You've Got Fail(2)

“I don’t know. Hey look. I have to go. Meeting with the president of the company later this morning.”

“Going to pitch him your idea?” I clicked through the rest of the photos from the gala, hoping to find another glimpse of the hot imposter.

“Yep.” Confidence rolled out of him, though I knew well enough to sense the trepidation lying beneath the surface.

I tried for a supportive tone, but it came out nasal thanks to the lingering flu. “He’s going to green-light you. Just wait. I’ve never heard a better idea for a, um, a…”

“It’s a dildo that squirts its own lube. The SquickyLube? Remember?”

My memory fired. “Yeah. A dildo on crack, right?”

“No, you’re thinking of my rear entry device with additional vibrating fingers. This is more of a smooth-talking dildo, eases right in.”

Have I mentioned that I met Elias through my blog? He worked for the largest manufacturer of personal pleasure items in the world, and served as the main advertising contact for me. Jizzlywinks ad dollars paid all the bills in Scarlet Rocket’s early days and still managed to provide me with some cushy side income.

“Right. SquickyLube. That sounds like a winner if I’ve ever heard one, and I can’t wait to see it in the banner ad on the site.”

“Thanks, man. I’ll text you later. And I’m proud of you for answering your phone, you fucking anti-social basket case.”

“Shut up.”

“Fuck you.” With his usual sign off, he hung up.

My eyes glazed over with a tired fuzz, but I forced myself to prioritize and get at least something done.

Fake Scarlet simmered away in my mind. I needed to find her and tell her to fuck right off. But how? I decided to let my subconscious chew on the problem while using my active brain to write a few blog posts.

I opened my most recent article-in-progress and skimmed through what I’d written pre-flu. “Analyzing Anal” looked pretty promising, so I continued where I’d left off.

“For this girl, the key to anal play, as with so many other worthwhile things, is preparation.”

My email notification went off. I moved to turn off all my alerts so I could focus on the complexities of anal delights, but I caught the subject line: “Ticket Confirmed.”

Ticket for what? I clicked on the email.

“Ms. Rocket, the Musee de Arts Sexe welcomes you to its second annual fundraising gala.” I scrolled down. The event was set for this Friday. Leaning back, I ran my hands through my messy hair and stared at the email. Fake Scarlet would be there. Fake Scarlet, who was running around town pretending to be me. Fake Scarlet, whose photos I may have glared at a little too long. Redheads were my kryptonite, but I couldn’t let that distract me.

My eyes narrowed. I’d worked for years to build my blog, and this imposter was schmoozing along on my hard work. Not cool. I had to do something. Beyond the principle of the thing, what if Fake Scarlet was a total numbnuts? What if she were giving my blog a bad rep? I couldn’t let that go on. In a few short years, my blog had become my life. Scarlet Rocket was a part of me, and I wasn’t going to let a sexy phony destroy the real Scarlet. (Who wasn’t actually real… Yeah, I know, but you followed what I was saying there.)

I opened a new email to the Musee de Arts Sexe. “Ms. Rocket would like to add a plus one to her ticket. Her date will be Willis Halloran.”





2





Fake Scarlet





The event was small, but it had enough cream puffs from the upper crust to be worth my while. I stopped at the door and flicked my long red hair over my shoulder as a small handful of photographers clicked away. The warm spring breeze ruffled my short skirt, and I soaked in the start of the social season.

“Scarlet Rocket.” I smiled at the doorman and peered past him into the gallery. People milled about, drinks in their hands and prattle on their lips.

“Welcome.” He checked my name off the guest list as I walked past.

A small bar was set up to the right. I skirted around a group of people and stood in line behind an older man in the middle of a drink order. Sizing him up, I figured he was some sort of a banker or an investment guy given the cut of his suit, the size of his money clip, and the few strands of silver in his hair. His shoes cost more than most people made in a month, and everything about him screamed “cash.”

I coughed into my palm, mainly for attention, and also to try and rid my lungs of his ridiculously strong cologne. He looked over his shoulder at me, taking in my low-cut black top, red skirt, and high stilettos with a practiced sweep of his gaze.

“Hi.” He smiled, his laser-whitened teeth dazzling even in the low gallery light. What would he go for? Extrovert sex kitten or shy schoolgirl? It was a toss-up, but I went for the latter.

Dropping my gaze to the floor, I peeked at him through my lashes. “Hi.”

His smile widened, and I knew I’d chosen correctly. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“It’s an open bar.” I nibbled my bottom lip. His eyes tracked the movement as I’d hoped.

“I mean after this.” He swiped two drinks from the barman, one of which I assumed was for his wife, given the gold band on his ring finger.

“I’m not sure I should.” I stepped forward and stumbled into him.