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I woke the next morning up to a text message from Declan:
Meet me in the hotel bar tonight. 7 p.m.
Oh God. What had I done? I rubbed my eyes and read it again. It still said the same thing, still clearly communicated that Declan would meet me tonight. To begin our agreement, one week of unrestrained, wild and kinky do-everything-he-asked-of-me sex.
I lay back in the soft, comfortable bed in my soft, comfortable cashmere PJs and whimpered. I couldn’t do this. Why had I sent him that text last night? What, had I thought I was in a movie? Auditioning for the part of sub in Fifty Shades? This wasn’t a game and I wasn’t that kind of woman.
I threw the covers off, cold panic gripping my gut. This was a mistake, a horrible mistake. What had I been thinking? The man had no heart, he’d showed that quite clearly six years ago. And now I’d agreed to give him free reign? A week to do whatever he wanted to me? It had to be the stupidest thing I’d ever even considered.
I looked at my phone. I could text him and tell him I’d changed my mind. Sure I’d said yes last night, but I’d been drunk on pheromones or endorphins or whatever he’d done to my brain chemistry with that orgasm. Now in the cold light of morning, I knew I had to say no.
How had I even fallen asleep last night? And yet, I had, right after I’d sent The Text of Sin. I’d enjoyed a sound and surprisingly deep sleep.
But I was awake now. I needed to talk with him, explain this wasn’t going to work, not the way he’d described it. But I should do it, face-to-face, in person. Turning tail and running now was tempting, but childish. I’d see him, have an adult conversation—and not Adult adult—rational, practical, realistic. I’d explain that my answer was no. Then I’d make the long drive home, empty-handed but with a clear conscience and the knowledge that I’d dodged one hell of a crazy bullet.
OK, decision made, now I just had to wait an entire day to see him. It was barely nine in the morning. Ten hours before seven o’clock. Ten hours in a hotel room to go out of my freaking mind.
9:20 a.m. I got up and showered since it was something to do.
9:35 a.m. I pulled on the jeans, t-shirt and boots from yesterday, rumpled and crumpled from my old bag where they’d been stuffed in a ball. In the mirror, I looked like I’d slept in a trash bin.
9:40 a.m. I pulled off my clothes and ironed them. Then I put them on again.
I was going to go nuts in that hotel room. Pacing around like a tiger in a cage, I knew no TV show would hold my attention. I was going to have to go out, head to a museum or something, whatever people did with this crazy thing called leisure time.
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I made it until 2:30. I was really proud of myself.
“What can I get you?” The bartender wore a clingy black short-sleeve button down, tattoos snaking up and down his arms. He wiped down the bar as he spoke.
“Diet coke, thanks.”
He nodded and filled me a fountain soda. Not exactly a money-making order, but he didn’t have a bunch of patrons at this time of day, anyway. In the bar in the hotel Declan owned. Where I’d be meeting him in 4 ½ hours.
I guessed I lacked creativity. I’d marched around a whole bunch of city blocks, scared a few pigeons in a couple of public parks. I’d even paid six bucks to go into an art museum.
Standing in front of a nude portrait, all I could think about was last night. Declan had flipped a switch inside of me. I looked at something tasteful and classy—at least I guessed it was, it was hanging in an art museum and all—and I thought about sex. How eagerly I’d let Declan strip me down. How much I wanted him to do it to me again.
“How’s your day going so far?” The bartender flashed me a smile. He had dimples. I wondered if he hated them, they seemed much more school-boy than the cool look he was clearly striving for.
“Great, thanks. You?” You could take the waitress out of the diner, but she’d still serve you up a smile.
“So far, so good.” He gave me a wink, then headed down the bar to answer the phone.
How was I going to make it another 4 ½ hours? I was already halfway through my soda. The pigeons of Billings couldn’t take much more of my milling around.
“Aw, shit.” The bartender’s not-so-muffled swear caught my attention. He held the phone to his chest and called over a middle-aged guy who also wore a black button-down shirt, only his strained over his burgeoning belly. The conversation lasted all of 60 seconds. Tense, angry, he slammed the phone down onto the bar.
“She’s calling in sick again?” the bartender asked. The other guy I guessed was the manager nodded, grim.
“Don’t tell me.” A woman around my age dressed in a black t-shirt and skirt came over to the bar, a round tray clasped against one hip, a fist on the other. The manager kept shaking his head, not meeting her eyes. “She didn’t!”
“She did,” he
confirmed.
“I’m going to kill her. Sheila’s out of town. Jess has a show tonight. We’re screwed!”
“Everything OK?” The question popped out of my mouth before I even knew I was asking it. I was the only person at the bar with them. It seemed the polite thing to do.
“Fine, thanks,” the manager answered, not looking fine at all.
“Just a waitress calling in sick.” The bartender flashed me that dimpled smile.
“Again,” the waitress added with disgust. “You want to wait tables tonight?” she grumbled, looking at me.
“I am a waitress,” I admitted.
“You are?” her eyes lit up. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, well, but at a diner.”
“But could you help out tonight?” she asked, eager. “I’d only give you a couple of tables, four, five tops. It would help so much.”
“No, I don’t think…?” I looked up at the manager. Wait tables? At Declan’s bar? That didn’t make any sense.
But he nodded. “We could use some help tonight. You’ve waitressed before?”
“The last four years,” I replied automatically, even though I couldn’t really be considering doing this, could I? I was supposed to meet Declan at seven o’clock. To have a difficult, awkward conversation and break out of our agreement. Suddenly, waiting tables sounded like a fabulous alternative.
“I have an extra uniform,” the waitress continued. “All you’re doing is drink orders. I will totally help you.” She clutched my hands. “Please?”
“I haven’t filled out any paperwork or anything,” I worried. But I could use some extra cash. Especially now that I wasn’t going to accept Declan’s offer.
“We’ll figure that out.” The manager shrugged, not too concerned. “Trish will get you all set up.” Trish, the waitress, plus the manager and the bartender all looked at me expectantly.
“OK.” I stood up, bemused but ready for duty.