The Do It List (The Do It List #1) (24 page)

 
“I love my new lingerie and naughty accessories.”

 
He crawled in beside me. “Worth every penny. I get hard just thinking about you in that blindfold.”

“And what about you with that whip—all those soft leather straps.” I imagined the sting of leather on flesh and the very thought snapped and tingled.

He feigned a menacing squint. “You’re not the least bit afraid?”

Shifting to my side, I propped myself on an elbow. “Maybe a little—in a good way. You excite me, Bradley. And I trust you more than I have ever trusted any man.”

His finger toyed with a corkscrew of curl. “I want to do things to you—with you. I’ve only just begun to excite you, Gracie.”

I could have fucked him again for that remark. Instead, I climbed on top of him. “Would you like to bring some clothes over?”

There was no other way to describe his grin, but devilishly cute. “I get a drawer?”

I nodded. “And a bit of closet space, if you want.”

“I want.” He turned me under him, and kissed me hard—and then softer, extending the kiss with a languid, sensuous tonguing. “You’ve just made me a very happy man, Gracie.”

I ran my fingers through his tousled hair. “I feel you, Bradley.”

Let’s just call it Madhouse Wednesday.
 

Everyone had lost a day on the street survey, and now we were all scrambling to catch up. After lunch, in the copy center, I lined up behind Bradley and leaned in close.

“I like the way you handle that copier.”

Without saying a word, he took the pages from me and dropped them in the document feeder. “Stapled?”

I read the menu in a breathy whisper. “Top left, center edge, saddle-stitch…fold and bind…”

 
His mouth twitched, as he selected top left and pressed the copy button.

“Oooh, Bradley—don’t stop.” I moaned softly. “I need two copies.”

He stared at me. “Keep this up and I’ll take you into the supply closet.” He handed me my pages.

“Put that one on the list.” I winked at him and left the room.

No contact again until late in the day, when I received a text message: Noodles at 7:30?

I texted back: Whoever gets there first, Hannah, party of three.

I grabbed my messenger bag and made my way toward the elevators. I was looking forward to starting a new dance routine. Shawn G. had promised something chill and sexy. Maybe I could use a modified version for Bradley’s lap dance. What number was that on the list? I’d quickly lost track of our growing inventory of sexual escapades. Mostly because we added to the list as fast as we ticked them off.
 

 
I pushed through the revolving door and got my first hint of dampness.
 

 
Rain.
 

I took the stairs down into the subway and thought about the do it list all the way to Chelsea Studios. Ten sexual encounters had quickly turned into twenty or more.

I exhaled. God, I hope so.
 

Shaun G. demo’d the moves to a chill new song by Snoop Dog. “This next eight is all about smooth moves and clean lines.”

He broke it down. “Step with me now. One and two, push-out—three, four—open five, six. Girls, I want a slow wobble—all melt. Guys, keep it strong.”
 

We worked hard on the new routine and by the end of class I was ready for steaming hot noodles and a good night’s sleep.

Hannah and I scored a window table at Noodles on Nineteenth. My niece had been moody since the dance studio, and I was hoping a few potstickers would mellow the munchkin’s temper. We ordered an iced green tea, kid-sized smoothie, and a Kirin beer.

“Did something happen at school today, Hannah?”
 

Avoiding eye contact, she pressed her nose to the window. “I’m looking for Bradley.” She covered her fist with her sleeve and wiped away breath fog.

“Hannah, you know you can tell me anything.”

She shrugged her shoulders. “Crissy and Madison don’t like me anymore.”

“I thought you didn’t like them. You said they were assclowns.”

“Assclowns are A-clowns. Butt monkeys are B-monkeys. I’m not allowed to say bad words.” Hannah’s pain poured across the table. “Remember?”

I stared at her. “Are you still friends with Shelby and Hunter?”
 

Her eyebrows crashed together, but she nodded.

“And what about Liv, Bradley’s daughter?”

Hannah sighed. “Her mother is always interrupting.” She raised her voice, not unlike the high-pitched cackle that emanated from Bradley’s phone. “‘Who are you talking to, Liv? Remember you have homework to finish’.” Hannah rolled watery eyes. She was putting on a brave front. And even though I didn’t want to believe it, Bradley’s ex appeared to be discouraging the friendship.

This wasn’t the first time Hannah’s abandonment issues affected me. I understood how childhood fears ate away at a young person’s self-esteem. Hannah was too young to have lost her mother, and even though Mitch loved her dearly, he practically lived at the hospital these days. I helped, his family helped, but we could never replace her mother.
 

I held my breath and prayed that Hannah would not end up like me, afraid to trust and make friends.

“Sorry, I’m late. Believe it or not, I had a hard time finding the place.”

“Noodles on Nineteenth on Twenty-Third Street. It’s tricky.” I teased.

“Apparently.” Bradley scooted Hannah over and sat down beside her.

 
The very act of moving Hannah dislodged a few tears. “Uh oh—what’s wrong, baby doll?”

 
He reached out to her and she buried her face in his sweatshirt. The same hoodie he’d worn last week, the one with the Fight Klub UK running up one arm. He rubbed her back and looked across the table at me.

I shook my head in warning. “School troubles. She’s lost a few friends.”

“They’re not my friends, they’re G-D, A-wipe, B-monkeys!” Hannah’s muffled words poured out between sobs. “They called me Little Orphan Hannie.”

I swallowed. Normally, Hannah was fairly clever at thwarting bullies. And she had always been reasonably popular, even with her personality defects. But this time the girls had gotten to her.

Bradley held on and rocked her while I ordered for the three of us. Gradually, the tears subsided. He held a paper napkin to her runny nose.

 
“Blow.”

 
A slightly sheepish Hannah peeked out at me, and I reached across the table for her hand.

 
“Let’s visit the ladies’ room, shall we?”

 
As we left, the waiter brought drinks—including a beer for Bradley, who took a long swallow.

Hannah scrubbed her hands, and I wet a towel and washed her face.

 
“I always feel better after a good cry.”

She reached for the towel dispenser. “Bradley is going to think I’m a cry baby.”

“He thinks nothing of the sort. And if you ask nicely, he might have some advice. Liv may have been tormented a time or two. Bullying, name calling, student cliques, can’t be all that different in London.”

Between the potstickers, chicken lettuce wraps and spicy shrimp noodles, Bradley entertained us with a number of tales from his boarding school days at Harrow.

 
“There’s a practice, for the most part, abolished, even though it lives on in the form of underclass hazing called fagging—not fag as in gay.” He paused abruptly. “Is this conversation too adult?”

My gaze moved from Bradley to Hannah, who rolled her eyes.

 
“Finish your story.”

“The younger boys did the older student’s chores—mostly light duties. Running errands, bringing tea to the fagmaster’s study, fagging for him at cricket or football.”

Hannah released the straw in her smoothie. “So the younger ones—they’re like the older boy’s bitches.”

“Hannah!” I scolded.

“Sorry, I forgot to use the b-word.”

Bradley dipped a potsticker in plum sauce. “I was subjected to a good deal of errand running, name-calling, and the occasional fist fight.”
 

I imagined Bradley as a young boy, left to fend for himself while his parents lived and worked a world away. He had learned to be a scrapper, just like Hannah.

“I remember a skinny lad—picked on mercilessly. You could find him in the loo every morning warming toilet seats for the older boys.”

Hannah slurped her noodles. “What about Liv—has she ever had to…you know…?”

“Deal with G-D, A-wipe, B-monkeys?” He teased her with a look that was part scold, part grin. “Liv went through a rough patch at school. A few girls formed a sorority circle and excluded her for a while. You might ask her about it. She ended up making other friends.”

I scooped up a shrimp from my noodle bowl. “Hannah mentioned that Liv isn’t able to talk much, or for very long.” I had to be careful how I broached this subject. I didn’t want to put Bradley in an awkward position with his ex.

He swished a dumpling in plum sauce longer than necessary. “Since…I foot the bill for both Claire and Liv’s unlimited phone minutes—domestic and foreign—there shouldn’t be an issue about length. And I personally worked out call times for the girls.” He checked my expression for any nonverbal messaging, the kind of communication adults use in front of children.

I delivered a friendly neutral shrug. “The girls really enjoy the calls. Please don’t say anything if it will cause trouble.”

Bradley nodded. “Who wants my last potsticker?” He popped the dumpling in his mouth.
 

“Too late.” He winked at Hannah.

I HIT THE snooze button a second, third and fourth time until I remembered. Fuck, it’s Thursday. I sat straight up in bed.
 

While the French Roast dripped, I pulled out my two best apparel choices for tonight’s dinner party.
 

This is so pathetic, Gracie.
 

I exhaled a sigh and bagged both dresses—the black and the white. I needed a consult with Sarah. I emptied two clear plastic shoe boxes and called George Salon to confirm his and her waxing appointments.

“Would it be possible to sneak in a couples massage?” While I waited for an answer, I packed shoes, hose and underthings for two dresses. “Great, thank you.”
 

The naughty girl side of me grinned.

The massage added a sensual touch. An intimate experience that would linger through the dinner party.
 

It was going to be a high-octane day, the kind with lots of electricity in the air. My creative muse had arrived—buzzing with ideas for the Héros campaign and perfectly timed. Sarah and I had a full day of concept work scheduled.

I’m not sure I inhaled or exhaled properly until I hung the dress bag from a hook in the taxi. I was going to meet Bradley’s mother. Not the least bit intimidating and perfectly natural. So why all the butterflies?
 

I mulled over hairstyle. Should I have George smooth my hair and fashion a stylish, messy bun? Maybe. I dialed the salon for the second time this morning and thought about how many women counted on their insanely awesome hours. They so understood the needs of the modern working woman. Bad hair day? Stop by George for a quick fix before the big presentation. Last-minute date? No problem, Ms. Hotness.

 
“Hi—Gracie again. I’d like to add makeup and hair after waxing and massage.”
 

“George is booked, but Tyler is available.”

“How is he at taming impossible-to-tame curly hair? Something smooth in a messy bun?” I chewed on my lip.

“Let’s go ahead and book you. George will supervise.”

“Thanks.” I breathed a sigh of relief as the cab slowed. To almost everyone else at DWD, this was an ordinary workday. And ordinary-ness was exactly what I needed.
 

Fuck, Gracie, get to work!
 

Sarah entered the conference room lugging her Ed Hardy messenger bag covered in a tattoo pattern of skulls, roses and hearts. “FYI, the entire agency is whispering about the cuts and bruises on Bradley and Derek. Rumors abound as to who inspired the fight.”

I frowned. “Let me guess, Gracie Taylor-Scott?”

“Ups your hot babe creds.” Sarah slouched into a beanbag chair and opened her graphics tablet.

“I need wardrobe advice. I’ve been invited to Bradley’s mother’s dinner party.”

She nodded. “Contemporary demure, but not ingénue.”

“Exactly. I packed two dresses—the Jackie-O and the Tibi quilted satin—” I dug for my phone and plugged it into the conference room charger.

Sarah thought about the two dresses. “The Tibi might be too edgy. What color is the Jackie-O?”

“White—with a thin silver belt.”

“Shoes?”

I hesitated. “Neutral, Jimmy Choo, with thin silver and black ankle straps. ”

“Why are you looking like that?”

She grinned. “I’ve taught you so well.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. “I guess I’m nervous.”

“How long have you two known each other?” Sarah shook her head. “It’s been like two weeks and you’re invited over for dinner with Mom?”