CHAPTER TWELVE
Harper
MEN THINK ABOUT sex a lot. Researchers have spent thousands of man-hours studying the issue, and it’s a hard one, all puns intended. And so while it might be a stereotype that men think about sex 24/7, they definitely do it often.
And so do women.
Especially this woman.
Turns out I’m an overachiever in the thinking-about-sex department, particularly when it comes to Vik. Professionalism flies out the window, and when I work on his dad’s portfolio, I daydream about having sex with him. Vik that is—not his dad. Freud would have a field day with that one. My week goes something like this: research investments for Mr. Ilin Senior, contemplate sweeping Vik away to Bora Bora, Paris or the top-floor penthouse at the Bellagio, and telling him he has no choice but to indulge in all my dirty fantasies because I’ve just earned his dad a million bucks. Drag my head back to the numbers on the computer screen in front of me. Rinse and repeat.
Don’t judge. It’s no more twisted (or likely) than all those billionaires-buying-virgins schemes that top the bestseller lists.
In reality, I put together a kick-ass portfolio for his dad, and then I do the same thing for ten other new clients. Yes, I’ve been a busy girl. So busy that on Friday, one of the senior partners stops by to congratulate me and let me know that they’ve got their eyes on me. I can practically smell the promotion.
Better yet, I outperform all my colleagues, which means that I win the Friday prize, a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. Senior management sees the prize-giving as a chance to foster a little friendly competition between us junior firm members, while doling out cheap pats on the back for another successful sixty-hour work week. The champagne’s a fun bonus, but it’s not the real prize and everyone knows it. There are five of us junior planners, and we’re cheerfully cutthroat about the business of getting ahead. No one’s going to kneecap me in a parking structure or poach my idea, but everyone wants to be The One, the junior employee who gets the golden invitation to join the big boys and girl at the next level. In this spirit, my coworkers hand me a package of straws to go with my new bottle of fizz, so that I can better suck up. I laugh so hard I almost pee myself.
I may not have scored me a badass biker, but my Friday drunky is now a sure thing. I grab my bottle and my things and head home. Home. My new condo still feels unfamiliar and sterile, like I’m camped out in a super-chic office or Airbnb. Instead of tackling the sadly small mountain of moving boxes (honestly it’s more hill than mountain), I fill up my kitchen sink with ice cubes and submerge my champagne. I’m light on glasses thanks to the Douche’s self-serving division of our household goods, so after I change into my pajamas, I end up drinking out of a juice glass decorated with red cherries. I’m not entirely certain that’s a regulation-size pour, but down the hatch it goes. In the spirit of adulting, I drop a few raspberries in there, thus covering one if not two of the major food groups.
The three glasses of champagne I down in the next hour undoubtedly explain how my thumbs end up searching for Vik’s contact info in my phone. I plan out my approach while I finish glass number four. The beauty of drinking and planning is that every idea seems like genius. Instead of a carefully weighted list of pros and cons, my thoughts gravitate more toward why the fuck not?
Remember how I said that women think about doing it, too? I’m all about sexual equality. In fact, the number of times I’ve fantasized about Vik this week puts me firmly in overachiever territory. Banging, knocking uglies, shaboinking... I’ve thought about it and then mentally mapped out the steps it would take to bring those activities to fruition.
Okay, fine. Maybe I do spend too much time making lists and outlining steps, but if I ever get my hands on Vik Ilin, I’ll be making both of us happy. My phone buzzes in my hand.
Huh.
Some hussy has propositioned my biker while I’ve been thinking deep thoughts. I have no idea how this happened, but she’s quite blunt and straightforward.
ME: U busy? If not, come have sex with me. Plz.
She has lovely manners.
She’s also pretty shameless for someone drunk-texting at 11:50 p.m.
Under ordinary, less inebriated circumstances, I’d give that girl a standing ovation. Self-control’s not her strong point, but she’s identified a want and gone for it.
Fuck me.
What was I thinking? I’ve just texted Vik and tried to set up a booty call. You know how some corporate email programs have that nifty feature where you can recall an email after you send it because instead of attaching the business proposal your boss requested, you forwarded last night’s home porn movie? I totally need that now for my texts. Sure, I pretended to be adding spontaneity to my life. But now that the universe is all wish granted?
I need a do-over.
A delete key.
An enormous freaking Magic Eraser to blot the last two minutes out of my life and Vik’s memory.
11:53.
11:54.
It’s like watching the countdown clock on a detonator that’s wired up to a ton of TNT. Any second now, Vik will glance down at his phone and see I’ve propositioned him. Courage seems like a great idea, the ultimate personal high, an absolute must-do on my personal bucket list. Now that I’ve taken the plunge, however, I realize that the problem with personal highs is the plunge. I’m free-falling off a fucking emotional mountain and the ground’s coming up fast.
11:56.
11:57.
I’m not good at waiting. Timetables are my friend. Perhaps Vik is asleep. Or his phone is dead. Or he’s busy banging some other chick. No, scratch that. Perhaps he dropped his phone in the toilet and it’s permanently ruined and he’ll never, ever see my text message.
Asking him to come over.
For sex.
I pour another glass of champagne (number five for those of you keeping track at home). Of course, he could simply be uninterested. We’ve had sex, but maybe he’s the kind of man who doesn’t vacation at the same property twice, no matter how fabulous the first experience. Just because I’m up for round two doesn’t mean that he is.
12:07.
Sometimes you need to change your plans.
I fire up my laptop and get ready to go with Plan B: retail therapy. I swing by Amazon, from whence all good things come, and fill up my cart with a brand-new, designer wardrobe for a fantasy trip to the Maldives that will stifle the lingering humiliation caused by Vik’s silence. Tomorrow, I’ll empty the cart and replace its contents with the far more practical cat food and toilet paper deliveries that I actually need, but for tonight...I totally need a three-hundred-dollar silk sundress for my hypothetical three-thousand-dollar-a-night bungalow. For that kind of price, Amazon had better be including Chris Hemsworth or Pierce Brosnan in the box.