1
“Another?” The bartender grins at me. Her smile
widens when I groan and shove my now-empty
glass toward her across the bar top.
“Make it a double.”
“Celebrating something?” She arches a brow,
and I wish I could shrink away from her gaze. What
does she see when she looks at me? Someone to
pity? If she does, she’s too nice to say it, at least.
“Or mourning?”
“The latter,” I mumble, as she slides a brand
new double vodka soda back to me. I tip the glass
at her in salute, and she pours herself a shot too.
“To better days ahead, sis,” she says, tapping
her glass against mine.
“Amen to that.” I take a long drink, then glance
at my bag. At the manila envelope peeking out the
front pocket of it. Inside is the contract I signed
earlier tonight. The one all my friends will be telling
me “I told you so” over for years to come.
They were right. I should have listened. But I
thought it was real.
I thought it was love.
I take another drink, longer than my last, while
the bartender drifts away to nurse some more of her
ailing customers. There’s plenty of us in here. I
checked in to the largest, fanciest hotel I could find
downtown for exactly this reason. Because the only
people you find in places like this are the other
dregs of society. People like me with nowhere else
to go. No plans on a rainy Thursday evening like
this one. People in transit—here on business trips
or passing through on their way from point A to
point B.
I thought I was done with this life. The single
life, bar-hopping, the cesspool that is dating in the
modern era. All of it. I figured, when I met Kevin, I
was done with all that.
From the get-go, he seemed perfect. Well-
adjusted, a totally normal guy. Okay, so our first
and last date was at a Starbucks. And okay, after I
moved in with him a month later, we pretty much
stopped leaving our house entirely, and only saw
our friends whenever they showed up on our
doorstep to forcibly drag us out to events. But that
was normal, I thought. That’s what couples do.
When you find Mr. Right, you don’t need to bother
with fake romantic stuff or going out on expensive
dates. You just… settled into life together.
That’s why we got engaged after just four
months together. Then we eloped a few months
after that.
My friends all told me it was too soon. They
told me to be patient, give it time. It’s not like we
were planning some big church wedding, so what
did it matter if we went down to the Justice of the
Peace a year or two later, instead of right then?
But, exactly, I argued with them. We weren’t
planning some big wedding, so why not tie the knot
now? It was love—or so I told myself. We
cohabitated, we got along okay. Plus Kevin had
already pointed out to me how much money it
would save us on our taxes.
Well. How much it would save him. He was the
one with the high-paying job as the director of an
investment firm. Me, I was just the behind-the-
counter girl at the local florist shop, who enjoyed
spending her days arranging bouquets for other
people’s weddings, and other people’s Valentine’s
Days, and other people’s anniversaries.
He used to joke that all that exposure to
romance in my day job must make me immune to it
in my own life. I agreed. But now, I wonder if I
wasn’t just agreeing because I wished that were
true. Not because it actually was.
How did I not see this coming?
I swirl my vodka soda on the bar and take
another deep swallow. I mean, I knew Kevin had
his flaws. Sure. Don’t we all. I knew he wasn’t into
romance; I knew he hated any ‘unnecessary’
expenses (which included birthday or Christmas
gifts, too, apparently). I knew he liked to keep
everything in his life neatly categorized and
organized. But I figured, that was the price of
marriage. You compromise. You learn to live with
each other’s quirks.
My friends tried to warn me. I didn’t want to
listen. I just wanted to be done with the dating
game. I wanted to move on to the next step in life,
and he was… well. He was there.
Until two weeks ago. Just 6 months into our
marriage. When I stopped by his office for a
spontaneous visit (another thing he hated) to bring
him his favorite lunch (a chicken sandwich, no
toppings, and side salad, no dressing). His secretary
told me he was busy, but I ignored the guy.
“I’m just going to drop this off and then I’ll be
out of your hair,” I promised the secretary.
Stupid me. I should have recognized the look of
panic on the dude’s face. I should have put two and
two together, and realized it wasn’t business that
was detaining my brand new husband.
Instead, like an idiot, I walked into his office,
completely oblivious, only to find him half naked,
with a girl who looked barely old enough to be out
of college—probably an intern at his company too,
the sleazeball—on her knees, her lips around his
dick.
Fucker.
I threw the chicken sandwich in his face. He
just stood there, while the poor girl leapt away and
tried to collect herself. He didn’t even bother to
pull up his pants.
“Don’t be so hysterical,” he told me. “I thought
you were a logical person, Naomi. You know things
like this happen.”
In that moment, I wished I’d had more than just
a sandwich to throw at his stupid head.
I marched straight home, collected all of my
things, and stormed out of his apartment. It didn’t
take long. He had his place organized to his liking.
He barely let me bring anything when I moved in—
most of my stuff had to go into my friends’ houses
or storage.
“It ruins the feng shui of the place,” he told me
when I said I wanted to keep some of my own
furniture.
Well, fuck his feng shui. I might have
“accidentally” broken a few bottles of red wine all
over his marble backsplash and lovely new
hardwood floors on my way out of the door.
Whoops.
I thought that this week, when I finally got a
contract drawn up by my lawyer—a friend of a
friend who I called in a favor with, since I’d never
be able to afford the kind of expensive lawyer I’d
need to take on Kevin properly in court—I’d feel
some kind of catharsis. I stormed into his office one
last time and served him the divorce papers to his
face (thankfully, this time avoiding a scene with
any questionably-of-age interns being exploited by
their director).
But even slamming those papers onto his
desktop and demanding he sign them right now
didn’t feel satisfying. Because he just shrugged and
smirked at me.
“You’ll regret this rash decision when you
realize how much money my future wife is going to
have at my side.”
“Trust me,” I spat in response, “you couldn’t
pay me enough money to put up with you for one
more minute.” I glared until he finished signing, and
snatched up the paperwork before he could keep
his grubby hands on it for one more second. “Good
luck hiring whatever gold digger you buy as a
trophy wife next,” I snapped over my shoulder
while I stormed out.
It’s a crappy settlement. My lawyer even
admitted that to my face. “You’ve only been
married for 6 months, and your prenup was pretty
specific about how little you’d get in this event,” he
told me.
“I don’t care,” I said. Which was true. I really
didn’t care, not about the money. Not even though I
needed to find a new apartment now, and fast,
because I was burning through my savings, crashing
at this fancy hotel.
You owe yourself this much, I reminded myself.
Just a few weeks here to get back onto my feet. To
find a decent spot to rent again. And, of course, to
find a job to replace the one Kevin talked me into
leaving when we tied the knot.
But none of that really matters. I’m doing the
right thing. I’ve never been surer of that in my life.
What stings, though? Is how little fucks he seemed
to give. Not to mention how embarrassed I am to
face my friends again. None of them will rub it in
my face, which only makes it worse.
They tried to warn me. Why didn’t I listen?
Love makes us all act like idiots, I guess.
But could you even call this love, really?
I polished off the vodka soda, my third of the
evening, in an attempt to silence my inner demons.
Or at least to get them to stop arguing with one
another.
“One more?” The bartender flashes me that
sympathetic smile of hers, but I shake my head,
grimacing. The last thing I need to do is start
running up a tab in here every night. Besides, I’ve
had enough to take the edge off and more by this
point.
The bar sways a little as I climb off the stool
and scoop up my purse with the counter-signed
divorce papers in it, all notarized and filed as of this
morning. I’m a single woman again, I think to
myself. Except, that’s not entirely true. I’ll still
have to check the divorced box on my taxes from
now on. An eternal reminder of my idiocy. Of me
leaping into a bad situation without bothering to
check myself in any way.
I groan as I reach the lobby. My room is only a
short elevator ride away, but I don’t think I have
the energy to make it all the way up there.
Suddenly, my bladder is clamoring for urgent
attention. At least for the price I’m paying, I know
the lobby bathroom is clean and well-maintained.
It’s just one of those all-gender handicap-accessible
bathrooms, one stall, but it’s always empty around
this time of night.
Even the other dregs of humanity have better
places to be at this hour, I think to myself, more
than a little bitterly. But, as usual, it’s sparkling in
there. I take a seat on the toilet, and glance up, only
to find myself staring at a piece of completely out-
of-place graffiti.
I’ve never seen writing in here. Mr. Jenkins, the
night manager of this place, who I’ve had to
summon on more than one occasion to help with
the odd plumbing or WiFi issue in my room, would
have a fit if he saw this. I know he’s a regular task
master with the staff, religious about making them
keep this bathroom—and every bathroom in the
hotel, actually—sparkling clean, no matter the
hour.
I figure some drunk person from the bar must
have snuck in while Jenkins was away from his
desk. That, or someone put this here on a dare.
Because there the message is, sharpied onto the
otherwise spotless wall in plain black Sharpie.
For a good time, call Angel. 555-565-0240.
I smile to myself. It’s been a while since I’ve
seen any bathroom stall writing that
straightforward, that old school. Lately I feel like
all the graffiti you see in bar bathrooms is quotes to
songs I’ve never heard of, or else philosophical
arguments about whose dick is bigger, Todd’s or
John’s.
This, though… With an actual phone number?
It’s a local area code too.
That can’t be a real number, can it?
Maybe someone’s friend put it in here as a
prank. A practical joke. That, or it could be one of
the hotel staff playing a joke on Jenkins himself.
That would probably be a just reward for the way
he treats them, acting overbearing and
micromanagerial all the time. I’d thought about
applying for a front desk job here when I first
moved in—I have plenty of customer service
experience from the flower shop after all—until I
watched Jenkins cursing out his head of staff my
third night here.
Or maybe this is a legit offer, thinks another
part of me. A part that, I hate to admit, gets a little
excited at the thought.
What, like a prostitute or something?
I think they’re called escorts…
There go my inner voices, arguing with one
another again. I pull out my own cell phone, if for
no other reason than to silence them once and for
all. Before I think about what I’m doing, I’m
punching in the numbers.
Who does this? Like, who actually calls these
numbers? Me, apparently. But it’s the first thing in
a while—in longer than I care to admit—that feels
spontaneous. Exciting, almost, if only because it’ll
be a funny joke. Who knows who’s going to pick
up on the other end? Angel sounds like a girl’s
name. Could be a guy though, too, right? I think
about Buffy, a guilty pleasure of my teenage years,
and the ironically-named vampire boyfriend I
always shipped her with.
I can’t remember the last time I did something
truly ridiculous, for no other reason than because I
wanted to. With Kevin, everything we ever did was
planned and mapped out down to the tiniest detail.
We schedule our whole lives in advance. And
nowhere in the schedule did we leave any room for
fun, for freedom, for spontaneity.
Well. Unless you counted him fucking his intern
as spontaneous. I certainly didn’t. Knowing him, he
probably timed how long it took her to suck him off
and then gave her a performance review afterward.
Stop thinking about him, I command myself.
He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve one more
minute of your time.
And then I hit dial.
My phone rings. I press it to my ear, grinning.
Okay, so maybe I’m a little more drunk off those
three vodka sodas than I thought.
It rings once. Twice. I debate hanging up. What
am I going to say if this person picks up? Oh hi, I
saw your number in a bathroom, want to hook up?
I snort with laughter, just as I hear a click, and
my heart suddenly jackhammers, leaping into my
throat with surprise.
“Hello?” A deep, masculine voice answers. If
I’m not wrong, he sounds a little annoyed. “Who’s
calling? Where did you find this number?”
I take a deep, steadying breath. Then another.
“I can hear you breathing, you know,” he says,
and with the phone pressed to my ear the way I
have it, it sounds like this mystery man is standing
right next to me, his mouth inches from my ear. “If
you’re calling for the reason I think you might be,
you’d better say something before I trace this
number back.”
“I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I just… I saw your
number in a…”
“Let me guess. In a bathroom stall.”
I swallow hard. “Y-yes.”
“I see.” There’s a long pause on the other end,
during which I realize I can hear him breathing too.
Deep and slow and steady. The hairs on the back of
my neck tickle, almost as though I can imagine him
standing right behind me, leaning over me right
there in the stall. “So you’re looking for a good
time, then.”
My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “I-I guess
so…”
“You don’t sound too sure about this.”
“I’m not,” I blurt. I wince, grimacing at myself.
“I mean, I just saw your number written in here,
and I… Who still does that, anyway? Leaves their
number in bathroom stalls. Does that actually
work?”
“You called, didn’t you?” he points out.
Can’t argue with that logic. “Well, yes. But,
er… I mean. Does it work often?”
“Listen.” He clears his throat. “You sound like
a good girl. A nice girl. Not the kind of girl who
ought to be dialing this number at this hour, so I’m
just going to—”
“I’m not.”
“Excuse me?” God, he has a sexy voice.
Especially when he pauses like he does now, and
then draws out his next words, long enough that I
can detect a faint accent in them. Southern, maybe?
I’m not sure. “You’re not what?”
“I’m not a good girl.” My heart is beating so
fast I’d swear he should be able to hear it over the
phone line. But that’s what makes this so easy. It’s
easier to be sexy without an actual guy in front of
me. When this is just a lark, a whim I’m indulging
in. “In fact, I’m a very, very bad one.”
This time, the pause is so long I worry he might
have hung up. But when he speaks again, his voice
sounds a little deeper, thicker. Like he’s battling
some kind of emotion. “Is that why you called me,
Miss…?”
“Naomi,” I blurt, then wince at myself. Why did
you use your real name? Always give the male
escorts you call from a bathroom stall a fake name,
you idiot. His name obviously isn’t really Angel, for
crying out loud.
“Naomi. Did you call me because you’re a bad
girl?”
I tense, surprised to feel a growing wetness
between my clenched thighs. Damn. His sexy voice
sounds even hotter when he talks like that. I reach
out to trace the edges of the writing on the stall,
running my fingertips over his name. “Yes, Angel. I
called you because I’m a bad girl, looking for a
good time. Is that something you could help me
find?”
I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until
my head starts to spin. I let out that breath, take
another one, slower.
“That depends, Naomi. What kind of a good
time were you looking for?”
Damn him. He’s going to make me say it. I lick
my lips again, pulse jumping. “Preferably one that
starts with you talking dirty in that sexy voice of
yours and ends with me not needing to imagine
what you look like.”
On the other end, Angel takes a breath, too.
“You want to meet.”
“I wouldn’t hate it.” My cheeks flame red hot.
“I have to admit, I don’t normally do this kind
of thing anymore,” he says, slowly.
I stare at his name and number in fresh ink on
the wall. Bullshit. He probably tells everyone that.
“But something about you intrigues me.”
“Oh, I’d like to do a lot more than just intrigue
you, Angel.”
Another breath on his end. Am I imagining it, or
does he sound like he’s breathing heavier too? I
wonder if he’s feeling as hot and bothered as I am.
Finally, he speaks again, voice a low murmur.
“Where are you, Naomi?”
“Downtown.” I name the hotel, though that
seems silly. If he wrote his name in here, shouldn’t
he know where I am? But maybe he’s written his
name in a lot of bathrooms like this.
For a second, I pause again. This is crazy. You
don’t even know who he is.
But what I do know is that I’m three vodkas
deep, none of those 60+ year-old men in business
suits over in the hotel lounge were doing it for me,
and Kevin and I hadn’t fucked in months before I
caught him with his secretary anyway. Suddenly, I
realize I am fucking horny.
Talking to Mr. Sexy Voice over here doesn’t
help the situation, either.
So what if this is crazy? You’re supposed do this
when you go through a breakup, right? A little
rebound never hurt anybody.
“And you’re a guest at the hotel, Naomi?”
“In room 972.”
“Go up and wait for me there.”
My lips part. Somehow, even with everything
we just said, I didn’t expect him to actually agree to
come. I hesitate one more time, but only for a
second. “How long?”
“Fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. I’ll meet you in
your room.”
You can still cancel. You can call this off, I
remind myself. But for once, I find, I don’t want to.
Fuck it. This is my life and I’m reclaiming. I’m
going to start my new life as a once again single
woman with a fucking bang. “I’ll be ready and
waiting,” I whisper. Then I disconnect the phone,
grab my bag, and beeline for the elevators.
2
Fifteen minutes later, I’m pacing back and forth in
front of my hotel room mirror. There’s no way he’s
going to actually show up, is there?
Still, I dressed for the occasion anyway. I’ve got
on thigh high stockings and a garter belt that winds
around each thigh to hold them up. Above that, I
put on my laciest pair of panties and a matching
dark red bra. Then I threw my silk nightgown over
it, because I didn’t want to start things off too
exposed.
I also keep my phone in my hand, just in case
he turns out to be a total nut job. And the hotel
phone is nearby too. I can always summon irritable
Mr. Jenkins and get him to berate this guy out of
my room, if he’s some crazy person after all.
But he didn’t sound crazy on the phone. He
sounded hot as hell. Not to mention up for having
some fun. Which is where my list of qualifications
for the night ends.
“This will be good for me,” I inform my
reflection in the mirror as I artfully tousle and re-
tousle my hair to get that perfect ‘just tripped out of
bed’ messy look going. After all, my friends always
tell me I leap into full on relationships way too fast.
And the last guy I tried to casually date, I wound up
marrying in under 6 months. So consider this Good
Time guy practice. I’ll have a fun, sexy hookup,
cleanse my system of Mr. Wrong, aka my cheating
loser ex, and then I can start fresh in the dating
world.
Ugh. Don’t even think about the D-word right
now, I mentally scold myself as I turn away from
the mirror to check the time yet again.
Nineteen minutes now. But he said fifteen to
twenty. It’s not like he’s running super late or
anything. Still, I can’t help it. I check my phone
again. No missed calls.
What if this is all some kind of elaborate prank?
Or what if he doesn’t show? I left my lone vibrator
back at Kevin’s, I realized two nights ago. Fucking
hell. I’m going to have a hell of a time getting the
lust out of my system if I have to go it solo tonight.
But it’s not like I’m not used to that. After all,
half the time Kevin didn’t bother to make sure I
was enjoying myself before he got his rocks off.
More often than not, I had to whip out that steady
old vibrator after he’d fallen asleep snoring.
I’m wishing I’d brought it with me, and already
thinking about my contingency plan for when
Angel blows me off, when there’s a knock at my
door. I freeze in place. The girl in the mirror’s eyes
go huge and startled, like she’s just as surprised as I
am.
Maybe some guys are reliable after all, I think,
as I cross the hotel room to check. Sure, if you pay
them, points out another, more cynical, voice in my
head.
I dip my head and press my eye to the peep
hole first. I’m not a complete idiot. I’m going to
check this guy out before I let him inside.
But damn. The second I lay eyes on him, it’s
hard to remind myself to take a breath.
He is even hotter in person than he sounds over
the phone. Tall, well over 6’, with messy black hair
that falls across his forehead into his eyes. Whereas
I had to work to get my hair looking freshly
messed, he looks like it took no effort whatsoever.
He’s in a white collared shirt too, and slacks that
look like they’re one half of a well-tailored suit set,
although he opted to leave the other half of the suit
at home. Too bad. He’d look even better more
dressed up.
Or undressed completely, my brain helpfully
points out.
He shifts where he stands and glances up and
down the hallway. Not in a nervous or hurried way.
Just checking the numbers on the doors, I realize.
When he looks back at the door, I have to take
a step back from it, because with how intense and
piercing his dark gray eyes are, it seems like he just
looked right through this doorway and into mine.
But of course, that’s impossible.
Relax, I order myself. Then I twist the
doorknob and swing the door open, just wide
enough for it to catch on the chain. I smile, and step
up to the crack, grinning at him. “You must be
Angel.”
“Naomi,” he says, and when he grins, it’s all I
can do not to rip the chain off this door and drag
him into my room by the collar of that shirt. He has
a dangerous smile, sideways and sincere all at once.
It makes me feel like he’s looking through me, into
the very core of me. “May I come in?”
I swallow hard. His voice is even deeper and
sexier in person. Still, I hesitate, my common-sense
kicking in. “How do I know you’re not some…
shady person.”
He arches a single, perfect eyebrow. “You
called me, might I remind you.”
“Right. True.” I press my lips together. “Maybe
this was a bad idea.”
In response, he spreads his hands wide. “Should
I prove I come unarmed?” He starts to undo his
cuffs. Then, before I realize what he’s doing, he’s
untucked his shirt and begun to unbutton it. Right
there in the damn hallway.
“Oh my god.” My face turns bright red. “Wait a
second.” I slam the door, yank the chain off, and
wrench it open again, all the way open this time.
“What’s the matter?” He smirks. “Don’t want
the rest of the floor catching the show?”
“No, for some strange reason, I don’t want this
whole hotel to know I called a… a…” An escort?
What is his job title exactly? “A you,” I finish
lamely.
Angel laughs as he crosses the threshold. I slam
the door behind him and lock it after, my heart still
rabbiting in my chest. “For someone who rang a
number on a bathroom stall in the middle of the
night, you seem awfully unsure about what you
want, Naomi.”
“Oh trust me.” My gaze roams over him,
lingering on the top half of his half-undone shirt,
through which I glimpse steely pecs and a chiseled
chest, and then dipping down to his pants. I can
already see a slight bulge at his crotch, enough to
make me want to rip those pants open. “I know
what I want.”
“Let me guess.” He takes a step toward me.
Another.
I breathe in sharply and catch the scent of his
cologne, something strong and woodsy smelling.
My breath catches when he pauses a few inches
from me, the air between us humming with heat
and unspoken energy. My hands itch to reach for
him, but I just tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze
head on.
He smiles again, slower this time, just a half-
smile that makes his already sharp cheekbones
stand out like knives beneath the two-day scruff of
his beard. “You want to play at being a bad girl for
a night,” he says, his voice so low it hums like a
purr in my chest.
Without meaning to, I find myself moving,
stepping closer to him. There’s barely a breath of
air between us now, and the scent of him
overwhelms me, making my head swim, my fingers
buzz with energy. I raise my hand, rest it against his
chest, right beside the buttons he undid earlier.
Through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel the white-
hot heat of him. I flatten my palm against his rock-
hard pec. “Who said anything about playing?” I
whisper.
He reaches up to catch my wrist, and his hand
where it encircles mine is enormous, strong. He lifts
my hand above my head, moves me forward, his
other hand catching my waist, and next thing I
know he has me pinned against the wall, his body
flush against mine.
Fuck. I can feel the hard press of his cock
already, thick and long against my belly.
“You want me to show you what happens to
naughty girls like you when they call men like me?”
he murmurs. His breath is hot against my temple,
my cheek. He dips his head, and his lips graze my
earlobe.
A shiver runs all the way from the crown of my
head, down the length of my spine. In response, he
traces his other hand up from my waist to cup the
cycek77
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E-book english 
GOOD TIME DOCTOR PENNY WYLDER
Copyright © 2019 Penny Wylder All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or businesses, organizations, or locales, is completely coincidental. Sign up HERE!
CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 His Shy Virgin Books By Penny Wylder
1 “Another?” The bartender grins at me. Her smile widens when I groan and shove my now-empty glass toward her across the bar top. “Make it a double.” “Celebrating something?” She arches a brow, and I wish I could shrink away from her gaze. What does she see when she looks at me? Someone to pity? If she does, she’s too nice to say it, at least. “Or mourning?” “The latter,” I mumble, as she slides a brand new double vodka soda back to me. I tip the glass at her in salute, and she pours herself a shot too. “To better days ahead, sis,” she says, tapping her glass against mine. “Amen to that.” I take a long drink, then glance at my bag. At the manila envelope peeking out the front pocket of it. Inside is the contract I signed earlier tonight. The one all my friends will be telling me “I told you so” over for years to come. They were right. I should have listened. But I thought it was real. I thought it was love. I take another drink, longer than my last, while the bartender drifts away to nurse some more of her
ailing customers. There’s plenty of us in here. I checked in to the largest, fanciest hotel I could find downtown for exactly this reason. Because the only people you find in places like this are the other dregs of society. People like me with nowhere else to go. No plans on a rainy Thursday evening like this one. People in transit—here on business trips or passing through on their way from point A to point B. I thought I was done with this life. The single life, bar-hopping, the cesspool that is dating in the modern era. All of it. I figured, when I met Kevin, I was done with all that. From the get-go, he seemed perfect. Well- adjusted, a totally normal guy. Okay, so our first and last date was at a Starbucks. And okay, after I moved in with him a month later, we pretty much stopped leaving our house entirely, and only saw our friends whenever they showed up on our doorstep to forcibly drag us out to events. But that was normal, I thought. That’s what couples do. When you find Mr. Right, you don’t need to bother with fake romantic stuff or going out on expensive dates. You just… settled into life together. That’s why we got engaged after just four months together. Then we eloped a few months after that. My friends all told me it was too soon. They told me to be patient, give it time. It’s not like we
were planning some big church wedding, so what did it matter if we went down to the Justice of the Peace a year or two later, instead of right then? But, exactly, I argued with them. We weren’t planning some big wedding, so why not tie the knot now? It was love—or so I told myself. We cohabitated, we got along okay. Plus Kevin had already pointed out to me how much money it would save us on our taxes. Well. How much it would save him. He was the one with the high-paying job as the director of an investment firm. Me, I was just the behind-the- counter girl at the local florist shop, who enjoyed spending her days arranging bouquets for other people’s weddings, and other people’s Valentine’s Days, and other people’s anniversaries. He used to joke that all that exposure to romance in my day job must make me immune to it in my own life. I agreed. But now, I wonder if I wasn’t just agreeing because I wished that were true. Not because it actually was. How did I not see this coming? I swirl my vodka soda on the bar and take another deep swallow. I mean, I knew Kevin had his flaws. Sure. Don’t we all. I knew he wasn’t into romance; I knew he hated any ‘unnecessary’ expenses (which included birthday or Christmas gifts, too, apparently). I knew he liked to keep everything in his life neatly categorized and
organized. But I figured, that was the price of marriage. You compromise. You learn to live with each other’s quirks. My friends tried to warn me. I didn’t want to listen. I just wanted to be done with the dating game. I wanted to move on to the next step in life, and he was… well. He was there. Until two weeks ago. Just 6 months into our marriage. When I stopped by his office for a spontaneous visit (another thing he hated) to bring him his favorite lunch (a chicken sandwich, no toppings, and side salad, no dressing). His secretary told me he was busy, but I ignored the guy. “I’m just going to drop this off and then I’ll be out of your hair,” I promised the secretary. Stupid me. I should have recognized the look of panic on the dude’s face. I should have put two and two together, and realized it wasn’t business that was detaining my brand new husband. Instead, like an idiot, I walked into his office, completely oblivious, only to find him half naked, with a girl who looked barely old enough to be out of college—probably an intern at his company too, the sleazeball—on her knees, her lips around his dick. Fucker. I threw the chicken sandwich in his face. He just stood there, while the poor girl leapt away and tried to collect herself. He didn’t even bother to
pull up his pants. “Don’t be so hysterical,” he told me. “I thought you were a logical person, Naomi. You know things like this happen.” In that moment, I wished I’d had more than just a sandwich to throw at his stupid head. I marched straight home, collected all of my things, and stormed out of his apartment. It didn’t take long. He had his place organized to his liking. He barely let me bring anything when I moved in— most of my stuff had to go into my friends’ houses or storage. “It ruins the feng shui of the place,” he told me when I said I wanted to keep some of my own furniture. Well, fuck his feng shui. I might have “accidentally” broken a few bottles of red wine all over his marble backsplash and lovely new hardwood floors on my way out of the door. Whoops. I thought that this week, when I finally got a contract drawn up by my lawyer—a friend of a friend who I called in a favor with, since I’d never be able to afford the kind of expensive lawyer I’d need to take on Kevin properly in court—I’d feel some kind of catharsis. I stormed into his office one last time and served him the divorce papers to his face (thankfully, this time avoiding a scene with any questionably-of-age interns being exploited by
their director). But even slamming those papers onto his desktop and demanding he sign them right now didn’t feel satisfying. Because he just shrugged and smirked at me. “You’ll regret this rash decision when you realize how much money my future wife is going to have at my side.” “Trust me,” I spat in response, “you couldn’t pay me enough money to put up with you for one more minute.” I glared until he finished signing, and snatched up the paperwork before he could keep his grubby hands on it for one more second. “Good luck hiring whatever gold digger you buy as a trophy wife next,” I snapped over my shoulder while I stormed out. It’s a crappy settlement. My lawyer even admitted that to my face. “You’ve only been married for 6 months, and your prenup was pretty specific about how little you’d get in this event,” he told me. “I don’t care,” I said. Which was true. I really didn’t care, not about the money. Not even though I needed to find a new apartment now, and fast, because I was burning through my savings, crashing at this fancy hotel. You owe yourself this much, I reminded myself. Just a few weeks here to get back onto my feet. To find a decent spot to rent again. And, of course, to
find a job to replace the one Kevin talked me into leaving when we tied the knot. But none of that really matters. I’m doing the right thing. I’ve never been surer of that in my life. What stings, though? Is how little fucks he seemed to give. Not to mention how embarrassed I am to face my friends again. None of them will rub it in my face, which only makes it worse. They tried to warn me. Why didn’t I listen? Love makes us all act like idiots, I guess. But could you even call this love, really? I polished off the vodka soda, my third of the evening, in an attempt to silence my inner demons. Or at least to get them to stop arguing with one another. “One more?” The bartender flashes me that sympathetic smile of hers, but I shake my head, grimacing. The last thing I need to do is start running up a tab in here every night. Besides, I’ve had enough to take the edge off and more by this point. The bar sways a little as I climb off the stool and scoop up my purse with the counter-signed divorce papers in it, all notarized and filed as of this morning. I’m a single woman again, I think to myself. Except, that’s not entirely true. I’ll still have to check the divorced box on my taxes from now on. An eternal reminder of my idiocy. Of me leaping into a bad situation without bothering to
check myself in any way. I groan as I reach the lobby. My room is only a short elevator ride away, but I don’t think I have the energy to make it all the way up there. Suddenly, my bladder is clamoring for urgent attention. At least for the price I’m paying, I know the lobby bathroom is clean and well-maintained. It’s just one of those all-gender handicap-accessible bathrooms, one stall, but it’s always empty around this time of night. Even the other dregs of humanity have better places to be at this hour, I think to myself, more than a little bitterly. But, as usual, it’s sparkling in there. I take a seat on the toilet, and glance up, only to find myself staring at a piece of completely out- of-place graffiti. I’ve never seen writing in here. Mr. Jenkins, the night manager of this place, who I’ve had to summon on more than one occasion to help with the odd plumbing or WiFi issue in my room, would have a fit if he saw this. I know he’s a regular task master with the staff, religious about making them keep this bathroom—and every bathroom in the hotel, actually—sparkling clean, no matter the hour. I figure some drunk person from the bar must have snuck in while Jenkins was away from his desk. That, or someone put this here on a dare. Because there the message is, sharpied onto the
otherwise spotless wall in plain black Sharpie. For a good time, call Angel. 555-565-0240. I smile to myself. It’s been a while since I’ve seen any bathroom stall writing that straightforward, that old school. Lately I feel like all the graffiti you see in bar bathrooms is quotes to songs I’ve never heard of, or else philosophical arguments about whose dick is bigger, Todd’s or John’s. This, though… With an actual phone number? It’s a local area code too. That can’t be a real number, can it? Maybe someone’s friend put it in here as a prank. A practical joke. That, or it could be one of the hotel staff playing a joke on Jenkins himself. That would probably be a just reward for the way he treats them, acting overbearing and micromanagerial all the time. I’d thought about applying for a front desk job here when I first moved in—I have plenty of customer service experience from the flower shop after all—until I watched Jenkins cursing out his head of staff my third night here. Or maybe this is a legit offer, thinks another part of me. A part that, I hate to admit, gets a little excited at the thought. What, like a prostitute or something? I think they’re called escorts… There go my inner voices, arguing with one
another again. I pull out my own cell phone, if for no other reason than to silence them once and for all. Before I think about what I’m doing, I’m punching in the numbers. Who does this? Like, who actually calls these numbers? Me, apparently. But it’s the first thing in a while—in longer than I care to admit—that feels spontaneous. Exciting, almost, if only because it’ll be a funny joke. Who knows who’s going to pick up on the other end? Angel sounds like a girl’s name. Could be a guy though, too, right? I think about Buffy, a guilty pleasure of my teenage years, and the ironically-named vampire boyfriend I always shipped her with. I can’t remember the last time I did something truly ridiculous, for no other reason than because I wanted to. With Kevin, everything we ever did was planned and mapped out down to the tiniest detail. We schedule our whole lives in advance. And nowhere in the schedule did we leave any room for fun, for freedom, for spontaneity. Well. Unless you counted him fucking his intern as spontaneous. I certainly didn’t. Knowing him, he probably timed how long it took her to suck him off and then gave her a performance review afterward. Stop thinking about him, I command myself. He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve one more minute of your time. And then I hit dial.
My phone rings. I press it to my ear, grinning. Okay, so maybe I’m a little more drunk off those three vodka sodas than I thought. It rings once. Twice. I debate hanging up. What am I going to say if this person picks up? Oh hi, I saw your number in a bathroom, want to hook up? I snort with laughter, just as I hear a click, and my heart suddenly jackhammers, leaping into my throat with surprise. “Hello?” A deep, masculine voice answers. If I’m not wrong, he sounds a little annoyed. “Who’s calling? Where did you find this number?” I take a deep, steadying breath. Then another. “I can hear you breathing, you know,” he says, and with the phone pressed to my ear the way I have it, it sounds like this mystery man is standing right next to me, his mouth inches from my ear. “If you’re calling for the reason I think you might be, you’d better say something before I trace this number back.” “I—I’m sorry,” I stammer. “I just… I saw your number in a…” “Let me guess. In a bathroom stall.” I swallow hard. “Y-yes.” “I see.” There’s a long pause on the other end, during which I realize I can hear him breathing too. Deep and slow and steady. The hairs on the back of my neck tickle, almost as though I can imagine him standing right behind me, leaning over me right
there in the stall. “So you’re looking for a good time, then.” My tongue darts out to wet my lips. “I-I guess so…” “You don’t sound too sure about this.” “I’m not,” I blurt. I wince, grimacing at myself. “I mean, I just saw your number written in here, and I… Who still does that, anyway? Leaves their number in bathroom stalls. Does that actually work?” “You called, didn’t you?” he points out. Can’t argue with that logic. “Well, yes. But, er… I mean. Does it work often?” “Listen.” He clears his throat. “You sound like a good girl. A nice girl. Not the kind of girl who ought to be dialing this number at this hour, so I’m just going to—” “I’m not.” “Excuse me?” God, he has a sexy voice. Especially when he pauses like he does now, and then draws out his next words, long enough that I can detect a faint accent in them. Southern, maybe? I’m not sure. “You’re not what?” “I’m not a good girl.” My heart is beating so fast I’d swear he should be able to hear it over the phone line. But that’s what makes this so easy. It’s easier to be sexy without an actual guy in front of me. When this is just a lark, a whim I’m indulging in. “In fact, I’m a very, very bad one.”
This time, the pause is so long I worry he might have hung up. But when he speaks again, his voice sounds a little deeper, thicker. Like he’s battling some kind of emotion. “Is that why you called me, Miss…?” “Naomi,” I blurt, then wince at myself. Why did you use your real name? Always give the male escorts you call from a bathroom stall a fake name, you idiot. His name obviously isn’t really Angel, for crying out loud. “Naomi. Did you call me because you’re a bad girl?” I tense, surprised to feel a growing wetness between my clenched thighs. Damn. His sexy voice sounds even hotter when he talks like that. I reach out to trace the edges of the writing on the stall, running my fingertips over his name. “Yes, Angel. I called you because I’m a bad girl, looking for a good time. Is that something you could help me find?” I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until my head starts to spin. I let out that breath, take another one, slower. “That depends, Naomi. What kind of a good time were you looking for?” Damn him. He’s going to make me say it. I lick my lips again, pulse jumping. “Preferably one that starts with you talking dirty in that sexy voice of yours and ends with me not needing to imagine
what you look like.” On the other end, Angel takes a breath, too. “You want to meet.” “I wouldn’t hate it.” My cheeks flame red hot. “I have to admit, I don’t normally do this kind of thing anymore,” he says, slowly. I stare at his name and number in fresh ink on the wall. Bullshit. He probably tells everyone that. “But something about you intrigues me.” “Oh, I’d like to do a lot more than just intrigue you, Angel.” Another breath on his end. Am I imagining it, or does he sound like he’s breathing heavier too? I wonder if he’s feeling as hot and bothered as I am. Finally, he speaks again, voice a low murmur. “Where are you, Naomi?” “Downtown.” I name the hotel, though that seems silly. If he wrote his name in here, shouldn’t he know where I am? But maybe he’s written his name in a lot of bathrooms like this. For a second, I pause again. This is crazy. You don’t even know who he is. But what I do know is that I’m three vodkas deep, none of those 60+ year-old men in business suits over in the hotel lounge were doing it for me, and Kevin and I hadn’t fucked in months before I caught him with his secretary anyway. Suddenly, I realize I am fucking horny. Talking to Mr. Sexy Voice over here doesn’t
help the situation, either. So what if this is crazy? You’re supposed do this when you go through a breakup, right? A little rebound never hurt anybody. “And you’re a guest at the hotel, Naomi?” “In room 972.” “Go up and wait for me there.” My lips part. Somehow, even with everything we just said, I didn’t expect him to actually agree to come. I hesitate one more time, but only for a second. “How long?” “Fifteen minutes. Twenty, tops. I’ll meet you in your room.” You can still cancel. You can call this off, I remind myself. But for once, I find, I don’t want to. Fuck it. This is my life and I’m reclaiming. I’m going to start my new life as a once again single woman with a fucking bang. “I’ll be ready and waiting,” I whisper. Then I disconnect the phone, grab my bag, and beeline for the elevators.
2 Fifteen minutes later, I’m pacing back and forth in front of my hotel room mirror. There’s no way he’s going to actually show up, is there? Still, I dressed for the occasion anyway. I’ve got on thigh high stockings and a garter belt that winds around each thigh to hold them up. Above that, I put on my laciest pair of panties and a matching dark red bra. Then I threw my silk nightgown over it, because I didn’t want to start things off too exposed. I also keep my phone in my hand, just in case he turns out to be a total nut job. And the hotel phone is nearby too. I can always summon irritable Mr. Jenkins and get him to berate this guy out of my room, if he’s some crazy person after all. But he didn’t sound crazy on the phone. He sounded hot as hell. Not to mention up for having some fun. Which is where my list of qualifications for the night ends. “This will be good for me,” I inform my reflection in the mirror as I artfully tousle and re- tousle my hair to get that perfect ‘just tripped out of bed’ messy look going. After all, my friends always tell me I leap into full on relationships way too fast.
And the last guy I tried to casually date, I wound up marrying in under 6 months. So consider this Good Time guy practice. I’ll have a fun, sexy hookup, cleanse my system of Mr. Wrong, aka my cheating loser ex, and then I can start fresh in the dating world. Ugh. Don’t even think about the D-word right now, I mentally scold myself as I turn away from the mirror to check the time yet again. Nineteen minutes now. But he said fifteen to twenty. It’s not like he’s running super late or anything. Still, I can’t help it. I check my phone again. No missed calls. What if this is all some kind of elaborate prank? Or what if he doesn’t show? I left my lone vibrator back at Kevin’s, I realized two nights ago. Fucking hell. I’m going to have a hell of a time getting the lust out of my system if I have to go it solo tonight. But it’s not like I’m not used to that. After all, half the time Kevin didn’t bother to make sure I was enjoying myself before he got his rocks off. More often than not, I had to whip out that steady old vibrator after he’d fallen asleep snoring. I’m wishing I’d brought it with me, and already thinking about my contingency plan for when Angel blows me off, when there’s a knock at my door. I freeze in place. The girl in the mirror’s eyes go huge and startled, like she’s just as surprised as I am.
Maybe some guys are reliable after all, I think, as I cross the hotel room to check. Sure, if you pay them, points out another, more cynical, voice in my head. I dip my head and press my eye to the peep hole first. I’m not a complete idiot. I’m going to check this guy out before I let him inside. But damn. The second I lay eyes on him, it’s hard to remind myself to take a breath. He is even hotter in person than he sounds over the phone. Tall, well over 6’, with messy black hair that falls across his forehead into his eyes. Whereas I had to work to get my hair looking freshly messed, he looks like it took no effort whatsoever. He’s in a white collared shirt too, and slacks that look like they’re one half of a well-tailored suit set, although he opted to leave the other half of the suit at home. Too bad. He’d look even better more dressed up. Or undressed completely, my brain helpfully points out. He shifts where he stands and glances up and down the hallway. Not in a nervous or hurried way. Just checking the numbers on the doors, I realize. When he looks back at the door, I have to take a step back from it, because with how intense and piercing his dark gray eyes are, it seems like he just looked right through this doorway and into mine. But of course, that’s impossible.
Relax, I order myself. Then I twist the doorknob and swing the door open, just wide enough for it to catch on the chain. I smile, and step up to the crack, grinning at him. “You must be Angel.” “Naomi,” he says, and when he grins, it’s all I can do not to rip the chain off this door and drag him into my room by the collar of that shirt. He has a dangerous smile, sideways and sincere all at once. It makes me feel like he’s looking through me, into the very core of me. “May I come in?” I swallow hard. His voice is even deeper and sexier in person. Still, I hesitate, my common-sense kicking in. “How do I know you’re not some… shady person.” He arches a single, perfect eyebrow. “You called me, might I remind you.” “Right. True.” I press my lips together. “Maybe this was a bad idea.” In response, he spreads his hands wide. “Should I prove I come unarmed?” He starts to undo his cuffs. Then, before I realize what he’s doing, he’s untucked his shirt and begun to unbutton it. Right there in the damn hallway. “Oh my god.” My face turns bright red. “Wait a second.” I slam the door, yank the chain off, and wrench it open again, all the way open this time. “What’s the matter?” He smirks. “Don’t want the rest of the floor catching the show?”
“No, for some strange reason, I don’t want this whole hotel to know I called a… a…” An escort? What is his job title exactly? “A you,” I finish lamely. Angel laughs as he crosses the threshold. I slam the door behind him and lock it after, my heart still rabbiting in my chest. “For someone who rang a number on a bathroom stall in the middle of the night, you seem awfully unsure about what you want, Naomi.” “Oh trust me.” My gaze roams over him, lingering on the top half of his half-undone shirt, through which I glimpse steely pecs and a chiseled chest, and then dipping down to his pants. I can already see a slight bulge at his crotch, enough to make me want to rip those pants open. “I know what I want.” “Let me guess.” He takes a step toward me. Another. I breathe in sharply and catch the scent of his cologne, something strong and woodsy smelling. My breath catches when he pauses a few inches from me, the air between us humming with heat and unspoken energy. My hands itch to reach for him, but I just tilt my chin up, meeting his gaze head on. He smiles again, slower this time, just a half- smile that makes his already sharp cheekbones stand out like knives beneath the two-day scruff of
his beard. “You want to play at being a bad girl for a night,” he says, his voice so low it hums like a purr in my chest. Without meaning to, I find myself moving, stepping closer to him. There’s barely a breath of air between us now, and the scent of him overwhelms me, making my head swim, my fingers buzz with energy. I raise my hand, rest it against his chest, right beside the buttons he undid earlier. Through the fabric of his shirt, I can feel the white- hot heat of him. I flatten my palm against his rock- hard pec. “Who said anything about playing?” I whisper. He reaches up to catch my wrist, and his hand where it encircles mine is enormous, strong. He lifts my hand above my head, moves me forward, his other hand catching my waist, and next thing I know he has me pinned against the wall, his body flush against mine. Fuck. I can feel the hard press of his cock already, thick and long against my belly. “You want me to show you what happens to naughty girls like you when they call men like me?” he murmurs. His breath is hot against my temple, my cheek. He dips his head, and his lips graze my earlobe. A shiver runs all the way from the crown of my head, down the length of my spine. In response, he traces his other hand up from my waist to cup the