After an unusually high volume of late-night check-ins and noise complaints and other assorted first-world fiascos, Danica and I have finally reached The Dead Zone.

“So, did Mr. Rock Star hit on you when you brought him food last night?” I ask.

“Nope,” Danica replies. “He didn’t hit on me at all. And not only that, at the beginning of the shift he called down asking for you.”

I smile broadly. Is it wrong everything Danica just said thrilled me? “What’d you tell him when he asked for me?”

“I told him you were off for the night but that you were scheduled to work tonight.”

“And then what happened?” I ask.

“He asked for food to be sent up. I tried to flirt with him during the call, but he’d already hung up. And when I went to his room with his food, he barely looked at me. God, I was so bummed. I mean, I knew—” She abruptly smashes her lips together. A man and woman dressed in eveningwear cross the lobby, arm in arm, looking like they’re ready to go upstairs and maul each other.

“You knew…?” I prompt after the couple has disappeared into an elevator.

“I knew he didn’t come onto you,” she whispers. “But I just figured that’s because you’re you. I mean, no offense, but you look like you’re going to sell him Thin Mints.”

“No offense taken. I love Thin Mints.”

“I never thought for a minute he wouldn’t hit on me,” Danica says, pouting. “I mean, look at me!” She motions to her slammin’ body. “Nobody’s thinking about Thin Mints when they look at this.” She sighs. “It just makes no sense. I know his reputation. It’s well known he screws a different woman after every concert. And yet, when I got up there with his food he barely looked up from his guitar.”

“Oh, well, I’m sure it’s nothing personal. The other night, he mentioned he had to write a ‘stupid fucking song for his label.’ I’m sure he’s just stressed out.”

Danica pouts. “Well, if he’s stressed out, I’ve got his stress-relief right here, baby.” She smacks her own ass. “Maybe the next time I bring him food, I’ll—” She abruptly stops talking again, this time because a woman in pajamas and bedhead is approaching the front desk.

“Yes, ma’am?” I ask politely. Oh jeez, the poor thing looks like a shit sandwich.

“Could I get some ibuprofen, please?” the woman chokes out, a pained expression on her face. “I’ve got a terrible headache and I forgot to pack my migraine medication.”

I quickly take care of the woman, and the minute she’s dragged her poor ass back onto an elevator, Danica continues talking again.

“Next time I go up there with food,” she whispers, “what if I say, ‘Hello, Mr. Ford, I’m Danica and I’m here to serve you in any way you’d like.’” She imbues those last words with unmistakable innuendo. “What do I have to lose?”

“Your job?” I reply. “Your self-respect?”

Danica makes a face that tells me she doesn’t value either of those things more than the chance to have sex with Lucas Ford, but before she can say anything about that, the light on the phone panel flickers, signaling we’ve got an in-house call…from none other than the guest in Penthouse A.

“Speak of the devil,” I say. “Now’s your chance to tell Mr. Ford you’re here to ‘serve’ him.”

Danica motions for me to pick up the line. “He’s just going to ask for you again.”

“No, he won’t. He only asked for me the other night because I left my blazer in his room.”

Danica’s face lights up. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Ha!” She greedily picks up the phone. “Good evening, Mr. Ford. No, this is Danica. The brunette who brought you food last night?” Her smile falls. “Yes, Abby’s standing right here. But if this is about her blazer, I’d be happy to…” Danica’s face morphs into a full-blown scowl. “Yes, of course.” She holds the phone out to me, her eyes hard. “He wants to speak to you.”

I don’t look up from the computer. “No, thank you.”

“Huh?”

“I’ve got reports to write and I don’t want to talk to him.”

“Abby.”

“Tell him I said, ‘No, thank you.’ Or, hell, tell him I said, ‘Go fuck yourself, asshole.’”

Danica’s jaw drops. She stares at me for a while before putting the phone to her ear. “I’m sorry, Mr. Ford. Abby’s occupied with something. Can I take a message and have her call you back?” She listens. “Yes, sir, she’s standing right here, but she’s… Okay.” She puts the phone to her chest. “He says he has your blazer and now would be an excellent time for you to come get it.”

“Please tell Mr. Ford I said, ‘Thank you for your offer, sir, but I’d rather send housekeeping to retrieve my blazer than come up personally.’”

Danica looks positively floored. “Abby Medford, what’s wrong with you?” She stares at me for a long moment, the phone pressed against her chest.

“If you love me at all, tell that man what I said, word for word,” I say evenly. “I promise you won’t get in trouble.”

Danica stares at me again, obviously considering what to do. I say nothing more, and my darling friend puts the phone to her ear and repeats everything I said, word for word, God bless her. When she’s finished talking, she listens for a long beat and then says, “Sure thing, sir. One moment.” She looks at me, obviously flabbergasted. “Mr. Ford said, ‘Fuck the blazer. Tell that stubborn woman to get her ass up to my suite right fucking now. And tell her that’s an order from a VIP guest of your fucking hotel.’ And then he slammed the phone down.”

Oh, jeez. My clit is vibrating. My nipples are hard. The devil sitting on my left shoulder has not only knocked off the angel sitting on my right, she’s now stroking her tiny devilish clit with firm, confident strokes. “Call him back and tell him, ‘Abby says she has more important things to do than go to the hotel room of an egotistical rock star who doesn’t know how to treat women like human beings.’ And also tell him, ‘She says she couldn’t care less if you’re a VIP guest. You can go fuck yourself, regardless.’”

Danica gasps. “Abby, you’re going too far. I can’t say any of that to Lucas Ford or any other guest, especially a VIP like him. Have you lost your mind?”

“Call him and tell him what I said, Dani. Word for word.”

“What’s going on? You said nothing happened when you went up to his room.”

“Nothing did.”

“Well, then, what’s your deal? Was your ego bruised that your teenage crush didn’t hit on you? Is that it?” She looks at me sympathetically. “Abby, come on. He’s Lucas Ford. He dates boobalicious models and actresses and makes sex tapes with them. You’re really pretty, honey, don’t get me wrong, but in an Emma-Stone’s-kid-sister-who-sells-insurance-and-Girl-Scout-cookies sort of way. Some guys love that kind of fresh-faced girl, but that’s obviously not his thing.” She grins. “I must say, though, I’m impressed you gave it the ol’ college try by leaving your blazer in his room. I didn’t know you had it in you to pull a stunt like that.”

“I didn’t leave my blazer in his room on purpose,” I say. “And I’m well aware I’m not that bastard’s physical type, trust me.”

“Then what happened to get you so riled up?”

“He was just incredibly rude to me, that’s all. Even if he’s not attracted to me, he didn’t have to treat me like shit. Now please, call him and tell him I don’t want to talk to him. Do this for me, honey. Please. Do it for womankind. I promise you won’t get into trouble.”

Danica rolls her eyes like she’s dealing with an insane lunatic, but she nonetheless grants my request. She picks up the phone and punches the number for Penthouse A. “Hello, Mr. Ford,” she says, smiling into the phone. “Nope, sorry. Danica again. Abby asked me to tell you she’d prefer not to speak to you and that she’s not coming up to your room because you treated her like a piece of shit and that’s simply not acceptable.” She winks at me, and then listens to whatever he’s saying. Her eyes go wide with obvious shock. “Okay, hang on.” She puts the call on hold. “Lucas Ford said to tell you, ‘I’m sorry, Abby. Please forgive me. I was an asshole and I deserved everything you said, and more, and I’ll never do it again. Now will you please get your stubborn ass up to my room so I can show you that I am, in fact, capable of treating you like a human being?’” Danica puts her hands on her hips. “What the fuck is going on, Abby?”

I ignore Danica’s question, and instead lean forward and whisper, “Tell that bastard if he’s truly sorry he can get his VIP rock star ass down here and apologize to my face like a gentleman, or else he can go to motherfucking hell.”

Danica gasps in shock. “Abby.”

I continue. “And if you don’t say all that to him, word for word, I swear I’ll never forgive you as long as I live.”

Danica looks like she’s going to have a stroke. Of course, she knows my threat is absolutely ridiculous. I love her to pieces and she knows it and nothing will ever change that, but she’s never witnessed even a distant glimmer of this side of my personality before, and clearly she didn’t even suspect it existed. “Who are you?” she whispers as she picks up the phone, but she’s smiling devilishly from ear to ear as she says it. “Hi, Mr. Ford,” she says primly into the telephone. “Nope. Danica again. Yes, sir, I told Abby your message exactly as you conveyed it to me, but she’s still refusing to come up to your room. Actually, she has a message for you which I’m now going to deliver to you word for word, so please don’t shoot the messenger, okay?” She clears her throat. “Abby told me to tell you, ‘If you’re truly sorry, you can get your VIP rock star ass down here and apologize to my face like a gentleman, or else you can go to motherfucking hell.’”

My heart is beating wildly. I just went all-in and I know it. If Lucas doesn’t take the bait, I’ll have no more chips to play and this delicious game will be over.

Time stops as Danica listens to whatever Lucas is saying.

I can’t stand it. My heart is hammering like a steel drum with anticipation.

Finally, Danica says brightly, “I’ll tell her, Mr. Ford. Thank you.” She gently places the phone receiver in its cradle and grins at me. “Mr. Ford said, ‘Goddamnit!’” She giggles. “And then he said, ‘Fine. Tell that ass-kicker I’ll be right down.’”