Vanilla On Top by C.J. Ellisson

asshat?”
    “What?” All I need is for him to be pissed off at me, too. Freakin ’ great.
    “You split when we all went out to celebrate after work.”
    “It was late. I was tired.”
    “Eight o’clock is late? What the hell is going on with you? Normally after calculating your six figure commission on a deal that size, we’d be driving to Atlantic City or going to a strip club and partying all night.”
    Heather called me Friday. She was on my mind…all bloody night and all the next day. I shrug and take a long drink of beer. “I had plans on Saturday. Didn’t want to be spent.”
    “Working on that damn old building again? What the hell is with you that you’ll work at the office until you’re ready to drop and still putz around over there?”
    I don’t think working on a building you own is putzing around, but I hold my tongue since I didn’t go to Hoboken either. “I had a date.”
    “I lose my wingman on a possible Friday night to end all Friday nights for a date ?”
    “We’ve had some pretty amazing nights, so I doubt that very highly.”
    Marcus jerks his head away, glancing at the TV, but I see his sour reflection in the mirror over the bar. “Well? Who was it with? Have I met her?”
    His voice doesn’t sound too interested, more like he’s sulking. That ’ s all I need. A clingy best friend who can ’ t be happy I found a nice girl to date for a change. Terrific. I down the rest of my beer and order another.
    “I met her at speed dating.”
    “Oh, yeah? Is this the one you asked if I’d met? Heather, right?”
    I nod.
    A hearty laugh rips from Marcus as he slaps me on the back. “Bet you were tapping that Saturday night.” The bartender delivers my new beer, sauntering off when she sees us talking.
    I shake my head and refuse to answer. I learned early on that if you want a repeat performance from a lady, you don’t tell anyone what transpired. I take a sip of my beer and watch my friend in the mirror.
    “I like this one,” I say. “A lot.”
    Marcus chokes on his beer. “‘A lot?’ What the hell is that? One date and you like her a lot ?” He dismisses me with a jerk of his head. “She must be wild in bed to make you say that.”
    I shoot him a disapproving sideways glare. “She made me dinner in her apartment.” Marcus swings my way, listening. “On the floor—set up like a picnic. Finger foods and music.”
    His face grows hard as he takes a long pull of his drink. He turns away to stare up at the TV, not saying another word.
    Images of Heather fill my head: her hips wiggling in circles while she touched herself; her slightly almond-shaped eyes closing during her peak; the calm order when she told me to jerk my shaft.
    No way will I tell Marcus any of that.
    We drink in silence, then conversation drifts to work, like it always does. The long workweek looms ahead, reminding me of all I have waiting and all the things I long to escape. When did sixty-hour weeks become the norm? The next project is an advertising firm. A small part of me hopes it’s Heather’s we wind up acquiring. Not the best way for her to find out who I work for and what I really do for a living.
    I have no idea where I stand with her. Is she seeing anyone else? The image of the salesman’s hands on her calf, sliding down to cup her heel, burns through my brain. Not even a week and I ’ m ready to demand she not see anyone else. Who else does she order to touch her and jerk off while she watches? I glance at Marcus. I bet any guy would fall at her feet if they saw her on the patio that night. I squelch the desire to share the experience with him, to see what his reaction would be.
    I’ve been with enough women to know you don’t find one bold enough to do that kind of thing very often. I finish my beer and slam down the empty glass in frustration, earning me a raised eyebrow from my friend. I will make her mine.
    Two beers turn to many more, and then we order food.
    I leave close to ten-thirty,