I shut the door, ending the conversation and our… encounter? God, that sounds weird but I don’t know what else to call it. I never have. Our tryst? Our appointment? Our fuck? Nothing sounds right and it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s in the past. Same way we left it in the past last February. And the February before that.
I hurry to clean up, giving myself a whore’s bath in the sink and reapplying my makeup quickly. I run my hands through my hair, smoothing the long blond strands back into a thick ponytail. My phone beeps in the other room. It’s an alarm going off to remind me to pick up the Ashford Agency’s clients from the airport, but I don’t need reminding. I haven’t needed an alarm to wake me up since I was twelve. Not since I started carrying a Blackberry and scheduling my entire life to the minute.
At exactly six twenty-five I’m standing in the large lobby waiting for Hollis. He’s going to be three minutes late. He always is. It’s okay because I always tell him to be everywhere five minutes before he needs to be. He knows it, I know it, but it still works somehow.
Six twenty-eight and the doors to the elevator slide slowly open. Hollis is there, smiling at me behind the carefully cultivated five o’clock shadow darkly dusting his jaw.
“Have you been waiting long?” he asks airily, knowing damn well he’s late.
“Today or as a total? Do you want me to tally up how long I’ve waited for you over the last two years, because it might surprise you?”
Hollis smiles, lacing my arm through his to lead me toward the door. “You’ve already added it up, haven’t you?”
“Nine hundred and thirty-six minutes,” I answer immediately. “Over fifteen hours total.”
“That can’t be right.”
“I have a spread sheet. I’ll email it to you.”
“I can’t wait.”
We step into the brisk morning air where a large white van is waiting for us at the curb. My California skin screams against the chilly air as I rush to get inside, sighing when the warmth of the heated interior envelopes me.
Hollis settles in next to me, pulling his black leather messenger bag into his lap.
“So,” he drawls lasciviously, “how was Ponyboy?”
“What?”
“Ponyboy. Outsiders. ‘Stay gold’. It’s a book.”
“I know the book, but I—“
“And a movie. Emilio Esteves. Patrick Swayze. Rob Lowe.”
“I’ve seen it, yeah. I know.”
“Then why are you acting like you don’t know it?”
The driver gets into the front seat, slamming his door against the cold.
I look warily at Hollis because I know what’s happening. I know he’s going to embarrass me. “I know the story. I don’t get your reference, but you can explain your genius to me later when we’re alone and not—“
“Okay,” he interrupts loudly. “You’re confused about why I called your latest one night stand ‘Ponyboy’. Is that right, Sloane?”
“I’m going to kill you.”
“It’s because he’s a Colt. A horse.”
“I get it, asshole,” I snarl.
“I bet you did. Get it, I mean. All of it. Repeatedly.”
“You’re dead to me.”
“How was he?”
I give in, sighing, “He was good. He’s always good.”
“Did he make it to the end zone?”
“Let me guess. The end zone is a euphemism for my ass?”
“No, that’s the Super Bowl,” he tells me as though it were obvious.
“Right, of course. Okay, yes. He made it to the end zone.”
“Touchdown?”
“Yes.”
“Two point conversion?”
I pause, trying to figure this one out. “You mean, did we…?” I use my hands to make a sixty-nine position, each of my middle fingers tickling the wrist of the opposite hand.
“That’s the one.”
“Yep.”
Hollis lifts his hand for a high five. “Good game.”
I slap it violently. “Thanks, Coach.”
We ride in silence for a few minutes. A few miles. The driver, an older guy who reminds me uncomfortably of my grandpa, looks in the rearview at me a couple of times. I can’t tell if he’s judging or not, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t apologize for it. I like sex. I really like it with a hot guy who knows what he’s doing, and that is a combination that is surprisingly hard to find. Most guys with the body come into the situation thinking they can do no wrong. They think their mere presence is erotic enough for any woman. That they can step on the court and rock the house by virtue of being them. They’re the Kobe Bryants of sex. The divas. I like a rookie. A guy without a name or a contract who comes in willing to work, willing to learn the playbook and put in the hours at practice because he has to. He’s a seven at best but his game is on point. Kyle is a rare blend of the two; a body that won’t quit and the eager attitude to match.
The guy isn’t a Colt. He’s a fucking unicorn.
“Are you going to see him again while we’re here?” Hollis asks seriously.
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Don’t sound so excited about it,” he chuckles.
“Do you want me to do cartwheels?”