Drilled Read online

  “Hey, Franco—have you ordered breakfast yet?” I call. “Because I’ll need at least six cups of coffee to make it through the rest of today, so order two pots.”

  Silence.

  My stomach drops as I peek out, and find an empty bedroom. His clothes are gone, his wallet, his phone. Not even a note.

  “You ass,” I mutter. “Could’ve at least ordered me room service before you ghosted on me.”

  Chapter 2

  I dress and do my hair as best I can with the complimentary hotel toiletry products and no brush—the nice thing about having a pixie cut is that in a pinch I can blow-dry it and finger comb it and get by. I feel yucky putting on my clothes from yesterday, but I didn’t exactly preplan this little rendezvous with Franco.

  I think about ordering room service for myself, but decide against it—I have a client for a personal training session in less than an hour, followed by my own scheduled workout, and I’d rather stay fasted until after my workout. Plus, eating room service by myself just feels lame.

  I try not to think too much about anything as I snag my purse and stuff my feet into my shoes. Don’t think about Franco. Don’t think about last night—or this morning…or any of the time in between. Don’t think about his dick; don’t think about his hands, or his fingers, or his mouth, or his ass. Certainly don’t think about those rippling, eight-pack abs that turn me on like a damn light switch.

  Really, really, really don’t think about the way he bolted without even saying goodbye.

  I refuse to think about any of it as I head to the elevator and the front desk to check out. The desk clerk is a decently attractive man several years older than me—nearing fifty, maybe—with a polite smile that tightens as he takes in my push-up sports bra and tiny white Lycra booty shorts.

  “May I help you, ma’am?” he asks, his voice barely masking his disapproval, even as his eyes suggest something else.

  “Yeah, checking out of room six-nineteen.” I toss the little envelope with the keycard onto the marble counter and dig my wallet out of my purse, preparing to pay for the room.

  He taps at his keyboard with two fingers, spinning a Mont Blanc pen in the fingers of his other hand—his name tag says his name is Michael and that he’s the General Manager. Under different circumstances, I’d be interested. As it is, at the moment, it takes all my concentration not to think about stupid Franco and his stupid David Copperfield vanishing impression.

  “Ah…okay, you’re all checked out. Thank you for choosing Marriott hotels, ma’am.” His smile is, once again, polite and tightly disapproving even as his eyes flick up and down.

  I frown. “What about the room charge?”

  He taps again. “It’s been paid, ma’am. At…seven-oh-four this morning, charged to the card on file from check-in last night.”

  I blink. “Oh. Okay, cool. Thanks.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am. Have a wonderful morning.”

  “Yeah, you too.” As I exit the hotel, I remember that Franco had put his card down to reserve the room, but I suppose my disquiet at his vanishing act made me assume he’d stick me with the hotel bill, too.

  Less of an asshole, but still an asshole.

  I get into my car, start it, wait for Bluetooth to connect, and turn on 80s pop in an attempt to distract myself. I sing along to ABBA’s “Super Trouper” before punching the radio off in disgust.

  “Damn you, Franco! I can’t even enjoy ABBA!” I shout.

  In desperation, I call Imogen, putting it on hands-free while I drive.

  It rings four times, and then I hear her pick up the call, followed by shuffling and rustling as she tries to get the phone to her ear. For a lifelong nurse, she’s not really a morning person. “Hunh—hello?”

  “This is bad, Imogen, really, really bad.”

  “Whassit? Audra? What’s—what’s bad?”

  “Why is she calling this early?” I hear Jesse’s voice rumble in the background.

  “It’s seven thirty!” I say, “so not really that early.”

  “Yeah, but it’s Saturday,” Imogen mumbles. “And we both have the day off.”

  “Sorry, sorry. But I just—bad things, Imogen, bad things. I need you to talk me off the ledge.”

  “What ledge?” Her voice echoes as she goes into the bathroom; I hear the toilet seat slam down, and the sound of her peeing—we’ve been friends for so long that such things don’t faze either of us. “Is this about Franco?”

  “Yes, it’s about Franco.”

  “And his magical dick?”

  “It’s the most magical. You don’t even understand.” I sigh. “The thing has unicorn magic and fairy magic, and I swear I heard angels singing on numerous occasions throughout the night.”

  “So, that’s…good, right?” She puts the phone on speaker as she washes her hands and then takes it off again as I hear her moving throughout her house, probably to the coffeemaker. “Or is this about feeling things?”

  “We were only a few hours in when I sent you that text. It only got better, by which I mean worse, from there.”

  “I’m lost.”

  “Hands down the best sex of my life. Legit, it was—I have no words for how amazing.”

  “Still not understanding the negative.”

  I sigh. “It was too good, that’s the negative.”

  She laughs, and I hear a coffee grinder whirring in the background. “The sex was too good. Are you hearing yourself? You know how many times you’ve called me to complain about lackluster sex from the night before? Now you’re complaining it was too good?”

  I groan as I pull up to a red light. “Yes! But the sex itself isn’t the problem—surely you see that. The sex itself was…how do I even put it? I just had sex with a god, an actual god, like from Greek mythology or something. I’m probably pregnant with a demigod right now.”

  Imogen laughs harder. “You’re crazy, you know that?” She goes serious, then. “You did use protection, right?”

  “Duh, of course I did. I’m forty, not twenty. You think I want to pop out an accidental kid at my age? Hell no. I have a six-pack and my hoo-ha is as tight as a goddamn djembe, and I plan on keeping it that way, thank you very much.”

  Imogen snorts. “A lot of moms out there would take exception to that, you know. Moms can have six-packs and a tight hoo-ha too.”

  I groan. “I know, I know. You’re missing my point, dammit.”

  “Okay, what’s your point, then?” I hear her coffeemaker gurgling and the sound of cabinets opening and closing, the distant rumble of Jesse’s voice, and her voice answering, muffled, the asides of a couple starting their morning.

  “My point is, the sex was so good I’m worried I’m not gonna be able to resist wanting more. Hell, I already do want more and I’m still sore from this time! Plus, he snuck out on me while I was taking a shower! No note, nothing, just left. I mean, sure, he paid for the hotel room, but shit, he could’ve said goodbye. It’s not like I was going to fucking propose or something.” I merge onto the freeway for the short jaunt to the gym.

  “If you want to bang him again, then bang him again. What’s the issue?”

  “Do not sully the majesty of such glorious intercourse with such derogatory terminology, dammit! It wasn’t mere banging, Imogen—it was…a godly union of ecstasy and wonder. I had no less than eight orgasms. Eight! I was counting! And there were several times one ran right into the next, so it was hard to tell if it was one or two or, like, seven, all in quick succession.”

  “Jesus.” She sounds suitably stunned.

  “Yes, exactly. If I were Catholic I’d be in confession from now till doomsday.”

  “I’m still lost, Audra.” She takes a sip of coffee, and then continues. “If you want more of the…how did you put it? Godly union of ecstasy and wonder or whatever, go see him again. It’s not like he’ll be hard to find. His best friend is my boyfriend, and they work together.”

  “Yes, I know all that.” I sigh again. “You don’t do casual
sex like I do, so I guess you wouldn’t understand. I can’t see him again. It’ll stop being a hookup and become something else if we fuck again, and because it was as good as it was, there’s a high probability I’ll develop actual feelings for him, and that would be an absolute disaster on an epic scale. You know I don’t do commitment, Imogen.”

  “Or maybe it wouldn’t be a disaster at all.”

  “It would.” I pause as I change lanes and exit the freeway, make the turn, and head for the gym. “And you know why.”

  “That was a long time ago, Audra. Maybe it’s time to—”

  “Nope, nope, nope, nope!” I say over her in a singsong. “It would be a disaster. The way he left suggests to me that he’s been down this road before, and many times. Plus, he’s just too good at sex to not be as much of a player as I am.”

  “So?”

  “So, I can’t see him again. Either it wouldn’t live up to last night and I’d lose the memory of the best sex ever, or it’d be just as good if not better, and I’d get hooked, and then I’d start liking him.” I blew a raspberry. “Shit, I already do like him. I was gonna slip out while he was taking a shower, but he beat me to it, damn the man. It’s not often a guy gets the drop on me.”

  “Are you mad or impressed?”

  “Both.”

  “Why are you mad?”

  “Because I want to fuck him again! I’m telling you—he’s dangerous. I’m basically a nympho at this point.”

  “You are a nympho, Audra, and you can’t blame it on Franco.”

  “No, I’m not really a nympho. I knew an actual nymphomaniac in college, and it’s not as funny or as hot as it sounds. It was a difficult condition for her to live with.”

  I hear Imogen sipping coffee again. “So—he left before you did, and you’re mad about it because you wanted more sex, but also because he got the drop on you, but you’re also impressed because of the aforementioned, and also scared because you’re worried you’ll end up actually liking him, which for some stupid reason you’re convinced would be a bad thing. Do I have that right?”

  “Yes, exactly.”

  “You’re giving me a headache.” She let out a slow breath, and I heard a spoon tinkling against her mug. “What if you just tried letting yourself like him?”

  “NO!” I shout immediately. “Do you NOT remember The Incident?”

  “Yes, Audra, I remember The Incident. But, again, that was almost twenty years ago.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Men are for looking at and having sex with. Not friendships, not romance, and certainly not allowing yourself to like them.”

  Imogen sighs. This is an old argument and one that we stopped having several years ago, because it always threatened to turn into an actual fight, and neither of us wanted to risk that. “Audra, I…” Another sigh, a sip of coffee, and she starts again. “What do you want me to say? You know how I feel about this. I want you to be happy. If you’re happier never letting yourself like a guy or fall in love, then okay, fine, I get it, I love you, and I support you, even if I disagree with you. But, I’m just saying, Franco seems like a great guy. What if he’s different from—?”

  “They’re never different,” I hiss, cutting her off before she can say the dreaded name. “Not when it comes right down to it.”

  “Jesse is,” she says, very quietly.

  “Congratulations, Imogen—you found the one decent man on the planet.” I know I sound snarky as hell—or even downright nasty. But I can’t help it. I signal my turn into the gym parking lot while letting out a long, slow breath. “I’m sorry. I’m happy for you, I really am. But that’s never gonna happen to me. I won’t let it.”

  “I’m sorry I can’t be more help in this situation, Audra.”

  I laugh. “Funny thing is, you actually have been helpful. You’ve reminded me why I need to stay away from him.”

  “Are you actually going to do that?” she asks. “Stay away from him, I mean?”

  I groan, laughing. “Probably not. I’m still pissed at him for vanishing on me. Only I get to pull that move. And yes, I’m fully aware of the hypocrisy of that statement.”

  “Well, I’m here if you need me.” A pause. “Actually, why don’t you come over for dinner tonight?”

  I consider. “Yeah, maybe that’s a good idea.” I laugh. “Just keep your wine rack stocked, babe, because I foresee this getting interesting.”

  “No kidding. It already is, and you’ve only just met him.”

  “Exactly.” I park and shut off the car, taking the phone and putting it to my ear. “I have to go, I’ve got a client in twenty minutes and I haven’t had any coffee yet, and I think I got a total of four hours sleep divided into, like, six segments.”

  She’s silent a moment. “You were seriously having sex the whole night?”

  “Pretty much, yeah. We had some room service and watched an HBO comedy special, but other than that, yeah. The whole night.”

  “Can you even walk?”

  I burst out laughing. “Not really. Remember that summer we spent riding horses all day every day at your great-uncle’s ranch in Wyoming?”

  She cackles. “We were both bowlegged for the first month. We walked like we had a barrel between our legs.”

  “That’s pretty much how I’m walking right now.”

  “That sore?”

  “You have no idea,” I say, getting out of the car and leaning against the driver’s side door. “The man is hung like a goddamn rhinoceros. You could seriously club baby seals with his cock.”

  “Too much information, Audra—WAY too much information.”

  “Well, you asked.”

  “I did not ask for penis dimensions, as a matter of fact.”

  “At least eight inches long, almost as thick as my wrist, with just the perfect amount of curve. It’s legitimately the most perfect dick I’ve ever held in my slutty little hands.”

  “AUDRA ROSLYN DONOVAN!”

  “What? It’s the truth!”

  “He’s my boyfriend’s best friend, Audra! I don’t want, need, or care to know the details of what his penis looks like.”

  “You should. It’s a unicorn dick.”

  “A what?”

  “A dick so perfect and rare that it’s a unicorn.”

  “Oh.” She sighs. “Audra, can you maybe think beyond his penis for a minute?”

  “Can you stop calling it a penis? That’s weird and clinical and icky. Nobody calls it a penis. Do you refer to Jesse’s as a penis?”

  “I—no. But that’s different.”

  “What do you call it, then? His glorious manhood?”

  “Oh my god, Audra! No! That’s so stupid. God, you’re impossible.”

  “What do you call it, then?”

  “That’s private!”

  “Oh, come on, don’t be a prude! It’s not like I’m asking for a picture of it, just what you call it. His magical thunder-hammer? His wee-wee? What?”

  “Magical…thunder-hammer? Wee-wee? How do you come up with this crap?” She can’t help laughing, I notice. “We don’t often actually refer to it or talk about it. When we do, we tend to say cock, okay? Does that satisfy your curiosity?”

  “So why do you keep saying ‘penis’ with me, then?”

  “Because the other term is…” she trails off awkwardly.

  “Your version of dirty talk?”

  “Yeah, basically.”

  I laugh. “Fine, fine. Just stop saying penis, for the love of god. I’d honestly rather you say ding-dong or johnson or willy or something. Anything but penis.” Another trainer was exiting her car nearby, and burst out cackling when she heard my statement; I shot her the finger, and she replied in kind—we were friendly, so this was all meant as joking banter. “Look, I really have to go.”

  “What are you going to do, though?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” I say. “I’ll probably confront him and yell at him for ditching me.”

  “Even though you’re fully aware you were abo
ut to do the same thing?”

  I push away from my car and head for the gym entrance. “Yep. I’m fine with holding a few double standards.”

  “It’s going to backfire on you, Audra,” Imogen says, noisily stirring her coffee. “Consider yourself warned.”

  “You know what’s going to backfire, Imogen? All the cream and sugar you put in your coffee. Switch to black. If you want to trim down like you say you do, you have to cut out sugar and carbs.”

  “Blah, blah, blah. There’s no sugar in my coffee, just half-and-half, and I only use about a quarter of what I used to use. I’m working my up way to drinking it black.”

  “I’m just trying to help you reach your goals,” I say, entering the gym and heading for the employee break room where I know there will be fresh coffee. “What about your sodas and prepackaged carbage snacks?”

  “Carbage?” she asks.

  “Yeah, you know, garbage carbs—pretty much everything you’d buy from the middle of the grocery store.”

  “Oh…um…” I hear her say, around a mouthful of food.

  “Imogen—what are you eating?”

  “Nuh-hing.” Her tone, however, screams guilty.

  “Imogen.” I pour myself coffee into a Styrofoam cup while checking the time—still ten minutes before my first client.

  “A pastry,” she says, swallowing noisily.

  “A pastry?” I turn the question into a doubting scold.

  “Fine. A donut.”

  “Imogen!”

  “It’s Saturday! I’m off! Jesse is off! He went and got us donuts and they’re delicious and I’M NOT SORRY.”

  I sigh, knowing I can’t push her too hard. “Sugar and bleached flour still go straight to your ass on Saturdays, even when you’re both off.”

  “I know, I know.” She groans. “I’ll just do some extra crunches and squats or something.”

  “It doesn’t work like that, babe, sorry. You can’t spot-reduce fat, and also, crunches aren’t just useless—they’re bad for your back and neck. Do some in-and-outs, or vee-ups. Squats are good though—you can never do too many squats.”

  “Won’t it make my butt bigger if I do too many?”