Chapter Seven
Griffin
Even as I carry Purple Girl out of the mansion, I have no clue what’s prompted me to do so. She said she wasn’t hurt that much. Her ankle didn’t seem too badly injured, either. Slightly swollen, but nothing a little rest and icing won’t cure.
I should call her an Uber to take her to the Aylster.
Yet here I am, carrying her like she’s Cinderella.
It’s exactly the kind of dramatic scene Mom would love to star in. And the kind I’d give up a kidney to avoid.
But with this woman, my distaste for theatrics never got a chance to rear its head. All I’m really registering is shock that she isn’t acting like we’re in the middle of an apocalypse because her dress is torn and her ankle is a little achy.
Mom certainly would’ve done that.
You had your chance to put Purple Girl down.
That’s true enough. When she yelped, I could’ve just said, “Sorry,” and put her down.
Except I didn’t want to let her go. She felt too soft and sweet against me. Like cotton candy to a child.
Plus, I’m also staying at the Aylster, and it really isn’t that far. I’d love to hold her the entire time.
It’s been too long since you got laid.
So what?
But there’s an image in my head of her bare breast—pert and rounded, tipped with a tight pink nipple. It begged to be pulled into my mouth and sucked until she plunged her fingers into my hair and whimpered with bliss.
I can feel myself stiffening, and it’s not with resolve. Stop, I order my dick. I’m not embarrassing myself by walking around with an erection, especially when it could easily poke her as I carry her.
What if she knew who you were and set up a scene with the thuggish moron? It isn’t completely out of the question. It’s happened before, remember?
True. Not to me, but to my brother Grant.
But how would she know who I am—that I’m Ted Lasker’s son? I’ve done an excellent job of hiding that fact, and it requires a lot of legwork and effort to dig up the connection. On top of that, even if she figured it out, stalking me from LAX is too much work. Given the spontaneous nature of this trip, she would’ve had to be watching me for a while. It’d make more sense for her to stage something like this in California.
You know how far some will go for fame and fortune.
My analytical mind says it’s foolish to pursue them to this degree. You might as well spend all your savings buying lottery tickets and hoping for the best. You’ll at least get the fortune, if you’re lucky.
However, just because something isn’t logical, it doesn’t mean people don’t do it. There’s even a new discipline within the department called behavioral economics, which studies the many ways people behave irrationally, contrary to their best interests.
Perhaps I should play dumb about the introduction to my dad she probably wants and see what she does. It’s a startling thing to consider. When I suspect women are after me to get to my dad, I drop them faster than they can swat cockroaches falling into their hair.
For some bizarre reason, I don’t want to dump Purple Girl. She’s resting her head on my shoulder and smells divine. Like an apple orchard, but better. My violaceous vixen.
My dick perks up again.
No, you’re going to stay down. Think of something else. Like Dad wanting a baby.
The horrific thought settles my hormones. Still, my blood simmers. Purple Girl is so beguilingly soft—the smooth warmth of her bare skin when I examined her ankle still lingers on my hands. I spent a bit more time examining the injury than was strictly necessary. But she caught my attention like a flame in the darkness as I waded through the crowd to leave. She probably isn’t the I’m-into-you-so-you-can-introduce-me-to-your-daddy type, I decide. Doesn’t have that desperate edge to her. What she does have is the confidence and assurance of a woman who is already working toward her goal. It’s evident in the straight-backed, self-possessed way she holds herself. She wasn’t hunting for someone to take her where she wants to go.
I carry her to the hotel, our masks on. Nobody looks at us funny, but that’s New Orleans for you.
I walk at my regular pace—actually a little slower—to prolong our time together. Her fingers flex and unflex against the back of my neck. A sharp prickling sensation spreads over me.
“If you want, I can probably walk now,” she offers after a couple of blocks.