“How do you know about that?”
“It came up at breakfast that first night and I saw the flyer on Kathryn’s coffee table. I looked the place up. It’s a champagne and supper club. Membership only with a waiting list. An international clientele. No sex on the premises.”
She slapped her hands down on her thighs. “Oh my God. I’m not good enough to be an Amour performer. I dance at a two-bit dive bar.”
“Like hell.”
“You’re not taking me to Paris.”
“Why not?”
A thousand million reasons. She had college. She had work. She had responsibilities. She didn’t have the money to spare for an airfare and what about accommodation? Paris would be an expensive city. And, no. Simply, no. She had a good solid floor to pace around so she did that. Paris. Madame Amour. What was he thinking? He couldn’t know about these things because he saw a random flyer on someone’s coffee table.
“No.” Chicks who slept on airbeds because they were homeless didn’t pack up and go to Paris on the vague chance to win a scholarship that’s probably already been given.
“No isn’t the answer.”
Yeah, it so was. “I don’t work for you. You don’t get to tell me what you think of my answers. You don’t get to make decisions for me. No.”
He blanched.
Slapping him would’ve been kinder.
Reid made a stifled sound and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry.” A muscle in his jaw jumped and the furrow between his brows was back. “Fuck.”
He got off the sofa to leave the room and she stepped in front of him. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Yes, you did.” He moved around her.
He’d had a totally crappy day, but yes, she did mean it. She backed up, but put a hand to his chest and when he didn’t try to avoid that touch, she stepped onto his bare feet. She wasn’t heavy enough to stop him moving physically but there’s no doubt he took note of her words. He’d added an I believe in you to his note to Plus.
“Yes, I meant it. I thought you were talking about getting away for a couple of days. Take the bike and ride off into the sunset, and I can afford that. I’d love that. I’d love it if you hired a car and we drove to Waco. But I don’t have the money to go to Europe, or the talent for that stage and anyway the deadline to audition must’ve passed.”
He put his hands to her waist and picked her up so they were nose to nose. “I wasn’t asking you to pay. I need to get out of here and Paris is a far enough away, the competition is still open and if we went you could try out. How can that be a bad thing?”
“You can’t pay for me to go to Paris.”
He lowered her to the floor. “That plain pisses me off. You’re my girlfriend and I’m loaded and if I want to take you to the moon I should be allowed to.”
Exasperation colored his cheeks, sent pink streaks under the dark of beard hair growing in and had him palming his head. Laughter gurgled in her tummy, skipped up into her chest and tumbled inelegantly out her mouth.
“What?” he barked, “is so funny?”
“I’m your girlfriend, am I?” She had to bite her lip not to laugh again. She took a step back. “You don’t think you should’ve consulted me about that?” Yes, yes, yes. She’d be this incredible man’s girlfriend. She’d be the best girlfriend he could ask for. “You don’t think maybe we might’ve discussed it?” She made her eyes go wonder-wide, as if the suggestion was more outlandish than Paris, and in a way it was. “Girlfriend is a major step up from the girl I’m having a thing with.” She made an it was this big gesture, holding her arms open. “Major.”
It took him all the way to the final word before he suspected she was teasing. His whole body stilled. “How is that funny to you?” He slapped a hand on his chest. “Are all relationships so hard to understand?”
“Yes.” She hopped from foot to foot in a jig to punctuate that. “You’re sunk, baby.”
He shook his head. “Zarley, did I screw up? God, put me out of my misery.” No misery in his voice, no darkness in his eyes, but he wasn’t on solid ground. “I don’t care what we call this thing we’re doing. After last night, after today,” he reached a hand out to her, “I need to know if you want to keep doing it or you’re simply worried I’ll go back to being a drunk if you leave.”
This would be the moment to fling herself in his arms. Too easy. She put her hands to the edge of her tee, yanked it up, flashed him bare breasts and hard nipples and bolted. There was only one place to run. She fled to the bedroom and up on the bed. He took his sweet damn time coming after her. He moved about, turning off appliances, lights. She stripped down to panties and turned on a bedside lamp. When he got here she was going to jump him so hard.
He stood in the doorway, in the muted lamplight, and her throat went tight. This man did it for her with his intense manner and extreme enthusiasms. He was the thrill of competition without the risk of failure and the joy of winning without giving your whole life over to its ambition.
He made her skin prickle with awareness, her blood fizz and her muscles fire. “Get over here, Back Booth.”
He stripped off, eyes never leaving her, and stepped onto the end of the bed. “You weren’t bouncing on my bed, were you?”
There was threat in that tone, it sent a prickling thrill up her spine. She bounced, once, twice and collided with him when he reached for her. But a well-placed shove made him step back, feet tangling in the covers. He went down to his knees, which brought his face level with places she wanted to feel his lips. She put a hand to his hair but forgot who she was playing with, he yanked her ankles and she bounced to her ass, he yanked them again and she was staring up at him from her back, laughing in his face.
“You don’t get to bounce on my bed without me.” The implication was clear. He didn’t want her doing anything without him.
“Oh yeah, what are you going to do about it?” Wreck her mind, send her body, break the bed. Oh, please.
He shifted and his hipbone pinched her thigh, he brought his lips to her neck. She flinched, he was scratchy, her hand coming to rest on his face.
“I should shave.”
She wanted him now. “No time.” She wiggled left and he moved right. “Oh, you’re on my hair.” He adjusted. That was worse. “You’re still on my hair.”
He rolled them, clumsily, pulling her hair again, and her elbow conked his chin. “Sorry.”
“Move your arm, Flygirl.”
“I can’t get—”
“Shift up the bed.”
“Ow. My hair.”
“Jesus.”
“Is that your—oh.”
“Fuck.”
“Stop.” She sandwiched his face between her hands, his eyes were narrowed with impatience and his body was rigid. Not from the first had they been so out of sync.
“That was horrible.” He said that as if it was an outbreak of Ebola, a plague of locusts. “What was that?”
“That was bad timing sex.”
“Wasn’t on the frigging list.” He was mad. “Tops off a douchebag of a day.”
She snorted.
“Not fuckin’ funny.” He tried to kiss her but got teeth and that was funny. He muttered ouch in her mouth then tried to pin her hands to the mattress at the same time as she tried to move up the bed and kneed him in the ribs. At which point she laughed so hard she wheezed.
It went from awkward awful to a wrestling contest in a heartbeat. He dropped his body weight on her but not quick enough, she squirmed and got an arm and a leg clear. He put his teeth to her shoulder and she bucked. He gripped, rolled and flipped them and they laughed together, all the stress of the last twenty-four hours burning off like excess calories.
But she wasn’t done with him. He copped a pillow in the face while she tried to get out from under his bulk, squirming and laughing and not playing fair with elbows and knees. He fought back going in for the tickle, dirty, dirty trick. He’d pay if she could catch a breath. She kicked and squirmed and he bear growled. The bedcl
othes were a trap and Reid was the weight of unexpected emotion that made her feel like she could fly even buried underneath him.
“Get off, you big oaf.”
“Yield, pipsqueak.”
Yield. Like this was a video game. Like she was doing that ever. She scrabbled for a pillow, got it raised, ready to bop him and he attacked her side with the scruff of his cheek. She dropped her arm to push him away and there was a loud crash and complete darkness. She gasped and they both went still.
“Knew I didn’t need lamps in here,” he said.
That might’ve been the moment. One leg stuck in the sheet, one wrapped over his hip. A hand to his head, the other wedged underneath him. She was on her own hair, uncomfortable, the itchy heat of beard rash on her neck. His heartbeat was between her legs, his face tucked into her side, his soft hair between her fingers. Her calf was going to cramp and she’d just broken his uber-expensive bedside lamp.
There was nowhere else in the world she wanted to be. No one else she wanted to be with and it made her eyes sting with tears.
“Shit, Reid.”
“It’s a stupid lamp.” He lifted up, crawled over her and turned its matched partner on. But she didn’t mean the lamp.
“Flygirl, what’s wrong?” A hitch of concern in his voice, he pulled her into his chest. “Did I hurt you?”
If hurt was discovering how much she wanted him. If it was knowing he felt deeply for her and that in this rumpled bed was the start of a different thing; greater, truer, mucking with the fabric of who she was, then she was bleeding out.
She eased into his lap, crossed her legs behind his hips. “I love that you want to take me to Paris.”
“But you won’t let me.” He brushed hair off her shoulders, ponytailed it in his hand behind her neck.
“No, babe, that’s not how we can be. The rich guy buying the poor little pole-dancing student an international airfare. I’m not that girl.”
“That girl who’s my girlfriend.”
She tipped forward, lifted her chin and nibbled on his bottom lip. It would be so easy to run away with him, but she’d been running away for years, she couldn’t break anymore promises to herself even with a man who made her ache to.
He let go her hair and wrapped his arms around her back. “I’ll take that.”
“It’s enough?” Rich men were supposed to pressure poor girls, supposed to get what they wanted and Reid was genetically engineered to be pushy.
“It’s everything.”
This rich man didn’t care that she danced for other men every night, that she wouldn’t give to him easily. This rich man wanted her to dance in the world’s best club. That was too good to be true, it should worry her. She pushed the insecurity aside. “You still need to get out of the city.”
“I’ll go dark instead. Stay inside, turn everything off.”
“Want company while you do that?”
He leaned away to look at her face. “Does my girlfriend want to stay over another night?”
“She’s thinking about it.”
“Unprecedented. I got used to the rationing.” He palmed her ass and brought her flush against a very nice erection. “Let’s see if I can persuade my girlfriend to spend the week.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
She uncrossed her ankles and unfolded her legs, stretching them into a side split so that when he tilted her hips she was as wide open to him as humanly possible. That made him swear as his eyes centered on her pussy.
And then he pushed his luck all over her body.
TWENTY-THREE
Dear Plus People,
It may have come to your attention that I was a giant jackass at the tenth anniversary function on Saturday night and in case you missed it, I’ll give you the skinny.
For a start I wasn’t invited. Why would I be, I was fired. Yeah, you read that correctly and I’ll come back to that. For now, you need to know I gate-crashed. This is the first of many embarrassing but necessary confessions I need to make. I put Kuch and Owen, Sarina and Nerida in a horribly difficult position. They could choose to chuck me out and make a scene or let me bully my way in. Because they’re gracious, generous and sensitive people who are proper adults, unlike myself, they let me stay.
Let’s move on to the next dumbass thing I did. I forced myself on to the official program and made a speech. And oh, what a speech. And let’s call it what it was. You were there. I was an asshole.
I stood up on that stage and told you all that without me you were C-grade. I said Ziggurat would fail and I had no faith in Owen as a leader. No wiggle room. I didn’t use those exact words, but that’s what I meant and that’s what you heard.
I was an asshole.
Because of me your Plus staff shares might not be worth what they were on Friday. Because of me, you might be worried about your job or whether Plus is still the right place to build a career.
I wish I could tell you I was drunk, or on drugs, or I’d fallen down and hit my head. I have no excuse for what I did, except that’s what an aforementioned asshole would do.
Take a step back. Kuch fired me. I know you were told I’d quit to explore new ideas. It was a lie. I was great at developing the vision for Plus. I was great at getting the company started with Owen, Sarina and Dev at my side. I’m shit-hot at lots of things. But I was bad at things that mattered most for where the company was at. I was difficult to work with. I micromanaged. I showed my temper and I sulked when I didn’t get my way. I was intimidating. I didn’t sexually harass anyone, but I might as well have. I was an asshole, and you know Plus has a no asshole rule, which for some inexplicable reason, I thought I was above.
I was wrong. I was given plenty of chances to change and I was too much of a dick to take advantage of them. Kuch and Owen were right to exit me. They’re more right than ever after Saturday night.
The exquisite irony of being fired from a company, expert in helping people work brilliantly in teams, for not playing well with others isn’t lost on me.
Needless to say, I didn’t take it well. I’ve lived and breathed Plus since college, losing it was a dreadful wrench, the stuff of cosmic nightmares, especially as it was my own fault. But that’s no justification for the fact you were made to suffer through a tantrum of epic proportions. I wore the dinner suit but I behaved like a spoilt brat.
I apologize unreservedly for being a giant asshole, both as your CEO for the last year and for the entitled crap I carried on with Saturday night.
The fundamentals of the Plus business are strong. You have no need to be concerned about your job or career prospects because of me. Plus’ leadership across the board is the best in the industry, and the company’s five-year plan is so exciting I can hardly bear to think about what I’ll miss out on.
I posted this on the company intranet, yes, I hacked in and that’s a jackass thing to do as well (close port 733, dudes), but I wanted you all to have access to this without any filters. Be nice to Sarina if you see her this week. No doubt she feels like punching someone in lieu of being able to thump me, because there’s no way she’d think this was anything but another dumbass move on my part.
I’ve spent today telling journalists the same things I’ve said here, so you can expect to see the confessions of the dickhead Reid McGrath in the media over the next few days. If we’re lucky, some other Silicon Valley CEO will screw up in a day or two and the focus will shift. Until it does you know who to blame.
I’ve apologized privately to Kuch, key stockholders, and to my Plus co-founders, Owen, Sarina and Dev, who continue to be my dearest, most trusted friends (assuming they ever forgive me).
My plan now is to hide for a while. It was pointed out to me recently by someone new in my life, who I care about immensely, that I’d never learned to deal with failure. I think I’ve done a bang-up job of proving that. I’m going to focus on getting my shit together and when I’ve done that I’ll get to thinking about what I might do next.
I’m worried abo
ut Ziggurat. It would be disingenuous to say I wasn’t. The point of Ziggy is to secure the future of Plus. I’d be worried if I was still there with you because it’s a huge undertaking, but you know what?
You’ve got this.
I believe in you. You’re skilled people and you know your stuff. Dev’s got this. He’s a rockstar engineer, any of you who’ve worked alongside him know it. Owen’s got this. He’s a far better CEO than I ever was. Give him your support and you can’t help but do well.
Better Together.
And as it turns out, better off without me.
Now get the hell back to work.
Reid.
TWENTY-FOUR
Zarley nearly broke her nose on the door when it didn’t open. She saw the notice taped there at the same time as Vi opened up and hustled her inside.
“What’s going on?” No customers, only half the lights on. Lizabeth sat on a barstool with an open bottle in front of her. Zarley clocked Vi’s expression. “Tell me.”
Vi’s face crumpled and she let out a sob. “Lou had a heart attack.”
Zarley’s hand went to her mouth. “Oh my God. Is he all right?” Therese came in from the kitchen carrying a pile of plates. Everything was out of order.
Lizabeth got off her stool and put her hand on Vi’s shoulder. “He died.”
Someone was knocking on the door. Kathryn came in. “What’s the deal?”
“It’s Lou,” said Vi. “He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“The big beer keg in the sky,” said Lizabeth.
“What?”
More banging on the door. Therese let Melinda in. “Health violation. Goddamn, Lou,” she said and froze. “What?”
“Health inspectors slapped a closure notice on Lucky’s this morning. Five minutes after they left here, Lou had a heart attack,” said Lizabeth.
“He drank and smoked too much,” said Melinda. “What hospital took him?”
“He’s dead,” said Vi. “Dead before the ambulance got here. I tried.” She broke down again.
Lizabeth took over. “Vi tried to revive him. Hospital said he was probably dead before he hit the floor.”
Offensive Behavior (Sidelined #1) Page 23
