PosterBoyForAverage Page 13

  He grinned. “I grew up with a mother and three sisters. Every day after school that’s all that was on for hours. The soaps. And then…”

  “And then?” she laughed.

  “Oprah came on!” he groaned.

  “You poor thing.”

  She frowned then, the rush from their lovemaking leaving her. “But if you’re honest, our soap-opera moment didn’t change anything, did it? You still think you’re bad for me. That giving this a shot, whatever the fuck this is, would be a mistake.”

  He didn’t have to answer. His expression said it all.

  She stood, found her pants even as she wrestled her giant sweatshirt over her head. Her hair tickled along her jaw and irritated her. “Right. Well, I have to get going. Plane to catch and all that jazz. I just wanted you to know I’d be gone about four days so if you see any strange people—”

  “Aubrey.”

  She held her hand up to silence him. “If anyone’s coming out of my house with my shit, then you know to call the cops, please. The only people you might see are Bradlee and Laura. Beyond that, call the cops.”

  “Aubrey—” He reached out to snag her wrist but she was ready for him and dodged it.

  “Thanks for keeping an eye out. Take care. I’ll talk to you about the December thing when I get back.

  She was out the door before he could say anything else. Her eyes were blurred with tears as she got ready. Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get on that plane and get the fuck out of Baltimore.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Part of the itinerary Gail had e-mailed her included the airport shuttle service. Two hours before her flight was due to leave, the airport shuttle showed up.

  “Shuttle my ass,” Aubrey said, grabbing her two bags. She’d already kissed Bruce, given him a bone and assured him that Bradlee would be along to get him soon. “That’s a minivan.”

  She felt as if Mike was watching her as she loaded her stuff. But then again, she was pretty sure she wished he were watching. Chances were good that he just thought she was crazy. And she knew he was.

  “So we’re even.”

  “Pardon?” her driver said. He glanced at her in the rearview mirror, bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows raised.

  “Nothing. Sorry. Thinking out loud. Talking to myself,” she said to Don. That’s what his tag and information posted on the dashboard said. Don Tennyson.

  “You know what my mother used to say,” he said, taking a left onto Belair Road. “As long as you don’t answer yourself.”

  “Well, hell,” she laughed. “I do that too.”

  Don shrugged. “Me too. Where you off to?”

  “Key West.”

  “Business or pleasure?” He took a left to get to the beltway exit and then they were on the cloverleaf. The constant turning to get from exit to beltway always turned Aubrey’s stomach upside down.

  “Business.”

  “Too bad.” Finally the car was leveled straight down 695. “But you can always find a way to wedge some pleasure in there,” he said good-naturedly.

  “I can try.”

  She thought of Mike. Bare and warm and hard beneath her fingertips. She remembered the feel of his breath on her skin, his lips on her lips, his cock parting and then filling her. Aubrey felt the heat bloom in her cheeks. When her eyes refocused she found Don, who was roughly the age of her father, watching her with an amused expression on his face.

  “Yes, you can try,” he said. Aubrey could tell he was trying not to laugh and that made her blush harder.

  They made little to no small talk after that. Him asking about her photographs, her asking about his family prominently displayed on the dashboard. She found out he had a wife of thirty years named Millie, a son her age named Dave, a daughter a bit older named Mary and a dog named Duke. Which reminded Aubrey that she hadn’t checked in with her Duke in ages. He’d love to know about the drama and steam that seemed to be her and Mike Sykes.

  She let her mind check out a bit once he dropped her at BWI. Easier-to-handle lines, issues and TSA agents with her mind half on a rumpled sofa with a handsome, sexy man, the other half in the sun in Key West shooting pictures of young studs. Before she knew it, she and her faraway mind were settled in a cramped business-class seat next to an older woman reading a romance novel.

  Aubrey glanced at the cover, realized it was hers but said nothing. In her mind she couldn’t help but realize it would look better with Mike on it.

  When the plane took off she gripped the seat arms so tight her knuckles went white. The woman never looked up from her book but she patted Aubrey’s hand. “It’s okay, honey. We’ll be fine.”

  Aubrey smiled. “I never do well with takeoffs and landings. In the air, I’m aces. So don’t worry.”

  The woman licked her finger and turned the page. One eyebrow went up, her mouth twisted in a smile. Then as an afterthought she said, “Oh I’m not worried. We’re up now. You can relax.”

  Aubrey shut her eyes and tried to do just that. Her eyes flew open just as she was about to come. At least in her dream she was. She gasped but luckily they were landing, the plane’s wheels hitting the runway with a bump and a skitter. Her seatmate assumed her gasp was due to her skittish landing syndrome. Only Aubrey knew that it was due to a particularly filthy dream featuring the man she’d just flown away from.

  She ran a shaking hand through her hair. The woman saw the tremor and patted her. She rummaged in her gigantic purse, pulled out a roll of chewy fruit candies and put them in Aubrey’s hand. “Some sugar will reboot you just fine, honey.”

  Aubrey was still eating them when she took her carry-on to the luggage area to find her other bag. She found it with no issue and then went to find out about her rental car. If she could find her way to the hotel, she’d be golden. She’d drop herself into a hot bath, order room service—some wine even—and then sit on the deck to take in the evening sky. She wasn’t supposed to meet with her first group of models until the morning. Some R and R was just what she needed.

  * * * * *

  She groped around to find the thing to make the noise stop. Aubrey groaned loudly and even that hurt her head. What the fuck had she had to drink the night before? Oh yeah, the entire bottle of wine she’d walked down to the corner liquor store to purchase.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered even as she blindly hit the screen to accept the call.

  “Are you calling me that or yourself?” said the voice.

  “I…what?” Aubrey’s mind scrambled to try to supply the name of the person calling. It was right on the tip of her tongue. And for a very good reason. A reason she couldn’t quite recall even though it was on the tip of her brain.

  “Aubrey, where are you?” The voice was whispering now. Urgently.

  “I’m in…I’m in Key West,” she managed, confused by the question but alarmed by the way it was delivered and the fact that she should know this voice and yet could not place it. She raised her head and pain shot from scalp to forehead to jaw to neck. She groaned again.

  “Aubrey, do you know who this is?” Exasperation.

  Panic flared through Aubrey but she couldn’t lie. Instead, a beleaguered laugh shook her head painfully. “I have to admit, I know I should know but—”

  “It’s Gail,” said the now-annoyed voice. “The Gail from Checkered Horse who sent you there to work.”

  Aubrey sat straight up then, stifling the groan of pain that wanted to pop out of her mouth. She bit her lip, winced at that fresh kind of pain. “Oh shit. Oh shit, Gail…what time—”

  “You’re late. One of the models called to see if this call had been a joke or something. I had to tell them your flight had been delayed and there were snafus and maybe you were under the weather.”

  “Shit, shit, shit,” Aubrey said. She’d resorted to that, she saw as she sat up and ran a hand through her hair. “I’ll be there in—” She froze. “Wait, where are they?”

  “They’re down in the lobby of your hotel. We’ve se
t it up so that models will be meeting you there every day. So I suggest, if you can manage it, you get down to the lobby pronto.”

  “I will. I will. My God, I’m so sorry, Gail. I’ve never ever done anything like this before. I just—”

  Gail sighed and the sound made Aubrey’s blood run cold. But instead of more scolding she said, “I understand. You seemed to have a lot on your mind when you were here. We’re all entitled to a personal life and personal drama. But just once!”

  “Yes! Just once. Lesson learned. I’m going to throw on some shorts and sandals and get down to the men,” Aubrey said, grateful for a legitimate excuse to get off the phone.

  “I’ll call down and tell them to expect you shortly and to have a coffee at the hotel’s bar on us.”

  “Yes. Thank you, Gail. Thank you. And I am so, so—”

  “Save it, Aubrey,” Gail said. “Just take me some fierce pictures.”

  Aubrey chuckled even though it hurt her head. “No worries. I can do that.”

  She twisted her hair up in a messy knot, brushed her teeth, brushed on some bronzer and lip gloss. The entire time she hunted for clothes and cameras she muttered, “I’m late, I’m late…” like the March Hare. But she felt more like the Mad Hatter.

  While coffee brewed in the teeny tiny complimentary pot in her room she scrounged for clothes. Denim shorts, a blousy cool bohemian top, gold sandals and her camera bag, a hastily doctored cup of joe and she was out the door, locking up behind her. Her first order after meeting the models was to grab a damn latte and a whole bottle of aspirin. Her head pounded and she cursed the lovely red wine she’d been praising the night before.

  Aubrey realized that her quiet night of shutting down—no social media, no e-mails, not texts and no phones—had been more harm than good. She’d managed to drink a bottle of wine, watch lovers walk along the beach and feel sorry for herself. Then she’d managed to settle down with a well-worn copy of Summer of Night by Dan Simmons and scare the bejesus out of herself.

  Now she stepped out of the elevator, still feeling its weird rocking sway, and tried to locate her men. Wasn’t too hard considering there were four young, buff guys in the lobby, clutching coffee cups with facial expressions that ranged from bored to annoyed.

  Aubrey brushed her hair back from her eyes, straightened her shoulders and took a deep breath. She was in charge. She was the boss. Best to force herself to look the part. No matter how shitty she felt.

  She managed to find the folded-up list she’d printed from Gail’s e-mail in her leather satchel and cleared her throat. They all continued to stare at her, looking a bit confused. “Tyler May, Daniel Rice, Cyrus Green and James Simpson?”

  They all stood, looking easily gorgeous despite the annoyance of having to wait. “Good,” she said. “Now who’s Tyler?”

  He raised his hand. Tyler was blond, buff and corn-fed. He tossed his coffee in the nearby trash bin and shoved his hands in his navy-blue-pinstriped surfer-boy shorts.

  “I’m Tyler.” He spoke strongly. So a bit alpha. Good.

  “You’re my Mr. January. Can you come stand by me, please?” Aubrey was impressed with the steel in her voice. She really wanted to whisper and then lie down on the lobby sofa and curl up and wait to die. Instead she said, “Where’s Daniel?”

  Daniel raised a finger and waggled it at her. He even managed a small unsure smile. Oh he was a beauty, Aubrey thought. Sun-kissed skin, sharp blue eyes surrounded by a fringe of dark, dark lashes. His hair bordered on black, but not quite. His body was lean, muscles built from time outdoors, not a regular workout routine. His pale-blue swim trunks hovered low on lean hips and the t-shirt he wore looked as if he’d had it forever. Overall, the effect was beach perfection.

  “Right. Hello, Mr. February. Come stand over here. I’m Aubrey, I’m your photographer.”

  She swigged her coffee and willed it to give her a caffeine boost. She just needed to make it through the next few hours and then she could crawl back into the hotel’s comfy bed and cover her head.

  “Now…Cyrus.” She turned her eyes to her two remaining men and the one with bottomless brown eyes and a nice dusting of stubble on his chin stepped forward. The way he carried himself said military to her.

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Oh yeah. Military.

  “Marine?” she asked. Her brother-in-law was a Marine. She knew a jarhead when she saw one.

  “Yes ma’am. How did you know?”

  “My sister’s husband,” she said.

  She studied his still-close-cut hair and smiled. “You are Mr. March. Wow, that’s appropriate, eh? Bet you know your way around a march.”

  He chuckled. “Yes ma’am.” He stepped into line and she turned her eyes to James Simpson. His pale hair was so blond it looked almost white, his eyes the sharp crystalline color of polished emeralds. How fucking cliché. But it was true, so she simply smiled at him.

  “That leaves you, James, as Mr. April. How do you feel about a bunny tail?”

  He made a startled sound and she couldn’t help but laugh at him good-naturedly. “Sorry, sorry. I’m only kidding. None of that shtick around here. No worries.”

  Aubrey downed some more coffee and said, “I have a rental van. Anyone know where this is?” She handed them a paper with an address on it.

  “I do,” Cyrus the Marine said.

  “Good. You drive. I’ll ride shotgun. That will give me time to shake this off,” she muttered.

  “A bit of a hangover, ma’am?”

  She rolled her eyes. “If you must know, yes. And don’t call me ma’am. Please. It makes me feel old. And being on the cusp of death makes me feel old enough as it is.”

  He grinned at her. “Yes ma—” Then he cocked his head.

  “Aubrey,” she supplied. “Aubrey is fine.”

  “Yes, Aubrey,” he amended.

  Together they went out to find her van.

  She figured she must look like the world’s strangest day-care provider. She and four buff young men climbing into the silver minivan that practically screamed soccer mom. She snorted, covered her face and then even though she could feel all four of them staring at her, took a swig of her coffee.

  “You know you have a GPS,” Cyrus said helpfully.

  “I do now,” she said as Cyrus put the van into gear. “I don’t have one at home. Never had. So I really don’t know what I have in this van. Other than Misters January through April. Off we go.”

  Cyrus backed out of the assigned hotel spot and followed directions. Before Aubrey knew it—despite the distraction of pastel houses and all kinds of human wildlife—he’d found the location.

  “Oh my,” Aubrey said.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?” Cyrus said.

  “Beyond. I’m not really a heat and sand and waves kind of girl. Not much anyway. But even I could get used to this.”

  “Do we have props?” Mr. April asked.

  “Just you, beauties,” she said, smiling. “We have the beach and the sun and the trees and whatever else we can scrounge around here. There will be no makeup and no fussing and no hairdos.” She grinned in the rearview mirror at the young man. “This isn’t Sports Illustrated, James. This is Checkered Horse. Which means no budget but good experience. And hopefully some fun.”

  Her phone burbled just as they were all climbing out. She shielded the screen and saw Bradlee’s icon—a small witch. The text said Are you with buff men?

  Aubrey chuckled. “First shot. All of you stand by that tree and mug for my cell phone. Let’s make my sister jealous, shall we?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Day two was a bit smoother. She’d gotten her hot-guy legs under her with the first group of men. They’d all been good. Nice, funny, not hard to look at as her mother said, but Cyrus stood out. He would be one of the calendar stars—Aubrey had no doubt. His stern good looks had stood out nicely against the breathtaking Key West backdrop.

  The shot she absolutely knew Gail would end up choosing was the one
where Cyrus crouched on the deserted beach, sand like raw sugar beneath his feet, the florid Key West sunset in the background. Some of that sand had clung to his bronzed muscles and he’d given her a killer half-smile that triggered—even for her, a girl hung up on a guy miles and miles away—very dirty thoughts.

  Her phone rang just as she sat up. It was Gail. “Good morning. Look at me, not oversleeping. Sober as a judge even.”

  Gail laughed. “Yeah?”

  “You bet. I’m up. Getting ready to go down in a while and meet May through August. I hope they’re as wonderful as yesterday’s men. Every one of those guys were stone-cold naturals. The setting isn’t hurting either.”

  She laughed and despite the terrible brew she’d already encountered from its depths, she considered a packet of the horrible coffee made in the miniscule single-cup coffeepot. She set about making it, knowing she’d regret it but craving caffeine.

  “I got the pictures you e-mailed last night,” Gail said.

  Aubrey could hear the satisfaction in her voice. She grinned, shouldered the phone and took the plastic wrap off her coffee mug. “And?”

  “They’re wonderful! We knew they would be. But my goodness. The one…”

  “Let me guess. Soulful dark eyes, stubble, dusting of sand. Mr. March.”

  Gail made a desperate little sound that made Aubrey laugh outright. “Yes! Lordy-Lord. He is fun to look at. Almost but not quite as good as our Mr. December.”

  The mention of Mike made her stomach drop. The craving for coffee dissipated some. “Yeah. Well, we haven’t even seen today’s bunch. The owner chose all these men when she was down here on vacation?”

  Good to change the subject. No talking about Mike. But the damage was done. Aubrey felt the sinking sadness in the pit of her stomach. Felt the rise of heat to her cheeks when her mind automatically relived one or two or five of their steamier moments.

  “Yep. And she gave them all her card, got their numbers and told them she’d be in touch if she could pull this idea together. Most of them are locals or live close enough that we could afford to get you all there.”