Press Release

8: Linen Press

When the marketing manager calls for lunch, I stand and stretch, finding the need to readjust my dick in my pants too. Damn. It's not from sitting too long either. It's from her presence. I just know it. And I do my best to pretend she's not there at all, but it's hard as fuck. Jeffrey asks if I'd like to head back to our suite, and I gaze at him, glassy-eyed.

"I'm good, Jeffrey. I need to move a bit. I think I'll either take a quick walk or jog or I'll head to the gym for a little while. We've got like an hour before the next series, right?" I ask, trying to come up with excuses for not sharing space with my best friend. We're usually so comfortable with each other that it feels weird to try to find excuses to not hang out with him. But right now, there's only one person whose company I want, and that's not going to happen. Not during a busy press junket. That would be career suicide.

"I'm going for a walk, Xavier," I hear her tell him, and her charge nods.

"Okay," he responds, "I'm going to take a nap. Where's Meg?"

Olivia glances around the room, "I'm sure she's here somewhere. Go to the suite. She'll be there."

Xavier, wearily nods, and I can tell that he's exhausted from playing nice. I get it. It's tiring being "on" all the time. But just when I'm about to share my sympathy with him, Xavier turns and glares at me, "I hope you'll let me answer my own questions this afternoon."

He stalks away, and I roll my eyes. Because truly, I had only interrupted him two or three (or five or six) times. But it doesn't matter. He is heading out, and I should too. Jeffrey has already left, intent on calling Glenne and checking on the kids.

I'm walking down the hall towards the elevators when she catches up with me. "Harry!" she whisper-yells, looking around for observers, "Where are you going?"

"To the gym," I bite out the words because suddenly I am angry at her. I can't explain why. We had agreed on a one night stand, and it really isn't fair for me to be upset that we hadn't experienced more time together.

"Why are you mad at me?" she asks, grabbing my arm.

Turning to her, I hiss, "You didn't even acknowledge me today!"

Taken aback, she just gazes at me, and the hurt look on her face makes me recalculate my thoughts. "Did you really expect me to greet my lover of one night with an exuberant hug and my legs around your waist, begging for more?"

I spy a reporter coming around the corner, so I reach for the nearest open door. It turns out it's the maid's closet, and I pull her in with me, closing the door behind us both. It's musty in the space, and I can smell cleaning agents. The shelves around us are filled with towels, small soaps, shampoos, and stacks of toilet paper. I have to shake my head at the absurdity of it. Not that it matters. This is where we are, so we might as well finish the conversation.

Continuing to whisper, I retort, "No! But I didn't expect the cold shoulder. Jesus Christ, woman, I was just buried up to the hilt in you not two weeks ago!"

She advances on me, "Do you seriously think I don't remember that? It was one of the best fucks I've had in ages!"

I stare at her, gaping. Really? One of the best fucks she's had in ages? I mean, I'm pretty proud of my performance, as I know I'm good in bed. I've had lots of practice. But to be someone's best fuck? That's goals.

My brain shifts, and I start to wonder if she was one of the best fucks I've ever had. Maybe. I certainly wanted her. And I'd left satisfied. But it had been years since I'd had a one-night stand. They were different from relationship sex. Different from booty calls. Maybe....? I don't know. It was a weird sensation. I've slept with my share of women, but most of them were just nice memories, and I am fine with that.