly receptive?”

  He shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “I figure you’re a work in progress.”

  “Uh-huh. Would you allow that to fly in court?”

  “Point for the prosecution.” His teasing tone was back.

  “You’re making my points for me. Remember what I said earlier, about your inability to accept rejection? You are provin
g it with bullshit like that.” I sat down, unable to keep a grin off my face. The damn man exuded this ridiculous magnetism that I couldn’t stay away from. He was the kind of person who, when talking with someone, made them feel like the most important thing in his world. For the first time this evening, I wondered if this was indeed the last time that I would be seeing him. I didn’t entirely trust myself to stay away.

  “So, why does Broward hate you so bad?”

  “I think a better question is, why does Broward want to protect you so much?”

  “Evasive.”

  He sighed and opened the can. I cringed, wondering if my dramatic slam of the soda earlier would cause it to foam or explode, but it opened with little fanfare.

  “I hate to use the whole ‘everyone hates me because they’re jealous’ bit, but I think Broward looks at my life and compares it to his. He buries himself in work to, I suspect, avoid his home life with his sweet and intelligent but incredibly boring wife. He chose a dull focus, corporate law, and I think he is burned out. He sees my wing as ‘not real work.’ We play as hard as we work, and I think that irks him. He also has access to the billing and payroll system. My income dwarfs his and, considering we’re equal partners and I work half the hours he does...the dislike is understandable.”

  “Do you envy yourself?”

  He looked at me quizzically, but I knew he knew exactly what I was referring to. “I live the life, Julia, the life I chose for myself. The women, the parties, the power, the money. It’s everything I always wanted.”

  “Is that why you’re sitting here eating cold pizza and talking to me? You could be elbow-deep in pussy at the Silver Nugget.”

  He chuckled. “It’s the Gold Nugget. And you are a conquest. It’s part of me mixing it up.” His honest and offensive answer should have angered me, but it didn’t. I knew what he wanted. I was just beginning to worry that I wanted it, too.

  “Would you ever remarry?”

  “No. The type of woman I need doesn’t exist. I fooled myself when I was younger, but I know better now. It’s not fair for me to promise happily-ever-after to a woman that I would be unfaithful to.”

  “Why? Are you a sex addict?”

  “That’s a bullshit clinical term. I love sex. I don’t believe in restricting myself in order to conform to society’s standards.”

  “Sheila thinks you’re a sex addict.”

  “Sheila and I have had sexual tension for the last five years.”

  I gaped at him and he started shaking with controlled laughter. “God, Julia. You’re too easy.”

  “From what I hear about your standards, it’s not like Sheila is out of the question,” I retorted.

  He stopped laughing and looked at me with a grin. “Come with me to Vegas.”

  “No! This is supposed to be our last hurrah. My wild days are over. Starting tomorrow, I’m back to being a good girl.” I slapped my hand on the table to emphasize my resolve. But my subconscious was already packing a bag and choosing the proper shoes.

  He slapped the table back at me. “Start Monday. Have you ever been to Vegas?”

  “No. My parents preferred exciting vacation locales such as Palm Springs and North Dakota.”

  He reached across the table and grabbed my hand, pulling it to him. He looked solemnly into my eyes, and desire curled in my belly. “Come to Vegas with me. Please. I promise not to sexually harass you. I just want to get to know you better. I promise you won’t regret it.”

  I couldn’t find anything to say and stared wordlessly into his eyes. I had so many conflicting thoughts running through my mind and didn’t know which one to listen to.

  I glared at him. “No.”

  Twelve

  “You’re going to Vegas?” Olivia’s shocked expression increased my stress level.

  “Yes. I mean, I think so.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow, after work. Our flight leaves at six forty-five.”

  We were in my living room, a bottle of wine open on the coffee table. When I’d opened the door and Olivia had seen my face, she’d walked straight past me into the kitchen, grabbing the first bottle she had seen. We were now taking turns swigging from it. Super Classy.

  “What do you know about this guy? I mean, other than the dire warnings from all members of the CDB staff.”

  “That’s really about it. I looked him up in the state bar directory. He’s active, so he has no criminal history.”

  “Yet! A rape, kidnapping and murder charge might be added after this weekend!”

  I rolled my eyes at her. “I called you over to calm me down, Olivia. If I’d wanted hysterics and gross exaggerations, I would have called Becca.”

  “Did you look him up on Google?”

  “Of course. But the first five pages were all news reports about big cases. I didn’t want to look through eight million Google results.”

  “All right then, let’s focus. If you’re going, then we just need to make sure you do it right. Have you packed?”

  I grinned at her. This was more like what I had in mind.

  * * *

  One hour and another bottle of wine later, we were surrounded by sequins, leather and pink. Half my closet was on the floor, more clothes were on my bed, and we had both come to the same conclusion. I had nothing to wear. My clothes fit one of three genres: business attire, college-bar dressy and theme-party costume. Too bad we’d never had a Vegas-themed event.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t go.” I flopped down on the bed and promptly sank through three layers of girlieness.

  “Or maybe we should call in reinforcements.”

  I looked at her in dread. “Becca?”

  She nodded firmly. “Becca.”

  * * *

  Becca’s family was just a few decimal places short of Rockefeller money. Her parents’ generous monthly allowance supported two main things—alcohol and clothes. Becca lived in a two-bedroom apartment, and one bedroom was solely dedicated to clothes and shoes. Olivia and I took a brief appraisal of our intoxicated states, and then called a taxi. We planned on showing up unannounced with a large suitcase and a bottle of cheap wine, the only thing left in the fridge.

  It was a Thursday night and one in the morning, so we didn’t have to wait long for a cab. By one-fifteen we were ringing Becca’s bell. A habitual night owl, she answered the door with music blaring in the background and a phone pressed to her ear. Her gaze traveled from our sweats to my suitcase to the bottle. “Jen, I gotta go.” She snapped the phone shut and threw the door open.

  It took about five minutes to fill Becca in on the situation, and I was surprised to see that she was in full support of the trip. I should have known that stupid, impulsive decisions would resonate as logical with her.

  We walked into the magic of her closet a few minutes later. Becca and I had fairly similar body types, but I was a lot taller than her. However, that was no problem, since pants weren’t a big Vegas fashion statement. Other than wearing the same top and dress size, we shared one very important characteristic—shoe size. It was a quality that caused me pleasure every time I opened my tiny closet. Though I was perpetually broke, you’d never know from seeing my shoes. Becca bought, wore and gave away designer shoes as if they were tissues. It was one of the reasons we got along so well. It’s easy to forgive almost anything when an apology is coupled with a pair of barely worn Manolos.

  Becca was also the most traveled of our group. Having been to Vegas countless times, she kept up a running monologue as we sifted through her cedar-lined racks. She listed more restaurants, shows and stores than I could possibly remember, especially given the fuzzy state of my mind. I had pretty much tuned her out when I realized there was an expectant silence in the room. I turned to find them both staring at me.

  “I’m sorry—what was the que
stion?”

  “Sex. Are you planning on having sex with him?” Becca said slowly, as one might to a child.

  “No!” I said scornfully, while somewhere inside me a little woman jumped up and down and screamed, “Yes!”

  “He’s flying you up there,” Olivia said carefully. “Spending a lot of money on you. You might want to clue him in to that fact.”

  “What, that she’s a tease?” Becca put both hands on her silk-clad hips. “Yeah, Jules. You know, some guys don’t respond to that very well. You’ve gotten lucky so far, but one day a guy isn’t going to stop when you tell him to.”

  “I don’t think Brad’s like that.” I hung the silver mini I had been considering and continued flipping through the hangers, hoping that Becca and Olivia would move on to a different subject.

  “Really? College girls thought Ted Bundy was a pretty nice guy also,” Becca said a little too cheerfully for the subject matter.

  Maybe it was a topic I should broach. But didn’t I communicate that to him last night? I don’t have sex with people I’m not in love with. He knows that. He just doesn’t understand it.

  “Why are you such a prude anyway, Jules?”

  “She’s not a prude, Becca. She just doesn’t believe in giving it to every guy who buys her a mojito.”

  Becca stuck out her tongue at Olivia in response. “At least expect to suck his dick. You’ll be lucky if you make it out of the weekend with just that act.”

  “Um, how about we leave me and my sexual future alone?” I suggested. “I promise you, I am a big girl, and I will make it through the weekend without being raped, tortured or killed.” Discreetly, I reached back in Becca’s closet and tapped on the cedar wall, hoping that I had not just jinxed myself.

  Thirteen

  “Phone away, sir.” The meticulously manicured flight attendant shot Brad a stern look as she passed by. Her tone was softened by the lingering glance and hand as she patted his shoulder. I reached down in my bag and unlocked my phone, tripled-checked that it was on plane mode, and then stuck it back in my bag. Brad, with a resigned sigh, finished typing out an email, then turned his phone off and set it on the armrest. I pulled out a piece of gum, double-checked my seat belt and looked out the window.