Filthy Gorgeous

by Knight, Jodi

  I sigh loudly and spin around in my Dr. Evil chair. And now Raj is here. He must have got my invitation to the pity party. Want to hear something so depressing that I actually considered hurling myself off the Chrysler Building?

  Raj still has a woman, someone to go home to and make love to, and I don’t. Yep. The world must have flipped on its axis. Not that I want any woman.

  Not now I’ve had Ella.

  Jesus, my stomach gripes each time I think or say her name.

  “Boss, take a look at this. It’s hot off the press.” Raj throws a magazine on my desk. It’s the latest copy of NY Style. I glance at the front cover and see a devilishly handsome man with green eyes and dimples looking right back at me.

  Guess who?

  Yep – yours truly.

  The accompanying headline is; ‘Meet Alexander Slade: NY Style’s Bachelor of the Year.’

  Year?

  I’m shaking as I skip through the pages. Eat shit and die, Tanner Robson—he’s in at twenty-three. I keep going until I reach number one, and then I find the article.

  Four pages of Alexander Slade in glorious high-res gloss.

  As my eyes skim over the words, I feel a small smile tug at my lips.

  Take a look at this:

  … sparking green eyes, dimples to die for… charismatic smile and charm that could melt the hardest of hearts… sharp-shooter, intelligent and oozes sex appeal, Alexander Slade isn’t your typical kind of guy… any woman should consider herself lucky to capture his heart … he’s self-assured enough to confess up to the fact he has a cockatoo named Petie ... his signature cocktail, the ‘Pink Sladie,’ is … he’s strong-willed, his appetite …

  a real modern day Mr. Darcy...

  Karl rubs his eyes and slaps me on the back. “Four pages of ass-kissing. You still convinced she hates you? This is the kind of shit Parker should have put in your advert. Once the females of New York get hold of this you’ll have your harem rebuilt within an hour.

  I’m stunned.

  Karl is still talking. I think. “… and now they know where you work, we’ll have to upgrade the security.”

  Look at this. Ella even signed off with her name—her name, not her colleagues, and she wrote this before her leaving party. Those are her words.

  I’m her number one.

  Not Tyler Strickland.

  Not Tanner Robson.

  Jesus Christ.

  This is unreal. The room is spinning. I stand up, pull on my jacket, and tell the guys I’m sick.

  Then I head home.

  ***

  I must have reread the entire article two hundred times since yesterday, picking apart and analyzing every word. What does it all mean? Is she hot for me, or is she turning me into the hottest bachelor in New York so I have that new toys to play with that I’ll forget about all about her?

  Like that’s ever going to happen.

  She’s one of a kind. Irreplaceable. I know that now.

  I swig another mouthful of beer. I wonder if she knows how much I ache for her? And then I remember her leaving party. I shouldn’t have taken Kelly. I shouldn’t have fucked with her head. I’ve really screwed the pooch this time. Ella Bryant didn’t deserve to be treated like shit for following her dreams.

  What kind of stupid asshole am I?

  I’m sitting in bed, penning love songs like a love-stricken, hormonal teenage boy.

  I grab my guitar. “Sing it again, Petie. I’ll give you one more chance.” I strum the chords to Umbrella.

  He hops from one foot to another, and sings. “Ella, Ella, Ella.”

  Awesome.

  I don’t think that I need to tell you who else would have enjoyed that. I fall back against my pillow and close my eyes. If I really have to wake up, then I hope to God that this has all been a bad dream.

  “Alexander.”

  My eyes snap open to find mom standing in the doorway, observing me through pitiful eyes. She hustles Petie back inside the cage and perches on the end of the bed.

  Her voice aches with concern. “Alexander, look at this place. There’s bird seed and beer bottles all over the lounge.”

  I groan and prop myself up on my elbows and reply in a husky voice. “Mom, how did you get in?”

  “I got a spare key from Raj. Your father called me. He isn’t happy, Alex. Your phone is off. He said you were supposed to be in a presentation this afternoon.”

  I fall back against my pillows. Shit. I forgot all about it. He’s going to kill me.

  “Are you ill? It’s hard to tell with that rug on your face. Would you like me to make you some soup?”

  I shake my head. My mother is obsessed with soup. Girlfriend left you? Home repossessed? Swine flu pandemic? No problem. In mom’s world, there’s nothing that can’t be cured with a nice, hot bowl of chicken soup.

  She pulls a copy of NY Style from her handbag. “Raj gave this to me. Tell me what happened, sweetheart?”

  “Oh, mom.”

  I take a deep breath and start right from the very beginning. I tell her about the advert. My interview for the article she’s holding up. The uncensored story of Jockass and the bar girl. The fight. She nods sympathetically. She says she had her suspicions. I explain how I introduced Ella to Professor Bernstein, how I tried to make her jealous at her own leaving party, and how my own stupid pride prevented me from going after her.

  “Now she’s gone. She left me, mom.”

  As I wind up my story, my mother sighs. “This is all our fault.”

  I’m puzzled. “What?”

  “We put pressure on you,” she stands up. Her face flushes. “I loathe to you tell this, but I think it’s relevant.” She brushes down her dress. “Back in the day, your father and I had only been dating for nine months when I found out I was pregnant. It was early days in our relationship, but I was sure he was the one. I decided I had to see him straight away, so I turned up at his office, unannounced, and I caught him … let’s just say that it was at that moment that I found out that your father had a harem. A harem! Can you believe it?”

  Harem? The hypocritical old dog.

  She continues. “So I gave him an ultimatum: it was me or the other girls. Of course, he chose me, well, us. But, his pride took a hit. Your father was like a sixties throwback; he was all for the free love revival. To cut a long story short, he’s happy I held a gun to his head. We got wed a few months later in Vegas, and we’ve had many wonderful years together. That’s why he forced the whole ultimatum on you. He was convinced that you just needed a push.”

  Sounds romantic when you put it like that, huh?

  I furrow my brow. “He was never going to sign my inheritance away, was he?”

  My mother scoffs. “To Cousin Timmy? Your father would rather partner with Ingleby McKay than sign money over to that side of the family. He was pretty convincing though wasn’t he?”

  I nod.

  “Are you angry?”

  I shake my head. “How can I be angry, mom. I’d never have met Ella.”

  She tugs at my beard. “So, tell me. Are you absolutely sure she’s is the one, Alex? You can’t go around breaking hearts. Trust me, it isn’t nice. Your father lost a great accountant last week because of your antics.”

  She’s referring to Renée. She quit in a pool of hysterical tears and moved to Texas. My father was pretty cut up about the whole thing and suggested she work remotely, but she turned him down and said she needed a clean break. I try to swallow away the lump that’s lodging in my throat. “I think she is the one, mom. But, she’s gone. Did you read the article?”

  She nods. My mother is the only woman in my life right now who doesn’t want to kill me. She’s smarter than Indiana Jones. If anyone can decode hidden meanings, she can. “Do you think she likes me?”

  As soon as those words leave my lips, I physically cringe. I sound like a frigging virgin schoolboy, don’t I?

  Mom chuckles. “Of course she likes you, but that was before the beard. You did the right thin
g. You let her go to do her own thing. And you know what they say, if you love somebody, set them free. If they come back then they’re yours to keep.”

  I blink. “And if she doesn’t come back?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Move on, dear,” she waves the magazine in the air. “After the write-up she gave you, you won’t be short of female suitors.”

  Thanks, mom. Very reassuring.

  Her cell phone rings. “Yes, he’s still alive … no, he hasn’t shaved yet … yes, I think that will fix it … okay, we’ll see you in an hour.”

  She hangs up and smiles. “That was your father. He’s on his way over. Let’s get this place cleaned up then I’ll make dinner.”

  She leaves the room and I drag my ass out of bed. I hear the clinking of glass as she gathers bottles. How awesome is my mother? I was an idiot to ever doubt her loyalty. My father on the other hand? Jesus. Talk about a frigging curveball. I can’t believe he had a harem, can you?

  I indulge in a long, steamy shower and take a razor to my scruff. I’m almost back to my normal self … almost.

  Yeah, I don’t believe it, either.

  See this cologne here? This is the scent I chose for our first date. Everything reminds me of her. See this? I even got her a fucking toothbrush for when she needed to freshen up between our weekend-long sex sessions. I can’t bear to throw it away. Maybe I’ll frame it and hang it above my bed.

  Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.

  I head back through to the lounge and find my father sitting on the couch. He’s reading NY Style. Can you guess which section?

  “Dad.”

  He puts the magazine down and stands up. “Ah, there you are! I didn’t recognize you without that beard.”

  I run my hand through my hair and apologize. “Before you kick my ass, I’m sorry about the pitch. I totally forgot.”

  He pours two glasses of scotch. “I’m glad you didn’t show your face while you were still running that little science experiment on your chin. Parker took over and all went well.”

  I should be happy right?

  I’m apathetic. My father stops short of criticism, but I can tell from his voice that he’s disappointed. But, I couldn’t give a damn about our client.

  Mom waltzes into the room, carrying a dish of steaming hot home-cooked food. “It’s only mac and cheese, but I had to make do with what I could find. I’ll clean the refrigerator after dinner. I think I saw something move in there.”

  I shake my head and serve up while my father picks out a bottle of white to go with our pasta. And now we’ve got music; Bing Crosby.

  I shit you not.

  Isn’t this cozy?

  My parents take their seats on the opposite side of the table. See the way my mother keeps nudging my father? And now there’s an uncomfortable silence. They’re plotting, I can tell. I throw my napkin on the table and cross my arms over my chest.

  “I’ve already told you. I’m not going to sex therapy, or any therapy!”

  They exchange knowing looks. My father pours me a glass of wine. “Calm down, son. Nobody mentioned therapy. How’s the Chardonnay?”

  I give a heart-hearted shrug and poke at my food. “Meh. It’s okay.”

  He swills the wine around his glass and inhales. “I picked this up from France last time I was over there.”

  France. There’s that word again.

  My father leans forward. “I won’t beat around the bush, son. I’m not happy with your work at the moment.”

  “What work?”

  He sips his wine. “Exactly.”

  He got me there. I haven’t exactly been on top of my game. My father pushes his plate to one side. “When you’re in your stride, you’re fantastic. One of the best in the business. Look at the way you had Juliana wrapped around your little finger. And not to mention your–”

  “Jack!” Mom coughs.

  I shudder.

  My father dabs his mouth with a napkins. “What I’m trying to say is that you need to get your mojo back. It’s good for business.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but he raises his hand and continues. “I have to admit, you know your target audience; women.”

  I raise my glass and give a wry smile. “I must get it from you Dad.”

  My mother gives me a sly wink.

  He continues. “So, I thought to myself, why not target other perfume houses?” He leans forward. “Why stop there? Think about it. With your skills with the opposite sex, we could enter fashion houses. Shoe companies. The world is our oyster.”

  I nod. He has a point. When I’m on form, I’m unstoppable.

  He continues, with excitement dancing in his eyes. “And New York aside, where else in the world has the highest concentration of these kinds of companies?”

  I take a mouthful of mac and cheese and think. “London, Paris …”

  Wait a second.

  I look up.

  Mom and Dad are grinning.

  I drop my fork. “Wait, so you need somebody to go to Paris?”

  My father winks. “Exactly. Just for a few months to put the feelers out for new opportunities. What do you think, son?”

  My ears prick up. I’m like a dog with two dicks. “What do I think? I think it’s a fucking awesome idea. Excuse my French.”

  Dad takes a sip of wine. “Glad you agree. So I was thinking of sending Raj.”

  Wait … what?

  I scowl. Now they’re laughing their asses off.

  “Only joking, son.” My father reaches into his jacket pocket and pushes a piece of paper across the desk. I wish he wouldn’t do that—it really puts the shits up me.

  I pick up the paper.

  Fuck me. It’s a plane ticket.

  “I booked you in business class on an Air France flight next Tuesday morning. I talked to Juliana. She’s kindly offered loan of her apartment in Paris. As a gesture of good will, I told her you’d take it, to keep company costs down.”

  My eyes bulge.

  “Calm down, son. Juliana won’t be there.”

  My mother winks. Again. All that wine must have given her a nervous tic. “And you never know who you’ll run into while you’re there, right?”

  Christ, she’s really pushing for those grandkids. I’m her one and only hope.

  But, my mother has a point. If I’m in Paris ‘on business’ and I accidentally-on-purpose run into Ella, then that would be … cool. Serendipitous. Definitely not stalking, okay?

  My father lights up a celebratory cigar. “Is five days enough to get your shit together?”

  I laugh.

  Five days? It’s going to take considerably longer than that, but now there’s a glimmer of hope, it’s a damn good start.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  You’ll be pleased to know that somewhere over the Atlantic, I finally got my shit together. I got my mojo back. Instead of entertaining the air hostesses with my sparkling wit, I spent most of the flight reading a visitor guide to Paris.

  Did you know that The Eiffel Tower served as a billboard for Citroën from 1925 to 1934? Well, they did. The idea was considered a stroke of genius until the high energy bills made the company go bankrupt. Anyway, the idea got my creative juices flowing. So I ditched the book and started brainstorming a plan for a new ad campaign I’m running.

  This campaign is the biggest of my life so far.

  The product in question is sexy, sleek, smart, and now comes without a beard.

  You guessed it.

  It’s me.

  In the industry we call it ‘self-promotion.’ I’m going to sell myself to Ella Bryant.

  Operation Filthy Gorgeous, here I come.

  For a few hours I mulled over what I’ll say to her when I see her for the first time. How I’ll deliver my opener to trigger an emotional response. Then I thought, screw strategy. Where the fuck has that got me so far?

  There’ll be no horse and carriage rides this time. No kittens hand-delivered by glittery vampires. No accordion players. No fancy billb
oards with my name emblazoned in lights on the Eiffel Tower.

  Unlike Citroën, I’m not going for overkill.

  All that matters is how she will respond. I screwed up. But I’m going to fix that. Ella Bryant needs to know that she doesn’t need to choose between myself and Paris.

  She can damn well have both.

  I thought about waiting a couple of days before I make contact, but I consider patience to be nothing but a waste of time, so as soon as I touched down, I dumped my luggage at the hotel.

  See that handsome man there? The one with the drenched white shirt who’s running up the steps of the Metro station two at a time?

  That’s me.

  Three blocks later, I reach my destination; Place de la Contrescarpe. Though it’s raining and dusk has well since passed, the street still buzzes with activity. Tourists sit outside canopied bars, drinking wine under heated lamps. I grab a scrap of paper from my pocket to check Ella’s address.

  Guess how I got hold of her address?

  I had Parker intercept one of her postcards to Carrie. Like I said, the guy needs his own goddamn detective series.

  I stalk around the square and I’m serenaded by an overenthusiastic busker strumming on a guitar. I still when I reach a small patisserie and check the names on the buzzer. There’s no sign of the name Bryant. I slowly raise my head and count the floors. See the window up there, the one with the flower box? That’s Ella’s apartment. The lights are on, but the drapes are drawn.

  I won’t lie to you—I’m nervous as hell. These past few, lonely weeks have been excruciating. I take a deep breath, push the water out of my hair with my hands, and hit the buzzer.

  Bzzz.

  No answer.

  I take a step back, glance up to her window, and can just make out a slender silhouette of a woman. I recognize the waves of her hair; the curvature of her breasts.

  Welcome back, boner. How I’ve missed you.

  My eyes flicker to the left. And it’s then I see another figure. Ella Bryant is not alone. That’s gotta be a guy, right? Or a freakishly tall woman. My heart pounds. I take a deep breath. I refuse to draw conclusions before … now he’s touching her arm.