Stuck-Up Suit(2)

This guy was wearing a fitted, pinstriped shirt that made it easy to figure out the sculpted silhouette beneath. His expensive-looking navy jacket was draped over his lap. The black pointy dress shoes on his large feet looked like they’d just been shined. He was totally one of those guys who let people shine his shoes at the airport while he avoided making eye contact with them. His most notable accessory, however, was the angry glare on his perfect face. He was off the phone call now, looking like someone just pissed in his Cheerios. A vein was popping out of his neck. He ran his hand through his dark hair in frustration. Yup. Switching to this car was definitely a good decision for the eye candy alone. The fact that he was so oblivious to everyone else around him made it easier to ogle him. He was f*cking hot when he was mad. Something told me he was always mad. He was like a lion—the type of species best admired from afar, whereby any actual contact could lead to irreparable harm.

His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing a massive and expensive watch on his right wrist. With that sourpuss expression, he stared off out the window as he fidgeted with the watch, twisting it back and forth. It looked like a nervous habit, which was ironic considering I was sure he made plenty of people nervous himself.

His phone rang again.

He picked it up. “What?”

His voice was the type of raspy baritone that always hit me straight between the legs. I was a sucker for a deep, sexy voice. It was rare that the voice actually matched the man, too.

Holding the phone in his right hand, he used his other hand to continue messing with the metal of his watch.

Clickety Click Click.

“He’s just going to have to wait,” he snarled.

“The answer is I’ll be there when I get there.”

“What part of that is unclear, Laura?”

“Your name is not Laura? What the hell is it then?”

“Then…Linda…tell him he can reschedule if he can’t wait.”

After he had hung up, he muttered something under his breath.

People like him fascinated me. They felt like they owned the world just because they’d been blessed by genetics or handed opportunities that put them in a higher financial bracket. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I bet his day consisted of nothing but self-serving activities. Expensive espresso, work, eating at high-end restaurants, loveless f*cking…repeat. Shoe shining and maybe racquetball somewhere in between.

I bet he was also selfish in bed. Not that I’d throw him out of bed—but still. I couldn’t say I’d ever been with anyone as powerful as this guy, so I wouldn’t know from experience how that translated into the bedroom. Most of the guys I’d dated had been starving artists, hipsters, or tree huggers. My life was far from Sex and the City. It was more like Sex and the Pity. Or Sex and the Shitty. I guess I wouldn’t mind playing Carrie to this guy’s Mr. Big for just one day, though. Or Mr. Big Prick in this case. Absof*ckinglutely.

One flaw in this little fantasy of mine: I was definitely not this dude’s type. He was probably into submissive high-society waifish blondes, not curvy Italian girls from Bensonhurst with snarky attitudes and multi-colored hair. My long, black tresses hung down to my ass. I looked like a cross between Elvira and Pocahontas with a big ass. The ends of my hair were dyed a different color every couple of weeks depending on my mood. This week was royal blue, which meant things were going pretty well with me. Red was when you’d have to stay out of my way.

My random thoughts were interrupted by the screech of the train coming to a halt. Suddenly, Mr. Big Prick got up, a cloud of expensive cologne saturating the air in his wake. Even his smell was obnoxiously sexy yet overbearing. He rushed out the doors, which closed behind him.

He was gone. That was it. Show over. Well, that was fun while it lasted.

My stop was next, so I walked over to the same door that he’d just exited. My foot hit something that felt like a hockey puck, prompting me to look down.

My heart started to beat faster. Mr. Big Prick had apparently left a piece of himself behind.

He dropped his phone.

His f*cking phone!

He’d flown out of the train so fast, it must have slipped out of his hand. I’d apparently been too busy admiring his juicy, trouser-hugged ass to notice. Picking the iPhone up, it felt hot in my hands. The case smelled of him. Wanting to sniff it closer to my nose, I restrained myself.

I covered my mouth and looked around. If my life were a TV show, the laugh track would have been inserted right about now. No one was looking at me. No one seemed to care that I had Mr. Fancy Pants’ phone.

What was I going to do with it?

Placing it inside my leopard-print purse, it felt like I was harboring a bomb as I made my way out of the station onto the sunny Manhattan sidewalk above. I could feel the phone vibrating with text notifications, and it rang at least once. I wasn’t ready to touch it again until I’d had my coffee.

After stopping at my regular street vendor, I sipped my cup of Joe as I walked the two blocks to work. On this particular day, I was running late, so I decided to forego uncovering Mr. Big Prick’s life until after lunchtime.

When I arrived at my desk, I took the phone out and realized the battery was in the red, so I connected it to my charger. My position as an assistant to a legendary advice columnist was certainly not my dream job, but it paid the bills. Ida Goldman was the owner of Ask Ida, a daily column that had been around for years. Ida had been trying to groom me lately, asking me to try my hand at writing some of the responses. Select write-ups were printed in the paper while answers to other submissions were posted on Ida’s website. Part of my job was to screen the questions that came in and decide which ones to pass along to my boss.