Wishing on a Dream Page 6

  “Kiersten, I’m surprised you could make it.”

  Brittney was at least eight inches shorter than me, and she tried to make that up by being politely nasty to me. If written on a sheet of paper, her words were benign, but I always heard a hint or more of sarcasm just below the surface. Her greeting really meant, I’m shocked that you actually left your high-powered life and made time for your family. I didn’t know if she hated me because I was a lesbian or because I wasn’t the kind of woman she chose to associate with. She was forced to be around me because she had married my brother. I could care less, and it burned her butt that I didn’t.

  “Wouldn’t have missed it,” I answered. What I really meant was, I’d never miss the chance to put that sour taste in your mouth.

  I hadn’t liked Brittney from the moment Harrison brought her home. I’m a pretty good judge of people, and I read her book more than once. She was a snob, self-centered and manipulative. I kept my opinions to myself. Who was I to talk about relationships? When they married eight years ago, I posed with family photos, said all the right things, went through all the right motions, and beat it out of town as fast as I could. I’d been to their house twice in the intervening years, both times for obligatory family gatherings.

  My sister Meredith joined us with the excuse that her husband, Dr. Steve, had an emergency and was at the hospital. He’s the lucky one, I thought, and more than once I wondered if it was a convenient excuse he used whenever he had the chance. Steven was a cardiothoracic surgeon and was gone more than he was at home. Meredith was a pediatrician. God only knew how they were able to make three very spoiled children.

  Meredith and Harrison chatted for a few minutes with Brittney, adding her two cents when my other brother Marcus joined us. Marcus, married and with three children, was clawing his way up our father’s law firm. We stood in birth order, with Meredith directly across from me, Harrison to her left, and then Marcus. My baby brother Maxwell was in his third year as a Lutheran missionary in Nigeria and by far the family favorite. My parents across the room rounded out the Fellows family.

  Meredith chatted with Brittney about tennis lessons and shopping, and I saw Marcus clench his jaw when Harrison pitched an investment to him. My dislike of one brother and my admiration of another went up a notch. A few questions were directed my way, mostly about JOLT and nothing remotely personal. I snagged a passing waiter for another cocktail and was looking for an escape route. Somehow I’d found one, and after talking to my parents for a few minutes, I made my excuses and left to mingle.

  *

  Three hours, four cocktails, and one plate of lo-cal snacks later, I said my good-byes and made my exit. My feet were killing me, my throat hurt from answering questions about JOLT, and I was slightly buzzed, the latter due to my mother’s constant hovering. I was alone in the elevator and leaned against the back wall. I closed my eyes, suddenly exhausted.

  The doors opened, and two women barely in their twenties giggled as they stepped inside. They were slim, their skinny jeans so tight I could probably see their who-ha if I dared to look. Their perfect firm asses and energy overwhelmed me. Did I ever not have a care in the world like these two? If I did, I certainly didn’t remember. When I heard Tobin’s name I paid closer attention but pretended not to.

  “I can’t believe we just had sex with Tobin Parks,” Bimbo Number One said.

  “I know. I almost peed my pants when that big guy asked us if we wanted to come backstage.” Bimbo Number Two practically swooned.

  Good God, I thought. Of all the elevators in all the hotels in this city, I get the one with Tobin’s latest sexual conquest. I couldn’t catch a break tonight.

  “He was scary, but I guess he has to be to protect her,” Bimbo One said, checking her makeup in the mirror on the back of the elevator door.

  “It’s like that Whitney Houston movie where Kevin Costner was her bodyguard.” Bimbo Two sighed.

  “I know what I’d do if I was her bodyguard.”

  “You could protect her front and I’ll protect her rear.” Bimbo Two giggled at her double entendre. She adjusted her cleavage so that it was even more exposed than when she’d stepped in.

  “I tried to get her between us, but she wasn’t interested,” Bimbo One said.

  “Who cares. She was hot, I was ready, and she got me there.”

  “She said my skin tasted good,” Bimbo One said, as if trying to one-up Bimbo Two.

  “She told me I was hot.”

  Both girls giggled. Giggled! Then Bimbo One smacked Bimbo Two on the arm.

  “Ow,” she whined. “What gives?”

  Bimbo One didn’t even try to hide her motioning toward me. They remained blissfully silent the remainder of the short ride to the thirty-eighth floor.

  Bimbo Two snickered as they exited the elevator and turned left. “She’s just jealous because Tobin will never say she tastes good.”

  I exited and turned right, knowing that an already long evening was turning into a very long night.

  I undressed, took a quick shower, and slipped on my boxers, a JOLT T-shirt, and a light robe. I usually slept naked but never in a hotel, at least not anymore. I was in Singapore several years ago when the fire alarm and sprinklers went off. It was the middle of the night, and I was jet-lagged and exhausted from meetings and negotiations. When I woke I was completely disoriented, but I was with it enough to comprehend what was happening. I grabbed my phone and briefcase and opened the door. Dozens of people were in the hallway making their way to the stairwell when a cold draft hit my body. It was then I realized I was totally naked and halfway out my door. I was able to grab it before it locked behind me, and I threw on a pair of shorts, a shirt, and shoes and dashed out of the building with hundreds of hotel guests. I still have dreams where I’m caught naked locked out of somewhere.

  I tried watching a movie and reading, but neither kept my attention. Even the briefcase full of work I’d brought didn’t keep my mind from wandering. Images of Bimbo One and Bimbo Two draped all over Tobin kept popping into my brain. I snickered. Bimbo One and Two sounded like the characters Thing One and Thing Two in a Dr. Seuss book.

  Giving up on trying to sleep, I lay on the bed in the dark. The girls in the elevator were exactly why I did not want Tobin Parks connected to my company. JOLT was second only to Monster, but if Tobin graced our media campaigns, our cutting edge would end up being a bleeding, if not hemorrhaging, edge. Yes, she was the most sought-after ticket in town. Yes, she was hot. Yes, she didn’t care who knew she was a dyke, and she didn’t care what people thought of her. But I did.

  JOLT had several sponsorships already, and those had been carefully vetted. It was critical that we have JOLT’s name out there, especially in the consumer-fickle energy-drink market. We had two very different target markets and were successful in both. First was males seventeen to twenty-five years old. They were all about image and style, what the guys looked like holding a can of JOLT. Drinking our product symbolized they were hip, cool, and had the world by the balls.

  What set JOLT apart from the other drinks on the market was that inside one sixteen-ounce can were all the daily vitamins and minerals an adult needed, disguised by a carefully crafted formula. My marketing team and I had spent countless hours debating how to, or in this case how not to, advertise that fact.

  I wanted JOLT to stand out from the others for just this reason, and the team said if we didn’t, we would be lumped in with the other hundreds of “protein drinks” on the shelf. That market was saturated, and not only would we not get shelf space, but our target market would default to weight control. I agonized over this decision for weeks.

  When I was just getting started I carried three prototype cans with me everywhere. I asked everyone I knew—friends, family, and the guy on the street—for their opinion. My neighbor’s nephew used them in his freshman marketing class at Arizona State University. According to his kid-in-college, unscientific research, ninety-seven percent of the two hundred fifty-t
wo people he surveyed on campus preferred can #2. One hundred and ninety-six of those didn’t even look at the FDA-required label on the back, and of those who did, eighty-nine percent had no clue what it meant. I finally gave in and trusted my gut.

  Am I selling out? No. I advertise in serious health-conscious magazines. Not the frou-frou women’s magazines that promise you’ll lose ten pounds in a week and drive your man crazy every night. Our message to the serious health-and-fitness market is the nutritional aspect of JOLT, the image secondary.

  JOLT sponsored women’s pro beach volleyball and several youth sports leagues in at-risk neighborhoods across the country. We bought football jerseys for a struggling school, new uniforms for an inner-school marching band, and even a bus to transport kids to after-school events. We funded a program for middle-school girls and boys to help give them a sense of respect for themselves and the opposite sex that seems to be missing in our youth today. We sponsor programs in several youth correctional facilities to help kids get back on track. Sure, we have our name on a NASCAR, two LPGA pros, and the Chicago Triathlon. We have to pay the bills. But when I started JOLT I wanted to make enough money to help better society.

  I must have fallen asleep because I woke to the phone ringing. Groggy, my eyes crusty with sleep, I reached for the room phone. It was my wake-up call. I flopped back on the bed and laid my arm across my eyes. The sun coming through a crack in the curtains sliced through the room like a samurai sword.

  I am not a morning person. I inherited that trait from my mother. I can barely get out of bed and into the shower without running into a wall or banging my elbow on the doorknob. I would never cut it as a fireman or in any job that required me to wake from a deep sleep and be able to function. If I could have an IV-drip of black coffee in my arm when I woke up I’d be the happiest woman in the world. A spanking new Keurig coffeemaker sitting on my gleaming counter in my kitchen at home is my new best friend.

  I dragged myself out of bed, cursing the fact that I’d let myself get caught up in the sideshow of Tobin Parks. For the few short hours I did sleep, I tossed and turned to images of Tobin performing—her sultry voice and more than a little provocative moves onstage telling the world exactly what sex with Tobin Parks would be like. And it would be pure and raw.

  My dreams were usually murky, with faceless people in places I couldn’t quite recognize. But last night Tobin was crystal clear and left no doubt as to exactly what she was doing and to whom.

  In one scene she had a woman pinned against a large speaker onstage. In another she pulled a willing participant into a coat closet or storage area, and in a third they were behind a sand dune on a beach. Each time Tobin was the aggressor, and by the look on the woman’s face and the way her body was responding, it was clear that Tobin knew exactly what to do and the woman liked it—a lot. What shocked me the most was that I was the woman. I never, and I mean never, have dreams about sex. Even when I thought about sex, it was never about me. Never about me doing it, me losing my mind, me grabbing the sheets as I came.

  Is this the time to say I’m a very visual person and I like porn? Not the hard-core, ball-banging, fucking kind. That’s not for me, but I have found several sites that appealed to me, and I have more than a few DVDs on my shelf that are more reflective of my tastes, so to speak. The women are smart, attractive in the real sense, not enhanced with fake boobs and scripted moans. Amateur porn is my favorite. The women aren’t paid actors and generally appear to be into what they’re doing. Okay. I admit I have more than a few DVDs in the bottom drawer of my dresser and some other tools in my nightstand. Am I kinky or perfectly normal—whatever the hell that means these days? I have no idea. It’s not a topic of conversation, even with Courtney.

  One night after three too many glasses of wine she did, however, bring it up, saying that she and her husband—how did she phrase it—added some spice in the sheets. Of course my sex-obsessed mind immediately went to what they looked like doing it. Let me clarify. I do not have any sexual attraction to Courtney or her husband, but I do wonder what sounds she makes, if she’s on top and the aggressor, and how in the world she sits at the breakfast table with her husband and kids after completely letting loose the night before.

  I either need to get a grip or get laid. This was getting borderline creepy.

  Skipping back to the here and now, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus. I was lethargic and knew I’d need more than a few cups of coffee to get me going.

  I don’t mind being a caffeine junkie. I love coffee and think I’m one of the few people on the planet that doesn’t like Starbucks. Another anomaly is that I drink it black, no sugar. No venti latte, no caramel macchiato or whatever other pretentious, fussy concoction the barista at the corner can whip up. Plain, black coffee. If I’m feeling really bold I’ll toss in some cinnamon for a little flavor.

  I started the coffee in the machine on top of the minibar and glanced at my reflection in the mirror. I didn’t even have the energy to groan. Not only did I feel like shit, but I looked like it too. It’d take some work to put myself together for brunch with my mother. I stepped in the shower, and the scalding hot water soothed me. I stood there completely still for several minutes before reaching for the shampoo. Showered, shaved, and patted dry, I stepped out of the bathroom twenty minutes later.

  I pulled my brunch-with-Mother clothes out of my suitcase. If I were at home I’d put on a pair of raggedy, comfortable shorts, a JOLT T-shirt, and some deck shoes. Brunch for me consists of a trip to Einstein’s Bagels for the morning paper and an everything bagel with cream cheese. Oh, and a large black coffee. I’d eat my breakfast, devouring the news of yesterday beginning with Dear Abby. My mother can’t understand how a college-educated, successful, professional woman would even dare to read the advice columnist. It grounds me to know that there are very stupid people in the world.

  Dressed, coiffed, and made up, I grabbed my wallet and key and headed out the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  As I headed toward the bank of elevators where I last saw Bimbo One and Two, my pace stuttered when I saw Tobin walking toward me. How did we keep running into each other? Some sort of carefully crafted plan on her part? Coincidence? Karma? What the hell?

  Tobin saw me, smiled, and her steps quickened. My heart skipped a beat or two, and my pulse picked up. I mean it was Tobin Parks, and she was incredibly hot, even at nine fifty in the morning. I was about to reach for the button to call the elevator to our floor when she stopped in front of me.

  “Hey, good morning,” she said, a little too cheery for me even after two cups of coffee and a long shower.

  “Good morning,” I managed to reply. I looked her over for any signs of Bimbo One or Two.

  “I didn’t know you were on this floor.” She must have seen skepticism in my face because she quickly added, “Honest. I had no idea. I didn’t book this hotel or the room. Jake did.”

  God, she sounded so young. I pushed the down arrow, glancing at my watch. I had ten minutes to meet my mother in the lobby restaurant, and you were never late for a meeting with Joanne Fellows, even if you were her daughter.

  “Heading down?” Tobin asked.

  “Yes. I’m meeting my mother for brunch.” I could kick myself. Why did I say that? I didn’t have to explain my comings and goings to Tobin. She took in my outfit, and I was surprisingly glad I wasn’t in my normal weekend wear. I had on a jade-green scoop-neck T-shirt tucked into a pair of black capris. My thin, black belt was buckled into the same notch it had been for the past eighteen years. Not the same belt, of course, but the same size. My toenails were polished a dark burgundy and peeked out from the end of my favorite flat sandals. My outfit was dressier than I normally wore, and I’m sure my mother would make some comment about its casualness, but this morning I didn’t care.

  “She must be very proud of you.”

  “I suppose.” Damn, where was the elevator? There were four, and none of them had yet to arrive to rescue me from mysel
f.

  “That was an unusual answer,” Tobin commented.

  “Well, my mother is an unusual woman,” I replied dryly. Where was the elevator? But then again I didn’t know why I was so eager to be in a small enclosed box alone with Tobin. I was doing such a great job of embarrassing myself standing there in the middle of the large hall, I could only imagine what I’d say trapped in the elevator. I’d probably recite my life story, starting with when I learned to ride a bike.

  “How was your show?” I found myself asking. I was polite if nothing else.

  “Good. It was a great crowd. I was back here by eleven thirty, like I said I’d be.” She practically glowed, as if I should be proud of her or something.

  Finally the bell rang and the doors opened. Tobin held out her hand, signaling me to enter first. I did and pushed the button for the lobby. “Where to?” I asked, since I was in front of the only indicator panel.

  “All the way down,” she said, referencing more than just the floor button to punch.

  I broke out in a sweat, and my hand shook when I pushed the button again needlessly. I’ll just bet she goes all the way down.

  “You don’t live here, do you?” Tobin said after the doors closed. Hopefully the ride down would be shorter than the one up last night.

  “No. I live in Chicago.” God, Kiersten, shut up! My mouth was working overtime, and my mind was still in bed.

  “How long are you in town for?”

  “I leave tomorrow.” Thank God I didn’t volunteer any more information, like my plans for the rest of the day.

  “Hey, I do too,” she said enthusiastically.

  Again, God, she was young—and refreshing. And did I mention sexy? She was wearing a pair of hip-hugging jeans, boots, and a black long-sleeve T-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her hair was arranged in its customary messiness, and I caught myself looking for any sign of a hickey or bite mark on her neck.