Marco gave a confused shake of his head. "Sorry, I'm not following."
Watching this appalling exchange, I wanted to say something – anything – to break the growing tension, but honestly, what could I say? I'm sorry my boss is a jerk?
I was sorry, but it's not like I could do a darn thing about it.
Zane tossed the guy a menu. "If you want breakfast, you'd better hurry."
Marco blinked. "What, why? Are they closing soon?"
"They'll close when I want them to." Zane glanced at his watch. "I'm thinking ten minutes."
"Ten minutes for what?" Marco asked. "To order?"
"No," Zane said. "To order, eat, and fuck off."
And there he was – the uncivilized tool I'd become all too familiar with. So much for that whole buttoned-down billionaire thing.
By now, Marco's cheeks were beet-red. "Sorry?" He reached up to tug at his collar. "I, uh, think you lost me there."
"If you want," Zane said, "you can skip the first two."
Marco shook his head. "The first two what?"
"Steps," Zane replied. "Go straight to 'fuck off', save the chef some trouble."
If I weren't so horrified, I might've scoffed out loud. Like Zane cared about the chef.
As Marco stammered out some incoherent response, I gave our surroundings a nervous glance. The place was beyond posh, with pristine white tablecloths and fresh flowers on every table. And yet, ours was the only table that was occupied.
The whole situation was entirely surreal, and yes, incredibly awkward.
Desperately, I was wishing that someone else had joined us for this godawful whatever-it-was. But no, there were just us three – me, the prick, and the poor slob who was still stammering.
I recalled what Zane had told me during my job interview. He'd warned me that he'd be ruffling a few feathers, and said that he wanted me to play the good cop to his bad cop.
Was I supposed to be doing that now? I gave Zane a sideways glance. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I did know that he wasn't above pulling out a night stick and beating the guy senseless.
I mean, if you'd kick someone out of their house, you were capable of anything, right?
I spoke up. "You know what we need?"
Zane's cool gaze remained on Marco. "What?"
Oh, crap. I didn't know. "Hang on," I said, reaching for my menu. I gave it a quick once-over. Turns out, it was the menu they used for their Sunday brunch. My gaze bounced from item to item. Finally, it landed on the beverage section, where the top item caught my eye. Before I could even think, I'd already blurted out, "Mimosas."
I wasn't even sure what a mimosa was, but it sounded tropical and maybe even boozy. Either one sounded like a very good thing.
Zane's gaze shifted to me. "Mimosas."
Was that a question? I hated how he did that, said things that could be a question, but were missing the question mark. Desperately, I looked to Marco. "You'd like a mimosa, right?"
Marco was literally sweating now. "Uh—"
Zane's voice cut across the table. "No. He wouldn't."
Marco cleared his throat. "Actually—"
"Fuck off," Zane said.
And just like that, Marco was back to stammering again.
With growing desperation, I called out to our water. "Excuse me?" When he rushed over, I said, "Could we get a round of Mimosas?"
The waiter's gaze shifted to Zane. "Mister Bennington?"
Zane spared the guy half a glance. "No."
My face burst into flames. Talk about humiliating.
The waiter lowered his voice. "I'm sorry sir, but…" He hesitated. "Is that a 'no' for everyone? Or just for you?"
Zane's gaze flicked briefly to me. "Bring one." His voice hardened. "To go."
The waiter frowned. "I'm terribly sorry, but—"
"But what?" Zane said.
"Well, you see…" Now, the waiter's face was red, too. "We're not allowed to do that."
Zane's jaw tightened. "Why not?"
"Because uh, it's against the law." Quickly, he added, "Because of the alcohol."
Oh, no. Now, I'd gotten the waiter in trouble, too.
I spoke up. "That's all right. Forget I asked." I gave the waiter what I hoped was a reassuring smile. "Maybe we'll just have a round of orange juice then?"
Again, the waiter's gaze shifted to Zane. "Sir?"
"One orange juice." Zane looked to Marco. "And like I said, to go."
Across the table, Marco managed to say, "That's all right. I, uh—"
Zane said, "It's not for you, dickhead."
At this, Marco's face flushed so red, he looked like a human tomato. "What the hell?" He pushed back his chair and stood. "What is this, anyway?"
It was a train-wreck, that's what.
Once again, Zane leaned back in his chair. He gave Marco a long, cold look. "I dunno. You tell me."
Marco glared down at him. "Hey, dickhead. You were the one who called this meeting."
"That's right," Zane said.
"For what?" Marco demanded. "To be an asshole? Is that it?"
Zane replied, "Pretty much."
Marco's jaw dropped. "What, why?"
Zane looked almost bored now. "Why not?"
Marco stared in apparent disbelief. "You've got to be joking. I flew in from the coast." His voice rose. "On four hours' notice."
"Yeah?" Zane said. "Sucks to be you." He flicked his head toward the entrance. "Now get the fuck out."
The guy looked ready to lunge across the table. "Or what?"
In a surprisingly calm voice, Zane said, "Or I'll toss you out."
I didn't know what to say. Did he mean personally? Or that he'd call security? Zane was tall and well built. No doubt, he could toss the guy out, if that's what he really wanted to do.
But why would he?
None of this was making any sense.
I felt myself swallow. If I was supposed to be playing the good cop, I was failing miserably, because I had absolutely no idea what to do.
Across from us, Marco demanded, "But what about our contract?"
"What about it?" Zane said.
"You said you wanted to discuss it."
"Oh, yeah. That's right," Zane said, as if remembering something long-forgotten. "I tore it up."
Marco gave a confused shake of his head. "What are you saying? You can't just tear it up. It's not like it's a piece of paper you can—"
"It is. And I did," Zane said. "So fuck off."
It was at this moment that I heard a quiet male voice just over my right shoulder. "Miss?"
I turned to look and saw the waiter, holding two plastic to-go cups, each with a lid and a straw. He whispered, "I've got your drinks."
Drinks? As in more than one? I felt my brow wrinkle in confusion. "I’m sorry, what?"
"The drinks," he repeated. "The ones you ordered."
"Oh." In truth, I hadn't meant to order anything for me. I'd been ordering them as a social thing, something to break the tension. By now, the thought of drinking anything whatsoever made me almost want to throw up.
Still, what could I do? With a whispered thanks, I reached out and took the drinks from his outstretched hands.
As he handed the cups over, he leaned close and said in a whisper so low, I could barely hear it, "Officially, they're both orange juice, but…" He hesitated. "Just don't get me in trouble, okay?"
With who? Zane? Or the law? Either way, the guy looked scared to death. My heart went out to him. Obviously, neither one of us wanted to be here, in the middle of whatever this was.
Before I could formulate any sort of response, the waiter turned and rushed away, as if beyond eager to get the hell out of Dodge.
I could so relate.
The meeting ended less than a minute later when Marco stormed off, promising Zane that he'd see him in court.
And then, there was just the two of us – me and my new boss, the biggest prick in the universe.
Heaven help me.
Chapter 27
I glanced toward the entrance, where Marco had disappeared only moments earlier.
Next to me, Zane was still sitting, which, like so many other things, caught me off guard. For some reason, I figured that Zane would've already been on his feet, hustling both of us toward the elevator.
But he wasn't.
Instead, he was watching the entrance with cool detachment, even as the sound of a thud, quickly followed by a crash, echoed from somewhere beyond our sight, probably in the hotel lobby.
I just had to ask, "What do you think that was?"
Zane's gaze remained on the entrance. "Don't know, don't care."
"I bet it was a plant," I said. "Or maybe one of those tall tables with a vase of flowers on top."
Zane's gaze shifted in my direction, but he made no reply. I didn't even know why I was babbling to him of all people, and yet, I couldn’t seem to make myself stop.
For some stupid reason, I just had to explain, "See, the thud would be from the table, and the crash would be from the vase." I hesitated. "Unless the vase was plastic."
Zane was still looking at me. "Plastic," he repeated.
I'd seen the vases on the way in. "Well, they didn't look like plastic," I said, "but you never know, right?"
Once again, Zane said nothing. He didn't have to, because his look said it all. Shut the hell up. I'm thinking.
I was still holding the two drinks. Desperate for something to do, if only to keep myself from blathering, I lifted the drink in my right hand and took a good, long pull.
Hello, Mimosa.
And yup, it was definitely alcoholic. Champagne and orange juice? So that's what a mimosa was. And why on Earth was I drinking on my first day on the job? Before noon, no less.
It wasn't good for business or my stomach. And yet, I couldn’t resist taking another pull, even as I prayed that I'd be able to keep it down.
Zane said, "If you get drunk, I'm not holding your hair."
As if I'd let him.
I took a final, defiant slurp before setting the drink on the table. "You won't need to," I informed him.
He gave me a dubious look. "And why's that?"
"Because…" I smiled. "I've got a scrunchie in my purse." Oh, sure, the purse was upstairs, but that was beside the point.
His gaze shifted to my hair, which I'd worn loose today, letting it fall in waves over my shoulders. He didn't look entirely disgusted, but that was probably just the mimosa talking – to me, not him.
He was still looking at my hair. "What the hell is a scrunchie?"
"It's like a glorified rubber band."
Now, he looked disgusted. "A rubber band."
"Well yeah," I said, "but it's covered in cloth." I paused. "Or maybe it's made of cloth. Anyway, it's all thick and fluffy, so it doesn't pull your hair out in gobs." I cleared my throat. "Well, not your hair. I mean, my hair…"
Yup, I was definitely blathering now. It was long past time to stop. Lamely, I finished by mumbling, "…because your hair's too short for a scrunchie." And with that, I clamped my lips shut and tried to pretend that the mimosa wasn't wreaking havoc on my nervous stomach.
He said, "You want breakfast?"
I gave a small shudder. "Not really."
"Good," he said, "because we've got another meeting in five."
My stomach sank to the floor. I wasn't sure I could take another meeting, especially if it was anything like the first one.
Unfortunately, it was.
Oh sure, it wasn't quite as bad, but it wasn't a walk in the park either. The only difference was this meeting, along with several more afterward, took place in Zane's office, where he told a whole new set of people to fuck off.
Why he wanted me there, I had no idea – unless it was to torture me in front of strangers, which, knowing Zane, wasn't exactly out of the question.
By noon, I was utterly exhausted and more confused than ever. I still had no idea what I was supposed to be doing or where I'd be doing it. After all, I hadn't been shown to anything resembling a desk.
No doubt, a dark and dreary cubicle awaited me somewhere in the building, assuming that I actually managed to keep this job for more than a single day. I was, after all, just a little bit tipsy.
After the umpteenth person stormed out of Zane's office, I just had to ask, "Am I supposed to be doing something?"
"Yeah," Zane said, "planning for the fallout."
Oh, there'd definitely be a fallout. Already, Zane had been threatened with a whole bunch of lawsuits and a shocking degree of physical violence. I bit my lip. "About that last guy…" I hesitated. "You don't really think he'll send people to your house? Do you?"
Zane looked oddly unconcerned. "He can try."
If I cared about Zane at all – which I totally didn't – I'd have been just a little bit concerned. That last guy had looked ready to pop. And just before storming out, he'd told Zane flat-out that he'd better watch his back – here and where he lived.
Before I could stop myself, I asked, "Is that why you carry a gun?"
Zane's mouth tightened. "What?"
"Well, I'm just saying, when I stopped by your house a few weeks ago, I couldn’t help but notice that you had a weapon in your swimsuit." I froze. Damn it. For some reason, that statement sounded wrong, and yes, slightly X-rated. Quickly, I added, "I mean, in the back of your swimsuit."
Oh, crap. Was that worse or better?
My face was burning, even as I tried to pretend that I was just making normal conversation.
"You met the guard," Zane said. "What do you think?"
Me? I thought the guard wouldn't look nearly as good in a swimsuit.
Where had that idea come from? I gave a small shake of my head. "Uh, sorry? What do I think of what?"
"About the guy manning the gate. You think someone like him is gonna keep an eye out?"
"Well, not anymore," I said, "since you fired him and all."
Zane's expression darkened. "Yeah. And he had it coming, as you damn well know."
This was true, even if I hated to admit it. Unsure what to say, I did the smart thing for once and kept my mouth firmly shut.
Zane looked toward the window and said, almost as if speaking to himself, "I've got enemies."
A nervous scoff escaped my lips. "Yeah, I bet."
Slowly, he turned his gaze back to me. "Meaning?"
"Well, I'm just saying, I think you'd catch more flies with honey."
He looked at me for a long moment before saying, "I’m not catching flies. I'm catching monsters."
I studied his face. The way it looked, he was actually serious. I just had to ask, "What kind of monsters?"
"Trust me. You don't wanna know."
He was wrong on both counts. I didn't trust him. And I did want to know. Of course, some of it wasn't a huge mystery. Already, I'd seen how he treated people.
Was it any wonder he had enemies?
I considered every person he'd offended, abused, or threatened during our short acquaintance. First, there'd been Bob, the guy he'd kicked out of his family home. And then, there were all of the people we'd seen today. Every single one of them had been friendly coming in, and raging as they left.
I could totally relate.
And yet, it was almost sad. The way all those people talked, they thought Zane's grandfather had been a hell of a guy. So how was it, I wondered, that his grandson had turned out to be such a jerk?
I tried to look on the bright side. Maybe today was some sort of trial by fire. Maybe, assuming that I kept this job at all, things would be a lot more peaceful going forward.
But surprise, surprise… They weren't.
Chapter 28
By some miracle, I survived the first couple of months with my sanity mostly intact. Zane hadn't been kidding about damage-control. During those first few weeks in particular, it felt like I was jumping from one crisis to another as Zane ripped up contracts, renegotiated previous deals, and took a wrecking-ball to countless lon
gstanding relationships.
Afterward, there was almost always a fallout, with Zane being the primary target of whatever media storm ensued.
This was where I came in.
I smoothed ruffled feathers and spun things the best I could – which, honestly wasn't all that great.
It's not that I was plagued by incompetence, or even my own inexperience. Mostly, it was that Zane didn't seem to care one bit what anyone thought of him.
It was like the guy had a reputation death-wish or something.
As for me? I felt like a firefighter, armed with only a squirt-gun, as my billionaire boss lit too many fires for me to put out. Already, my name had appeared in countless media outlets throughout the country, not to mention several overseas.
And why was my name appearing?
The reason was simple. Zane absolutely refused to be interviewed, even by friendly outlets with a history of favorable news coverage. So that left only me, his spokesperson, to deflect whatever controversy blew up on any given day.
Probably, this strategy was for the best, considering that Zane had that annoying habit of telling people to fuck off.
Still, it was a strange arrangement. Bennington Hotels had its own public relations staff, and it was absolutely huge, with a team of writers, spokespeople, media buyers, graphic designers, and who-knows-what -else.
But, as Zane had warned me during my so-called job interview, I worked for him and only him.
I didn't get it. From what I gathered, he owned most of the corporation all by himself, so why wouldn’t he just use the regular staff? Oh sure, technically, they were focused on the larger hotel operation, but surely, they would've done a much more comprehensive job than just one person, meaning me – a recent college graduate with little experience, not to mention issues of my own.
My primary issue? I couldn't stop thinking about him – my boss, my tormenter, and yes, my least-favorite sparring partner, meaning the verbal kind. As far as anything physical, I was determined to keep my distance.
That part was easy, considering that Zane appeared to be screwing his way through the phonebook, assuming that the phonebook was filled with the names of supermodels, actresses, and other stunners who made me feel like some sort of generic lump in comparison.
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