When a struggling Broadway talent agent reluctantly agrees to represent a male stripper, she finds out there's more to her new client than oiled abs.
Season 1 of Strip in the City
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Today might be the worst day of my life. I just lost my biggest c...
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The day following DeShauna's promotion, I took a rare day off. Instead of getting Sunday brunch or doing pilates, I did nothing. I spent time on my couch with Gatsby watching my favorite movies, then walked around the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It was a perfectly lovely day alone, which I needed after last week's string of humiliation.
I thought a lot about Tommy and the things he'd said and done to me during our relationship. I wanted my voice to be louder than his in my head. I also wanted to get better at accepting myself.
So, when I inevitably spilled iced coffee on my shirt or tripped walking up the marble stairs at the Met, I laughed it off. I still felt self-conscious, but it wasn't as overwhelming as it usually was.
The longer I practiced being comfortable with myself, the more I thought about my clients. I needed to show them more of myself and engage with them on a deeper level if I wanted to call myself a client-centered agent.
So, the next day, I decided to make calls to all three of my clients and asked them what kind of training they'd like to help their professional development.
One wanted to take an improv class. The other wanted to network with industry professionals. Both requests I was able to coordinate easily. Then there was West, who I decided to call last for some reason.
Gatsby jumped beside me on the couch and rubbed his face on my hand, purring loudly. I'd be lying if I said I hadn't thought about West yesterday, despite my best efforts. I wondered if he'd been to the Met or taken a walk through Central Park. Briefly, I'd wondered if he'd like to do those things... with me.
It was a stupid, indulgent thought. West was as tempting as a triple-dip cone topped with whipped cream. But, just like in real life, if I gave in and ate the ice cream cone, I'd pay for it with stomach issues for days.
I couldn't like West because he was a metaphorical ice cream, one I didn't have enough Gas-X for.
Later that night, I thought of West again when I slid into bed. Restless between the sheets, I took out my favorite toy and indulgently let the fantasy continue. One of his strong hands tangled in my long hair, the other braced against the mattress as he plunged deep inside me, over and over. Our warm lips and breath colliding as the pleasure intensified.
The memory had my cheeks heating like I'd drank too much wine again.
I hid my face behind a throw pillow and tried to smother West out of my brain. Replaying all my forbidden fantasies right before getting on the phone was not a good idea. Gatsby hopped off my lap, clearly annoyed I wasn't petting him anymore.
I grabbed my phone and stared at West's name. He was just a client, and this was just a courtesy call. My finger hovered over the call button for a moment before dialing his number. It rang only twice before he answered.
"Hey, Maren," West said in his deep voice, sounding sleepy, "happy Monday."
I rolled over on the couch and closed my eyes, trying to imagine what he was doing right now—likely laying in bed shirtless.
