by Cole, Tillie
Colin shook hands with Blue Eyes. “Let me introduce you to Henry Sinclair, heir to the HCS Media Group.”
Henry’s cold eyes settled on mine, as I shrank back into my seat, and his cheek twitched in annoyance.
Oh shit.
After introductions had been made, Colin invited us all up to meet one another. I watched Henry shake the hand of each of the interns. Then it was my turn. But just as I went to introduce myself, Henry gave me a blank stare and turned and walked out of the room.
I was a damn statue.
“What have you done to piss him off?” my new friend Jayne asked.
“I talked to him,” I said, forcing a nonchalant smile. As Henry’s broad back disappeared from sight, my resolve set in. I’d clear the air with him the next time I talked to him. I would smooth things over.
I didn’t smooth things over.
The next day I caught Henry behind the desk in Colin’s office. “Oh,” I said, putting down the envelope I’d been tasked with dropping off. Henry didn’t even acknowledge me. I should have walked out of the office, but I was a stubborn bitch. And, apparently, I didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. “Look, I know we started off on the wrong foot.” I edged toward the desk. He didn’t even look away from the screen. “We’re going to be here all summer, right?” I tried to smile, but it was so forced I felt like my face had just been injected with an ungodly amount of Botox and I had yet to learn how to move my facial muscles. “Can’t we just be friends?” I shrugged. “I promise I don’t bite.”
Henry sighed heavily and, looking directly at me, said, “I do not care to make friends, Miss Parisi. This isn’t a summer camp, this is a New York City publishing company. Now kindly do the job you have been hired to do.” I radiated anger, I knew I did. But Henry Sinclair was the heir to HCS Media. He was King Sinclair’s son. I was never winning this battle.
Closing the office door behind me, I vowed to not let a stuck-up little rich boy ruin this for me. I would kill the prick with kindness. And I did. All summer long, whenever he gave me a task, I responded with a spritely “Yes sir” and gave him a wide saccharine-sweet smile. Each time I addressed him this way, his eyes flared with annoyance. His silent censure helped me get through each day. I chose to live my life loudly and with joy. He was brooding and miserable. I knew who had the better deal.
Then came the party at the end of the internship program. A summer of hard work ended on that night. We interns were dog-tired and run ragged after a summer of fetching coffee, printing and copying documents, and basically being everyone’s bitches. But I knew I’d proven my worth, and the editor of Visage, the Journal’s magazine, seemed to have taken a shine to me, and she wanted me to intern for her next year. Life was good. My exhaustion couldn’t dampen my mood, and I entered the ballroom, nodding my head to the music, already three large glasses of wine deep. I had a good buzz zipping through my veins, and I was ready to let loose. Jayne and Blake waved me over to the rest of the interns, and the shots and liquor flowed.
“Don’t look now, but your best friend has just entered the party.” Blake nudged my arm.
I turned and saw Henry Sinclair walk into the ballroom, his usual expensive suit and patronizing scowl firmly in place. “Ugh,” I grunted, but I forced a smile and an enthusiastic wave when his eyes met mine. I laughed when his glacial stare turned from mine and he beelined for Colin and the other execs, who had gathered around another table.
“You’re playing with fire,” Jayne said and handed me a large Moscow Mule.
“He’s a spoilt little rich boy who hasn’t had a damn bit of hardship in his entire life.” I clanked my copper mug against Blake’s. “And he can suck my massive dick!” I took his hand. “Now, my boy, we dance!”
Hours later, feet throbbing and highly intoxicated off one too many Moscow Mules, I had to make my third trip to the bathroom. Stumbling off the dance floor and slurring along to the lyrics of “It’s Raining Men,” I collided into a hard wall. No…my hands patted down the wall. It was covered in silky material and seemed to sport some seriously rock-hard abs.
Like I was living life in slow motion, I lifted my head, only to see Henry Sinclair glaring down at me in thinly veiled distain. I tried to gather my composure and step away, but the room kept tilting to the side, taking me with it. Henry sighed loudly and guided me to a seat. His large hands wrapped around my biceps and placed me in the chair. Even in my vodka-riddled state, I could appreciate that the man would be able to seriously throw around a partner in the bedroom.
I started to laugh at that titillating visual, only for Henry to curl his luscious lip in censure and say, “Really, Miss Parisi, at your age one should know how to conduct oneself in public. This is HCS Media, not a trashy gossip rag. Pull yourself together before you re-enter the ballroom and take our good name down with you.” With that, the pompous douchebag walked off, leaving me raging like a thunderstorm. Why did he always have to be such a twat? I’d hoped he’d get better as the summer went on. He hadn’t.
Blake and Jayne found me on the chair I’d been dumped in.
“What happened?” Jayne asked, giggling drunkenly. I regaled them with what the asshole had said. Then, smirking and letting my dangerous mouth fly, I said, “Henry Sinclair the Third is nothing but an overprivileged cockface. An overprivileged cockface who needs nothing but a good spanking and a thorough fucking!” I held up my hand for a couple of well-earned high fives. It took me a minute to realize my friends had become frozen statues around me, no fives of any kind being given.
As I lifted my eyes, I saw Henry standing before me. His blue eyes were positively livid as he looked down his regal nose at me in disgust. Crouching, he picked up his handkerchief, which had been perfectly placed in his suit pocket, off the floor and walked away.
“Shit!” I shouted, but the sound was lost to the music from the ballroom. So I said it just for me.
* * *
That was then. And now he was back. And this time he was in charge.
I lifted my head from my desk, stood up, and poured myself the strongest coffee I could from the break room. When back at my desk, I opened my computer and began answering the write-ins. Hopefully, I wouldn’t have too much direct contact with Harry. In all the time King Sinclair had been in charge here, I’d never once spoken to him. Sally was my editor. I was sure that things would remain the same.
Two hours later, I realized I didn’t know shit.
Chapter Three
“Miss Parisi?” A man was suddenly at my desk. “I’m Theo, Mr. Sinclair’s assistant. I’ve been sent down to get you for your meeting.”
“Meeting?”
Theo nodded. “You received an email earlier. Did you not get it? You were expected on the tenth floor fifteen minutes ago for your one-on-one.”
Of course I was. I turned to Novah. She pressed on computer keys and brought up her intranet emails. She grimaced. “He’s right. I have one later. I’ve just seen it too.”
“Awesome.” I groaned and got to my feet. I straightened out my black dress and ran my hands through my hair. “Okay, ready,” I said to Theo and followed him out of the office and to the elevators. Theo was about forty years old, if I had to guess. Cute. Like Penfold from Danger Mouse.
“I like your lipstick,” he said, smiling at me over his shoulder.
“Thank you, sweets.” I’d forgotten I was even wearing it. “Novah tells me it’s my perfect shade, apparently.”
“Spanish?” Theo asked, eyes narrowing on my features.
“Italian. At least my papa is. My mom is American, but from Scottish parents. She’s a pale, blond beauty. I get my coloring and attitude from my papa. He’s from Parma in Italy. I get my potty mouth from my mom. Scots sure know how to throw the f-bombs.”
Theo laughed. “The perfect combination,” he said, just as the elevator doors opened to the tenth and top floor. The floor of the bosses or, as I liked to refer to it, Dante’s fourth level of Hell. Theo led me to the office
that King had previously occupied. I’d never been there before, but we’d all heard about the famed Sinclair office with the black door. That asshole ruled with an iron fist and had reduced many a journalist to a weeping baby simply with one look.
Theo opened the infamous black door. “There you go, Faith.” I smiled at Theo as I passed him. “Good luck,” he whispered ominously as he shut the door, trapping me inside.
“In here, Miss Parisi. Sometime today would be good.” The sound of Harry’s deep voice cut through the room. I winced at his shitty attitude. Forcing my feet to move, I rounded the corner and found the bastard sitting behind his large mahogany desk. His hands were steepled as he sat back on his plush leather desk chair, which may as well have been a damn throne. His dark eyebrows were pulled down as he watched me approach. I held my chin high, refusing to be intimidated by him. Harry didn’t break his stare; he just gestured to the seat opposite him. “If you don’t mind, Miss Parisi. I have a day full of appointments that will now all run late because of you.” I exhaled a long, controlled breath, trying to calm my hot Italian blood.
“I didn’t see the memo. Sorry. I was working on my column.” Harry’s face didn’t change. He reached for a piece of paper on his desk.
“Yes. ‘Ask Miss Bliss.’ Your very…interesting page, correct?”
“Yes,” I said through gritted teeth.
Harry read something on the page. I lowered my gaze to his clothes. I wanted to roll my eyes but managed to refrain. He wore his usual ridiculously expensive suit, jacket off, tie tightly in place. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing his muscled forearms, sprinkled with a dusting of dark hair. And then there was his handkerchief. The fucking stupid handkerchief that sat in his shirt pocket in a perfect little triangle. I wanted to pull it out and toss it out the window, preferably with Mr. Sinclair III following closely behind. I couldn’t help the tiny smirk that pulled on my mouth at that happy visual. Harry looked over the page he was reading. His eyes momentarily narrowed on me; then he resumed his reading.
“And this is what seventy percent of our Visage readership want the magazine for?” he said in disbelief and flicked the paper with his hand. “Your column?”
Pride swelled in my veins. “Yes. Or so the surveys tell us.”
Harry’s eyebrows rose. “Well, you certainly have a way with words, Miss Parisi.” He leaned forward, reading, “I want my wife to do anal, but she's reluctant. Any advice on how I can convince her? Sincerely, Mr. Smith.” I fought back the laughter bubbling up my throat at the question coming so politely and eloquently from Harry’s mouth. “Are the questions usually of this…nature?”
“You mean sexual, Mr. Sinclair?” I said innocently, dying inside at how hard it apparently was for him to say anything referring to sex.
He didn’t even flinch at my veiled attitude. “Well?”
“Yes. They are all of that nature. I now offer only sex advice. It was an organic shift. Started off encompassing any advice, but quickly became more carnally themed. It’s what the readers seem to want from me. It’s the advice I give best.”
“And advice you do give.” There was no hint of amusement in his expression or tone. “Let us see what you said to this Mr. Smith. Ah,” he said dryly. “Dear Mr. Smith. If you want to introduce your wife to the wonderful world of anal sex, I say lead by example. Buy the biggest strap-on you can find, gift it to your beloved, and encourage her to let loose and rip the shit out of your rim for the better part of the night. If you can show her the delights of such backdoor ventures, I'm sure she'll comply with your wants. Sincerely, Miss Bliss."
I fought back my smile. That was one of my personal favorites. Harry placed the piece of paper on his desk and regarded me with shrewd and assessing eyes. “You most certainly have a way with words, don’t you, Miss Parisi?” I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, knowing what he was hinting at. He obviously remembered our summer together as clearly as I did. “And you most certainly enjoy sharing your advice, yes? Freely and without filter.” His fingers drummed on the desk. “And it’s award-winning too, so you must be truly gifted.” Henry Sinclair the Third is an overprivileged cockface who needs nothing but a good spanking and a thorough fucking. My advice for him ran through my mind like an annoying song you can’t remove from your head.
“Thank you,” I said, refusing to let him see me shaken. “It appears people get a kick out of it.”
“Some people apparently do.”
“But I want to eventually move on to feature stories too,” I said, trying to lead us out of dangerous territory. “I love my column, and Visage, and always want to keep it. But I also want to showcase my writing beyond answering the many ‘Mr. Smiths’ that write in.” Harry placed a finger to his mouth, listening. “Sally knows this,” I said. “We’re just waiting for the right story to come up for me to cover.”
“You can write features?” he asked, doubt and a patronizing tone laced in his voice. That just pissed me off.
I painted on my fakest smile. “I graduated top of my class with a degree in creative writing from Harvard and a master’s in feature journalism from Columbia. I assure you, Mr. Sinclair, I am more than qualified to write features.”
“Then I look forward to reading your first masterpiece, Miss Parisi. Until then, sex advice for the masses it is.” He focused on his computer, tapping at the keyboard. When I didn’t move, he glanced at me and said coldly, “We’re done.” Harry gestured toward the door.
Keeping my forced smile firmly fixed on my face, and my hands beside me so I didn’t lash out and slap him upside the head, I rose from the chair. I felt his evil eyes on me as I walked out of his office and toward the elevators.
“Hope that went okay, Faith!” Theo said from behind his desk as I tried to keep my shit together.
“Awesomely!” I said chirpily and stepped into the elevator, my hands shaking with anger. Just as the doors were about to close, I shouted, “What a fucking dick!” Someone’s hands caught the doors and they began to open. I held my breath. It couldn’t be. Surely nobody was that unlucky. I sighed in relief when a man in a suit, probably in his mid-fifties, stepped in, staring at me like I was insane. “Tourette’s,” I said, laughing and pointing to my mouth. “Not a direct slight toward you, I promise.”
The man gave me an awkward nod and faced the doors, keeping as far away from me as he could. Pulling out my cell, I texted my roommate, Amelia, and our neighbor, Sage.
Code 5! We’re going out tonight. I need to drink and dance. No excuses.
Within seconds I had confirmation that both of them were in. Back at my desk, I got a thumbs-up that Novah was in too. Knowing I had a night to unwind, I relaxed in my chair and opened the latest email:
My husband came home late last Friday night and when he undressed and came to bed, I saw lipstick marks around his penis. What advice do you have?
I cracked my hands, flexed my fingers on my keyboard, and swiftly typed my reply for this week’s column: Wine and dine him, take him to bed. Smother his cock with Nutella, then nibble off his pubes like you’re tearing corn off the cob. Watch the fucker scream then Lorena Bobbitt his ass! Badda bing, badda boom—no more lipstick on his cheating dick!
Screw Harry Sinclair and his cold blue eyes. I was damn good at my job.
Chapter Four
“Shit, Faith, this is him?” Sage asked as I sat beside Amelia on our green velvet couch. I grabbed the large glass of red wine she had poured for me. Sage sat opposite us on the edge of our thrift store coffee table.
“That’s the prick,” I said, shaking my head at how perfect someone so freakin’ awful could look in photographs.
Novah sat on my other side. “Yep, that’s him, Henry “Call me Harry” Sinclair. Bachelor of the century and Faith’s archnemesis.” Novah nudged me and laughed when I hissed at her like an angry cat.
Sage went back to searching his phone. “Well, well, well,” he said and held out his cell again. “Who is this bit
of candy on his arm?” I squinted, trying to fight my way through the wine haze that had descended over my eyes. I saw a tall blonde with green eyes, arm firmly linked with Harry’s. He was in a black suit, top and tails, and a mustard cravat, while she sported some monstrosity on her head that appeared to be two cocks fighting—of the avian variety, not the phallic. Although seeing two actual dicks thrashing it out on a bowler hat would have been a vast improvement on this feathered shitshow, which had no place as head decoration.
“What the hell is that on her head?” Amelia tipped her head to the side, trying to work it out.
“The trainee duke and his lady friend are at the Cheltenham races, dahling,” Sage mocked. “It’s where the who’s who of England go to show how money and fashion proves you don’t have to have taste. And where they drop ungodly amounts of money on horse racing to disguise how small their teeny-tiny members are.”
I laughed as Sage winked and Amelia ripped Sage’s cell from his hand. She read the photo caption aloud. “Rumored couple Lady Louisa Samson and the Viscount of Surrey, Henry Sinclair III, attend Cheltenham races.” Amelia looked at me. “Viscount?”
“That must be his title now,” I said. Viscount. Good Lord. That sounded even more conceited than duke.
Amelia passed me the cell. I studied the picture and the statuesque blonde linked to Harry’s arm. Her hair was cut into a long bob, and she sported a true English rose complexion and a patronizing smirk on her dusty pink lips that I instinctively wanted to slap right off her face. How did someone simply exude the attitude of “I’m better than you” from a picture?
“She looks just as pompous as he does,” I said and beamed a huge smile. “Match made in heaven! They deserve each other. Now…” I gave Sage his cell back and got to my feet. “Are we hitting the club or not? I’m dangerously low on alcohol, and in this bra my breasts are shoved up so high that they touch my chin. If we don’t get to the club soon, I’m afraid it’ll be dangerously close to cutting off my capacity to breathe. I’m not wasting another second on Duke Dumbfuck, his bobblehead blonde, and their many acquaintances with terrible teeth.”
