by Lauren Runow
I rub my eyes with both hands and press the heels of my palms into the sockets. “I take it, you have advertisers lined up?”
“Not yet,” she says with disdain. Then, she proudly adds, “I have already commissioned the newspaper to start on the local scale. We have our best reporters on the scene to uncover the masterminds behind San Francisco’s street racing.”
I hold my hands up in a stop motion. “You have no right to do that. Bryce is the president of Print Publication, I’m the president of Digital Media—”
“And I’m twenty-five percent owner of the entire company,” she says with a gleeful smile.
The sour taste of her words burns in my mouth.
“Austin is right,” Bryce chimes in. “That is my division. I’ll talk to our editors and see who is the best to carry on the story.”
My eyes widen toward Bryce in a silent plea.
“I’ll do it,” a voice chimes in.
We all turn toward the wall where Pyle is. She looks like she’s startled by her own voice. It’s reminiscent of how she was acting when she was caught crossing the line the other night, causing the race to have a false start. She seems timid, but I know she’s as feisty as a tomcat.
“Who are you?” Missy asks. If she wasn’t permanently frozen with botulism, she’d be displaying lines across her forehead.
“My name is Jalynn.” She looks at me, realizing I’ve finally learned her name. “I might only be Bryce’s assistant, but I also have a degree in journalism. I know people in the San Francisco races. I mean, I’m no journalist … yet … but I can go and scout the scene, be a firsthand account, kind of undercover. Reporters will never get the name of the guys behind the races.”
Missy makes a clicking sound with her tongue. “But will an unsuspecting mouse like you be able to accomplish that?”
Jalynn’s face turns a light red at the insult. This is the girl I remember from this weekend. More like a rat than a mouse. Get this girl riled up, and she’ll give up names just to prove she’s right.
I lean across the desk. “I hate to take Missy’s side on this one because I hate Missy, but she’s right. You don’t belong at those races.”
Jalynn crosses her arms. “Why? Afraid I’ll be able to do more than your journalists?”
I grind my teeth so tight, I feel my own face growing redder by the second.
Bryce is staring at me with squinted eyes, forcing me to look the other way.
He speaks up, “While that is very ambitious of you, we already have reporters working on the story. Jalynn can assist since she’s so knowledgeable on the topic.” He rises from his chair, adjusting the button of his jacket. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a print division I need to be running.”
I laugh in the back of my throat at that comment and the fact that he is marching his ass out of the room with Jalynn in tow.
Missy pushes away from the desk, the unhappiness of being superseded by Bryce written across her face. She stands up and walks out of the room with her binder under her arm and her head tilted up further than it should be.
I, on the other hand, am still here.
“Would you like a flask?” Stefanie asks.
“Next time I get called into one of these meetings, remind me to drink the bottle first.”
6
JALYNN
I can’t get to my desk fast enough. My heels shuffle along the padded carpet in the hallway, causing me to almost fall when my stilettos get caught in one of the threads. Working in the plush environment of Executive Row can have its downside.
“Are you out of your mind?” Austin’s words are heard before he even reaches my desk.
I look around to make sure no one sees him addressing me like this. Sure, I should let them think he’s a prick who yells at employees, but I don’t need anyone knowing we have a history, albeit a short one.
“Will you keep your voice down?” I hush him, glancing at Bryce’s closed office door.
Austin doesn’t seem to be intimidated. He comes around my desk and gets right up in my face. “You excited to tell the world that Austin Sexton is the man behind the races?”
I step back. “Oh, give me a break.”
“A big break. Like the one you’re gonna get for outing me as Falcon. You’re more of a Pyle than I even thought.”
My jaw literally drops at his insinuation. “You self-indulgent asshole. I’m doing you a favor.”
He leans in closer, and I cross my arms in an attempt to keep him at a distance.
“How so? What’s your end game? You want money? Because I got plenty of it, baby.”
“What you don’t have is class,” I say too loudly and then bring my volume down to a shouting whisper. “I don’t want your money, and right now, I’m thinking twice about helping your sorry ass. I did that, so Bryce would put me in charge of the investigation and not someone else. It worked, so you’re welcome.”
His brows rise as he gives a sarcastic laugh. “You think Bryce fell for your little scheme? I already told you, he knows I race cars. He hates it, but he knows. He only gave in to save me from one of Missy’s cronies doing the work.”
I slap him upside the head. “Exactly! God, it’s a good thing you’re good-looking because, sometimes, you act like a real idiot.”
He blinks at me a few times and rubs a hand on his head where I hit him. “You think I’m good-looking?”
“Oh, shut up.” I step away and around the desk just in time for Bryce’s door to open.
His dark eyes are aimed right at Austin. “In,” he says.
Austin rolls his head from side to side before following Bryce in.
I can hear their muffled voices on the other side. I know I should be at my desk to get back to itemizing the notes from the meeting, but it’s way too tempting. So, instead of doing the right thing, I place my ear against the wood door and listen in.
Bryce is talking, “How does she know you race? Don’t lie to me, Austin, because I saw the way you were looking at her, and it’s not because you want in her pants.”
Okay, I’m going to pretend that doesn’t oddly lift my ego.
“She was at the race this weekend. She made her way into my car, and I drove her home,” Austin replies.
I could punch him for making me sound like a pit floozy.
“You fucked my assistant?”
“I said, I drove her home. That’s all that happened.” Austin seems pretty adamant to explain that there is nothing going on between us until he adds, “I kissed her though. In the janitor’s closet.”
“Jesus Christ, Austin, you’re gonna cause us to lose our company.”
“I’m not. I’m good. I have everything under control.”
“This is just like you—”
“Save it.”
“Save your ass, you mean. Now, I have to go tell my editor-in-chief that a temp is going to be working with him on the biggest local story they have coming up. You do whatever that girl wants to keep your name away from any of this,” Bryce states. “And no more racing, Austin. I mean it.”
I hear feet moving toward the door, so I rush back to my desk and get to my seat just as Austin flings the door open and slams it shut.
His blue eyes are glaring wildly at me, like an animal ready to attack his prey. Little does he know, I’m no prey.
“Take me to your next race,” I demand.
“I’m not racing anymore.”
“Bullshit. You and I both know you can’t stay away.”
He swallows as he appraises me to figure out what I’m up to. “Even if I was going to race, I wouldn’t bring you.”
I nod my chin toward the door. “You heard the man. Do whatever the girl wants,” I say with a smile. “I want to go to the next race, and I want Beckett to drive.”
Austin curses under his breath. “You’re still sticking up for that asshole?”
“I’m still sticking up for you, so what does that mean?”
He inches closer to the desk. His large
hands are splayed wide on the top of the glass as he leans close, too close for a boss to be near an employee. Still, I can’t help but be drawn by the darkness in his eyes as he stares deep into mine.
“You’re crazy,” he states.
My heart starts racing again. Visions of the last time we were this close run through my mind.
Just an hour ago, in a closet, this man was devouring me. And, if I’m correct, my body liked it. My brain, however, is smarter. I know to stay away from him. He might be wealthy and absolutely gorgeous, but he’s everything that is wrong with good-looking, wealthy men. He’s so arrogant.
While my body and brain are at odds at this moment, my heart is singing its own song. One that’s in tune with a ’69 Chevy Camaro as it whips across a finish line at a hundred twenty-five miles per hour.
The rush.
The excitement.
The thrill of danger is swimming through my veins and pulsing at the tips of every nerve in my body. He was right last night. I might have told him I hated every second, but when I got home, all I could do was replay the moments that passed quickly while racing down the road. I was scared, but goddamn it, it was the freest I’d ever felt.
I know it’s wrong, but now, I’m craving that feeling like a drug.
That’s why, despite knowing that my little angel is telling me no, I finally shoo her off my shoulder and utter the words, “One last request …”
His eyes squint, glaring into me, daring me to ask for yet one more thing from him. Little does he know, his anger only fuels my fire.
“I’m riding with you,” I say with no room for negotiation.
Bryce hasn’t said another word about the racing story I’m supposedly assisting on, which is a good thing. Instead, he shouts orders at me, and I get to work, which I don’t mind. I mean, a thank-you wouldn’t hurt, but I’m not one to argue. At least, not with him.
Austin, on the other hand, is someone I would happily give a piece of my mind to. I haven’t seen him in five days, counting the weekend, which bothers me. What’s worse is, it bothers me even more that it bothers me.
I need to forget him and do my job.
I moved to San Francisco last year with Eva after we graduated from UC Davis. Beckett was already here, and Eva wanted to explore the city lifestyle versus our small-town suburban background.
I’ve only been able to find temp work since the move. This is the first company that could offer an actual future, so the more I stay away from him and keep my nose clean, the better.
If Bryce hires me full-time, I can work for him for a year or two and then apply for a job as a reporter. At least, that was my goal, but after this week, we’ll see. With my nerves constantly on end, knowing Austin is near, and how Bryce has me running around, doing errands that have nothing to do with journalism, I’m not so sure.
I swear, he has me working on his personal life more than anything else. I’ve spent more time searching for information on a girl named Tessa than doing my actual job. He says it’s work-related, but when I find out this chick works for a salon as a makeup artist, I highly doubt she’s making big deals in the advertising world.
After work, Eva and I go to a spin class and order a ridiculous amount of Mexican food. She is dating a new guy from her job at a tech support company and gabs my ear off about him over a tray of nachos.
When she starts to babble on about how he has a chipped tooth, my mind starts wandering to Austin’s smile and how he has this perfect grin that tilts up to the right when he’s getting something he wants. I’ve seen it twice—once in his car and once right before he kissed me.
When Eva mentions that her new guy likes to run, I find my brain thinking about how good Austin looked in that Foo Fighters T-shirt and how his arms were corded and strong.
And, when she says she thinks he’s going to ask her out to a new brewery in town, I can’t help but wonder what Austin is doing right that minute.
After awhile, I find holding a conversation with her isn’t working with my traveling mind so I excuse myself, heading to shower before I turn in for the night.
Sitting at my desk in my bedroom with a towel wrapped around my head, I click the images link on Google, and picture after picture pops up of Austin. Most are from articles where he posed at various events, dressed to the nines with his hair nice and tidy. At a gala at the San Francisco Museum for Modern Art, he’s wearing a black pinstriped suit, gold tie, and that crooked grin.
On his business headshot, he looks professional with a stern gaze and a strong stance. And then there’s the picture of him with his arm draped around a beautiful woman at the Children’s Hospital benefit last year.
I scroll quickly until another one catches my eye, this one taken for the cover of Inside Media magazine. Enlarging it to full screen, I take this second to unabashedly stare at him.
His royal-blue eyes are looking straight in the camera, into my soul. They are so expressive, giving the impression they’ve seen a lot and lived a thousand lives.
I know he grew up privileged with a silver spoon in his mouth, but there’s something deeper in the way he looks straight at you. It’s almost like a dare to look beyond.
I saw it the first night, on the sidewalk, when he took his hood down and showed me his face. It was there again when he caught my eye in the conference room after he stood up and spoke about his mother. And, when he cornered me at my desk, all I could do was wonder what caused that darkness I saw reflecting back at me.
“Busted,” Eva says from the doorway.
I close my laptop and turn to face her.
“Did you learn anything interesting?” she pries, sashaying into my room.
“Just drop it, please.”
“Not a chance. You haven’t been yourself all week. I know it has everything to do with your new boss.” She walks over to my bed and plops down onto the comforter.
“Bryce Sexton is my boss. Austin is—”
“Your other hot boss,” she says as she pulls out her phone. “What did you learn about him?”
After my first day at Sexton Media, Eva went into super-snooper mode and looked up pictures of the Sexton brothers. She was practically drooling at the sight of Bryce. I mean, I totally get it. With his black hair and dark eyes, tan skin and full mouth, he has this sexy businessman demeanor, who takes shit from no one. He’s gorgeous by most women’s standards, but he’s no Austin.
I slam my palm into my forehead. Stop it, Jalynn!
“Dude, I get it. The little brother’s hot.” She leans over and grabs a pack of Twizzlers off my nightstand. She takes a bite and waves the floppy candy in the air as she speaks, “I just don’t understand why he gave you such a hard time your first day. What’s his story? Tell me what you learned by snooping on him.”
I didn’t tell Eva that Austin was Falcon or that he kissed me. I know she wouldn’t tell a soul. That’s not her style. It just doesn’t seem right to share his secret.
I pull my feet up onto my desk chair and hug my knees. “He graduated from Stanford and then joined the military right out of college.”
“He was in the military? How old is he?”
“Twenty-six.”
Eva does the math in her head. “And he’s already out? Aren’t they normally four-year terms? So, if he graduated college at twenty-two, he’d just be getting out now, and he’s already been working at Sexton Media for a while. Something doesn’t add up.”
“Maybe he got kicked out,” I guess.
Eva takes another bite and talks as she chews, “Normally, that would ruin someone’s life, but I guess not a Sexton boy. He just went back to working for good ole daddy, making millions.”
I have so many questions, and the internet has only so many answers. I can’t imagine Austin in the military. How did this race car–driving, fine Italian-suit-wearing son of a millionaire, who owns part of a media empire, find himself in the military? What branch was he in? Where was he stationed? Why did he get out early?
“
Good thing you don’t work for him. Sounds like he could be drama.” Eva rises from my bed and heads toward the door. Her lavender robe sways as she walks. “I’m hitting the hay. Sleep tight.”
“Have a good night,” I call out to her as she closes my bedroom door behind her.
I grab my brush off the nightstand and start combing out my hair when my cell phone lights up with a text. I don’t know the number, but the message makes my heart race a million miles an hour.
We race tonight. You have twenty minutes, or I’m taking off without you.
“Holy shit,” I say out loud. I look at the time and see it’s eleven o’clock at night. I’m sitting here in fuzzy pajamas with a wet head.
I pick up my phone and type back.
Is Beckett racing?
Three little dots appear and then disappear. They appear again and stall. Either he’s typing back a dissertation or he doesn’t know what to write.
Finally, a message comes in.
Be there in ten. If you’re not ready, I’m taking off, and he’s not racing anymore.
“Ugh!” I shout as I jump up and race to my closet.
I grab a pair of skinny jeans, and I pull them up my legs so fast, I almost tear one of the belt loops off. In my dresser, I pull out a chunky cable knit sweater and toss it over my head. I’m hopping around my room as I put on my socks and then slide on a pair of riding boots because I won’t have to waste time with lacing them up.
In the bathroom, I slather on some BB cream and apply mascara. My hair is still sopping wet, so I quickly run the blow-dryer through it. It’s not polished or pretty, but it’s dry, so I won’t freeze in the San Francisco chill.
I stuff my license and cash in my back pocket and grab my phone and keys as I head out the door.
As I’m rushing down the staircase of our three floor walk-up, I text Eva, telling her I’m heading out with Beckett. She sends back a KK, so I put my phone in my pocket and head out the front door of our building. The black Camaro isn’t here, and a pang of disappointment washes over me at the thought of being too late.
