Seductive Chaos (Bad Rep #3) (5 page)

I gave Gracie a thin, fake smile. “Can I have your room key? I think I’ll wait up there until it’s time for us to catch our flight,” I said tightly.

I couldn’t help but notice the way everyone around the table sagged in obvious relief. No sideshow today folks.

Gracie handed me the key card and I got to my feet, noticing that Cole was heading my way. I didn’t want to talk to him. I didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. I was just really, really tired all of a sudden.

I turned on my heel and left the restaurant.

“Viv!”

I kept walking, knowing what would happen if I stopped.

“Vivian! Hold up!” Cole called out.

And for the first time, I didn’t wait for him to catch up. I didn’t give him the chance to dance his way out of trouble and into my pants.

This time I kept on walking.

“H
ow’s this skirt?” I asked Gracie as I modeled the fifth outfit I had tried on that morning. I was getting ready for my first day at my new job and I was having a near coronary as I tried to figure out what I was going to wear.

Clothing was essential. It could either make or break a first impression. And I was looking for competent yet sassy. But I was having a difficult time finding the right outfit to showcase my personality.

Everything seemed to say
trying too hard
or
gettin’ my club on
.

“It’s a little
working the corner
don’t you think?” Gracie asked, screwing her face up. I pivoted around, looking at my reflection.

“Really? I love this skirt,” I complained. I had really hoped this one would work. But Gracie was right. Flashing my hoo-hah when I bent over would not project the professional image I was going for.

I unzipped and slithered out of the confining fabric. I stood in my garters and thong, not embarrassed in the least. Gracie had seen me in less. Modesty was not my thing anyway.

“I wish we were the same size, G. Your blue skirt and white, lace blouse would be perfect,” I muttered, rooting through my considerable wardrobe to look for a suitable ensemble.

My phone chirped from where it lay on the dresser. Before I could reach for it, Gracie snatched it up and tapped the screen.

“Ahh!” she shrieked, tossing the phone onto the bed.

I grabbed it, wondering what had elicited such a response from her. I swiped the screen and started laughing. Because staring back at me, was an up close and personal picture of Cole’s junk. I’d recognize that vine tattoo and slight bend to the left anywhere.

And I swear to God it was winking at me!

Trying to stop giggling, I quickly deleted it and turned off the phone with a roll of my eyes.

Gracie looked mortified. “I could have gone my whole life without seeing that!” she groaned, making me laugh harder.

“Glad you find my disgust and horror so amusing,” she snipped.

I shook my head. What could I say? Disgust and horror went hand in hand with Cole. As well as frustration, irritation, annoyance, knee trembling, palm sweating, dissolving into a pile of pent up sexual frustration…

“Does he do that a lot? Send you pictures of his penis?” Gracie asked primly.

“This is Cole we’re talking about here,” I said. And she nodded. That was all the explanation she needed.

After I had locked myself into Gracie’s room on Sunday, I had spent the next hour ignoring my ringing cell phone. Cole had bombarded me with texts and calls.

I didn’t answer right away. I was feeling touchy and upset and I couldn’t pin down the exact reason.

Was I mad at Cole? Hell yeah. Though to be fair, he hadn’t been doing anything unusual. He had just been behaving in typical Cole Brandt fashion. But that had been the problem.

The typical was getting old.

Because this time, instead of being angrily aroused, I had felt painfully empty.

Gracie had finally returned to the room and being the great friend that she was, she didn’t ask about Cole or mention what had happened after I had left the restaurant. We had gotten our things together and taken a cab to the airport. And then we had flown back to home.

I had spent Monday trying to get my head straight. Maysie had called and said the show was great. She mentioned that several local newspapers and online blogs had covered the concert and the boys had gotten some great press. The indie label they were signed with was already pushing for a bigger album release than they had originally planned given the increase in media attention the Rejects were getting.

Great things were coming. We all knew that.

I was really proud of the boys I had known for years. I was proud of Cole most of all, stupid bastard that he was. I knew how much this meant to him.

So when he called me the next time I had answered. We spent the first ten minutes going through the customary banter

“What the hell is your problem?” Cole had demanded.

“You’re my problem, dickhead!” I had responded.

Insults were hurled, frustrations were voiced. And then when our anger had finally abated and when we normally would have run out of things to say to one another and hung up, we actually began to talk.

Cole started telling me about the concert. He began to share with me what it was like to sing up on stage in front of a crowd that wanted to own him. It was as though he were desperate to share this important part of his life with me.

His excitement was infectious. It filled me and spilled over. I was happy for him. And that felt so much better than the anger.

And we had, just like that, fallen into something better than our usual. Because for the first time in the history of our relationship, we were talking to one another. Or Cole was talking and I was listening without wanting to tell him to shut up.

It was disconcerting how easily it happened. And by the end of the phone call I was in a good mood and more than willing to engage in a boisterous round of phone sex.

I should be annoyed with how quickly I was turned around by Cole. That despite all of my strong resolve, it was no match for a sexy laugh and a great set of pipes.

Why did Cole have to make it so damn easy to forget that I wanted to hate him? Why didn’t I have any sort of self-control? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I was the cutest doormat in Bakersville, Virginia.

Gracie nudged me out of the way and started rummaging through my walk in closet. I loved our apartment. It sat on the bottom floor of an old Victorian house in the heart of historic Bakersville. It had been completely renovated before we had moved in and was open, light, and airy.

My room was painted a soft, pale yellow and had French doors that led out onto a small, stone patio. My large four-poster bed that sat in the middle of the room had been a gift from my parents when I started high school. They had loaded it up with the rest of my bedroom furniture and driven it over four hundred miles from Pennsylvania the weekend Gracie and I had moved in.

My mother helped me to arrange my room and even had a hand in choosing the tastefully framed artwork that adorned the walls.

My parents really were wonderful.

This room screamed Vivian Baily. You only needed to walk through the door to know everything about me. My personality, my passions- they were all there.

I realized looking at my cream comforter and bright orange throw pillows that Cole had not once in the two years we had been sleeping together been to my apartment. He had never spent the night in my bed, wrapped in the blanket I had purchased for myself when Gracie and I had moved in.

I had never shown him the pictures of my family and friends from back home. Hell, I don’t think he even knew whether I had siblings.

And again, just like that, and despite Cole’s funny yet crude text that had made me laugh, I felt hollow.

“Wear this. You’ll look gorgeous,” Gracie said, holding out a classic grey pencil skirt and blue silk blouse.

“Wow, I didn’t realize I owned something like this,” I said, taking the clothes from her.

“They’re Maysie’s. You borrowed them for the wine tasting we went to last year,” Gracie remarked dryly.

“Oh, well that makes sense,” I said, quickly changing.

“You really need to do some shopping. Halter tops and hooker shoes won’t cut it at The Claremont Center,” Gracie advised.

“Maybe we can go after work! Oh, goodie! Retail therapy!” I enthused, clapping my hands together.

Gracie smiled and nodded. “Sounds great!” she said, just as excited by the idea of shopping as I was.

“Thanks again, G,” I said with a smile before shooing her out so I could sort out my makeup. It required my total and complete concentration. The perfect blending of foundation and blush was a work of art.

My phone buzzed again and I saw Cole’s name flash across the screen. It was eight fifteen on a Monday morning. This had to be a record for him. Normally he’d sleep until the early afternoon.

“Hello,” I said as I wiggled into my skirt. I smoothed the material down and looked in the mirror. Gracie was right. It fit me perfectly.

“Did you like it?” he asked immediately.

I smirked, knowing exactly what he was referring to, but I decided to play coy.

“Excuse me?”

“The picture, Viv. I knew you’d enjoy an eyeful of my tackle. What better way to start your day,” Cole stated with enough arrogance that it tiptoed between attractive and obnoxious.

“Well, I couldn’t really see anything. It was so small,” I responded, trying not to laugh.

Cole growled in my ear. “Don’t play that game with me, baby girl. Size has never been a problem. I’ve got more than enough package to keep you happy.”

I laughed. “Yeah, me and every other girl out there.” I just couldn’t help myself. The jealous shrew seemed to be rearing her head already and we had only just started talking.

“Don’t start that shit again, Viv,” he warned and I knew my remark had annoyed him.

I could almost hear Cole grinding his teeth.

“Just stating facts,” I said.

“Always about the other chicks! Look, I love your possessive shtick. It’s hot and all. But not so much when I’m trying to have a little conversation.”

Was he serious?

“Well, I sent you a picture of my boys, you need to send me a picture of your boobs,” he said, bringing us back to more important topics apparently.

“What?” I asked incredulously.

I could hear Cole sighing. “Your boobs, Vivian. I want a picture of your magnificent tits.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. He was so unbelievable sometimes that it was hard to take him seriously.

“I am not, and I repeat,
not
texting you a picture of my boobs. So get that thought out of your head right now,” I said firmly.

“Aww, come on, baby! I need something to whack off to this morning,” he whined.

“I’m sure there’s a magazine or two under your pillow as we speak. I’m sure you can find more than enough wank material,” I assured him, applying some mascara. It was getting late. I was going to have to leave soon.

“But it’s not the same. I know what yours feel like. It makes the fantasy so much more real.”

I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or repulsed. I settled on a strange mixture of both.

“Sorry, Cole. I can’t help you out. I’ve got to get to work. I start a new job this morning, so I can’t waste time texting you pornographic pictures.”

“This is bullshit,” Cole muttered.

“Stop being such a baby.”

“Stop being such a prude!”

“Fuck you,” I lobbed back.

“I would if I were there,” he countered.

I found myself laughing again. Sometimes we were just too ludicrous.

“That right there is my favorite sound in the entire world,” Cole said suddenly and my giggles subsided immediately.

I cleared my throat. “I have to go, Cole,” I said, not liking the tightness in my throat at his careless, throwaway compliment.

“You got a new job?” he asked, surprising me. Cole wasn’t one to take much interest in anything that didn’t have a direct correlation to him.

“Yeah. I’m pretty excited about it,” I answered.

“Tell me about it,” he urged, shocking me again.

I was silent for a heartbeat too long.

“You still there?” Cole asked, snapping me out of my dumbfounded stupor.

“What’s this about, Cole? Why the sudden interest in what’s going on with me?” I asked shortly.

I was met with stunned silence.

“I’m a dick,” Cole said suddenly.

Then I was laughing again. Side splitting, snort out my nose laughing.

“Well, I’m not going to argue with that,” I told him when I was able to settle down.

“I am interested in what’s going on with you, Viv. I know I don’t act like I care, but I do. When you left on Sunday, that hurt. I didn’t like thinking that you were upset. I wanted to talk to you. Make you feel better,” he admitted and I had to sit down on my bed so my legs wouldn’t give out from underneath me.

My mind tried to process what he had just said. Me leaving on Sunday had hurt him. I found that so incredibly hard to believe. Yet Cole wasn’t one to say things he didn’t mean.

I had hurt him. He cared about me.

Those shiny possibilities danced in front of my eyes again.