I suddenly realize that if I'm not careful, my cock is going to start tenting my pants in the middle of this meeting. Not fucking ideal.
"I was thinking we could build off of your press release pitch," Cheryl continues, oblivious to the images playing out in my mind. I nod my head in vague agreement. I'm only partially paying attention, and honestly, every time she starts talking, my mind changes tracks. Like I said, I can't fucking focus.
"We could do a montage of cavemen scribbling porn on caves walls, and then show ancient civilizations scrawling it on stone tablets and papyrus," she says. "And we can continue down that evolutionary chain until we reach the early days of VHS and the Internet—and then we can have the screen pan into a modern-day man and woman. Maybe they're sitting in a park, or sitting at home, and no one knows, but they're actually, privately watching porn. It's not obscene. It's just normal. That's the revolution. The story always has to come back to the people."
Cheryl takes a drink of water from a nearby glass and continues. "We can show how discreet this technology actually is—how it's the next evolution of porn. What do you think about that? Ethan? Ethan—hello, is there anybody home? Are you following me?" She says this and laughs, but deep down you can tell she doesn't think me drifting off is funny at all.
"What? Oh—right—yes, I'm fine. I think that sounds like a great idea," I say, snapping back to the present. What was she just fucking offering again? I'm losing track. I'm literally fucking losing my mind.
"Do you even know what I was talking about?" she asks.
"Sure, porn, porn, and more porn," I laugh.
"Are you okay?" she asks, her eyebrows knitting together in concern.
If I'm honest, I rarely see that look on her face—and I've known Cheryl forever. Seriously. I better get my shit together. I've got to get my head screwed on straight... and quick.
I don't know what the fuck has come over me. One minute I'm fine. I'm Ethan fucking Kane. The one man in this city that not a single woman can keep. And the next minute, I'm fawning over some woman. Sure, she's hot—but so are a fucking hundred other women throwing themselves at my feet. And what's more, I can't get this particular woman out of my fucking mind no matter how hard I try.
I look over at Cheryl. "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask. "I'm fine. A little tired maybe, but fine."
Do I sound convincing? I'm sure Cheryl can see right through it.
"Ethan, I've known you for a long time, and I've never seen that look on your face before."
"You're overreacting," I laugh, shrugging her off. "I'm sure you've seen many of my faces—all variations of the one you're seeing right here in this meeting. Continue with your marketing plans. I'm listening."
"Okay, well, beyond this angle, I'm thinking that the bottom line is this—our focus should be on the people, our potential customers," she says. "To build buzz, I think we can turn this product launch into a full-scale event. We should also have our pre-orders set to go live soon. Do you know the official pre-order launch date? Ethan—are you listening?"
"Yes, sorry," I reply. "What was your question again?"
"No—you're definitely different today," she says, halting the marketing talk. "Where were you yesterday?"
"I was here," I say.
"No, you weren
't. You left early… and I've never seen you leave work early."
"Oh, I—uh—I had a meeting scheduled for the evening," I say.
"With who?"
"What is this, a game of 20 questions?" I ask. "You sound like a surrogate mother."
Cheryl looks at me for a moment without saying another word. I can see her brain working overtime. I break the awkward silence.
"Look, it doesn't matter who I was with… trust me. Let's move on." I say. "What matters is that we launch Illicit Escape successfully. We have millions of dollars riding on this."
And then it's as if a circuit connects in her brain and she makes the link between what she's been searching for—like finding the correct piece in a jigsaw puzzle.
"You were with her, weren't you?" she asks. Her eyes are burning holes into me and I know exactly whom she's referring to.
"No—well, not completely," I say. "I mean I was, but it's not what you think."
Cheryl gives me a critical glare.
"Right, and you expect me to believe that?" she asks.