Misadventures on the Night Shift

  Misadventures on the Night Shift

  Lauren Rowe

  This book is an original publication of Waterhouse Press.

  * * *

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Copyright © 2017 Waterhouse Press, LLC

  Cover Design by Waterhouse Press

  Cover photographs: Shutterstock

  * * *

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  This book is dedicated to those of us with blue skin.

  May we always find the courage not to hide it.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Don’t miss any Misadventures!

  Chapter One

  More Misadventures

  Acknowledgments

  About Lauren Rowe

  Chapter One

  “Holy shit,” Danica whispers, staring at something on her phone at the other end of the check-in counter. “Abby, you’ve got to see this.”

  I don’t look up from my textbook, as usual. No offense to my darling Danica Reynolds and her never-ending search for porny distractions at work, but I don’t have time to gawk at man meat right now, especially not when we’ve finally reached The Dead Zone portion of our shift, the much-appreciated two- to three-hour window when nothing ever happens and I can finally study without interruption.

  “Abby,” Danica persists. “You’ve got to see this.”

  “Babe, I’ve got to get through this reading assignment before starting on the checkout folios.”

  “Bah, studying can wait. I’m looking at Lucas Ford over here.”

  My head jerks up from my textbook like a golden retriever whose owner just threw a stick. If there’s one man on the planet who could lure me away from studying about wrongful termination under the Civil Rights Act of 1964, it’s the sexiest rock star on the planet. The man whose face decorated my teenage walls ten years ago. Lucas Ford.

  But, no, I really shouldn’t take a peek.

  I look back down at my book.

  Being able to get some solid studying done at work was the sole reason I agreed to be assigned to the God-awful night shift at this hotel in the first place, and I can’t afford to waste optimal study time gawking at men, even if the man in question happens to be my teenage fantasy. Okay, yeah, my fifteen-year-old self is punching me in the proverbial balls right now for not taking a peek at the photo on Danica’s phone, but the stressed-out twenty-four-year-old I’ve become has bigger fish to fry than giving my inner teenager a lady-boner. “I’ve got to study,” I mutter, continuing to look down at my textbook.

  “You’re such a prude.” Danica chastises me, but her tone is affectionate. “Live a little for once, Abby. Take a walk on the wild side.”

  I smirk to myself. Oh, Danica. I love her and I know she loves me. But she only knows the version of me who’s worked here for the past two years. If she’d known me five years ago when I was a human grenade, she’d never in a million years dream of telling me to walk on the wild side.

  “Lucas Ford is playing tomorrow night at the arena,” Danica says, still staring at her phone. “The show’s sold out but I bet you could score tickets online. He’s one of your favorites, right?”

  “Yeah. I’d love to go, but I’m working tomorrow night. Aren’t you off tomorrow night? You should go.”

  “No, I picked up an extra shift from Tammy. I’m still trying to save up to help my mom.” She sighs. “I’m bummed. I’ve never seen Lucas Ford in concert. It’s definitely on my bucket list.”

  “Oh, he’s phenomenal. I saw him nine or ten years ago, right when ‘Shattered Hearts’ first came out, and he absolutely slayed it. The minute he started playing the opening guitar riff, I burst into tears, even before he started singing.”

  “Ha! I would have done exactly the same thing back then. Actually, I’d probably burst into tears today. That’s still my all-time favorite song.”

  “Mine, too.”

  She snickers. “I lost my virginity to it.”

  “Really? Did you choose the song or did the guy?”

  “The guy, but only because he knew I loved it. It would have been a fantastic memory for me if only he’d lasted past the first chorus.”

  We both guffaw at that.

  Of course, if I were a normal girl who chatted breezily with her girlfriends about sex, now would probably be the perfect moment to tell Danica about how I gave myself my first orgasm at the tender age of fifteen while listening to “Shattered Hearts” and staring longingly at its creator’s twenty-year-old face on my bedroom wall. But, of course, since I’m not a normal girl, I’ve set certain non-negotiable rules for myself to keep my life on track. And one of those is never to talk about sex at work. Not even with Danica. Which means I keep my mouth firmly shut.

  I look down at my textbook again and try to concentrate, but Danica’s loud snickering as she stares at her phone is awfully hard to ignore. I look at her again and sigh. “Are you still looking at that same photo of Lucas Ford or have you moved on to Jamie Dornan or Charlie Hunnam now?”

  “I’m still looking at Lucas Ford. And it’s not his photo. It’s a video.” She smiles broadly. “A sex tape, actually.”

  My eyebrows shoot up.

  “It got leaked tonight,” Danica continues, barely containing a giggle. “And lemme just say, all those rumors about Lucas Ford having an extremely large package? They’re all true.”

  I feel color rise in my cheeks. I look around to confirm nobody’s entering the empty lobby at this particular moment. “You can see his dick in the video?” I whisper.

  “Every inch. At the beginning of the sex tape, Lucas walks right in front of the camera, completely naked, like he’s a peacock showing off, and you can see everything—dick, balls, tattoos, his eight-pack. The whole nine yards. And then, two seconds later, he starts screwing his girlfriend from behind and you can totally see his hard-on sliding in and out of her and his balls swinging. Good stuff.”

  My cheeks are flooding with heat. And so is my crotch.

  Danica smiles slyly. “Come see the show, Abby…if you dare.”

  I shouldn’t do it. How many times did Dr. Carlson warn me off watchi
ng porn back in the day? “It’s a trigger for you, Abby,” she always used to say. “And you need to avoid triggers at all costs.”

  “Holy hell,” Danica says. “That’s a beautiful dick.”

  I bite my lip. Maybe I should make an exception to my rules, just this once. I haven’t had a problem in years and I’m a grown-ass woman now, not a teenager with zero impulse control. Surely, one little peek at my favorite rock star bonin’ his girlfriend in a video isn’t going to send me spiraling into the hinterlands of hell.

  I close my textbook and lurch down the short length of the check-in counter until I’m literally draped over Danica’s shoulder, looking at her phone. “Start it from the beginning, baby.”

  Danica squeals, obviously enthralled at my uncharacteristic willingness to partake in her favorite pastime, and she quickly restarts the video.

  And…I’m…instantly enthralled by what I see.

  “Holy moly,” I whisper. “That’s quite a dick.”

  Danica giggles. “Told ya.”

  “He’s absolutely beautiful.”

  Mr. Rock Star is standing before the camera, naked and fully erect, every square inch of him on glorious display from head to toe, while a buxom blonde bends over what looks like a hotel bed behind him, her thighs spread, her fingers unmistakably working herself between her legs.

  After pumping on his hard dick a few times, Lucas strides to the blonde, his muscles taut, and takes over the job of fingering her.

  A half-minute later, the woman cries out from apparent pleasure, which prompts Lucas to fist her blond hair, slide that massive dick of his inside her, and begin screwing her to within an inch of her life.

  “Whoa,” I whisper.

  “No smoke and mirrors here, folks,” Danica whispers back. “This is definitely not a simulation.”

  I clutch my chest. My heart’s beating so hard, I feel like I’m going to pass out. “He’s…” But I don’t finish my sentence. Gorgeous? Spectacular? A fantasy come to life? Any of these descriptors would be accurate, but none of them would do him justice.

  “He’s a beast,” Danica says, finishing my sentence for me. “Look how hard he’s pulling on her hair. Good lord.”

  “I don’t think she minds,” I whisper back, my heart and clit pounding in equal measure.

  “Lucky bitch,” Danica whispers. “I’d pay my life savings to have that man fuck me like that.”

  “Your life savings amounts to about three dollars and eighty-seven cents,” I whisper, my eyes still trained on the video.

  “Yeah, and Lucas Ford can have it all!”

  We both giggle.

  “Jesus, he’s fucking the living hell out of her, isn’t he?” Danica says. “Lucky, lucky bitch.”

  “Yeah, she definitely seems…” I say, but I trail off again mid-sentence, too distracted by what’s happening onscreen. Namely, while still screwing the blonde, Lucas Ford has just turned his head and is looking straight at the camera…and he’s not looking away.

  Hot damn, he’s giving me goose bumps with that unwavering stare of his. Of course, intellectually, I know Lucas and the blonde are alone in that hotel room and he’s staring at nothing but a mounted camera, but it sure feels like he’s staring right at his audience, getting off on the idea of people watching him. And, honestly, that’s a massive turn-on to me.

  “Happy,” Danica says.

  “Huh?” I reply, my clit throbbing.

  “She definitely seems happy,” Danica says, finishing my last sentence.

  “Oh. Yeah.” I clear my throat. “She sure does.”

  “She’s a real bitch for leaking the video.” Danica sniffs. “I heard she got paid a million bucks by some tabloid. Bitch.”

  I mumble something incoherent, too entranced to speak. Surely, this precise image is the one I’ll call to mind every time I touch myself for the rest of my life. Lucas Ford’s piercing dark eyes staring into mine as his massive glistening cock slides in and out of another woman’s pussy, his fist buried in her hair, his beautiful muscles tensing and releasing with each beastly thrust.

  “He’s so hot,” Danica breathes.

  I nod my agreement but remain mute. Lucas is about to come in the video—I can feel it—and I don’t want to be chatting casually with Danica when he does. No, when Lucas experiences euphoria, I want to be able to give him my undivided attention. Because as turned on as I’m feeling right now, I’m going to come right along with him.

  “Oh, fuck,” Lucas suddenly blurts in the video. He pulls out of the blonde, spins her around, and pushes her roughly onto the bed, a maneuver that makes her very large breasts jiggle wildly.

  I lean into the screen, holding my breath, my lower abdomen tight and aching for release, and watch as Lucas grabs his massive, straining cock like a fire hose, glowers over the woman’s torso, and—

  The video abruptly ends.

  “No!” Danica stage-whispers, taking the word right out of my mouth. She taps on her screen violently, obviously thinking there’s been some kind of glitch. But, nope, the video’s over. “Damn it!” Danica says. “We don’t get to see Lucas Ford’s happy ending? Talk about lady-blue-balls.” She laughs.

  But I can’t laugh with Danica. Hell no. An aching, throbbing, unrelieved clit isn’t what I’d call a comedic situation. “Excuse me,” I say curtly, striding around the front desk and beelining toward the restrooms on the far side of the lobby.

  “Aw, why you always got to be such a prude, Abigail Medford?” she calls after me playfully as I stride away. “You can’t watch a sex tape once in your life without feeling guilty about it?” She laughs. “Poor, poor Abby. Always thinks she’s going to hell.”

  Without replying to Danica, I enter the restrooms, head straight into a stall, pull down my panties, and finger my aching, swollen clit until I come. And I do, hard, in all of about twelve seconds flat.

  Chapter Two

  “Yes, sir,” Danica says next to me at the check-in counter, talking on the phone with one of the guests. “I understand, sir. We’ll handle it.” She hangs up and rolls her eyes. “Another noise complaint from Mr. Anthony in seven oh one.”

  “Sucks to be you,” I say, not looking up from the folios I’m preparing for the morning’s checkouts.

  “I’ll finish up the folios if you handle the noise complaint this time,” Danica says. “I chased down all the noise complaints last night.”

  “Oh, no you didn’t, you liar. I handled three right before we watched the Lucas Ford porno, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s right. Shoot.”

  “Your turn tonight, babycakes. Have fun.”

  “Okay, okay.” Danica begins moving around the front desk. “Speaking of the rock star with the gigantic cock, did you hear? It’s all over the internet. Lucas Ford had some sort of meltdown at his concert tonight. He flipped off the audience and marched offstage, mid-set, even before playing ‘Shattered Hearts.’ Apparently, he left his band standing there, like, ‘Wha…?’ I feel sorry for anyone who bought a ticket.”

  “No, I didn’t see that. And you know why? Because, unlike you, I’ve been working all night. Off you go, babe. Say hi to Mr. Seven Oh One for me.”

  Danica waves dismissively. “Yeah, yeah.” She strides across the lobby toward the elevator bank, flipping her dark hair and swinging her hips as she goes.

  I look down at my work again, but before I can get too far into it, the outside line rings. “The Rockford Hotel,” I say, pressing the phone into my ear. “How may I help you?”

  “Do you have a penthouse suite available tonight?” a nerdy male voice asks. “I need it for about a week. It’s for a high-profile individual.”

  I’m not surprised by the high-profile individual thing. We get that a lot at The Rockford, even at this Denver location, although surely our Los Angeles and New York sister locations attract celebrity guests far more often. “One moment, please. I’ll check availability.” I clack on my keyboard. “Yes, sir, I’ve got Penthouse A available. It’
s a non-smoking suite. Will that work for your client?”

  “That’s fine.”

  I describe the basics of the suite and the nightly rate, half expecting the caller to balk when confronted with the outlandish price tag, but nope, he doesn’t flinch. “We’ll take it,” he says without hesitation. “Be there in two minutes.”

  “Certainly. May I have a name and credit card number to hold the suite, sir? Sir?”

  But the line is dead.

  Damn. It’s against company policy for me to hold a room without a name and credit card number. And unfortunately, as I well know after two years of working here, the phrase “be there in two minutes” could mean anything from two minutes to ten hours to not showing up at all. But before I can get too worked up about the situation, a guy whose physical appearance precisely matches the nerdy voice on the phone walks across the lobby and heads straight to the front desk with none other than… Gah! Lucas Ford in tow.

  Oh my effing God. Lucas Freaking Ford!

  I can barely breathe.

  My teenage fantasy is now a full-grown man dressed in dark ripped jeans and a tight black T-shirt, an ensemble that perfectly flatters his broad shoulders and muscled physique. His dark hair is tousled like he gives no fucks. And yet, somehow, he looks like he totally meant to do that. The tattoos on his arms are intricate and bold. His cheekbones are striking and his lips kissable. And most heart-stopping of all, his dark eyes—the ones I used to stare into as a teenager while imagining he was my boyfriend doing all manner of naughty things to me—are filled with soul and passion like nothing I’ve… Oh. Wait. Scratch that. Much to my surprise, Lucas Ford’s eyes aren’t filled with his signature fire tonight. They’re blank and lifeless. What the heck? Whenever I’ve seen Lucas Ford in music videos and doing TV interviews—and especially when I went to his concert so many years ago and beheld his stunning face on a jumbo screen—the unmistakable passion in his eyes was by far his most striking feature.