Looks Like I’m Gonna Need That Uber, After All

 

Who cares if he’s scorching hot? He’s an epic jerk…and a panty-stealer.

“Yeah, what a freak,” I mutter as I scamper from the jerky baseball player’s room, the pumps that nearly tripped me dangling from my hand.

Forget about his washboard abs. He probably paints them on.

I bend in the hallway to slip on the heels. “For sure, that’s what that callous, arrogant ass does.”

Forget about his chiseled good looks. They’ll fade with age.

Faltering, I murmur, “Yeah, but aging for him is a long way off.”

Hey, pay attention here. You’re wavering.

“Good point. You’re right.”

Let’s not forget he messed up your awesome descriptive simile from last night. His eyes aren’t even sunflower-brown. They’re more of a whiskey shade.

“Another good point!”

Wait a minute. Enough is enough. I’m supposed to erase him from my mind. Plus, I need to pee. My bladder’s screaming that we better find a bathroom or the floodgates will burst.

Stumbling down the stairs, I luckily come upon a powder room. I do what I need to do, and then I’m on my way, out of this stupid lakeside house for good.

Digging my phone from my purse, I sigh. “God, I pray I never step foot anywhere near this place again.”

My head is pounding, and I’m furious with the arrogant ballplayer. I’m never watching baseball again. Not that I ever do. But this assures I’ll never start.

I glance around. I’m out in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere.

Tapping at my phone, and praying for reception, I muse, “Looks like I’m gonna need that Uber, after all.”

A ride can’t get here soon enough.

I shake my head, boggled by my own stupidity as I order the Uber. I can’t believe I thought that pompous ass was one of the most gorgeous guys I’d ever laid eyes on.

You were drunk last night, remember?

Yeah, nice try, but that doesn’t work. Jerk-o still looked damn good this morning. I may hate him, but I can’t deny he has an epic level of hotness going for him.

That’s all he has, though.

“Except for maybe that big dick,” I murmur.

No maybes about that one, chica!

Yeah, that was no magic trick under the covers. No rabbit in a hat illusion. Maybe it was a carrot. A really long, thick—

That wasn’t a vegetable under there, sweetie. That was some pure man meat.

“Mmm…” Happy that I’m not a vegetarian, I think about how I’d like to take a big bite, and maybe a lick or two for good measure, of his pure man m—

“Wait a minute.” I stop myself. “You’re supposed to be hating on that dick, not lusting after it.”

The dick can’t help who it’s attached to. Maybe a little lusting is okay?

“No!”

Seems even my voice of reason is a traitor when it comes to cock.

I hit the phone against my head to punish myself, but that just hurts like hell. “Ow.” I rub my temple and check my phone.

Seven minutes till my escape from this latest embarrassment.

“See, this is why you’re better off staying focused on work.”

Yeah, work. Speaking of which, I have obligations today. Luckily, it appears I’m still on schedule for my flight. I just need to stop at the hotel so I can take a shower, put my contacts back in, and grab my stuff.

Oh, and I certainly plan to put on some damn underwear. Everything under my dress feels so exposed, all thanks to that pervert absconding with my panties.

Just then, as if to emphasize that point, a gust of wind blows up my dress. I smooth the material down in the nick of time, seconds before the Uber driver pulls up.

Someone almost got a peep show.

God, now I’m even thinking like the pervy baseball dude. I swear I can’t get on that plane to Las Vegas fast enough. I’m ready to put this whole crazy morning behind me.

And Mr. Panty-Stealer?

Well, he’s being erased from my mind, never to be thought of, or spoken of, ever again.

 

 

When I arrive in Vegas there’s a limo driver waiting for me. He’s in the baggage claim area, holding up a large placard with my name spelled out in letters so big even my tired and hungover self can’t miss it.

It’s stuffy and warm inside the terminal, making me more than ready to turn my bags over to the driver. He takes them off my hands, and I proceed to follow him out to a far worse inferno.

As he begins to load my luggage into the trunk of the waiting limo, I remark, “Wow, it must be like a hundred and ten degrees out here.”

I fan myself with my hand, a sorry attempt to cool down. The black business suit I put on at the hotel seemed comfy and fine back in Minneapolis, but here in hell I feel like I’m about to die from heatstroke.

“It’s not that bad today,” the driver replies as he busies himself with shifting my many bags here and there, making sure they all fit. “Though it’s been pretty rough lately. You’re lucky. We’re on a cooldown now. Last I checked it was only ninety-seven.”

“Only ninety-seven,” I mutter. “That’s some cooldown.”

Smiling kindly, he assures me, “I’ll put the AC on high in the car. You’ll be comfortable in no time, Miss Shelburne.”

Once we’re in the limo, and the AC is indeed pumping full blast, I remove my makeup bag from my purse so I can at least attempt to freshen up after the long flight, a flight where I, thankfully, had a chance to take a much-needed nap.

All in all, I’m not in too bad of shape. Especially considering I had such a rough night…and a fucked-up morning from hell with the baseball player jerk.

Nevertheless, I’m looking forward to a stop at whichever extended-stay hotel my firm has me in for the duration of this assignment.

That reminds me to ask the driver, “Where exactly are we going?”

Peering back at me in the rearview mirror, he says, “I’ve been instructed to drive you straight to the meeting with management and the new client.”

“Wait, what? We’re not stopping at a hotel first? I was hoping to drop off my things and freshen up.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible,” the driver informs me. “And I wouldn’t count on a hotel stay, ma’am. Based on where I’m supposed to take you following the meeting, it would seem your firm and client management have decided you’re staying somewhere other than a hotel.”

“Oh, great,” I mutter, irritated at the ridiculous amount of secrecy for this assignment. “So where will you be taking me after the meeting? I’d like to know where I’ll be living for the next couple of months.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not at liberty to divulge that information just yet, Miss Shelburne. I’ve been instructed to inform you that everything you need to know will be covered at the meeting.”

I don’t press. Orders are orders.

But I am curious.

If I’m not staying in a long-term residence place, I guess I’ll be put up in an apartment. A place of my own would be nice, but it also tells me I’ll be residing in this lovely sauna known as Nevada for quite some time.

Wow, this client must really be a handful. Better prepare for the worst now.

But I can’t, seeing as I still have no idea who the new client is. And though the driver wouldn’t have that info, he can definitely let me know where exactly we’re going. If I have that info, then maybe I can guess what type of celebrity I’ll be working with—actor, musician, or professional athlete.

Reaching for a bottle of water from a cooler in the back, I casually ask, “So where is this meeting taking place?”

“At Desert Sports Complex,” the driver replies.

Hmm, sports. An athlete, it would appear. Oh joy, like I haven’t had enough of them after this morning.

“There’s no baseball team out here, is there?” I cautiously inquire, holding my breath.

Not that the jackass from this morning would play for a team in Vegas. He’s clearly a Minneapolis player since he lives there. Still, I’d hate to run into him at a game or at a professional baseball function.

I breathe a sigh of relief when the driver replies, “No, there’s no professional baseball team in Las Vegas.”

“Thank God,” I murmur. And then I ask, “What professional teams do play at the sports complex?”

“Why, the Las Vegas Wolves play there.” The driver beams like a proud fan.

Wait, I’ve think I’ve heard of that team.

“Ah,” I murmur as it dawns on me. “They’re a hockey team, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sooo, I must be assigned to a player. Too bad I don’t follow the sport more closely. If I did I might have a clue as to who their troubled players are.

The driver continues to make small talk as we drive to our destination. I don’t catch everything he says, but I do perk up when he excitedly announces, “The Wolves’ new season is starting up real soon. Every September I try to take my son to at least one of their preseason scrimmages.”

I don’t have children of my own, not yet, but I hope to some day. Still, I’m always awed by the love that’s so clear when parents speak of their kids. My driver seems to be no exception.

I pick up on the longing in his voice when he sighs and adds, “I’m hoping someday I can take my boy to a regular season game. For now, though, those tickets are way out of my price range.”

“How old is your son?” I ask softly as I make a note to give him a really great tip.

“Twelve,” he replies.

“That’s a pretty fun age.”

He nods and agrees. “Yeah, it is. He’s old enough to understand the game and how it’s played.”

I laugh and tell the driver, “I could probably use a few lessons from your son.”

“Not much of a hockey fan, huh?”

“Not really,” I admit. “I know team names and stuff, but not much beyond that.”

We fall into a comfortable silence, but then I realize this man, a fan, might have some valuable insight into who I’ll be working with.

“So,” I begin, “living out in the east, I don’t hear much about the Wolves. Are they any good?”

He shrugs. “They’re okay. Been to the playoffs a couple times, but they never seem to do much once they get there. It’s crazy too. As a fan, you expect more. With that OPS line of theirs, you’d think they’d go deep in the playoffs every year.” He sighs. “Oh well, what can you do? Just hope they turn it around this season, I guess.”

OPS line, what the hell is that? I have no clue. And I don’t care to ask. But I would like to know, “Have you ever heard any rumors of troubled players on their team?”

The driver throws a disapproving glance back at me, probably wondering why I’d ask such a thing. “No, ma’am,” he finally replies.

“Oh, okay.”

After a minute, he clears his throat and asks, “Where you from back east?”

“Oh. I’m from a small town named Butler. It’s a little north of Pittsburgh. But I live in Chicago currently.”

“Ah, so does that make you a Hawks fan? Or do you still root for the Penguins?”

“Well, like I said, I’m not a huge hockey fan. But I’ll always be a hometown girl at heart. If I were to root for a team, it’d definitely be the Pens.”

We reach our destination and our hockey talk comes to an end. But my brush with hockey is about to go much further.