Chapter 3: The Morning After

Darrin groggily opened his eyes to sunlight. His head was throbbing in the strange, satin-sheeted bed as he blinked a few times. Where am I? His whole body ached, especially his head and back, which felt like it had been clawed by a wild animal.

Still not completely conscious with a terrible hangover, he felt around for clues as he lay. Brunette hair? He ran his fingers through it and . . . his fingers got stuck. He reflexively shook his hand only to find there was no head accompanying the hair.

"AAH!" he yelped, jolting upright in the king-sized bed, throwing the wig to the floor. He realized he was completely naked. "Where are my clothes?" He couldn't even find them on the carpet.

"No. NO. This cannot be happening. It's just a dream. A nightmare," Darrin panicked as he searched around for a clock, finally locating one on the ornate nightstand next to the bed. "11:45? Larry's gonna kill me!"

"Don't worry, darling," called a voice from the bathroom. "Your boss gave you the day off from work."

"What? What's going on?" Darrin wondered as his heart rate sped up.

A beautiful woman in a bathrobe who looked vaguely familiar stepped out.

"Oh, I think you know," Sheila teased, a towel wrapped around her head.

Darrin gulped. "I'm . . . slowly putting together the pieces," he groaned.

"Well, you see, we had a lot to drink, one thing led to another, and, well . . ." Sheila smiled devilishly.

"You seem awfully calm about all this."

"Oh, darling, I forgive you for your . . . indiscretions. But how could I not, after last night? You know, not many men could pull that off while drunk, but you performed marvelously. That was the most incredible night I've had in years."

Darrin couldn't believe what he was hearing. The adman covered his face with his hands. "I'm going to lose my job. Larry's going to kill me."

Sheila laughed a tinkling laugh. "On the contrary. I believe the term he used last night as we went upstairs was, 'you son-of-a-gun.' Anyway, he seemed pleased. So did Daddy. He just wants me to be happy. And I will be, once you do that again, you ravisher, you."

If it had been just a few decades later, Darrin may have been able to sue for sexual harassment, not to mention date rape. Unfortunately for him, it was still the 1960s.

Darrin felt stuck. Larry was "encouraging" him to be with Sheila for the sake of the company, and he didn't want to risk upsetting his employment status. But was he trading his integrity for a paycheck? Who would even want to work for a sleazeball like Tate? All while being with a woman he barely knew—although he apparently already knew her in the Biblical sense, which he couldn't exactly reverse.

On the other hand, it wasn't like Sheila resembled a troll or anything. So she wore a wig to cover up hair destroyed by decades of product overuse. She was still drop-dead gorgeous—not to mention filthy rich—and many men would kill to be in Darrin's position. Being ordered to take a day off from work to sleep with a beautiful woman—albeit a conniving bitch—might not be so bad.

Darrin swallowed. "I—I'm kind of hungry, actually."

Sheila shrugged. "All right. I suppose we must fuel the inner beast. You'll find a clean suit in the closet over there."

"What? Where's my tuxedo from last night?"

"Being dry-cleaned, darling. It was at the tailor's, where Jacques took your measurements and custom-made that new suit for you for this morning. It's hanging in the closet."

Darrin shook his head in disbelief. Who can afford a 24-hour personal tailor on call? Oh . . . right.

Sheila got dressed as Darrin attempted to take one dizzying step after another out of bed to the closet. And lo and behold, the suit fit perfectly.

"My, you look handsome," Sheila cooed, now attired in a light pink dress and with a new wig in place. "What shall I tell the cook you want for brunch?"

Darrin figured he might as well make the most of things and order his favorite breakfast. "Blueberry pancakes!" Perhaps they would make him feel better, too.

"Blueberry pancakes?" she sneered. "How about a croissant au buerre?"

"I guess that's okay," Darrin shrugged, slightly disappointed.

As they chatted some more at brunch (which, to Darrin's delight, was scrumptious), he couldn't help but notice the expressions of the servants as they walked by. Some chuckled to themselves, others rolled their eyes, and still more looked relieved that Sheila had finally found a new boy-toy to keep her occupied. Darrin noticed she was being much nicer to the staff today. Gradually his headache faded to a dull pulsing.

Once they finished eating, Sheila delicately patted her lips with a cloth napkin. "Well, Mr. Stephens. We have a lot of work to do today. Shall we get started?"

"Indeed," Darrin said. Despite his initial misgivings, there were certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon.


"DARRIN! YES! Yes, oh, don't stop!" screamed Sheila in bed, digging her nails into his back.

Darrin was screaming too, but more in pain than pleasure. He fought back hard with his thrusting, which made Sheila even wilder. She climaxed multiple times to Darrin's one, and he was sure her caterwauling could wake the dead.

Even after it was all over, Sheila would not unclench him. "I am not letting you go, darrrling," she panted.

Darrin, sweaty, spent, and exhausted, didn't have much of a choice. He grunted.

"Nope. Not until you tell me how you could possibly be so incredible." She hugged him tighter and nibbled his ear.

Except for his scarred back, Darrin did feel pretty good. Sheila was something else, all right.

"Well . . ." he began to explain in a worn-out voice, "apparently I have this talent for sensing what people want, and, uh . . . adjusting myself accordingly. It's helped me out in my career and . . . other things." He kissed her and she rolled on top of him, straddling him to run her long-nailed fingers down his chest. "That, and I box a little. Just to work out, you know," he attempted to say nonchalantly.

"I'm sure your skills have come in very handy . . . in your career," she purred. "You must be one of the youngest vice presidents on Madison Avenue."

"Vice president? Where'd you get that idea? I'm just a copywriter."

Sheila's mouth dropped open as she plopped down on his groin, causing Darrin to wince.

"You—you're not a vice president? But . . . Daddy only invites top executives to his parties. Why were you there?"

"I don't know. Larry invited me. I only just started with McMann and Tate."

"Ugh!" Sheila spat as she dismounted Darrin and knelt in the bed to face him. "What am I supposed to do? The staff, my friends, our social circle—they're all convinced I landed myself a top executive. What am I supposed to tell them? I had the night of my life with a copywriter?" She began to sob.

Darrin's face grew red. He thought he was rather successful for his age. Still, he hated to see a woman cry.

"Oh, don't cry," he hugged her gingerly, trying to console the poor little rich girl. "Larry says that in a few years, I might make account executive."

Sheila cried even harder. "That's still not vice president! But by the time you make that, you'll be just another one of those gray-haired louses Daddy always brings over!"

Darrin considered telling her that she'd be older too, but decided against it. Sheila sobbed some more into his chest. Eventually they subsided into sniffles, then stopped. Sheila looked up and moved away from him.

"Wait a minute. Maybe what they don't know won't hurt them," she began to scheme.

Darrin scooted up into a sitting position. "What?"

"Hmm. Tell me. How much money do you make?"

"Not much."

Sheila narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure Daddy can arrange something with your boss."

"No, Sheila. I want to earn my way up the business ladder myself." He was adamant.

"But Darrin—"

"No. It's a matter of pride."

Sheila scoffed. "All right, fine, if you want to do it the hard way. I suppose you wouldn't be averse to keeping up appearances, at least?"

Darrin stiffened. "What you you mean?"

"Oh, you know. A gold watch here, an Italian suit there. I'd buy them for you, of course. But they don't have to know that."

The copywriter shook his head. "I don't know, Sheila. This sort of rubs me the wrong way."

Sheila lowered her voice. "Darrin, let me make something crystal clear: I am not going to let you get away from me. Ever. Not after that. Now, do you want all the trappings of the jet set or not?"

He paused, weighing the consequences.

"Think about it, darling. We could be sunning ourselves on a private beach in California. Golfing with your brand-new set of clubs. Socializing with all the best families in the Hamptons every weekend," Miss Sommers illustrated. "You'd have everything you ever wanted with just a snap of your fingers."

Darrin paused again. His mind was racing. After all, he never had much growing up. They had enough to get by during the Depression, but many a Christmas would pass without Darrin getting the things he wanted most—a whistling yo-yo, an eight-bladed pocketknife . . .

"Come on, Darrin. Only a fool would pass this up." She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and gave him a short kiss.

Slowly, a smile began to creep across his face. "Okay."