After I washed up, changed my clothes, and got settled in for the night with a bowl of popcorn and a glass of wine, I pulled out my phone, eager to just get it over with. I could have texted. Could have made things easier on myself by not actually speaking with him, but I wanted to hear his voice. I missed it, like I missed him, and the video was a poor substitute.

“It seems I finally got your attention,” Joel said in answering.

“You could say that. Although, that seemed kind of the point.”

“It was a hard one to make, but desperate times. You don’t make it easy on a guy, Blaire. I’ve never felt so…rejected before.”

“Well there’s a first for everything. Look, I’ll meet you, but that’s it. I’m not promising you anything.”

“Great. Where would you like to meet? We can go anywhere you want.”

“Have you ever been to that Mexican place off Charleston? You know the one by Smith’s?”

“No, but I know what you’re talking about.”

“Meet me there. Tomorrow at one. This is it, Joel. If for some reason you don’t show up—”

“I’ll be there. I promise. I’ll be there.”

“Goodnight, Joel.”

“Goodnight, Blaire.”

I may have watched the video once or twice more before I went to bed that night.

Chapter Seven

The same white Mercedes that was waiting outside my home over a week ago was now sitting in the parking lot of Ernesto’s. Ernesto’s was off the beaten path, a place not usually frequented by corporate workers with only an hour for lunch. Aside from us, only three other cars were parked just outside the restaurant. That didn’t stop me from inspecting the surrounding area. Not that I was going incognito or anything, but if anything felt off then I was definitely going to be skipping lunch.

My fingernails tapped against the steering wheel while I second-guessed again what I was actually doing meeting Joel—out in public, no less. Finally resolving to exit the vehicle, I got out and made my way to the entrance. Just inside the door to the right was the hostess stand, with rows of tables and booths behind the woman who stood at the podium ready to seat me. A bar on the left hid a few high-top tables.

“How many?” the young woman asked. She looked barely old enough to be out of high school.

“Oh, I’m here meeting someone.”

I barely got the last word out before I felt him. Joel lingered there in the archway of the bar section. After motioning to Joel, the young woman put down the menu she’d gathered and smiled at me as I made my way over to the bar.

“I’m not drinking with you.”

“Is it because you can’t control yourself around me or because you have to get back to work?”

I passed him to sit at the table, where there were already two glasses of water resting. Joel’s hand found its way to my lower back, shocking me with the warmth his body always seemed to possess. This is just lunch. Joel guided me until we both took our seats, and I immediately took a sip from my glass, eager to shake off the few degrees my body temp climbed just at the sight of him.

He wasn’t going down without a fight. That much was obvious by his choice of clothing. When we had spent that week together and even in the pictures I’d seen of Joel, he always looked super casual, very comfortable—oftentimes wearing board shorts and a tank top. He looked like a California surfer boy, except buffer. But now, the man who sat in front of me was anything but surfer boy. This was CEO extraordinaire. This was Edward Trevaunt’s son. He looked every bit the multi-millionaire he was.

I busied my mouth, sucking back water like a warthog at a watering hole, all while drinking in the sight of the man in front of me. Joel wore a light blue and green striped shirt with the sleeves rolled up, displaying those forearms that were almost as big as my calves. A quick glance at his watch told me he was wearing the price of my Honda on his wrist. And then I remembered his tan pants and the way they hugged his thighs and the quick glimpse of his ass I’d captured before he led me to our seat. How am I supposed to make it through this meal? Especially knowing what is under all of these clothes? I had watched that video at least ten times from the time I opened my mail that day to the weekend; I thought my computer would explode if I pressed play one more time.

“Blaire?”

“Yes? Yes. I’m sorry, did you say something?” I shook my head, trying to shake off the litany of thoughts starting to run rampant—most of them involving some variation of the video. I felt my cheeks flame and my ears grow hot with embarrassment.

“You were staring.”

“I apologize. I didn’t mean to.”

“I don’t mind, but did you want to look at the menu before the waiter comes back around?”

“Sure.”

Joel mentioned me staring at him, but that didn’t stop him from doing the same as I opened the menu to reaffirm what I wanted. Ernesto’s was my go-to spot if I wanted Mexican food, so I was definitely familiar with the menu, but being around Joel made me flustered, and I needed something to do with my jittery hands.

“Are you ready to order?”

I put the menu back on the table and there stood a short man with charcoal colored hair and brown skin tanned red—a product of the Vegas sun—looking down at me, waiting for an answer. With a reassuring look from Joel, I answered yes and we both proceeded to give our orders: enchiladas for me and steak fajitas for him. The man gave an enthusiastic nod to each of our orders, and moments after he left, another woman came by to set down chips and salsa in the center of the table.

I didn’t wait for Joel to speak before I took a couple chips from the bowl. I didn’t know what made me so nervous, aside from the obvious, but I didn’t want to be the one to start. Maybe whatever he had to say would be quick and we’d sit in silence for the remainder of the lunch. Maybe after a few minutes of talking we’d realize that this was pointless and we both would be eager to leave without making it past chips and salsa.

The truth was, this was more like a date than I wanted it to be. At least to my nerves it was. I was obsessing about what to say, who would speak first, what I wore to work that day—all of the symptoms of a date were there, despite how much I tried convincing my mind that this would be the last time I would see him, especially in a non-work related context.

“Thank you for having lunch with me. I know it wasn’t easy for you to come—”

“Yeah, you sure haven’t made it easy.”

“You didn’t like the flowers? Or the singing telegram? OK, how about the video?” His smile spread like poison and just as mischievous. After spending the last ten minutes trying to shake my head of that video, there he was bringing it up again. Not only that, but he was wearing the smile that I imagined while watching the video. Though I couldn’t see his face, I felt those eyes on me, undressing me with a look. It was a look I’d seen before. It spoke of sinister desire and a fiery passion I’d become far too familiar with. Those eyes were deceptive, though—deep pools of green that pulled me in, intrigued me with their mystery, and captured me like a fly caught in a web. There was no escaping Joel, not when he looked at me like that.

“Was that from you?” I said trying to gain some ground, anything to cut the hold Joel had over me. He knew I watched that video, knew that I knew it was him, and worse, knew that I watched it until the very last minute when the screen went black while my heart was still racing from the orgasm that swept through my body like a tornado. The video still didn’t have anything on Joel. Nothing did.

“Cute. So tell me, how many times did you watch it? It couldn’t have been only once. I watched the video after I made it; there’s no way it was only once.”


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