The Hooker and the Hermit

by L.H. Cosway

  “I’m looking for Davidson & Croft. Can you help me out” —I glanced at her name tag before finishing— “Stephanie?”

  She smiled, all white teeth and glossy lips, before giving me instructions to take the elevator up to the twelfth floor. When I finally reached the busy offices, a handler was waiting for me—more glossy lips and white teeth. I checked out her arse as I was led to a room where several people were sitting around a table, dressed in smart business clothes. I looked completely out of my place in my dark brown leather jacket, boots, jeans, and a plain black T-shirt.

  They all stood the moment I entered, and a short woman who, I shit you not, looked like Danny DeVito in drag came and offered me her hand.

  “Mr. Fitzpatrick,” she said in a voice that was surprisingly feminine, given her appearance. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Joan Davidson, and these are my associates, Rachel Simmons and Ian Timor. Come, have a seat.”

  I sized her up quickly. She was definitely the one in charge; there was just something imposing—almost intimidating— about her despite her size.

  “Same to you, Joan. And you can call me Ronan.”

  I nodded hello to Rachel and Ian before sitting down as instructed. A moment of silence ensued as I cleared my throat, leaned forward, and steepled my fingers in front of me on the table.

  Joan tapped a finger on her chin as she contemplated me. “So, Ronan. I have to say, I’m very interested in working with you. I’ve been in this business for a long time, and I love a challenge. I’ve been acquainting myself with the details of your career, and what I’ve learned leads me to believe we could make a big difference working together. So, what would you like to achieve with us? I want to know your vision so that we can help you actualize it. We like to tailor the experience here at Davidson & Croft to the individual.”

  I let out a long sigh. “I’ll be straight with you, Joan—my agent back home sprang this meeting on me just over an hour ago. Publicity isn’t my thing. I’m an athlete, and I don’t get the whole media circus that’s been surrounding my life lately. I just want to play rugby and be left alone.”

  “Well, that’s positively boring,” Joan chuckled, soliciting grins from the thus far silent Rachel and Ian, and a glower from me. “And being left alone isn’t an option, I’m afraid. You’re the bad boy of rugby, the one all the girls swoon over.”

  I grimaced. “Yes, I understand what’s expected. I’m aware of what the league is hoping to accomplish through me, but I’d like for it to be about how I play the sport on the field.”

  She continued as though I hadn’t spoken, “The problem is you’re a little too bad right now. We need to make you clean bad, acceptable bad. We want you to be Mark Wahlberg, not Charlie Sheen. We want to reform you. Think Robert Downey, Jr., but younger and without any prison time.”

  Rubbing at the back of my neck, I replied, “You see, this is the problem. All of what you just said went right over my head, love.” I was playing dumb, and it seemed that Joan was shrewd enough to sense that.

  “You hospitalized one of your teammates, Ronan.”

  My jaw tightened. Who did this woman think she was speaking to? “So what?”

  “That’s not a good thing.”

  “That’s rugby.”

  “Usually it’s supposed to be an opponent, isn’t it? Not one of your own.”

  I shrugged. “Usually. But this time I made an exception because he slept with my fiancée.”

  She waved me away. “There’s no need to be defensive. I’m here to remedy you, not incite you.”

  I blinked at her. She was here to remedy me?

  Joan smiled. “Look, what you did was bad, but it’s not the worst thing you could’ve done. The more time that passes, the more people will forget. And you’d be surprised how easily that can be done. We get you seen going on a date with a much-loved actress, maybe giving a donation to a charity or two, and the tarnish on your reputation will begin to disappear. What do you say?”

  I frowned at her and worked my jaw. This whole thing was making me itch, and I needed to get out of there. “I say I need to take a piss.”

  Joan didn’t bat an eyelid at my harsh response. “Very well. The bathrooms are located at the end of the hall, the blue door on the right.”

  The one named Rachel stood like she was going to escort me to the head. I glared at Joan, who apparently understood my irritation because she waved at Rachel to sit and shook her head.

  I swiftly rose from my chair and left the room. Stomping down the hallway, I stopped midway to the end and ran a hand over my face. I was ridiculously tired. I wasn’t sleeping like I used to. I thought that spending a couple of months in a place far from where I came from would work, help me to detach from everything that had happened. Too bad my brain didn’t know how to shut off.

  Finding the bathroom, I quickly relieved myself and then began to make my way back to the meeting. I was passing by what looked to be the staff break room when I paused, considering ditching this whole thing and heading out to Tom’s place for a while.

  Glancing through the door, I saw a dark-haired woman sitting at a table. I noticed she had a cup of tea in front of her as she brought a cream cake to her mouth for a bite.

  Her full lips curved to one side in a pleased smile laced with blatant anticipation. I’d never seen someone look so hot for a confectionary before. It was kind of sexy; and I’m not sure why, but it made me smile the first full-on smile I’d had in weeks.

  Then she opened her mouth, setting the soft, sweet cake on her pink tongue, and I nearly groaned. Kind of sexy transformed into fucking hot. I didn’t know this woman at all, but I briefly wondered if she was up for a bit of no-strings fun.

  I must have made some movement to alert her to my presence because she looked up quickly, big brown eyes widening when she saw me. She swallowed just as a glob of cream fell from the cake and plopped right onto her top.

  I chuckled, mostly to mask my voyeurism, and took a step into the room. “Messy bastards, those éclairs.”

  She just kept on staring at me, her eyes getting bigger and bigger by the second. I waited a few beats for her to say something, but she seemed stunned to silence. Fuck, I could tell she recognized me.

  Of its own accord, my gaze wandered over her form, or what I could see of it: lush hips, full-figured but not fat. She wore a brown skirt, black tights, and a big gray top, her dark brown hair in a neat bun. Her clothes were plain. As I took in her face properly, though, I realized that she didn’t need any glitz. She was incredibly striking in a very natural way. Especially since her cheeks and the ridge of her pretty nose were turning bright pink.

  Lowering her eyes, her black lashes a stark contrast to her peachy skin, she picked up a napkin and began furiously rubbing the cream from her top. She was just making matters worse. I walked over to her, knelt down, and took the napkin from her hand. She actually flinched when I touched her. Jesus.

  “Let me help. The idea is to dab, not rub,” I said, getting all up in her space. I sneaked my hand under her top to pull out the material so that I could clean it. My knuckles brushed against her stomach, and I heard her suck in a harsh breath. Her skin was beautifully soft. I dabbed at the fabric, and the air in the room seemed to thicken. It lasted only a moment before she tentatively pushed my hand away from her, grabbed the napkin, and pulled back.

  “I can manage on my own, thank you.” Her tone was impeccably polite, her cheeks now full-on red. She was definitely embarrassed. I had gotten a little too close. When I was drawn to someone, though, I often forgot about boundaries.

  “I’m Ronan,” I said and presented my hand. Her gaze flickered to it for a brief moment, and I watched as she gathered a deep breath, almost like she was summoning courage. She fit her fingers in mine quickly, giving me a firm shake.

  Her hand was soft and warm. It also shook as she withdrew it hastily.

  “Annie,” she said, so quietly I almost didn’t hear. Her eyes barely settled on mine b
efore she looked away again. Her lovely, pale throat was working without swallowing.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Annie.” Christ, she was pretty. It was too bad she looked like she was going to have a heart attack if I didn’t leave soon.

  Her skin was flawless, radiant. But her clothes became a source of irritation; she might as well have been wearing a tent. I wanted to see the shape of what lay beneath.

  She also seemed a tiny bit apprehensive. Perhaps she thought I was a psycho who beat up his friends and put them in hospital. I never knew what people had read about me or what they believed.

  When she had gotten most of the stain out, her eyes shot to mine, and there was something guarded and defensive in them, almost like she was bracing herself for a fight. “Can I help you with something?”

  Deciding to hell with it, I went all in. I hadn’t felt an attraction to anyone in months, so I wasn’t going to let her slip through my fingers. “Your number would be a good start,” I said in a low voice.

  Her eyes widened again, and it was obvious I’d caught her completely off guard. Quickly, the vulnerability was gone; it was replaced first with flustered confusion and then hardened resolve. “No.”

  Her single-word denial made me frown. Before I could ask Annie if she was already seeing someone, Joan walked into the room. “Ah, Ronan. I thought we’d lost you on your way back from the bathroom.”

  “Just getting to know your lovely employee here,” I said, giving Annie a flirtatious wink. She looked like she wanted to flip me the bird, but she couldn’t since her boss was standing right there.

  “Oh, Annie is our brightest and best,” said Joan with an expression that showed she truly respected the woman. Then she paused for a second as though struck by a thought. “You know, tell me if this sounds crazy, but I just had an idea.” She glanced at me. “Ronan, you said you were clueless when it comes to publicity, and Annie here is a whiz at cultivating a popular online presence for our clients. I think I need to pair you two up. Annie can teach you the social media ropes, show you how to play the game, while our team gets to work on revitalizing your public image.”

  “You know what, Joan, I think that’s a brilliant idea.” I beamed at her. Of course I did. If it meant spending time with this gorgeous Annie, then I’d suffer through the nausea that social networking presented. And honestly, in a way, her rejection was refreshing. Most women saw my wealth and my fame and instantly had dollar signs flashing in their eyes.

  Annie didn’t seem so keen on the idea of teaming up, and okay, maybe I could understand her hesitation. I’d practically groped her under the guise of helping her get out a stain, but still, she looked like she found me about as appealing as second-hand underpants.

  She cleared her throat, which I noticed was still red with embarrassment, and spoke up. “I’m very busy at the moment, Joan. Perhaps somebody else could help.”

  Joan waved away her protestations. “Nonsense. Tell Rachel to take some of your workload, free up your schedule. I think you two will work well together. I just have a feeling.”

  There was something in Joan’s expression that brooked no further argument, and Annie seemed resigned as she nodded her acquiescence, her big brown eyes flickering to mine and then to her teacup.

  Joan clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Come with me, Ronan, and we’ll figure out a schedule.” As the tiny woman led me from the room, I gave Annie one final heated smile.

  This day was looking up already.

  Chapter Three

  The Kinnear: When one surreptitiously takes a picture of another person (usually a celebrity) without anyone else realizing the photographer is using his/her phone. Typically, the phone is completely hidden.

  Best for: In crowds, e.g. airports, restaurants, while shopping.

  Do not use: In quiet areas or in situations where movement is restricted.

  *Annie*

  Ronan Fitzpatrick.

  His name was Ronan Fitzpatrick, and his hand had just been up my shirt.

  The back of his fingers had brushed against my bare skin, sending really, really delicious spikes of awareness to the pit of my stomach and up my chest, neck, and the top of my head. My brain had been momentarily paralyzed.

  I’d been alone, eating my feelings after my alter ego, The Socialmedialite, had received a truly heinous email. I’d read it less than an hour ago; it was from the asshat I’d mistaken for Colin Farrell last Thursday and written about on Saturday, but who was actually a disgraced Irish rugby player…named Ronan Fitzpatrick. And I’d just met him. In person.

  I must’ve read the email three times.

  Okay, I’m lying. I read it no less than twenty times.

  Then I Googled the shit out of him. He was right. It made for colorful reading. Ronan Fitzpatrick, of the exceedingly posh and pretentious South Dublin Fitzpatricks, was Irish rugby royalty. His father had been a famous rugby player until his death in a car accident some twenty years ago.

  As well, his father’s family was stinking rich. Old, old, old money rich. The kind of old money that Americans can barely comprehend. Like, hundreds of years of old money and aristocracy. My stomach hurt. I didn’t even know who my biological father was, and this guy could trace his family tree back over three hundred years.

  Adding to his apparently charmed life and silver-spoon upbringing, Ronan was—if the papers were to be believed—the best hooker to come out of Ireland maybe ever. And by “hooker,” I don’t mean prostitute. Hooker is a position—a very pivotal position—on the rugby field. Based on my quick research, it appeared to be the rugby equivalent of an American football team’s quarterback.

  Ronan was apparently the best hooker that ever was and ever will be, amen.

  However, more recently, Ronan’s infamy stemmed from allegedly hospitalizing one of his teammates during an on-the-field brawl. Also recently were several pictures of Ronan sharing the front page of tabloids with a distressed-looking bottle blonde. She was labeled as an actress, singer, and Ronan’s ex-fiancée, Brona O’Shea. The photos were split screen style, like they’d been ripped in half.

  I felt both judgey and vindicated as I took in her appearance. She’d obviously had several elective plastic surgeries. Just to be sure, I searched for pictures of her over the last five years. As I suspected, her appearance had changed dramatically over time.

  At first she was a fresh-faced Irish rose: pink cheeks, sandy-blonde hair, clear blue eyes. The most recent shots made me grimace. Fake tan, fake tits, lipo, lip injections, Botox, nose job. God, what kind of hell must it have been for her to be with someone like Ronan? Had she changed herself so completely to please him? And he just dropped her after proposing marriage? I was disgusted.

  After my glutinous Google-fest, I read his email once again.

  At first I was shocked all over again, stunned, actually. Then I was outraged. Likely this was because his assessment of my cobwebs and cowardice struck a nerve.

  He was right, of course. I was cowardice covered in cobwebs. But that didn’t make me any less pissed off by his insulting personal attack.

  Most people could see the silly in my blog posts, laugh at themselves, handle it gracefully.

  Mr. Ronan Fitzpatrick, it seemed, was not most people. He was obviously a privileged douchenozzle, used to getting his own way and everyone else be damned. I knew his type. His type was why I preferred to be confused with wallpaper. His type was why I was cowardice covered in cobwebs.

  After receiving the email—reading it ad nauseam, working myself up into a knot of outraged and hurt fretfulness even though I knew I could never respond to it—I decided to cool off. I decided I needed food therapy.

  The first thing I did was send a message to my best online pal.

  @Socialmedialite to @WriteALoveSong: I just received the douchiest email of all time. Remind me to never write about male sports figures again. Their meaty heads are impervious to jokes.

  I took a walk, my feet carrying me to my favorite French bakery
two blocks away and then back to the offices of Davidson & Croft. I made a detour for the break room, intent on brewing my special peppermint tea; I’d never met a problem that couldn’t be fixed with pastry and tea. Just as I sat down, I read my friend’s response.

  @WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: Oh no! It’s just like I always tell you: jocks are cocks. Sorry. :-

  This made me smirk. I could always count on her make me smile.

  But then, one minute I’d been still smirking about my friend’s joke, quietly enjoying the closest thing to an orgasm I experienced these days—éclairs from Jean Marie’s on Fifth Avenue—and the next minute he was there.

  I was assaulted by the sight, smell, and sad, soulful eyes of Ronan Fitzpatrick.

  The paralyzation-athon was not what discomfited me, nor was it how my heart rate skyrocketed at his proximity. The source of my discombobulating anxiety was that, even after my brain wheels started spinning again, I hadn’t pushed him away. His hand was up my shirt, his face mere inches from mine, and I didn’t push him away.

  I couldn’t.

  He smelled so freaking good, like clean man and soap, just the tiniest hint of aftershave and mint. I stared at him, at his lips tugging to the side in a seductive smile; at the collar of his leather jacket where it touched his neck; at his jean-clad thighs, thick and muscular and powerful; at his heavily lashed eyes, sad and soulful. Every one of my nerve endings was on fire.

  Holy heathen in heaven, it wasn’t even his looks.

  He was…overwhelming and magnetic. Sensual and in-your-face sexual. Also not helping matters, he had no concept of personal space.

  I finally managed to remove him, but my effort was half-hearted and done with shaking hands. The rest of our conversation had been a blur, right up until Joan walked in and promptly paired us up.