Dick Dynasty: Porter Part 7

I could feel my guard slipping more and more with each pa.s.sing minute and I couldn't find it in me to care. He truly seemed like a genuine, normal guy.

Who just happened to have s.e.x with beautiful women for a living.

He pushed the last bite of roasted duck into his mouth and sat back with a contented moan, "Delicious. The natural jus was the perfect touch."

And he's a foodie. Who would have thought?

"The Alaskan halibut was to die for as well," I glanced down at the half-eaten fish and wished there was more room in my stomach for it, "I should've skipped out on the tempura soft sh.e.l.l crab. I'm afraid I might rip a seam if I try to put anything else in my mouth."

There was a quick flush of red in his cheeks as the corners of his mouth quirked upward, but he schooled his expression quickly.

"Does that mean no dessert?"

I couldn't tell if he was joking or if he actually felt crushed by my inability to put anything else inside of me.

"By all means, help yourself! Surprisingly, I'm not in a rush to get out of here. I've really enjoyed your company tonight, Porter."

Something troubled flashed across his face for the briefest of moments before he cranked up the megawatt smile and picked up the dessert menu. I wasn't sure if I had imagined it or not, so I let it slide.

"These are all dude desserts," he complained, "I was hoping for something a little more feminine after dinner."

"What do you mean, 'dude desserts'?" I reached for the menu to see what he was talking about, "What did you have in mind?" My eyes quickly scanned the menu, judging the desserts fairly generic, before I looked back at him and froze.

"I was hoping for something along the lines of tiramisu," he reached forward and tenderly lifted my hand from the table, "it's so hard to find good lady fingers though." He placed a soft kiss on the very tip of my index finger, ma.s.saging the palm of my hand with his thumbs.

There were flashing red lights and sirens going off somewhere inside my head, but it felt like someone was holding a pillow over my brain and stifling my ability to reason.

"Exorcism!" I cried, yanking my hand back and picking up my purse.

The look of confusion on his face was both pathetic and comical all at once, but I couldn't risk being around him any longer. The leather seat was probably already soaked and I was convinced that my panties had climbed their way down my legs and rested somewhere around my ankles.

"Thank you for dinner, Porter," I said as I rose to my feet, "but I have to go now. I have a-" what did I have? "a thing."

Smooth.

I bolted before he even had a chance to say anything.

I slammed the door of my Audi and tore out of the parking lot like I had just planted a bomb in the women's bathroom. The two hundred and twenty horses under the hood carried me from zero to sixty in about seven seconds. It still wasn't fast enough. Nothing short of a jet engine could put enough s.p.a.ce between Porter Hale and my unwieldy s.e.x drive.

I could still feel my heart hammering in my chest as my brain recounted the way his lips had felt on my skin. The gentle brush of flesh on flesh had flooded my body with heat and sent my brain into short circuit mode. My face was flushed, my clothes felt too tight, and I was positive that my v.a.g.i.n.a would explode at any moment.

It wasn't until the red and blue lights flashed behind me and I heard the short quip of the police siren that my body came crashing down from the endorphin high I had been riding. I glanced down at the speedometer and swore as I put on my turn signal, let my foot off the gas pedal, and made my way over to the right hand shoulder of Wilshire Boulevard.

"Any idea how fast you were going, Miss?"

Sixty-eight.

"I'm not sure officer. I was just keeping up with the flow of traffic."

He raised an eyebrow at me and held out his hands for my license and registration. "What's the rush?"

My seventy-two year old grandmother fell down three flights of stairs and broke both hips.

"I'm running a bit late for a meeting downtown and let myself get carried away I guess."

"Stay put and turn off your car."

f.u.c.k.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and watched him as he climbed back into the driver's seat of his patrol car to run my registration.

With today's technology, I still can't figure out why the h.e.l.l that part of the ticketing process always takes so d.a.m.n long.

There's nothing worse than sitting on the side of the road with police lights flashing behind you and the rest of the world gawking like you're in a zoo. I always have the overwhelming urge to flip off the pa.s.sers-by as they slow down to rubberneck. Not every arrest in Beverly Hills is an Olsen twin DUI, after all.

A ma.s.sive black Land Rover pulled up along side me, travelling even slower than the rest of the cars that had pa.s.sed, before pulling up against the curb in front of me.

"You've got to be f.u.c.king kidding me," I couldn't believe someone had actually stopped. If it was a paparazzi looking for his next breaking story I was going to lose my s.h.i.t.

Then Porter Hale stepped out of the SUV and started toward my car.

There was a brief moment that I considered turning my car back on and gunning it. Vehicular Manslaughter is only a misdemeanor in most cases and, with a good lawyer, I probably wouldn't even get the maximum sentence of one year.

He walked right past my door and up to the police cruiser.

I watched the two of them in my side-view mirror as I crushed the steering wheel in an iron grip.

What the h.e.l.l does he think he's doing?

I waited for the cop to just pull out his gun and shoot him, but it never happened. Instead, he got out of the cruiser laughing and shook the son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h's hand!

It took every ounce of my willpower to stay seated in my vehicle. I wanted to storm back there in punch Porter right in his big, dumb mouth.

The two of them walked back toward my car like old friends and I tried my best to school my features back into the late-but-innocent look of panic I had managed to pull off when handing over my paperwork.

The officer handed me my license and registration with barely a glance in my direction.

"You make sure to keep her behind you the rest of the way to that meeting, Mister Ruff. Try to keep it under the speed limit."

They shook hands and Porter thanked him with a megawatt smile that would have set my panties on fire in any other setting.

"I just saved you a five hundred dollar ticket," he said from the side of his mouth as he waved to the officer, "You're buying dinner next time."

Porter turned and walked back to his Land Rover without so much as a backward glance.

He waited for the cop to drive off before pulling away from the curb and accelerating through the intersection. He made a left two blocks down the road and disappeared from my sight.

I sat there in shocked silence and stared into the distance after him.

Not only had he managed to smooth talk his way into getting me out of a ticket, but he'd also managed to nail down a second date, if I wasn't mistaken.

That b.a.s.t.a.r.d was smooth.

I shot off a text message to Becks and turned the ignition.

I needed a drink.

I pulled into my driveway as she pulled up to the curb out front.

"I hate you," I spat before she had even closed the door to her Prius.

"I guess I don't need to ask how it went then," she said with a smile, "Let me guess; He came onto you and you flipped out and froze."

Exactly!

"No! It wasn't like that at all!"

"Yes it was," she countered confidently, "Now you want to drink about it and tell me all about how much you hate him when, really, he got under your skin and you're dying to see him again."

"I hate you."

I unlocked the front door and gestured Becks inside with a sweep of my arm.

She lifted herself onto the tips of her toes as she pa.s.sed and planted a loud kiss on my cheek before bouncing off toward the kitchen.

I barely had time to drop my purse next to the couch and kick my stilettos off before she pounced on me like a starving lion. Wine in hand; she grilled me for every detail of my date with Porter.

I didn't spare her any of the details. Once my lips began to move, it was like I couldn't stop them. I could hear the words spilling from my mouth, but I had no control, even when they started bordering on p.o.r.nographic as I described the way my body responded to his touch.

Becks hung on my every word with a faraway, dreamy look on her face. You'd think I was telling her a story about a princess finally meeting her Prince Charming instead of a sordid tale of a first date gone wrong.

Her eyes focused and her mouth dropped open in surprise when I got to the part about being pulled over and him riding in to save the day.

"Are you serious?" she asked, "He just strolled up to the cop and started talking to him? I figured he'd be a little bit full of himself, but that's a bit more brazen than even I thought he'd be!"

"The man is convinced that his p.e.n.i.s can do anything! It's insane!"

Becks smiled into her gla.s.s as she took another sip of wine, "Have you seen that thing in action? I'm half-convinced his p.e.n.i.s can do anything, too!"

I rolled my eyes at her and downed the rest of my wine in one ma.s.sive gulp.

"No, Becks. I haven't seen it in action. To be honest, I don't really want to, either. It's bad enough he can look at me and set my panties on fire. I don't need to make it even worse by giving my imagination some gasoline to toss on the flames."

She lifted the bottle from the coffee table and refilled our gla.s.ses before saying, "I promise you, Holly. Whatever your imagination tells you about his prowess, it doesn't compare. Not even close."

"I don't care, Rebecca. Stop talking about it and drink your wine."

"You're doing yourself a disservice," she muttered into her merlot.

I huffed out an irritated sigh before shifting the focus away from Porter's thrusting hips and silver tongue.

"What the h.e.l.l did you and Mitch end up doing after you beat me to death with The Kit?"

"Mitch had a date, so he took off and I just went home," she leaned back against the arm of the couch and tucked her bare feet under my leg, "I was about three seconds away from attacking a pint of ice cream with a spoon when you called. My hips thank you for your timing."

"Oh, please," I lowered my brow and pinned her with a no-bulls.h.i.t stare, "You could lie on your back under a soft-serve machine for an hour and not gain a pound. A pint of ice cream would probably do you some good, you skinny little twig."

"You know how it is in this town better than anyone, Holly. Until I either marry Johnny Depp, or land myself a Meryl Streep-level role, I've gotta keep this waist as tiny as I possibly can. Casting directors don't put whales in leading roles."

"We did in Free w.i.l.l.y," I had to raise my gla.s.s to hide my grin "besides, Hollywood has become less about the glitz and the glamour and more about the actual acting."

"You're full of s.h.i.t. That may be true when it comes to the actual audition, but n.o.body gets in that door until you decide they look the part."

This was a conversation we'd had dozens of times before and it had a way of getting heated pretty quickly. I was half tempted to go back to talking about Porter just to avoid the fight.

"Becks, we both know that making it big in this s.h.i.t show is like winning the lottery. The only way to make it is to keep playing the game and hope that, eventually, someone takes notice."

"I know," she agreed, "it's just a pain in my a.s.s. I'm really tired of being the dumb girl in b-line horror flicks."

"But you're so good at it, honey!" I teased, "Your death scenes are always spectacular!"

"My death scenes are always CGI."

I burst out laughing before I could stop myself. The way she had said it just struck a chord with me and I couldn't help it. It was probably the wine. Luckily, it appeared to be doing its job with her, too. She added her quiet giggles to my own unrestrained laughter.

I swiped at the tears of laughter that had begun to form on my lashes and took a few deep breaths while I attempted to gather myself.

"So who's the flavor of the week that has caught Mitch's attention?" I knew my best friend wouldn't have let him out of her sight without a proper "interview", as she called them. The rest of us called them inquisitions.

"Some bartender he met on one of those gross dating apps. I'm willing to bet the guy just wants to hook up and never talk to him again. I keep telling him that the internet is not the way to meet guys, but he just doesn't listen. One of these days he's going to get chopped up into little tiny pieces and dumped in the ocean. There are some psychos out there, Holly. Like, Norman Bates status."

Becks was our resident pessimist when it came to relationships. n.o.body doubted that she would be the last man standing when it came time to take the trip to the altar.

She had gone buck-wild in our college days. The girl had been in more laps than a napkin. Unfortunately, she wasn't the type to think with her hormones. She always got her heart involved and I watched it break every time a one-night-stand never called her back.

When we graduated, she jumped on the chast.i.ty bandwagon and turned into a bit of a cynic. She dated, but never anything serious and, to my knowledge, never slept with any of them no matter how many dates they took her on. It was like she was testing them without letting them know that there were rules to follow. It was a game that her poor guys never even knew they were playing. Each time one of them got tired of her pulling away, she became more resolute in her belief than men are sc.u.m.

I never could figure out what she expected from them and I knew better than to ask. I always just a.s.sumed that she loved the thrill of being chased, but had no desire to actually let one catch her.

"Earth to Holly!" Becks snapped her fingers in front of my face, pulling my gaze from the swirling red of my wine.

"Huh?"

"You zoned out on me. Do you even know what I was talking about?"

"Um, yeah," I shook my head, "You were talking about Mitch's date."

"I was, yes. Ages ago. Did you miss my whole diatribe about Ryder's money shots?"