She smiles, revealing a tiny ring on the tip of her tongue. “Yeah. I have it right here.” She reaches below the counter and produces a surprisingly small bag. I have no clue as to what might be inside. There’s a part of me that wants to ask. And there’s a part of me that wants to flee and leave the package behind. And tell Brandon that they misplaced whatever he ordered. Or didn’t have it in stock so I can ruin his night with Katrina. But my loyalty to him and work ethic triumph over deceit.
“How much?” I ask with hesitation.
“It comes to forty-three fifty. Would you like me to charge it to Mr. Steele’s account? He’s on file with us.”
I blink hard. Brandon has an account here? Does he know this, or is this something he’s forgotten with his amnesia? Either way, the shocking news feeds into my wildest imaginings. Gah! Maybe he’s like one of those men I’ve read about in my erotic romances who has a secret playroom where he stashes all his toys, fetishes, and gizmos. In my head, I picture a dark dungeon filled with spanking benches, ropes dangling from the ceiling, and racks of whips, paddles, and floggers. I inwardly shudder, but to say I’m not aroused would be a lie. A new tingly sensation invades my inner thighs.
Asking me again how I wish to pay, the cashier breaks into my deviant thoughts and causes me to startle. I just can’t get over the possibility that Brandon is into kink.
“Cash,” I stammer. Brandon was insistent I pay with cash and not use any of his credit cards. And maybe he doesn’t want me to know he has an account here if, in fact, he remembers. Understandably, a mega-star like Brandon has to take extra special precautions to guard his identity at a place like this. I can only begin to imagine how far the tabloids would take a story about his secret kinkery.
At under fifty dollars, whatever he’s bought here for Katrina isn’t too expensive—certainly not some diamond-studded leash to latch on to her new necklace. I do a little math in my head. There’s enough money for me to buy something. My mind lands on that pink vibrator with the cute rabbit ears that “Grandma” recommended. Why not? A job perk. Make that a necessity. The next time I get jealous or angry over Brandon and Katrina—or just plain horny—I’ll use it and get off on myself. It beats smashing things. I may even start tonight. On the way back to his house, I’ll stop off at an ATM machine and get some money to pay him back. While I’m sure he wouldn’t miss the money, stealing from someone is not a value I was raised with. I can easily afford to put the charge on one of my credit cards, but just like Brandon, I don’t want my name affiliated with this store in any way. In this town, word travels fast and with the Internet, even faster.
“Hold on, I’ll be right back. I want to get one more thing,” I tell the cashier. I dash back to the aisle with the toys and make a beeline for the vibrator. Just one left! I grab it and then run back to her. She’s patiently waited for me despite the long line of vexed customers.
“Thanks for waiting. I want this too, but please put it in a separate bag.”
“Sure. Good choice. You’re going to love it.”
Not as much as I love him.
She rings me up again. The total now comes to a little under a hundred dollars. Wow! That vibrator was expensive; it better work wonders. With a shopping bag in each hand, I head back to my car, in a much better mood and eager to find out what Brandon bought for Katrina. I’m so bad. The minute I get into my Mini, I look inside the bag. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.
A dozen packages of mega-size condoms and a little toy. The Magic Cock Ring. Taking the toy out from the bag, I read the label on the package: “Guaranteed to make your erection bigger, stronger, and last longer.” God, knowing the size of Brandon’s cock, I don’t think it can get any bigger. And for sure, he doesn’t have a problem getting it up. But I’m shocked at the possibility that he needs help in the endurance department. Are he and Katrina having problems? My mind flashes back to that deep tissue massage I gave him. He hinted at ED. Maybe Katrina’s birthday won’t be so happy. Whoo hoo! With renewed optimism, I take one more look-see at my new toy. I love it and can’t wait to try it out. While they’re struggling, I’ll be coming. I insert my car key into the ignition and whip out of the parking lot.
All this fantasizing has worked up my appetite. I’m starving. And I know what I’m craving. A big fat hot dog. God, that’s phallic! Screw my diet! I can’t wait to wrap my mouth around one. And I know just the place to get one of the best ones in town.
Located off Fairfax Avenue, The Farmer’s Market is an iconic Los Angeles food court that’s popular with locals, tourists, and even celebrities. I love it because it’s so unpretentious, and it’s the home of my favorite hot dog stand. Fritzi Dog.
After finding a spot in the jammed parking lot, I head into the busy open-air market. As I get close to my destination, the tantalizing smell of hot dogs grilling wafts up my nose, making me even more ravenous. Not only do they have beef hot dogs, but you can also order pork, duck, and even carrot ones. The line is long, but it moves quickly. While I should order the low-calorie carrot one, nothing but the beef one on a toasted bun will do. I force myself to pass on the potato tots and additionally order a Diet Coke. Holding a tray with my order, I wander through the market in search of a place to sit. While there are hundreds of tables scattered throughout the vast space, it’s always super crowded no matter what time of day.
As I turn into another packed aisle, I see Brandon’s manager Scott seated at a table, talking to a stranger whose back is to me. Scott’s ruddy face is pinched—it looks like some angry words are being passed back and forth—and then he slams his fist on the table. Maybe I should just leave. Seeing him twice in one day is more than I can handle. I detest Scott, and he knows it. He’s rude and uncouth. A total slimebucket. But my hunger trumps my second thoughts. I amble toward the only table available—the one behind Scott’s. I’ll just say hello and face away. I’ve brought along my Kindle.
As I near the table, the man, with whom Scott is arguing, leaps up. “You fucked up once. Don’t do it again,” I overhear him say. His tone is gruff and threatening.
“Okay, okay,” replies Scott. “I’ll take care of it.” His voice is a tremor, and sweat clusters on his brows. He looks like a frightened mouse.
The other man turns around. I stop dead in my tracks. All at once, my blood ices over, my body freezes, and cold sweat pours from every crevice of my being. His venomous gaze meets mine. It’s him! He doesn’t recognize me, but I recognize him. Yes, he’s twenty years older, but I’d recognize that face anytime, anywhere. Those dark beady eyes, pockmarked skin, and squashed nose that looks like it’s been broken a thousand times.
Oh my God! It’s the man who shot Mama!
The aftershock of my discovery hits my system like a thunderous bolt of lightening. I feel the sky fall from under me, and, on my next gasp, I’m crashing like a tailless plane to the ground.
BANG!
Oh the pain!
And then…
FADE TO BLACK.
END OF BOOK 1
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