Last Heartbreak (8 page)

Graham's eyes are on me constantly, his smile getting wider and wider with every shot. The dude has a gorgeous smile.

"I'm so lucky you're my friend, Graham. Your teeth are perfect. Do you have good dental at the hotel? Don't ever change your teeth, because that would change your smile and I love your smile."

"OK, I think you're ripe enough. Let's go sing."

"Okay." I'm feeling nicely numb all over, and anything Graham says sounds like a good idea. Who am I to argue against that dazzling grin?

He pulls me from my seat, and we walk over to a small table near the stage. There's a whole book of songs from which to choose. I try to concentrate, but it's hard. The words on the page blur and dance together, but after a couple of blinks, I find a title I recognize.

"Oh! That one! I know that one!" I point to the name of the song in the book.

"Really? You want to sing death metal?"

With the booze, everything is a bit fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure he just asked me to have his babies, and the guy makes kickass, fun to play with babies.

"Yes, please."

Graham shakes his head. "You go over to the microphone, and I'll pick the song. Go on."

I could stare at him all day. He's so dreamy. "Hashtag Swoon!"

"Kia? Did you just hashtag swoon me? Out loud?"

Deny it. Say no. I shake my head from side to side and say, "Yes."

He grabs my shoulders and steers me toward the center of the stage. Microphone in hand, I wait for Graham to pick a song. He's hunched over a table flipping the pages. The way the denim hugs his backside is magnificent. "Damn! That's one fine ass!"

The crowd erupts in laughter, and Graham whips around in my direction. It takes all of two seconds to realize I'm holding a live microphone. That sobered me up real fast. Graham folds his arms over his chest and raises an eyebrow. I turn to the crowd, holding my microphone tighter in my hands. "Well, he does have a fine ass! I mean, look at it! Ladies, doesn't he have a fine ass?"

I don't know where this is coming from, but the women cheer, holler, whistle and squeal, some gesturing for Graham to turn around. And I know I've done this. I'm making people have fun, making them laugh. Grabbing the microphone by the cord, I twirl it around in the air, feeling victorious. He hangs his head in defeat before doing a slow, half-turn, presenting his back to the audience, and he raises his arms in the air, putting himself on display. The women go wild. He saunters over to the center of the stage as he flips up the collar of his denim jacket, giving off that James Dean kind of bad boy vibe. This is a side of him I've never seen before, and I like it. I'm at a loss for words. Not that I'd have time to say anything because the music starts, the first couple of guitar chords clueing me in as to what song he chose.

"Oh! I know that one!" I squeal into the microphone. The lyrics bounce across the screen, starting with the girl's part. I don't need to read the words. I know them by heart. I close my eyes and pretend I'm alone, in my home, singing to myself. I belt out the lyrics, letting everyone know how cool I am. When the guy's part starts, Graham wraps his hand around mine and pulls my microphone to his lips. I open my eyes, expecting him to be wooing the women in the crowd, but his eyes are fixed on me, telling me over and over in song how great he thinks I am. It gives me courage, and when the girl's part starts up again, I don't close my eyes. This time, I look at Graham, and we sing the song together, going back and forth, flirting and teasing each other on stage. My hands claw down his chest, and I hook my fingers into his belt loops, pulling him closer to me. His free hand slides down my side, his eyes following the movement. His stage presence is explosive, and he plays the rock star role so well that I have trouble seeing him as my nerdy friend Graham. All I see is a rock star who can't keep his hands off me as he tells me I'm the best. The song ends, and we're out of breath. People cheer, and Graham takes me into a huge hug, spinning us around. I hold him tightly, not wanting to let go. I want to cling to this high forever. I sang in front of people, and it was all me, Kia. Not some fake persona created to please the public eye, my parents, my ex, or my boss.

Graham puts me down, grabbing both sides of my face and gives me a quick kiss on the lips. It happens so fast that I'm not sure it even happened, except for the lasting feeling of pressure that wasn't there before. He presses his damp forehead to mine. "I'm so proud of you! Come on, let's celebrate." He grabs my hand and helps me off the stage. Back at our table, we're greeted with high-fives and hollers.

More shots, and a couple more kick-ass duets later, we're both sweaty, drunk, and out of breath.

This is the best night of my life.

"Want to get out of here?" Graham's hair is sticking up in a punk Mohawk, and his thick accent makes me hot all over. I nod. I need air before I pass out. We step outside, and the cold breeze kisses my skin. I don't realize I've stopped in the middle of the doorway and Graham slams right into me. I topple over, almost falling, but he catches me and holds me close. I turn to face him thinking he'll let me go, but he doesn't.

"You did that on purpose. You just wanted me to catch you. Admit it." I can smell the sweetness of alcohol on his breath. My chest presses against his, and I bet he can feel how fast my heart is beating in my chest from the evening's events. His hand cradles my head, lacing his fingers through my hair. His lips quirk up to one side, and I know he's teasing me.

I get an idea, allowing it to simmer in my brain until I'm ready to make my move. I move in close, slowly, inching my way closer to his face. "I guess you have me all figured out." My voice is deep, sultry and Graham's breathing quickens. He moistens his lips, and his eyes flicker to my mouth. It's now or never. I exhale into his glasses, and they fog up instantly.

Stunned, his grip on me loosens, and I manage to break free, running away from him, laughing. I look over my shoulder to see him remove his glasses and wipe them with his shirt. HOLY SHIT! Distracted by the sight of Graham without his glasses, combined with his perfect abs poking out of his lifted shirt and that fine line of dark hair traveling past the waistline of his jeans, I totally miss the huge crack in the sidewalk and fall flat on my ass. I'm breathless, but I'm not certain it's from the fall.

Graham quickly puts his glasses back on and rushes to me. He doesn't offer a hand. He stands there, hovering over me, staring. Christ on a Graham Cracker, he's hot. I knew he was hot, but I had no idea he was HOT! My eyes travel up his freakishly long, slender body, appreciating every inch of him. How is it possible this man doesn't date? Our eyes meet, our expressions intense—until his eyes light up, and we both burst into uncontrollable laughter. Graham bends at the waist, holding his side like he has a stitch while I roll on the ground. I'm literally ROFL'ing on the sidewalk somewhere in midtown Manhattan.

We stumble back to the hotel, completely drunk and singing loudly. I don't care who sees me like this. I'm happy. We both try to look as non-drunk as possible when we enter the hotel lobby, but looking sober isn't as easy as it looks. I feel like every move is exaggerated, and every word is overly pronounced. I think people are staring at us, but it's so hard to tell. I'm concentrating on punching the elevator buttons without missing. I must succeed because I hear a ding, and the doors slide open. I slip into the elevator and so does Graham.

"Am I getting room service?" My smile is so wide my cheeks are cramping up. I don't remember the last time I smiled so much. For the untrained professional, prolonged smiling hurts.

"Just making sure you don't do anything stupid on your way up." Graham leans against the elevator wall.

"Like what?"

"Like forgetting to swipe your keycard and spending the night sleeping in an elevator?" He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and retrieves a hotel keycard. It's a staff card, the kind that gives access to all levels.

He swipes the card, and the elevator starts to rise. Graham and I stay in a staring contest the entire way. I don't want to think. I don't want to think. I don't want to think. I keep chanting it, hoping my thoughts won't stray. I'm in that post-drunken phase where any action will either cause a tearful breakdown or a lusty advance. Graham pushes off the elevator wall and takes a step toward me. Then another. And another. And, Oh! Fuck it! He reaches for me at the same time as I crash into him. Our lips meet in a painful connection so desperate, so hungry, that all I can think of is how his hands pull me close to him and how his mouth searches mine, desperate for more, more, more. The elevator stops, and the doors slide open. We stumble into my penthouse, never severing the connection.

His tongue brushes against my lips and they open up to him instantly. I'm ravenous. I want to devour his kiss. His hands are all over, tentatively brushing along my curves, but hesitant to touch me. We clumsily make our way into the apartment, bumping into side tables and knocking stuff over. My hands find his hair and do what they've been aching to do since I first noticed him—tug. He responds with a sexy groan into my mouth.

The backs of my legs bump into the end of my chaise, and I topple, my back resting on the black leather cushion. I pull Graham down on top of me, needing more of him. Right. Now. I lean my head back, wanting to expose my neck to him, but my head hits something unexpected. I open my eyes and look up to see a strange man. My head is in his lap.

I scream bloody fucking murder.

T
he man's
face stares vacantly ahead, despite my screams. I fall flat on the floor with my nose pressed up against the creeper's polished black shoes. I crab-crawl away as quickly as possible, my heart thumping hard enough inside my chest to crack ribs.

I bump into something, and let out a blood-curdling screech. Hands slip under my arms and pull me up. I need to run. I press my feet firmly against the floor and push off in the direction of the elevators but something, or someone, holds me back. Unyielding arms hold me in place and spin me around, pressing my face against a firm chest.

"Shhh! It's okay, Kia. You can stop screaming now. It's okay."

Graham's soothing voice, combined with the distinctive smell of his cologne, is enough to make me stop screaming long enough to assess the situation.

"Graham. There's. A man. On my couch. We've got to get out of here." My trembling fingers claw at his shirt, and he squeezes me tighter.

"I promise you, Kia, it's okay. You don't have to worry." His voice is way too calm, in fact, he sounds amused. OMG! He's laughing! "Turn around and see for yourself. There's nothing to worry about."

I calm down my rapid breathing and slowly turn in Graham's arms. The creeper is still there. He hasn't moved an inch since I realized he was there, and he's not breathing either. His skin is pale, and his eyes don't blink.

I swallow, but my throat has gone dry. "Graham. There's a dead man on my couch. Call security."

Graham's arms are still around me, and he holds me closer, dropping a small kiss on the top of my head and chuckling again. "Kia, what am I going to do with you? He's not dead. He's not even human. It's a doll. A very realistic-looking sex doll."

"What?" Graham's hold on me loosens, and I step toward the creepy life-sized doll sitting on my chaise, one arm draped across the backrest. I tilt my head to the side, analyzing him. I reach out to touch his silky blond hair and flinch on contact. He's right.

"What the hell is a synthetic pleasure doll doing on my couch?"

"I'll take that to mean you didn't order him yourself?"

I whip my head toward Graham. "No!"

He lifts both hands up, palms facing me. "Hey, I'm just asking. You're the one on a man strike."

I walk around the chaise and analyze my new roommate more carefully. "He can't be a sex doll. Aren't sex dolls supposed to be all—" I put up both hands, circling my fingers as if I was holding two dicks, widen my eyes and open my mouth in the roundest "O" I can manage.

"I guess that depends on what you plan to do with that mouth. I guess male sex dolls don't do blow jobs. Check out his junk."

"I'm not checking out his junk!" I cross my arms and uncross them. I shift my weight from one foot to the next. I tap my foot on the floor.

"Oh, come on, Kia. I know you're curious. I won't judge. Check out his junk and see what this guy's got. I'm dying to know."

"You would. It's all about science, right?" I narrow my gaze at him. "All right. Well, mister synthetic dude, here goes nothing."

"Or something huge, you never know."

I give Graham an evil stare and kneel in front of my unannounced visitor. I undo his belt and then his pants, pulling them past his waist. Graham helps me by lifting him up, helping me ease the pants down his hips. The doll appears real down to his meticulously groomed and manscaped blond body hair. Mr. Sin doesn't look like he's having a good day, though. With the tip of a finger, I flick him. His manly bits flop up but quickly fall back down. I flick him again, and the dude's penis is just as limp as it was the first time. I flick him a third time, and Graham seizes my fingers in his hand, pulling me back from the doll.

"Please, stop flicking it. Just, please."

I giggle and sit back down on my heels and inspect the package.

"Um. He's kind of—"

Graham sits behind me, his legs on either side of me. He leans forward, his chin resting on my shoulder and hums. "I think the word you're looking for is—"

"Flaccid."

"Small."

We both speak at once. I turn my head to the side, Graham's face next to mine. "Small? This is small to you?" I gesture to limp dick in front of us.

He shrugs. "Well, everything is relative. It depends on what you're using as a comparison."

"Ok, give Mr. Sin some credit. He's soft right now. I bet when that thing gets hard, he must be at least a good six inches, maybe six and a half."

"It's like I said—depends on what you're using as a comparison."

"Graham! What are you packing anyway?"

Graham shrugs, "I like to call it, Excalibur."

"I should not know that." I squint my eyes, studying Mr. Sin. It's no wonder I freaked out! He's even dressed in a suit complete with a jacket and a handkerchief perfectly folded in the breast pocket. A note peeks out from behind the handkerchief. I push myself off the ground, pluck the note from Mr. Sin's pocket, and open it at an angle we can both read.

"Well, I guess that solves the mystery. Who's Mindy?" Graham folds the note and pushes himself off the ground. He steps closer to me and tosses the note on Mr. Sin's naked lap.

I stare blindly at the note. "A friend, I suppose. I'm not sure. I live in a very fickle world, and friends are hard to make. I have a hard time trusting people, mostly because my judgment sucks. Speaking of which," I look up at Graham nervously, "are we going to talk about that kiss? I don't want things to be weird between us."

He raises a hand and strokes my brow with the pad of his thumb. "Things have never been normal between you and me, but if you're expecting me to say kissing you was a mistake, I can't."

"But Graham," I whine. I don't want our relationship to change, but this changes everything.

"No buts. Hear me out. We had a lot to drink and things got out of control. Do you regret singing on stage tonight?" I shake my head. Singing on stage was one of the best moments I can remember in a long time. It felt liberating. "Do you regret all the things you said to the crowd about my fine ass?" I try not to smile, but it's hard around Graham. I shake my head again.

"We both did things we didn't think we could do," Graham continues. "You got the courage to sing in front of a bunch of strangers and speak your mind freely, not caring what they thought." He smiles shyly at me, a blush creeping on his face. He pushes his glasses up with a finger, the way he does when he's nervous. "I got the courage to kiss you, not Kienna Delacroix, but my Kia. So, no, I don't regret it, and it wasn't a mistake. I promise that there will be no additional weirdness between us—well, other than that guy." He jerks his head toward the chaise, where a half-naked Mr. Sin is looking at us, pants down to his knees, junk resting loosely on his thigh.

He drops a tiny kiss on the top of my head. "I have to get back home. I'll see you tomorrow morning at breakfast."

Graham leaves the penthouse, and I snuggle into the loveseat to watch old black and white movies on TV, remembering the most amazing kiss I've ever received.