Revenge In The Hamptons (Revenge Is Best Served Hot (Powerful Women Series))

by Morian, C. C.

  REVENGE IN THE HAMPTONS

  REVENGE IS BEST SERVED HOT:

  Powerful Women Series

  C. C. Morian

  Published by YRBS

  Copyright © 2015 by C. C. Morian

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission from the authors, except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews. Thank you for supporting the rights of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, is entirely coincidental.

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  Contents

  Revenge in the hamptons

  About the author

  Books by C. C. Morian

  Books by C. C. Morian and Blaise Quin

  Mailing list

  REVENGE IN THE HAMPTONS

  A POWERFUL WOMAN REVENGE STORY

  by

  C. C. Morian

  Revenge In The Hamptons

  I was staring at my computer screen, but not really focusing on the spreadsheet. An insistent tapping snapped me out of my reverie. Someone was knocking on the wall of my cubicle.

  I spun my chair, actually happy by the intrusion, I wasn’t getting much done anyway. My joy was short-lived when I saw who it was, the nerdy guy from a few cubicles down, who technically worked for me. Not a bad guy, actually, but he certainly wasn’t my type; I’d been in one of those moods where I was missing having a man in my life, so I was looking at every guy through my maybe him filter.

  “Tessa, most everyone has already headed out, just seeing if you were coming,” said Robert. Not Rob, or Bob, he insisted on being called Robert. Like the facial hair he was struggling to grow, it didn’t help him appear any more mature.

  “What? Already?” I glanced around, but of course couldn’t see anything outside of my cubicle. I was a department manager, and in the perverse logic of some corporations, status was conveyed by the height of your cubicle walls. Until you became a Vice President, when you got a private office, and your exact status was announced by where it was located; starting from near the bathrooms and progressing to the corners, and then upstairs, where the musical office chair game started all over again.

  I stood up and peeked over the wall, not entirely easy with my barely five four height, and that was with heels. I couldn’t see any heads, and normally enough people were mingling around, especially on a Friday, just waiting until the day was over.

  “Uh, it’s almost 6,” said Robert.

  We usually blew out at 5:30 on a Friday, peons and managers mingling together for a happy hour at the bar downstairs. I was so out of it feeling sorry for myself I had lost track of time.

  Normally a drink would be good, even with guys like Robert, who I think had a crush on me, but on the other hand he probably had a crush on any woman who was nice to him. I would have bet that he was still a virgin in his mid twenties. I suspected he had been waiting for me to leave so he could ride the elevator with me. Or maybe he just felt sorry for me, sitting alone.

  I gave him a good smile, just because he was a little immature and not my type didn’t give me any excuse to be mean. Why couldn’t the guys who wanted me be the ones I wanted? Unconsciously my eyes drifted to the corner glass office, where, from this angle, I could barely see Steve, the Senior VP of our group. Steve was successful, on the fast track, probably making over three hundred thousand a year, drove a BMW, had a weekend beach house in the Hamptons, and still spoke with an Australian accent, even though he had lived in New York since high school.

  Oh, and did I mention that he was built like a lifeguard, and handsome as anything?

  Why couldn’t it be Steve who was coming to see if I wanted to go to happy hour?

  But Steve, though civil to me, had his eyes on one of those upstairs offices, and a dalliance with one of his managers, no matter how successful I happened to be, might put a damper on his plans. Plus I doubted he needed to get his action from the office, I’m sure he had lots of other opportunities to meet women. Women were probably crawling all over him, something I’d like to be doing, more in a literal sense. . .

  But with my luck, if something did happen with Steve, he’d use me and drop me, just like the two other guys I’d had real relationships with. At least they had seemed real to me at the time. I was starting to wonder if my personal success would ever catch up with my professional success, or whether I’d be destined to be a poster child for the phrase smart women, foolish choices.

  Robert was waiting patiently for my reply. Partially because I was his boss, and partially because he was polite. If he and Steve could just be clay men, and I could meld them into one guy in the right combination of attributes, I’d have what I wanted.

  I sighed. “I have a few things to finish up, Robert.”

  “Anything I can help with? I can stay late.”

  “No, thanks. I appreciate it.” I saw his shoulders sag. Although I hadn’t meant to, I had burst his bubble, either to help or to chat with me outside of the office at happy hour. To lighten the sting I added, “I’ll try to make it down a bit later.”

  Robert nodded and headed off with his heavy laptop bag.

  After he turned the corner I glanced at Steve’s office again. He was leaning back in his chair, on the phone, relaxed. He hardly ever went to happy hour anymore, not since his last promotion.

  But there was always a chance. I thought briefly of waiting for him to get off the phone, and then sticking my head in his office, asking him if he wanted to go downstairs.

  The irony of it wasn’t lost on me. Steve would probably look at me just the same way I had looked at Robert, seeing someone a little desperate. He’d see this petite, cute but not Hampton’s beautiful strawberry blond (sometimes I liked that mix, other times it felt like I was a failure at being a either a true blonde or a real redhead) trying to hook up with someone over her head. He’d immediately suspect that I had been hanging around the office late just to try to get a chance to rub against him in the elevator. Instead of seeing a fun loving, normally upbeat, sexy woman who might be a possible relationship.

  Now thoroughly depressed, I shut down my computer and packed up my things. I’d never have the guts to do it anyway.

  But I still lingered longer than I needed to, just in case Steve did come by. A girl could always hope.

  Friday night, nine p.m.. I’m half way through a pint of premium ice cream, one with nuts and caramel, and I’m feeling more sorry for myself as I get closer to the bottom. I’ve had two glasses of wine and am watching a tivo of my fav comedy show, but nothing is helping much.

  Don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not really depressed, not in a clinical way. And in fact most of my friends and work buddies wou
ld say I’m pretty positive most of the time. Not quite perky, that’s not me, but outgoing and friendly. I can laugh at good jokes and dumb jokes, am socially quite adept, fun at big parties and smaller get togethers, and well educated.

  But my last relationship, with Ward, the one who I thought was the one, had recently ended, and I still wasn’t over it. Ward had been almost everything on my man wish list. Well, not the original list, the pie in the sky list, the romance novel list. At twenty eight, I had been eliminating something off that wish list just about every year, convincing myself I wasn’t being realistic, who could find a guy that was handsome and rich and romantic and buff and funny and gentle and. . .

  Twenty eight was almost thirty, and at thirty my older sister already had three kids. My younger sister had a four year old, and another one on the way. At this rate I’d have a dozen nieces and nephews before I even got engaged. It’s not that I needed a man, I just wanted a man. Well, I needed a man for the kids part, but you know what I mean. I could make my way in life just fine on my own, but I simply wanted more, I wanted someone I could trust and share a life with.

  So my well laid plans for the successful husband, caring father, and kids sometime in my late twenties were dwindling as fast as my stock of ice cream.

  Ward, it seemed, had discovered a penchant for demure Asian women, of which the only thing I had in common was being a size 4. Even my nicely sized breasts, which, if the stares were any indication, were a big deal for a lot of men, wasn’t enough to keep him hooked. Or maybe given his sudden fetish for little Asians, might have worked against me. And no one would ever call me demure.

  Ward had of course told me, in one of those breakup discussions I could have scripted, that it wasn’t me, it was him. Blah blah blah. The fact that I’d used the same line a few times breaking up with guys didn’t lessen how much I was crushed. The relationships, if you can call them that, that I had ended with those words hadn’t gone that far; it was mostly after just a few dates, when it was pretty clear to me that they couldn’t be the one, no matter what list I was using.

  Ward, on the other hand, seemed to have it all. He wasn’t movie star good looking (who is, in real life?) but he was easy enough on the eyes. He went to the right schools, had a good job with good prospects, and we were the same religion. He wanted kids. He even sent my mom a card on her birthday. How many guys did that?

  So while we hadn’t exactly talked about marriage even after being together a year, I figured we were well on the path, and pretty soon if he didn’t pop the question I was going to start hinting around, you know, just a few comments. . .

  Then came the brush off, Ward telling me he just had to be with someone different, as if he could become more well rounded and culturally literate by sleeping with a Chinese chick who was born in Boston. Or whatever.

  Fuck him, I thought. Or tried to feel that way whenever I thought about it, which was too often. But I still cried over it now and then. As much over the loss of the dream as the loss of Ward. But still.

  I realized that if Ward came back to me, I’d probably take him. Especially if no one else had come along by then. I know it sounds pathetic, but he really was an okay guy, and I liked him well enough. Loved him even. Not in that swooning, butterfly in the stomach way, but in a loving way. He’d make a good husband, a good father. The sex had been fine, and we actually had plenty of it.

  Not that I had much to compare it to. Just as I’d never been really in love (not counting those high school crushes, and the one I had on my boss Steve), I’d never really experienced the it’s-so-good-that-I-have-to-scream-out-loud sex. I’d seen it in movies, I even had a few girlfriends who told me about it, but I’d never come close. I thought not having that kind of sexual attraction would be a small price to pay, so it was one of the first things to be dropped from my man wish list. Actually it hadn’t even been on the first list, but in my early twenties, still optimistic and thinking that all the guys who chased me in college were indicative of what the real world would be like when it came to finding a husband, I had added it.

  And unlike my two other ‘serious’ relationships, I never had the sense that Ward had just wanted me for my body. He was, until he shocked me with his Asian fetish, nice to me and nice to be with.

  It wasn’t like I mooned around all day, weeping for a husband. Far from it. I had a graduate business degree from a well respected school, worked for a good company, and in just a few years had already been promoted twice. I was in good shape, had a lot of acquaintances, some close friends, a close family. I appreciated all of that, and felt lucky. Most of the time I was happy, having a good time. But I couldn’t shake the shadow of my upbringing, a large extended family, where success for generations had been defined by marriage and kids. I knew I should feel all of that was superficial and hopelessly outdated, but when I was home for the holidays, and really enjoying being surrounded by my family, especially the kids, I’d think, this is a pretty good definition of success too. I can have the job, and everything else as well.

  As I got older, I was realizing the complications of having it all. Sure, I could settle, I could marry a nice guy like Robert; I’m sure he’d be sweet and loving. But I wasn’t ready for that yet. Nothing against Robert, I hoped he’d find someone. But I’d be more miserable than if I stayed single.

  So I knew myself and my situation, but it didn’t help make me feel any better. Worse, from my prior experiences and from listening to some of my girlfriends, I was suspicious of guys who were too interested in me as soon as they met me—I figured they were just looking for another conquest. I got as horny as the next girl, but I didn’t want to waste any time hanging with a guy if he wasn’t going to have possible long term potential. I’d done that already. I was oh for two in relationships, and I didn’t want to strike out, to use a baseball metaphor that Jack, my first boyfriend, was fond of. That Jack had been strike one was too painful to think about.

  I dug out the last of the ice cream and was contemplating a run to the downstairs deli for another container when my phone rang. My best friend Liz.

  “Where are you?” asked Liz.

  “At home watching tv.”

  “It’s Friday, girl. Get off your ass and get out.”

  “I’m a little tired, long day at work. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Liz probably picked up something in my voice. “You’re not sitting there alone eating ice cream and feeling sorry for yourself, are you?”

  I glanced at the now completely empty ice cream carton and answered honestly, “I am not eating ice cream. In fact I don’t have any at all in the apartment.”

  “Well, go buy some. At the supermarket. You know how many women find guys in the supermarket on a Friday night? Try that one on Lexington.”

  I sighed. “That’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “You’ll never get to be an old wife if you don’t get out and meet someone.”

  I thought about Steve. And Robert. And a guy named Luke, who worked in another department but seemed to find excuses to come to our floor. He had that predatory look about him. Not creepy predatory, but the I’m going to fuck a dozen women this year predatory. “Meeting someone is not the issue. It’s meeting the right someone.”

  Liz was silent for a moment. “About that. I may have someone for you.”

  “Hmm.” Liz had introduced me to Jack. Mr. Strike One.

  “This is different,” said Liz. “It’s through Gerry.”

  Gerry was Liz’s husband. “That probably makes it worse.”

  “Hey!” protested Liz.

  “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was, if he’s a friend of Gerry’s, the first thing the guy is going to ask Gerry is, ‘What’s she look like?’ All superficial.”

  “So you want someone who doesn’t like what you look like?”

  “I want someone who doesn’t want me only because of what I look like.”

  “You think you have problems now meeting men, think of what it would be like if you
weren’t really pretty.”

  “Sometimes I wonder.”

  “Look, I’ve met this guy. He’s funny, kind of dry humor, but funny. He’s really good looking. He’s in great shape. He’s never been married.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “There you go again. Sometimes I can’t figure you out. You’ve created such an impossible check list.”

  “Is it too much to ask to find a nice guy with a steady job who wants to have kids?”

  “I don’t know about the kids. But he’s a managing director at one of the investment banks.”

  “Probably doesn’t have time for kids. Or me.”

  “We know plenty of bankers with wives and kids.”

  I was tempted, but the memory of Jack was still strong, even though it had been—shit, six years. And Gerry, although Liz seemed happy with him, had this college boy rowdy lewd side. I bet his description of me to this mystery banker guy focused heavily on my tits. “I don’t know, Liz. . .”

  “Did I mention he was Catholic?”

  That stopped me cold. “You held that until the end, didn’t you?”

  “Just in case. Anyway, his name is Mike. Can I give him your number, or what? If you say no, I’m going to come over there and clean out all the ice cream from your freezer.”

  Liz lived an hour and a world away, in married, suburban Connecticut, so that wasn’t likely. “I told you, I’m out of ice cream.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell Mike that, he can bring you some. Now can I have Gerry give him your number or what?”

  Liz was wearing me down. If I didn’t say I’d meet this guy, I’d never hear the end of it.

  “Okay, okay. But he better not be like Jack, or I’ll come up there and eat all your ice cream.”