A Manhattanite's Christmas

  “Aren’t they one and the same?”

  “Not really.” He shrugs his broad shoulders.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “It’s a surprise,” he teases.

  “I hate surprises,” I admit.

  “How come?”

  “The usual reasons, I guess. Unstable childhood, bounced around from home to home. Plus, I’m a bit of a control freak.” I didn’t see the sense in sugarcoating anything with this man. As I promised Taddy, Blake, and Kiki, I’m going to be myself with him. Maybe, just maybe, when the cameras start filming, that’ll come across on the TV screen too.

  “Sorry to hear about that.” He takes his eyes off the road for a second to look at me, adding a heavy dose of sincerity. I purse my lips into a smile and he does the same. My insides, which I’ll admit are often cold, start to simmer. Feeling a sting of heat, I crack the window a smidge. “It’s a bit warm in here.”

  He turns the heater off.

  “Seriously, where are we going?” Unable to take it anymore, I tap my heel on the floorboard.

  “Dinner,” he replies. “That’s all I’m going to tell you. We’ll be there in about thirty minutes. Here.” He turns on the radio. “Listen to some country.”

  A cliché depressing song about a woman who leaves her children behind to be with her man and go on some drunken adventure shoots out of his speakers.

  Barf-o-rama. Without any hesitation, I flip the station to pop music.

  “Don’t you like bluegrass?

  “Not really. I lived that sadness. I don’t need to hear about it being made into a song. I have a theory. If the song doesn’t make you happy, and you can’t dance to it, then I don’t want to hear it.” Sounds harsh, I know. But a girl’s gotta do whatever she can to protect her feelings, especially when they’ve been shattered as many times as mine.

  “What do you like to listen to, then?” He leans in to me causing the small space between us to narrow. I like that he wants to be close to me. Sheldon is a gentleman in every way, only with an edge of mischief to him, which I like.

  “I listen to what I like to sing to.”

  “You sing?”

  “Uhhh, yeah. Among many other things.” I study his handsome face to see if he’s pulling my Tiffany’s chain. WTF! He isn’t. “You mean to tell me you’ve never heard of my number one hit song titled, ‘I’m A Reality?’”

  Shaking his head, he laughs in a deep tone, which keeps my nipples aroused.

  “My song stayed on the Billboard charts for over a month. I performed it at the Grammys. It was used as the theme song in my last reality show.” I keep throwing out clues, hoping he’ll give me some form of acknowledgement. Not that I need validation from the male species, but it might be nice.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell.”

  Annoyed, I glance out the window to get my frustration in check.

  We’re heading toward the George Washington Bridge. Crap. “Are we going off the island?”

  “We are.”

  “Ughhh. New Jersey, no less….” My heart shrinks as I slowly shake my head in disapproval.

  He smiles at me again, this time more wickedly, before asking in a controlled voice, “You got a problem with the Garden State?”

  “Who, me? No. Not really,” I lie. I loathe New Jersey. I spent my entire youth in Hudson County’s foster care system, bouncing from one home to the next. Thanks, Mama!

  Considering how close New Jersey is to Manhattan, it’s odd that I never go. Not to visit my foster brothers and sisters. Not to see the social worker who tried her best to save my childhood. And certainly not to see my drunken mother who never got her life together.

  If anyone has read the memoir Three Little Words by Ashley Rhodes-Courter, that pretty much sums up my Jersey existence. Except, I was never sexually molested or taken advantage of in that way, like seventy percent of all foster children are.

  I guess I’m lucky in that regard. No one ever laid a hand on me. Not sexually. Come to think of it, I wasn’t hugged that often either. Clearing my throat, I try to push the bad thoughts to the back of my mind, far away from the current mood at hand, and focus on what motivational guru Tony Robbins might call a ‘life-changing moment.’

  Yup, right now I’m riding in a monster truck with the hottest man I’ve ever met, going seventy miles an hour down Route 3 toward the East Rutherford. My eyes narrow on the sign. “Are we going to the MetLife stadium?”

  He smirks and reaches for my hand.

  “We seein’ a Giants game?”

  “Nope.” He remains calm and in control. It’s totally turning me on.

  “How about the Jets?”

  “No.” He shakes my hand as if to say ‘no more guessing.’

  The truck slows down. The bright billboard sign flashes: ‘Monster Truck Mud Bog.’

  “What’s a mud bog?” I ask as we pull into the parking lot.

  “Just as it sounds.” With a halt, he stops the truck, lurching it into park, but not in the parking lot with all the other vehicles. Oh no. We’re in the area marked off for contestants.

  “Cute. You want me to sit on those bleachers over there, eating a hot dog, cheering you on while you play with your truck in the mud?” I admit, most men do try and impress me. I’m chauffeured in European sport cars, treated to only the nicest of restaurants, and used for photo opportunities at the chicest events. But this right here, what Mr. Truman is suggesting for our date, is off-the-charts cashew nuts.

  I kind of like it. I do. It’s so not me. Regardless, I’m giving this dude an A+ for uniqueness.

  “Not exactly.” Relaxed, he reaches behind his seat and hands me a helmet. “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Good.” He tilts his face back, causing me to look up at him, as he demands, “Let’s switch seats.”

  Nearly stuttering my words into a squeal, I grab onto his well-developed forearm and manage, “Say what?”

  “You’re driving!”

  OMFG!

  My Wonder Woman

  East Rutherford

  Sheldon

  Unbuckling my seatbelt, I wrap my hands around Neve’s curvy waist, hoisting her up and over my lap. I slide underneath to the other side of the truck. She’s nervous; I can tell by the way she’s breathing. The very touch of her makes my cock hard as a rock. Then I catch a whiff of her sweet earthy perfume.

  Mmmm.

  Fruit? No. Flower? Nope. I’m not really into fragrance, but ironically most women I’ve dated sort of all smell the same.

  “What scent are you wearing?”

  “Guess.” She peers at me intently.

  I learned a long time ago never to guess a woman’s anything—weight, mood, or fragrance—so I demand, “Tell me.”

  She leans in to me.

  Instinctively my hand comes around the back of her neck. Our eyes lock, and then with a deep inhale I fill my chest with her scent.

  “Well?” she pleads with an eager affection. Her hazel eyes widen with anticipation as if this perfume thing means the world to her, which for the life of me I can’t figure out why.

  Mmm. “Let me smell you again.” Giving in to the intense sensuousness between us, I rake her over with my eyes before pulling myself closer.

  Without any hesitation, my left arm comes around her backside as my right finds home between her legs. Playfully I tug at the zipper on her jeans as my lips slightly touch her neck. First with a caress and then—“Maybe if I can get a taste, I’ll guess correctly.”—a lick. I feel the blood rush from my fingers to my toes.

  “Any luck?” She arches her back as if this is all too much for her.

  “Bombshell by Victoria Secret.” Maybe she’s carefree enough for a little VS perfume.

  “Try again.” A rush of pink stains her cheeks as she quickly shakes her head.

  “Okay.” Fuck this, I’m kissing her. I lean in again and forget all formalities. My lips trace the soft fullness of hers. Tongues danci
ng, then plunging, I inhale through my nose, Frenching her hard and fast with an almost cruel ravishment of her mouth. We kiss as her breasts, firm and perky, press against my arm, causing me to reach for her jaw. Like some rare jewel in my hands, I caress her soft skin.

  For a second or two, I forget who I am and why we are here. I’m drunk, not on booze but on her, this woman named Neve Adele.

  If I don’t stop kissing her right this second, I’m going to take her into the back of my truck, pull her panties down, and do things to her until she purrs like a kitten in my ear, begging me to stop so she can catch her breath, and then continue taking her to orgasm. Kissing her until every ounce of oxygen I have left in my lungs is gone, I rear my head in awe. I wanna fuck you so hard right now.

  Breathless, she parts her lips and gapes at me. “That was—”

  “Amazing,” I finish for her as she nods.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “Chanel No. 5.”

  “Nope.” Her voice breaks.

  “I give up. And I can’t kiss you again. Otherwise I won’t be responsible for my own actions,” I say, my voice thick and unsteady.

  Her chiseled face drops in my direction. “Oh really?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You enjoyed kissing me?” she asks softly, her gaze narrowing.

  “Loved it,” I reply, suddenly feeling my heart thump in my ear.

  “All right, I’ll tell you. It’s Fougère. My signature fragrance, exclusively sold at Macy’s.” Her eyes, which sometimes appear blue but this time seem greenish brown, begin to gleam.

  “You have your own fragrance line?” I feel my mouth open in awe.

  “Yes, it’s all under my lifestyle brand. You know, handbags, jewelry, and stuff.” She watches me to see my reaction.

  “Well, aren’t you Wonder Woman. You act, sing, and have perfume. Wow!” I’m impressed.

  “The fragrance launched last year. Fougère is French. It means fern, which is the main ingredient in the juice.” She grins at me as if conveying secret knowledge. “Do you like it? Be honest.”

  “Neve, I bet you smell good in whatever you wear.” Unable to look her in the eyes, I avoid the question. It’s not that I don’t like the perfume; I just haven’t smelled anything like Fougère before. Like never ever. Maybe it’ll grow on me. Here’s hoping.

  “Well, it isn’t selling very well. To be honest, none of my products are doing that great.” A line furrows between her brows and then fades just as quickly as it came. Her complexion, like the rest of her, is perfect. Made for television.

  “Why ferns?”

  “Mind if I save that for another time? It’s a long story, and sorta personal.”

  I nod and pull the mud map from the sun visor above my head. I hand it to Neve. “This is tonight’s course.”

  With genuine interest, she takes it from my hands and studies the illustration.

  “You’ll start at this line. We travel counterclockwise up the right side of the field. You’ll come to a stop here.” I point to a spot on the map.

  “How many trucks are we up against?”

  “A handful.”

  “How do they determine the winner?”

  “Whoever can go the farthest without getting stuck.”

  “We’ll cross that finishing line. No worries here,” she declares in a bubbly tone.

  “How do you know?”

  “Ohhh, Shel, hasn’t Taddy warned you?”

  Noticing for the second time, she shortened my name, which no one has ever done before, I playfully shake my head that I have no clue what she’s talking about.

  “Once my mind is set into motion to win, I never lose.” Her confidence is stronger than the smell of that perfume, which totally turns me on.

  “Good. We have about ten minutes till the race starts.” I show her the tricks of maneuvering the truck: how the gears get stuck, the sensitivity of gas pedal, and that the steering wheel isn’t powered and requires total upper body strength. Admiring Neve’s physique, it’s clear works out and can handle this.

  She pulls the truck up to the line, leans over to her purse, whips out her iPhone, and says, “Record me as I drive.”

  Ugh. “Why?” I’m annoyed.

  “Everything we do together must be on video. After we’re done here, I’ll upload this to all of my social media pages. Let’s tell the world we’re spending time together,” she says eagerly.

  Then it hits me, the reality of why we’re here—her hunger for fame and my need for money. Like the release of a balloon, my drunken high on Neve’s presence deflates. I have to remind myself that none of this is real.

  Reaching over Neve’s head for her seat belt, I buckle her in, studying her face for any last-minute concerns.

  Wonder Woman is fearless and ready. I help her with the helmet, noticing she has the cutest littlest ears I’ve ever seen. For a second I imagine sucking on their lobes while I drill myself deep inside her. Then I wonder, if we do get married and go on this show, will we be having sex?

  “Ready?” I ask with a rasp of excitement.

  Her hands grip the wheel.

  “Watch for that man in the yellow jacket down there to wave. Then hit the gas.”

  She pushes her shoulders back, makes the sign of the cross, and then has the gall to lean over, wink at me as if she’s gone mud-bogging a million times before, and say, “Hold on, Shel. I’m gonna take you for the ride of your life.”

  “Go!”

  Mud-Bogging Mania

  Neve

  All of my senses are heightened as I strike my Michael Kors snakeskin heel against the gas pedal with every force I have inside me. Thoughts of us winning, me on the evening news taking the trophy with this hot man on my arm, makes me drive Stone Cold straight into the mud.

  “Crap.” The wheels stick, causing the front of the truck to dip. “We’re stuck.”

  “Let up on the gas.”

  I do.

  “Shift.”

  Done.

  “Hit the gas again.”

  We fly forward. I start to sweat profusely. Fast and high, the mud kicks up and sprays my face, but I don’t mind. I’m having the time of my life.

  “Keep going. You’ve got this, Wonder Woman,” he encourages me. I like it when he calls me that. It makes me feel like I can do anything. His left hand touches my right thigh and my spirits soar. As if suddenly charging with electricity, my entire body vibrates with excitement.

  Never in my life did I image that driving a truck two stories off the ground through a vat of murky brown mud, with an airplane mechanic at my side, could be so exhilarating. But holy moly, it is freakin’ fabulous. My lips widen into a smile. I throttle Stone Cold as if I’d driven her for years down a road I’ve been many times before.

  We cross the finish line. There’s lightness in my chest. I’m happy.

  “You did great.”

  “Did we win?” I ask, looking around to see if someone is going to run up and hand us a sash or prize.

  Yes, winning is all I care about.

  “Probably not. Our time wasn’t the best.”

  “Can we go again?”

  “No.” He laughs in a deep jovial way.

  “Please.” I beg with a pained stare and bite down on my bottom lip.

  “It’s not my doing. But I’ll tell you what. They have these events every few months. With a little practice, I think you stand a chance.”

  I pull the truck up to the side where a cleaning crew stands by to wash. Sheldon helps me out. Feeling a bit hyper, I hold the phone up for one more selfie of us together.

  We find seats at the concession area and order two cheeseburgers. He pays, which I take issue with because Taddy told me about why he’s considering going on Celebrity Newlywed Boot Camp. He needs the money.

  With my phone in hand, I take a second to breathe and calm myself. I know that once I upload this video and photos, tagging our location, all Hell is gonna break loose. To be honest, I’m enjoying my alon
e time with Sheldon. It almost feels real, like we could date and see where things go. Wouldn’t that be nice?

  Caution aside, I get on with my work and click upload to Instagram, which merges with Facebook and then goes out to Twitter, Snapchat, and so on. I start to count down in my head. Usually it takes about four minutes for the crowd to find me after I’ve tagged the location.

  One minute. I smile, admiring the swagger in Sheldon’s walk as he goes up to the counter to get our order.

  Two other women standing nearby fawn over him as he passes, but he doesn’t pay them any mind. Note to self: The dude is a class act.

  “Burger’s ready,” he says as he holds up a ketchup bottle.

  Two minutes. I reach for the gloss inside my handbag and lacquer my lips, pinch my cheeks, and toss my hair, which takes another minute.

  Four minutes.

  “Neve Adele!” someone from behind yells. “Is that you?”

  “Honey, look, there she is,” a lady shouts.

  A crowd starts to gather as Sheldon makes his way over with our food.

  “What’s going on?” he asks.

  “Work. Remember?”

  Perhaps I should’ve clued him in, but sometimes the newness of it all can be endearing. Plus, this is a test to see how Sheldon handles himself amongst my fans.

  “Who’s the stud?” asks a girl, maybe a year or so younger than me.

  “This is my friend Sheldon Truman,” I say, as I autograph her arm with eyeliner she’d taken from her purse.

  “Are you going to do another album?” asks a burly man speckled in mud. “My wife and I saw you sing in Vegas. You were awesome.”

  “I hope so.” Appreciating his kind words, I flash him a big smile. “Maybe we’ll do a monster truck music video. Wouldn’t that be fun?” I glance over at Sheldon, who isn’t having any part of this.

  Turning his back on the crowd, he tosses his cheeseburger in the trash and heads toward Stone Cold.

  Darn it!

  I don’t want to appear rude, so I pose for a handful of pictures with fans and then make my way back to the truck. Realizing Sheldon might be still hungry since he chucked his burger in the trash, I pick up a bag of French fries along the way.