Deborah Wiseman woke up in a strange hotel room. Sated and alone. Swearing softly to herself, she checked her messages. Thirty five new emails. And none of them from him. Why do I do this to myself? She wondered, and not for the first time It always ends up with me. Alone. In an improbably opulent setting. No more Alpha-Males, Deb. She sometimes called herself Deb in her head, to make herself relatable. It was important to be relatable, approachable, and likeable when you were the sort of beautiful that’s only for sleeping with like once and then swapping for another, shinier option. Like a sex-pog. Remember Pogs, Deb? She asked herself. The world was so much simpler then, collecting pogs instead of accolades, instead of heartbreaks.
She pulled her La Perla cami-knickers over her smooth porcelain skin. She put her expensive bra back on. Jackman had taken it off last night with his big wealthy hands. He’d promised her nothing with words, but everything with slick sex-moves. He made love like a power-ranger the night before a battle she mused. One of the good ones, like the red or the white ranger. Not that they should be sleeping with anyone the night before doing battle. They should conserve their energy. But still…
Orgasms always made Deborah nerdy in a specifically nostalgic way. It was why she only allowed herself several a year. The phone rang, cutting sharply through her erotic reverie.
“It’s Joseph, Deb. We gotta problem”.
Deborah ran her fingers through her expertly high-lighted hair and applied a slick of barely-there lip-gloss. She brushed the delicate traces of the night’s cocaine from her elegant credit card before inserting it back into the credit card pocket of her Prada wallet with a certain earthy finesse.
“Talk to me, Jo”. Her voice was calm, even. She could handle Jackman DuVall, and come out of it singed but still alive. She could handle anything.
“It’s Carbon, Deb. He’s not in his room. And one of his ’copters is missing from the ‘copter garage.”
Deborah sighed. Another day, another dollar.