Vaughn
Crawling out of bed at the crack of dawn doesn’t normally bother me, even after a late night, but this morning it flat-out sucks. Instead of turning off the alarm I set just in case my internal clock failed, I want to hit snooze, snuggle against the warm, soft woman by my side, and wake us both up little by little. I want to roll her under me, slide into the place she’s warmest and softest, and watch her eyes flutter open. I want to see the hazy blue turn crystal clear as her pupils tighten to pinpricks while dawn breaks across the sky and her orgasm breaks over me.
Surely I can spare ten or fifteen minutes out of my morning without risking my flight? I’ll see her tonight, but right now my body thinks the idea of spending the better part of a day away from Kendall sounds like the worst kind of torture.
Then again, her body might have its own definition of torture. Like getting prodded out of sleep by a relentless dick that had its way with her more than once last night. I lift my head off the pillow and look at her. Sometime during the night we curved ourselves into mirror images of each other. She sleeps on her stomach with her face turned toward me, hair tumbling over her eyes, lips slightly parted…and slightly red around the edges from my mouth, my teeth. Did I mention my relentless dick? One of her hands rests on my pillow. One knee touches my hip.
Her breathing remains deep and even. Using a fingertip, I move her hair away from her face and trace her cheekbone. No change. Not even a twitch of an eyelid. She’s out.
Her swollen lips reclaim my attention. The ripe look has my dick drilling into the mattress, but I’ll bet this isn’t the only place she’s swollen this morning.
Instead of leaving her cursing your name every time she moves, how about you let her get some sleep? I squeeze my eyes closed, bite my lip, and try not to groan out loud at the sensation of my cock dragging across the sheet as I crawl out of bed. I console myself with thoughts of us riding the cable car to Fisherman’s Wharf on Saturday night, buying her a tacky tourist sweatshirt and a clam chowder in a bread bowl because she’s cold, then taking the path through the park to Ghirardelli Square. She’ll choose her favorite varieties of their world famous chocolate, and back at the hotel, I’ll feed them to her in between orgasms.
Kendall stretches into the empty spot and lets out a contented sound from somewhere beyond the veil of sleep.
I should take a picture of her like this and text it to her later so she understands the heroic effort I mustered up to leave her alone. But a certain part of me liked the sound of her sigh too much, so now I’ve got a shower date with my soapy fist, as well as a flight to catch. I’m one step toward the bathroom when I hear the front door open and close. I almost ignore it, except I know Matt leaves the house before the sun rises, and Dylan would use his private entrance at this hour. Who’s here?
I find last night’s jeans in a pile of Kendall’s and my clothes and tug them on before heading downstairs. My bare feet don’t make any noise, but the same can’t be said for the leather soles of the mystery visitor’s shoes. I hear the footsteps echoing on the hardwood in the direction of my office. What the hell?
I push the door open in time to see my father take a seat behind the desk and fish for something in the inside pocket of his suit jacket.
“Dad? What are you doing here?”
His head jerks up. “I wanted to speak to you before you left. In person,” he adds as he withdraws an envelope.
I don’t like the grim look on his face or the Houston-we-have-a-problem tone of his voice. “What’s up?” I sound calm, but my mind is already busy rewinding last night’s party to figure out what’s wrong. Nothing springs to mind. The evening went perfectly. “Did something happen?”
“No, thank God. But I urged you to let me make sure you invited someone appropriate as your date last night.” He tosses the envelope at me. “Kendall Hewitt is not appropriate. I get that you thought she came with some kind of neighbor stamp of approval, but she has a skeleton buried in her closet, and my investigator didn’t have to do much digging to unearth it.”
I’m stunned. Not by the so-called skeleton some investigator included in a report. I’m stunned that my father did a background check on my neighbors’ niece because she attended an event with me. The invasion of her privacy slices like a knife. Words fail me.
Dad, not so much. “Luckily Ms. Hewitt managed to fly under the radar last night. Your publicist got a few texts for details, but we’re responding with ‘a friend.’”
“I know all about Kendall’s past. She told me before I—”
“What the fuck, Vaughn? I gave you the benefit of the doubt and backed off, but Christ almighty. Are you trying to torpedo your career? How could you be so reckless with your reputation after all the time and effort we’ve invested into getting you where you are? Her drunken crash left her boyfriend in a motherfucking coma—”
“He’s not in a coma,” I say lamely. “He’s just…unresponsive.”
“Oh. Well that makes it aaaall better.” He shoves his hands into his hair and scoffs at the ceiling. “Forget everything I said. I’m sure America will fall head-over-heels for a nice Midwestern girl who evaded a felony murder conviction on a medical technicality.” He drops his hands and shakes his head. “Of course you don’t understand. You don’t have kids. I hope you never see one of yours unresponsive, but if you did you’d know you could never forgive some criminally careless party girl for leaving your child worse than dead while she merrily goes on with her life. Out of all the girls in L.A. this is the one you chose to link yourself with?”
“Nobody’s merrily gone on with anything.” I slam my hand on the desk, surprising us both. “Kendall’s struggled to find a way to move on. It’s been more than four years, and she’s still working her way back.”
My dad shakes his head. “You have some ludicrous idea there’s an expiration date on something like this. There’s not. Do you honestly think America’s going to find nobility in her struggle?”
I don’t know how to respond. If they knew her, if they heard her speak, they would. But presented like my father serves it up? No.
He leaps on my silence. “Right now we need to do damage control before there’s any real harm done. I’ve got a call in to Rebecca’s manager. I’m thinking a rendezvous in San Francisco.” He starts to pace behind my desk. “You two meet up for a romantic dinner at…fuck, I don’t know.” He pivots and paces back. “Whatever the hot place is right now. I’ll give a local reporter there the heads-up, and they’ll get it on camera.”
“Dinner with Becca in San Francisco is damage control?”
“Not dinner,” he snaps as he turns to pace back the way he came. “A bended knee proposal. That will blow everything else off people’s radar, including Kendall Hewitt. Crisis averted and a new wave of positive publicity for you to ride right into your first season with America Rocks.” He stops behind the desk—my desk—absolutely certain of his authority. “There are drawbacks, of course. I don’t know how her movie will do, but we can keep the engagement in place until the hiatus, and then reevaluate.” He’s talking to himself. I might as well not even be in the room. That I’ll go along with whatever he plans is a foregone conclusion. “We don’t want to tie you up indefinitely if it doesn’t make sense.”
“No,” I say softly. I want this hosting gig more than I’ve wanted any other professional goal I’ve set for myself. But not like this.
Apparently he interprets the single word as my agreement to his strategy, because he doesn’t even pause for breath, simply pulls his phone
from his jacket and starts tapping the screen. “I’ll reach out to Becca’s manager and get the ball rolling. Order a parting gift for the girl next door, let her down easy—”