Filthy Gorgeous

by Knight, Jodi

  “That’s some pretty serious shit,” Parker concludes as he pours another glass of vodka.

  “Right, but let’s focus on the solution. How the fuck am I going to get married without actually getting married?”

  Karl clears his throat and raises his hand. “I have a question.”

  I hold the tip of the marker pen against the board. “Fire away, Karl.”

  “Just so we’re clear, I’ve cancelled a dinner date with the future parents-in-law at Costino’s because you want us to do what exactly?”

  I sigh. “Karl, do you have anything constructive you’d like to say?”

  He crosses his arms defensively. “I’m a digital creative. I’m not your fucking therapist!”

  “Karl, I find your ongoing commitment to monogamy both unnerving and highly offensive. Please have some respect for the matter at hand. Parker, what about you? Got any ideas?”

  Parker fails to suppress a laugh. “I’d have given my left nut to see your father’s face.”

  Idiot.

  Look at Raj. He’s taking notes. Here’s a guy who truly grasps the severity of my situation.

  “Guys, in all seriousness, I’m too close to this. I can’t fucking think straight. You guys have some of the best creative brains in the city. I know we can pull this off. Oh … did I mention the bonus?”

  Parker rubs his hands together in glee. “Now you’re talking. I want ten percent and a new desk.”

  Karl smirks. “I want ten percent and a new MacBook Air.”

  “Done and done. Raj, how you getting on, buddy?” I grab the notebook from his hands and glance over his notes.

  There are no notes.

  Raj Kapoor has just spent the best part of an hour sketching pictures of breasts.

  ***

  One hour and two bottles of Pishov later …

  “I got it! How about online dating?” Raj announces triumphantly. “It’s all the rage in India. The website Desperately Sihking Suma has over forty million members.”

  We’ve explored several ideas.

  Online dating. Cash incentives. Sham-marriages. My team suggested I divorce my parents for bullying and clean them out for half of their estate.

  They all suck ass.

  Karl unscrews another bottle of Pishov. “Just do as your father says. Hell, you might even enjoy it. Besides, I’d pay good money to watch you at the altar and it would be one hell of a party.”

  Parker and Karl bump fists and I throw my stereo remote at them. “Shut the hell up!”

  “Shut the hell up!”

  Parker cocks a brow in Petie’s direction. “Can you kindly ask your cock to refrain from cussing at me? I’m trying to concentrate.”

  My face turns completely serious. “Guys, I don’t think you don’t realize just how difficult it is to be Alexander Slade. I can’t step outside my frigging apartment without being propositioned, cajoled, stalked, and lusted over by the opposite sex. Forget monogamy, prenupt or no prenupt. Lawyers can be so sneaky these day.”

  Parker laughs. “Imagine that guys, a life overrun with fawning female acolytes. What a tragedy. Said no man. Ever.”

  Karl checks his watch and sighs. “I bet Susie’s on her main course now. I’m hungry. Can we get takeout?”

  And Raj?

  He’s happy.

  He’s still drawing pictures of tits.

  ***

  Two hours, three bottles of Pishov and five pizzas later …

  “Hey, it’s Renée. Listen, I want to talk to you about last night … umm … you haven’t returned my calls. I’ve been reading articles in Cosmo and it’ll be fine, baby. It happens to all guys at one time or another. We’ll have you hard and ready to fuck again in no time. Call me.”

  Shit.

  I dive from the couch and onto the phone like a quarterback in the end zone. It’s too late. The guys are laughing their asses off.

  They already heard every goddamn word.

  Karl raises his glass. “Interesting. I’ll sleep well tonight, safe in the knowledge that even the most ardent of Lotharios are prone to the occasional episode of penile dysfunction. Cheers.”

  Parker jumps up. “Guy’s, that’s it! Renée! She’s smart. She’s a little on the cold side, but smart. Great ass. Your father likes her. She’s good with finances. You’re fucking her already, and best of all? She knows she’s not the only one. Did I mention that she has a great ass?”

  Karl claps his hands together. “Sparky’s got it. There’s you answer.”

  Parker smiles triumphantly. “Guys, I believe our work here is done. I’ll get back to you on Monday about the desk.”

  I knock back another Pishov and sigh. “Forget it, guys. Last night, Renée told me that she loves me. I was banging her right there, over the arm of the couch, and she just came right out with it.”

  Parkers smile fades into a blank stare and he sinks back into his chair. “Shit. Sorry man. No go, eh?”

  There you have it, ladies. It’s a no-go.

  Never sleep with a woman who loves you if you don’t love her back—it’s one of the unspoken but universally acknowledged laws that men abide by. It’s right up there with never getting down and dirty with your best friends’ ex, and never ever sticking your penis in your friend’s mother, even if she’s a MILF.

  Raj jumps up from his chair. “I got it! We can make an ad campaign to find you a wife.”

  Excuse me while I bang my head repeatedly against this wall. Has he been listening to anything I’ve said?

  This is going to be a long, long night.

  ***

  The following morning.

  I blink.

  My goddamn head is pounding harder than a sailor on shore leave. I’d forgotten about the inevitable Russian hangover that follows a Pishov binge.

  I roll over onto my back and groan. I’m never drinking again.

  Shielding my eyes from the bright morning light, I eventually manage to haul my ass up off the couch to assess the damage. Jesus fucking Christ. Empty pizza boxes and glass bottles are strewn across the floor. Photographs are hanging haphazardly from the walls. It’s like the morning after an alcohol-soaked version of the Mad Hatter’s tea party.

  I sniff the air and follow the scent of waffles to the kitchen to find Raj revving the shit out of my KitchenAid. We’ve got eggs, bacon, waffles, hash browns, and pastries.

  Delicious.

  See, I told you that he’s useful, didn’t I?

  “Good morning, Boss. Would you like an orange juice?”

  I nod and stretch. “Where’s Karl?”

  “Karl? He went home after … umm … nothing.”

  Do you see the way Raj is twisting the belt of the apron? He’s lying. Raj only fidgets when he has something to hide. He gets this guilty look on his face, like a puppy that’s just pissed all over your new slacks, but still expects you to talk it for walkies.

  “Raj, you’ve got three seconds. Three … two …”

  He edges toward the countertop; his eyes wide like a startled deer. “We made some adverts, Boss. Well, Karl and Parker did. I tried to stop them, really I did … I told them not to send it!”

  Uh-oh.

  “Advert? What advert?”

  He looks over his shoulder to Parker, who is still sleeping like a baby in the corner. I stride over and gently nudge him on the shoulder. “Good morning, Goldilocks. I believe you have something you want to share with me?”

  He rolls over without opening his eyes. And now he’s snoring. I grab the MacBook from his lap and swipe the touchpad. The machine whirrs into action and the screen lights up.

  And I wish to hell I hadn’t.

  See this?

  Devilishly handsome SWM, 29, 6’1”, 180lbs, with dark brown hair and green eyes seeks a gorgeous woman for amazing sex and possible marriage.

  No crazies need apply.

  Wait, it gets worse.

  FILTHY seeks GORGEOUS for mutually destructive long term relationship – possible marriage.

/>   Ladies, this is your lucky day.

  I’m emotionally unavailable, afraid of commitment, and fantastic in bed.

  Interested? Then read on …

  Me: Tall. Dark. Handsome. Rich (almost).

  Need I go on?

  Alright then: Harvard-educated. Hedonistic workaholic. Master of the oral arts.

  Skilled pastry chef. Great dancer. Currently impotent—you’re the solution.

  Interests: Rumpology. Cruising in the Aston. Cunnilingus. Ornithology. Russian vodka. Golf. Playing with my cock.

  Unique Selling Point: I have two cocks.

  You: 26-35 year old. Gorgeous. Long legs. Good actress. Animal lover.

  Enjoys nocturnal activities. Dynamite in bed. Experience with handling a cock cage.

  NOT CRAZY.

  I scroll through the contents of Parker’s sent items box in amused horror. There are registrations to various dating sites. Holy Hell. He even attached photographs. ‘Filthy’ is clearly recognizable as Alexander Slade, right down to his tighty-fucking-whities.

  Two issues buzz through my mind.

  Firstly. Crap.

  Secondly. Is this it? Is this the best my team of so-called creative experts can come up with?

  I mean, really?

  Making public knowledge of my expertise in oral sex and culinary arts do little to mitigate the fact that the whole world knows that I’m currently half-impotent.

  The fuckers even sent a copy to over one hundred of our companies’ press contacts, ranging from broadsheets to glossy magazines.

  In short; the entire company address book.

  Chapter Four

  Exercise is my religion. Every weekday morning, I hit the gym without fail. All successful people have a routine and Alexander Slade is no exception. I believe in taking good care of my body. After all, a healthy body makes for a healthy mind.

  Besides, the Sladies go wild for my well-sculpted torso. At least, they used to. I haven’t gotten laid in three days. Three. Freaking. Days. Let me tell you, that’s a new record for me. Even after a vigorous workout, I’m still a ball of nervous energy. Tense. Horny.

  A man’s sex drive is like a Li-ion battery. No matter how many times we screw a woman, our capacity for sexual arousal is never depleted. A full day of non-stop fornication might wear us out, but it’s only temporary. We’ll be back and ready to rock and roll in no time like an Energizer Bunny. Trouble is, my mind is fuzzy, I can’t even start to focus on a battle plan to appease my father.

  Despite my desperation, I figured I’d give myself time to recover after the freak show that was the past weekend. I’m abstaining from the harem until I’ve filled the position of Friday night girl.

  That’s why I’m waiting in line in Puccio’s; the best damn coffee house on Lexington. Granted, the Kenyan roast is to die for, but that’s not the sole reason for my visit.

  It’s all about Kelly. The deliciously buxom Kelly.

  Granted, her breasts are sublime, but that’s not the only reason she’s my barista of choice. Kelly is a latte artist, and a fine one at that. There is nothing, and I mean nothing that this girl cannot whip up using a jug of milk and a steam wand.

  Each Monday morning we indulge in a flirtation that’s been playing out for well over a year. Kelly is the only girl east of the park who knows how to roast my beans, so much so that I’m thinking of asking her to be my new Friday girl.

  It makes sense, don’t you think?

  We’re familiar with each other.

  She’s hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night, and I don’t see a wedding ring.

  “Would you like extra foam with that, Mr. Slade?” Kelly asks in a teasing tone. She knows exactly how I like my foam, but I can tell she gets some kind of sexual thrill out of asking.

  Now, I have a secret to share. I hate latte. I’m an espresso guy. I prefer to knock back a shot of the black gold and head straight out of the door, but when there’s no foam, there’s no fun. I lean against the counter and inhale. The scent of coffee beans mixed with her musky perfume is fucking intoxicating.

  “How do you take your coffee, Kelly?”

  Don’t look at me like that. I’m not asking her in some creepy-sex-pervert kind of way. I’m not going to rub my junk against the counter and alleviate my horniness in public. I’m making polite conversation, that’s all.

  Kelly leans forward, affording me an excellent view of the girls. She purrs when she tells me, “I like my coffee like my men, Mr. Slade. Rich, hot, and strong enough to keep me awake … all … night … long.”

  Holy hell. I need to take a rain check here.

  My appendage should be harder than a Chinese algebra exam.

  But it isn’t. He’s not even flying at half-mast.

  Nothing. Nada. Zilch.

  That can only mean one thing: Kelly is not the right Friday girl for me. I examine her latest artwork and try to hide my disappointment. Over the past few months, her offerings have included everything from innocuous-looking happy faces and love hearts, to cutesy animals—I won’t bore you with the details.

  This morning she has well and truly upped her game. Take a look and see for yourself. You have to admit, that’s pretty impressive. Nothing screams I-want-to-fuck-you like a latte foam penis with a well-proportioned ball sack.

  And so to work.

  ***

  The Slade Group office is a stone’s throw away from Madison Avenue. We occupy the whole top two floors of our building. It’s a dominating edifice of glass and steel. The interior is chic; think industrial fittings, a kaleidoscope of color, and lots of natural daylight. The atrium-style architecture affords wide open spaces where employees meet to network and brainstorm.

  See that goldfish bowl up there? That’s my office. Like I said, my father did a real number on this place. There’s nowhere to hide. Let’s hope that two weeks of sunshine and a few Mai Tai’s on the Big Island will make him chill the fuck out.

  I go upstairs and find Raj hunched over his desk. He’s already on the phone. I had him come in early and call up each and every one of the press contacts that were on Parker’s hit-list. This kind of damage control requires a personalized approach, so we’ve invented some bullshit excuse about testing the effectiveness of an ad campaign we’re running. I hope they’ll buy it. Lucky for me, the hacks start early on a Monday morning.

  Luckier than I could ever imagine, as you’ll soon see.

  I hang up my jacket. “Raj, how’s my day looking?”

  He spins around in his chair. “Busy. You have lunch with Robert Dalvano. I’ve booked you a table at Tao. Then you’re meeting Mr. Stavronski at three.” He reads from his trusty clipboard. “Oh, before I forget, Isaac de Vries from House of Aubrey called. He wants you to pitch for their fall campaign tomorrow. He didn’t go into details, but he mentioned something about creative differences with Ingleby McKay.”

  I punch the air in delight.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  My father has been after this account for the best part of a decade. We narrowly lost out to our rivals a few years back, but it seems fate has intervened. If I can bring this home, then I can kiss goodbye to my father’s pathetic ultimatum for sure.

  Today is going to be an awesome day. Juliana Herrera, the sexagenarian CEO of House of Aubrey, has had a major lady boner for me ever since we met at the Prada spring show. I dance my way across the room to the espresso machine.

  Raj stands up. “Boss, you have fifteen responses from the Filthy Gorgeous campaign.”

  I roll my eyes. “It’s not a campaign, Raj. It’s a goddamn joke. Pull that ad—stat.”

  He huffs. “Are you sure? Sexygal69 says she has a great deal of experience with cock cages. She’s also a Russian ballet dancer and she’s here on tour with her company.”

  Raj holds up a photo of a stunning brunette dressed in nothing but a tutu and pink stilettos.

  Well, I’ll be damned. Tight legs, tight … everything.

  “Raj—you’ve convinced me. Boo
k a table at Del Posto’s for eight. Tell her not to be late.”

  Don’t roll your eyes. I know I said that I don’t do one night stands, but I’ve always harbored a secret fascination for ballet dancers. Ask any guy—it’s a contortion thing.

  “Is that all, Raj?” I ask as I slap the side of the espresso machine.

  Raj shakes his head. “I spoke to a Miss Bryant from NY Style magazine. She received the e-mail from Parker and she’d like to interview you.”

  “I’m way too busy for this, Raj.”

  There’s a gurgling sound, and before I can blink, I’m covered in hot water. I curse as I pull off my shirt and throw it at Raj. “Here, get this dry cleaned, and grab me an espresso on your way back—make it a double.”

  Raj backs out the door, leaving me clean up the mess.

  Have you ever felt a sensation that you’re being watched? A sixth sense. Like that movie where the freaky kid sees dead people? Well, I’m feeling it right now. My heart quickens and I slowly turn my head toward the door.

  Sweet Jesus.

  Standing before me is undoubtedly the hottest woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. I’d normally rush to greet any guest in my office, but right now? I’m speechless. She’s fucking gorgeous. Radiant. Transcendental. I’m struggling to breathe.

  My eyes instinctively fall to her breasts. Plump. Rounded. Her eyes are large, almond-shaped, and soulful. Voluminous, honey-blonde hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her lips are a perfect cupid’s bow, slightly puckered and full. They’d look perfect wrapped around my dick. She has a small brown beauty spot just above her lip.

  Some men favor tits. Some prefer ass. Me? I’m all about the legs—the longer, the better. And this girl has legs that just won’t quit. She’s tall. She’s toned. She’s tanned. She’s soigné from her fingertips to her toes.

  It just all works; like a well-attuned orchestra.

  The beautiful stranger’s eyes flicker back and forth over my exposed torso. We exchange glances before she speaks first. “I … I’m sorry. I can come back later.” Her voice is soft, yet firm. I’m frozen to the spot. Captivated. The only movement is the stirring sensation in my groin area.