Pleasure Unbound

STILL

I don’t belong here-not in a loud casino, smoke curling up the walls, disappearing into discreet vents. Flip flops sharing space with sequins and diamonds. The crowd a mix of sandy tourists and high rollers, eighteen year old spring breakers polka-dotting the mix with their wide eyes and slurred steps, the available alcohol hitting their virgin systems hard. We’re at a craps table, a game that none of us understand, yet the Asians to our right are grinning and gesturing like we are hitting the mother load, so we blow on dice and move markers and our chip stack continues to grow.

Chelsea. She’s the reason we are all here. Six of us split between three rooms, the four hundred dollar nightly rate generously taken care of by Mr.

McCrory, Chelsea’s father and the king of the Atlanta carwash market. Chelsea’s big day is two weeks away, so here we are, in Nassau, bachelorette-partying our country asses off.

I don’t belong here. I belong on my front porch, sunning my toes on the railing of the porch, a sweet tea next to me, a magazine on my lap, Sugarland on the radio. That’s what I’d spend a weekend off doing. Not here, in this loud place, with Tammy’s hand digging into my shoulders, her fresh manicure biting imprints into my sunburned skin. There is a bump of bodies behind me, and the curve of the table cuts into my still-gorged-onseafood stomach. Ouch. I gaze longingly at the stool holding up the cigarette-smoking female to my right. My feet are on fire, four hours in asize-too-small-but-they-were-on-sale heels taking their toll in the most painful way possible.

I gather my chips and turn to Megan Gallt, the bit of a girl to my left, her platinum curls bouncing excitedly at some aspect of this gamble that we don’t understand. “I’m gonna head upstairs,” I yell, my mouth as close to her ear as I can manage without swallowing her chandelier earrings.

“What?” She glances down at her wrist, the fake Rolex we all-with the exception of Chelsea-had gobbled up from the first roadside stand the taxi driver had stopped at. It glitters impressively at me, and I fight a glimpse downward to see if my own looks as good. “It’s only ten.”

“My feet are killing me.”

She looks down. “You got a long way to walk to the room.”

She isn’t kidding. My brain groans at the trek before me. Through the casino, through the shops, down a flight of stairs, through a second lobby, up twelve floors via elevator, and then down a thousand feet of hallway. “I know. That’s why I’m leaving while my soles still have a little bit of life left in them.”

She leans in, lowering her voice slightly. “Chelsea will be pissed.”Belongs to (N)ôvel/Drama.Org.

I shrug, craning my neck ’til I see the future bride’s over-highlighted head. I lean in, give Megan a quick peck on the cheek, then hobble over to Chelsea. “I’m heading up to the room,” I yell.

She waves her hand dismissively, her eyes glued to the table, the movement of our Asian coaching staff leaping in the air dominating her attention, her own voice whooping at an ear-splitting crescendo.

Great. I move before my words register and her attention moves to me, weaving through crowds of people as fast as my raw feet will take me, opening my purse and dumping my handful of chips into it.

Past blackjack. I can do this. It’s not really that bad if I don’t pause long enough for my feet to bitch.

Past poker. Damn, there are a lot of tables. I keep my eyes focused forward, like I do when I feel like I will faint. Step, hobble. Step, hobble. I can do this. Damn, I hope I’m going the right way.

Past blackjack. Shit. Are these the same tables I passed before? Or different ones? Maybe the others were in a high-roller portion of the casino. These must be different. They have to be different. I look for a sign, an arrow, a member of the casino staff. The blister on the back of my right heel is now competing with my left pinky toe, which I’d be willing to bet is bleeding.

Past slots. Okay, I think this is right. I am jostled out of place by an overweight white woman who shoots me a dirty look. Almost turn my ankle and bust my ass. Great. Just what I need. An injury to accompany my pansy-ass feet.

There is an exit before me, and I crane to see over the heads blocking my view. Please lead out of the casino. Please lead into the lobby by the shops, please … Oh, thank God. I almost cry with relief when the crowd parts, and I enter the smoke-free arena that is the rest of the hotel. Bathrooms to my left, a seating area on my right. I walk like my ninety year old grandma and collapse into the closest chair, working off my heels with trembling fingers, and moan when the heavy stilettos drop to the tiled floor. Sweet Jesus. I flex my feet and lean back in the chair. Close my eyes and cover my face for a moment, rubbing gentle patterns into my hairline as I try to massage the headache that has spent the last two hours building. Aspirin. I’ll get to the room, take aspirin, and draw a bath. Soak my feet and create enough bubbles to make Mr. Clean jealous. The prospect brings a smile to my face, and I let my hands drop. Take a moment to breathe, to relax.

It’s quieter out here. Away from the madness of the casino.

I can’t believe it’s only Friday. I got off early, our bank manager unhappy with the request, yet unable to bitch too loud, seeing as I’m the only FA our small town chain has. FA. That’s fancy country talk for Financial Advisor. In a big city I’d manage large portfolios, dispense stock advice, buy and sell quotients like Ben Affleck in Boiler Room. But in our small town? An hour from Atlanta, where Sunday sermons focus on rain prayers, and where the average household income lies right on the forty-five thousand dollar mark? My days are spent selling mutual funds, life insurance, and doing the I’mnot-qualified-for-this job of will creation and estate planning. Nothing that can’t wait ’til Monday morning, when my raw feet and hung over self will crack open the doors of Smith Bank & Trust at the ungodly hour of 7:30

AM.

I pick up my right foot and examine the damage done by my stilettos. Stilettos that are uglier by the minute, trotting their pretty selves straight into my trash can at their current rate of travel. Too bad I didn’t pack many other options. Fancy shoes take up a very small corner of my closet. Sensible black grandma heels dominate the rest of that said closet floor. Paired with my tan nylons, they help to complete the too-sexy-for-a-date vibe that I rock ninety percent of the year. Maybe I can’t pull off the cute strappy heels, sexpot in a minidress look. Maybe that ability set sail at age thirty. Maybe, at thirty-two, I should invest in some ballet flats and sundresses. I see a lot of the minivan moms with that look. And they look comfortable. They certainly don’t have the engine red feet that are currently screaming a slow death beneath my fingertips. I gingerly push on the bubble on my back heel. Uck. I can almost hear liquid squishing in it.

Fuzzy white. It is thrust in my line of vision, interrupting my new fascination with the chipped polish on my big toe. I focus on the white, fluffy soft slippers coming into view. Thick ones, where you’d sink an inch into a pillow top bed of comfort, a brand I’ve never heard of embroidered along the top. I look from the shoes, up a tan arm, my eyes tripping and already drooling over clean nails, a strong hand, golden hair light over a Rolex ten times more authentic than mine, a muscular forearm, rolled sleeves, a jaw I’d nibble to death, and a face that competed with easy superiority against any celebrity I have previously strummed myself off to in recent memory.

He smiles, a rueful grin that may have just burst my heart. I work my jaw, trying to formulate speech, glancing back and forth from the slippers to his face.

“Would you like these?” His voice. Sandpaper over the hull of a yacht. A combination of roughness and polish.

I swallow. “The slippers?” Of course the slippers. What else would he be talking about?

A surprised look crosses his face. “You’re Southern. From … Alabama?”

“Georgia.” I wince. I can’t hide the drawl; it drags through that one word with such ownership, as if the Southern notes are fused through every syllable.

He nods slowly, still holding out the slippers. His other hand moves, reaching across. “I’m Brett.”

I should stand. It’s the polite thing to do. Stand and shake his hand. But I don’t. I don’t think my feet can handle it. I just reach out, shake his hand with a firm grip, like my daddy taught me, and meet his eyes. “Riley.”

Bemused. I don’t know what about that exchange he found funny, but his mouth widened, and I got another devastating look at his teeth. God, I’d love for him to nibble my skin. Tease my neck, take the other, more sensitive parts of my body and wreak havoc on them. I shiver at the thought and pull my eyes from his. Take the slippers from his hands. “You carry around slippers?”

“I saw your hobble across the casino. It caught my eye. I wandered out, wanted to make sure a man didn’t take advantage of your ill state.”

“By what? Swooping to my rescue with ridiculously comfortable slippers?”

If possible, his grin widened. “Yes. You should probably avoid me from this point forward.”

Having no intelligent response, I pretend to distract myself from the conversation, working the soft cotton over my injured feet and sighing with relief when they are on. “Where did you get these?”

He tilts his head to the right. “The store next door. They carry matching robes if you’d like to complete the look.”

I laugh. “No, I’m good.”

“I would have offered to carry you, but it didn’t seem appropriate. When I saw that you had sat down … How far do you have to go?”

“My room.” I wave a hand dismissively in the direction of our room. “Coral Towers.”

He frowns. “A bit of a hike.”

“It was.” I wiggle my toes. “A lot better now. Please sit down.” I gesture to the seat next to me. Pull open my purse and dig through the chips there, seeing him, out of my peripheral, remain standing. Okay. I collect all of the green chips I can find. Six total. Sixty bucks worth. I close my purse and hold out the handful, watching Brett eye my closed fist. “Go on, open your hand,” I urge.

He does, wincing when I drop the chips into his palm. He frowns, rolling them over in his palm and holding them out to me.

“They’re for the slippers.” I clasp the top flap of my purse, ignoring the insistent press of his fist in my personal space. I bat off his hand. “Take it.”

“I don’t want your money.”

“I don’t want your charity. Please.”

“It’s not charity.” Stubbornness is entering his voice, and I fight the urge to smile.

“It’s giving me something for nothing … that’s charity.”

“I’ve had the pleasure of your company.”

I sniff in a manner that would, most certainly, make my mother roll over in her grave. “For five minutes? Please.”

“Then let me accompany you the rest of the way to your room. Just to make sure you arrive safely.”

I sigh. A big dramatic one-one that gives no hint to the fact that I haven’t been laid in almost two years, haven’t been on a date in almost half that time, and have never looked into a face as gorgeous as this man’s. “Just to the door?”

His mouth twitches. “Just to the door. Then you will have properly compensated me for the slippers and will be forced to accept your hardearned chips back.”

“They weren’t that hard-earned,” I grumble, heaving to my feet, suddenly aware at the height at which my yep-definitely-too-old-to-wear-this minidress has risen. I work it back down, looking up a moment too early and catching his eyes on my legs. My hands freeze, his eyes looking up and catching my own. He should brush it off, look away, but instead he holds my gaze and grins, a slow, sexy smile that grabs ahold of my arousal lever and pushes that baby all the way up. Damn. This man and his fuzzy slippers, his bad boy smile and roaring confidence … I don’t belong anywhere within miles of this man. My blistered feet and I are way too vulnerable for the train wreck to which we are headed. Because I know what will happen when we get through the long walk to my room. All he will have to do is tilt his head, grin that naughty smile, and my ass will tumble over itself in a haste to do anything and everything more that he wants.

I reach up and accept his outstretched hand. He smiles down at me, our heights thrown off by my lack of heels. Shit, my heels. I crouch, scooping up my heels, my eyes suddenly friendly to their sparkling straps, their impossible heights that I was naive to think I could handle. I grip his hand and shuffle forward, the soft pat of the slippers quiet on the tile floor. “Feel free to lean on me,” he says, looking down on me with a smile. “And if you need to be carried …”

“I’ll be fine,” I grin. “Promise.”

He tugs gently, and we move, through the shops, my hand foreign in another hand, and I release his arm and grip his bicep instead, marveling at the strength, fighting the urge to squeeze and test the hard muscle.

Feet, don’t fail me now.