The Slot (Rochester Riot #1)(18)
Trevor fed her sips of rye whiskey from the bottle, alternating with gulps for himself. The powerful liquid burned her throat and made her cough, but the resulting buzz quickly dispelled any discomfort. She snuggled in the crook of Trevor’s arm, his other hand making quick work of the buttons on her shirt. It wasn’t long before her shirt and bra lay on the ground by the water, and Trevor had his hands full of her breasts. Everything became a drunken swirl of sensation, her first French kisses making her head spin even further out of control, and Trevor’s groping fingers setting fire down below.
Giggling and grinning like a mental ward patient, she’d barely noticed when he undid his jean zipper, pulling out his cock and stroking it. “Wanna see a trick?” he asked her.
“Okay,” was all she could spit out of her boozy stupor, not knowing what he had in mind. The next moment he yanked her by the hair and forced her mouth down on his erect cock. Eloise yelped, but the sound died in her throat, triggering her gag reflex. Fear crept in as she began to choke, unable to breathe. Her stomach retched and threatened to bring up all the nasty alcohol laced mash inside it. Her teeth must have nipped his member because Trevor pulled her head back at that point, popping it free of her slobbering lips.
The next minutes were a blank screen, except for the memory of being flipped over onto her stomach and her pants dragged off. A few hours later, she woke up face down in the grass, alone. She never saw Trevor again; she’d heard he moved away somewhere in Wisconsin.
A car horn honked, and Eloise snapped to attention. She hadn’t noticed the traffic light turn green, or that she was now only a few blocks from her condo, unable to recall the last several minutes of her drive. Dangerous, that. The idea that she had lost control of her thoughts, and that she had put her own safety at risk as a result, frightened her more than the painful memories that brutally invaded her mind. Brutal didn’t begin to describe what she’d gone through after that night with Trevor, and she forced it from her mind to avoid losing it completely before she could reach the sanctuary of her condo.
And thus, her ice-queen act had been taken up like a fur trimmed cloak in the Regency era. And she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to shed it. To trust a man again. So she pushed them away before they could hurt her.
The building seemed lonely as she made her way up to her floor. Maybe I should get a pet or something, she thought. A cat. That’s it, she’d become a crazy cat lady until the crew of Hoarders infiltrated her domain. Too bad she was allergic.
If all her dates were going to crash and burn like the last two, a furry friend might be better company than any lumpish homo sapiens with a Y chromosome. Eloise sighed as she turned her key in the lock. Yeah, keep telling yourself that, sister; like you wouldn’t want the hunky Beantown Bard in your bed right now, his gorgeous face between your thighs. But not enough to take the risk to earn the reward.
She gazed around her open-concept living space, immaculately clean and tastefully furnished. Downtown Rochester twinkled in the distance through the large south-facing windows of her corner unit. She’d chosen it for the greater square footage and optimum light conditions for her botanical menagerie. Greenery filled every available space not occupied by functional, chic furniture and accessories. A giant Ficus she’d reared from a seedling commanded an entire corner of the living room, and all around it a veritable conservatory of houseplants popular throughout the last few decades, from African violets to Yucca palms. Unlike men, plants didn’t trash-talk or have egos. No wonder she loved them so much. On second thought, even a dog or cat would be too much extra work, and she had enough to handle between her job and the personal rainforest she saw in front of her.
Discreetly placed behind the Ficus sat a small tank of distilled water that connected to an elaborate misting system. Clear tubing snaked through the jungle of plants in the room and circulated the water in appropriate amounts to each specimen. Eloise filled the tank as she did every night. If only other things in her life were as simple. She sighed as she donned her favorite lacy nightgown and slipped into bed, jotting a few notes in her daytimer for the morning. Perhaps Coleman Arthur Fiorino the Original would behave more to her liking in her dreams than he had in the flesh.
***
Frustrated, but determined to make things right for everybody and show the local people how Murphy’s wouldn’t take away from the community, only enhance it, Eloise decided to host a Town Hall meeting in spite of Sheehan’s objections. She’d beg forgiveness instead of asking permission.
“I think the team training room’s our best option,” Eloise said as she and Kylie huddled over their notes and planners at the round meeting table in her office.
“You’re right,” Kylie agreed. “There’s already chairs, tables and AV systems in there, and it’s not in use most nights.”
“Plus it’s five thousand square feet of space,” Eloise added, tapping her ballpoint pen against her leather planner. “Should be plenty of room for everyone. Let’s just hope the residents show up.”
“They’ll show up,” Kylie said with authority, jogging her stack of papers into a neat pile. “Your Riot for Rochester campaign theme is brilliant.”
“Thanks,” Eloise said. The Riot for Rochester name had come to her after her argument with Kristoff and his reference to the angry villagers wielding flaming torches from old horror movies. The play on words encompassed both ideas of the team supporting the city and the fans supporting the team; the underlying connotation of rioting citizens being tongue-in-cheek. “Let’s get Kristoff’s team working on signage, and flyers inviting the local business people. Can you line up a team of interns to deliver them in the neighborhood?”