CHAPTER ELEVEN
SAM
Bliss—There is no other word for it. The cheeky Chance Adams everyone’s familiar with is there on the surface, but now I know there exists far more below, a complex and compassionate man… and a very, very sexually active man. I think I’ve made up for the last three years in the last three days. Much more of this and I’ll probably be comatose from climaxing so much.
The girls have been firing questions at me non-stop ever since Chance dropped me off at my apartment with a deep kiss. I thought I would be able to make it inside un-accosted.
I was wrong.
So, once again, the four of them crowd around me in the kitchen.
Amy’s leading the attack. “You don’t show up for three days. We thought you’d been murdered, not wined and dined by Chance fucking Adams.”
I shrug, secretly loving teasing them a little. I tap the side of my nose. “There wasn’t much ‘wining and dining,’ if you know what I mean.”
They explode, jumping away like I’ve pulled the pin on a grenade and dropped it right there on the kitchen floor.
“Are you kidding me?!” shouts Amy, loud enough for the rest of the apartment complex to hear. “You’ve spent the last three days being banged to Kingdom Come by the most eligible bachelor in LA and you didn’t think to call, to let us in on even a sliver of it?”
I open the fridge and hunt for anything that isn’t out of date. I am starving after recent physical activity. “It didn’t cross my mind.”
Amy folds her arms, nodding to her cohort. “Oh yeah, you were real busy, weren’t you?”
I turn, still holding the fridge door with one hand. “Let’s just say Chance’s stamina on the football field is nothing compared to his stamina between the sheets.”
Boom. Another gossip grenade and they all go spinning off around the kitchen.
One of the other girls, a flimsy redhead by the name of Tina, asks timidly “Is he… like… you know… down there?”
It’s almost too perfect. I reach into the fridge and take out a cucumber, holding it in the air like the Olympic torch. “Yeah, that’s about right.”
Another round of exclamations.
I jump at the sound of a cork popping. Amy’s holding a bottle of champagne that seems to have materialized out of thin air. “Well, I’d say congratulations, but I’m too fucking jealous. Still, this deserves a celebration. What do you say, girls?”
From what I’ve come to learn, anything that happens in this apartment complex is worthy of a celebration. Hell, someone finding a pair of shoes they like is drink-worthy whenever Amy is around.
I place the cucumber on the counter. No, he’s bigger than that. “Sure. Let’s party.”
Tina’s passing out glasses I couldn’t even find.
Amy pours out the champagne and holds hers high. “A pussy party for Sam.”
“A pussy party for Sam,” comes the chant, and all I can do is smile and drink, Vegas slipping further and further from my mind.
*
“Sam?”
I open groggy eyes to find Chance sitting on my bed staring down at me. “Is this a dream?” It would appear there is a frog in my throat.
I sit up a little but holy hell is that a bad idea, my head slumps back to the pillow full of rocks. “Man, I really overdid it last night, didn’t I?”
Chance brushes hair out of my face. “Judging by the redhead passed out on the kitchen floor and the collection of bottles on the bench, not to mention the fact you’re wearing a pair of panties on your head, I would say, yes, you may have overdone it just a smidge.”
I turn my head sideways, everything spinning. “Kill me.”
“Say, what were you celebrating?”
“You don’t want to know,” I mumble into the pillow.
“Girl’s night, huh?”
I can’t say I remember anything after the first three glasses. Damn Amy. “Something like that.”
He pulls the sheet down, a hand sliding between my legs. Yep, that still works. “You know what the best cure for a hangover is?”
“Rest and electrolytes?”
He uses the butt of his palm to rub my clit through my panties—the pair not on my head. I find my legs spreading wider, my hips lifting to meet him.
“We can’t,” I pant. “What about Tina?”
“The redhead?”
“She’ll hear us.”
Chance applies a little more pressure, an electric shock running from my clit all the way up my spine, the hangover forgotten. “Your friend out there wouldn’t hear Armageddon given her state. Besides, you have a door, not that I’m inclined to close it.”
I clue in. “That’s very naughty, Mr. Adams.”
He pulls the crotch of my panties aside and presses a finger into my wetness. “Mr. Adams? I like the ring of that, but a Mr. does need a Mrs., does he not?”
The finger curls and explores inside me, fresh tingling lighting up my sex. “Are you proposing, because I’m liable to say anything at the moment.”
“How about dinner?”
“Your place or mine?” I can barely get the words out, hands clutching at the sheets, my head lolling on the pillow.
“I was thinking of going out. I have some team commitments today—charity events and so on—but tonight I’m all yours. Shall we say the usual pick-up at eight?” He works on my clit, his thumb coaxing it out from its hiding place.
My reply is punctuated with breathy gasps. “Sounds. Like. A. Plan.”
His hand leaves the hot vortex between my legs. For a moment I think he’s going to leave, but it’s simply to remove his shirt, his body slipping below the sheets next to mine.
“Now,” he says, cock hardening against my leg, “how about we wake your friend up?”
*
As far as hangover cures go, Chance was right. I’m so buzzed when he leaves I manage to clean the entire apartment, do my finances, and give Chuckles a much-needed bath—to her great displeasure. I’m not bothered by the girls again. It seems that while they have the required champagne, they don’t have the required consequential cure of a strapping man-god with penis to match.
Your man god.
It seems like such an abstract concept, but I think I have become more to Chance than sex. In fact, I think I might have been more from the start.
Maybe it’s just novelty?
I sincerely hope not. I’ve been burnt one too many times in the past, experiences that haven’t exactly inspired confidence in the opposite sex, but again, I was naïve.
I literally have to drag Tina from my apartment and dump her with Amy, who answers the door looking like she spent the night crawling through a sewer.
I clock-watch all day, preparing for the date before the sun’s even set. I fish out not only the tallest heels I have, but a lipstick-red strapless I’ve had for three years in wait for an occasion like this. I take it off the hanger. “Looks like you’re going to see some action after all.”
Talking to inanimate objects, Sam? What next? A talking candlestick?
I hold the dress against myself looking into the bathroom mirror. “Shut up, you. We’re going out and we’re going all out.”
Chance’s reaction when I open the door says it all. “Holy shit.”
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“You look hot.”
“Don’t I always?” I tease.
His eyes drink in the dress, following the S-curve of my hips. “I mean, yes, but this… How am I supposed to eat with an erection tipping over the table?”
I come up against him, hands on his chest. “I can take it off if it’s too much of a distraction.”
“I don’t think that’s going to help matters.”
I wink. “Play your cards right and that’s precisely what’s going to happen.”
Stand back, folks. Sam the sex bomb has arrived.
*
Chance cocks his head to the right. “Don’t look now, but Matt and his crew just arrived.”
I look to the table in question, then look a little harder. “Is that Matt Damon?”
Chance nods. “Sure is, plus half of the Clippers in the function room back there, two big directors by the window, the guy who wrote The Hangover by the bar… It’s a bit like a who’s who of celebrities whenever a hot restaurant like this opens up.”
Admittedly, I was worried about the paparazzi outside, but Chance managed to sneak us through the back. I imagine places that cater to A-listers have a variety of measures in place for such anonymity.
Chance places his hand over mine, sensing my nerves. “Relax. You belong here. I mean, shit, you’re the hottest girl here.”
I beg to differ, but I take the compliment with a smile. “We didn’t have to come to a place like this, you know.”
Chance laughs, squeezing my hand. “We can’t eat po’ boys and hot dogs every date, can we? Besides, I want to show you off.”
“You do?”
“Hell yes. You don’t think every guy in here got a boner the second you walked through the door? I love that.”
I’m confused. “You like thinking about other guys’ boners?”
More laughter. “No, I like the power—the power to say ‘this girl is mine, all mine.’”
“You sound like a kid getting protective over his favorite toy.”
He lets my hand go and leans back in his chair. “I do like to play.”
“So I’m learning.”
We order. True to the surrounds, the food is rather different to what I’ve come to expect. That doesn’t make it any less delicious, just… a change.
By the end of the meal I’m comfortably full—a miracle given the serving sizes.
The maître d’, clearly a big Chance fan, chats to us for a moment. I’m not sure he’s ever going to let Chance’s hand go. Even Mr. Damon waves from his table, Chance tossing him an invisible football in return, much to the amusement of Damon’s entourage.
It’s a little cooler out tonight. Chance parked his car a street or two away, but it’s so nice I’m happy to walk.
The streets are quiet, only the odd bark or siren hinting at life beyond.
Chance takes my arm. “I could take you right here, you know, press you up against a wall.”
“What’s wrong with your bed?”
He looks down at me. “You want another sleepover?”
My heart sinks until his smile tells me he’s kidding. “Sounds good to me.”
I hear something clank behind us. I turn and notice two men following us maybe twenty, thirty feet away.
They could almost be brothers. They’re wearing dark, shiny suits that blend into the drab streets, but are far from the well-cut wares of the dining crowd we’ve just come from.
A terrible foreboding twists my gut. I squeeze Chance’s arm. “Let’s go down here,” nodding at the next street to our right. He looks behind us and sees the two men, pulling me to the right as he does.
“I think they’re following us,” I say, my heart pounding. Something about them spells Vegas and criminal.
We both look back again, but they’re gone.
I’m about to breathe a sigh of relief when the two men step onto the street ahead of us. One of them, slightly taller with a buzz-cut and eyes so dark they’re almost black, is holding something by his leg. It has to be a gun.
I seize up, squeezing Chance’s arm with all I have.
He sees it too and recognizes the imminent danger.
“Run,” he whispers, and that’s it. We turn together and run for the end of the street, Chance pulling me along. I lose one of my heels and then the other not far behind it, the gravel is sharp under my bare feet as we make the corner and start up another street.
“This way,” calls Chance, pulling us into a side alley.
“Do you know where you’re going?”
Chance brings us to a stop, holding a finger to his lips. “Keep quiet.”
There’s a sound at the end of the alley.
“Here.” Chance presses me down behind a dumpster, crouching in front of me and peering past it into the alleyway.
My heart is hammering its way out of my body. I’m struggling to breathe, to remain calm. Deep down I knew they would find me eventually, but not now. God, please, not now.
Two male voices sound out clearly, growing in volume. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but given the way Chance turns and places his finger against his lips again, they have to be close.
I pull my knees to my chest and close my eyes. I count to myself, counting away the seconds and praying we’re not found.
It’s a lifetime before Chance speaks again. “Let’s go, quietly.”
He brings me to my feet and we head out into the main street, keeping to the shadows and managing to flag down a taxi.
The relief when we’re finally moving is palpable. I take a deep breath, speaking to Chance. “What about your car?”
“All that and you’re worried about my car? I’ll have someone pick it up tomorrow. Don’t worry about it.”
I start scratching the top of my hand. “I didn’t imagine that, did I? Those men were following us.”
Chance nods, taking out his phone and showing me a photo. It’s dark, blurry, but you can make out the builds of the two men. It’s hard to tell what it is the taller one is holding, but I’m still sure it was a gun.
A gun with a bullet meant for you.
The thought fills me with a cold dread. “What do we do?”
“Where to?” the driver calls.
I realize we simply told him to ‘drive’ when we got in.
Chance holds my gaze. “The nearest police station.”