by Jess Bentley
She sees it too. I see her shoulders slump a little bit and she softens. She stands up and comes around to the front of her desk, dropping into the chair next to me and slapping me lightly on the knee.
“You’re sweet,” she begins again, more gently.
“What are you talking about? You want me to go out on a date because I’m sweet?”
She nods, waiting for me to get the drift. What does sweetness have to do with —
“Wait a second,” I groan, putting it together. “You want me to go on a date because I’m a… because…”
“Because you won’t fuck him, yes,” she nods emphatically.
“Jesus, Hannah. That’s a little cynical.”
Hearing her say fuck especially in this context puts me on edge. I may be a virgin, but I have a pretty open way of speaking compared to her. It’s my “trucker mouth,” as my grandma used to say. But if she’s talking like this, she must be unusually frustrated. Still my virginity should be off-limits. She doesn’t own me.
“Well, that’s what I need,” she declares as she stands and walks back to the other side of her desk, then sits heavily in her chair. “Everyone else would be… you know. Taken in by their charms. They have a reputation as Lotharios, as master seducers, and frankly, they’ve earned every bit of it.”
“I really don’t like this,” I admit uneasily. “My sexual status is not a topic I feel particularly comfortable talking about, let alone using as a… a… I don’t even know what. A shield, I guess.” I shift in my chair. “Or a gambit.”
“So don’t talk about it. Just be about it.”
Her stare is direct, unwavering. She’s not negotiating with me. She’s commanding me, just like she commanded me to write all those lipstick comparisons and selfie photo tips.
“I don’t want to.” Why do I sound like a petulant child?
“It won't really be so bad,” she sighs. “It's just a date. A few dates. And then write about it, like you do. The way only you can.”
“But why?” I ask her in a drawn-out wail.
I don't want to sound like I'm whining, but I'm totally whining. I like being single. I like it that my only pet is my laptop. The last time there was a man in my life… it didn't end well. No man equals no bad endings. It’s as simple as that. And just because I came to that conclusion before I lost my virginity is just incidental.
“Bella, the merger is… not going spectacularly well. Just to be honest.”
She grits her teeth. They line up together in perfect rows. Her eyes are hooded and dark, not their typical cornflower blue. I can tell that putting this together and admitting it to me causes her some discomfort.
Good. It's causing me discomfort too.
“Without the merger, we’re in trouble. As you know, the whole publishing industry is in turmoil. We need to merge to stay strong, to stay viable. If not…”
Her voice trails off. I think I know what was at the end of that sentence. If we don't merge, we go under. Riordan Publishing goes belly up. A few thousand people lose their jobs, just like that, in an industry where getting a new job is practically impossible at the moment.
“And the key to this merger is a date, somehow? There has got to be more to the story, Hannah,” I plead. “Just explain the angle to me. Okay? You know I would do anything I could for you.”
She winks at me, smiling grimly. “Because we’re sisters."
“My sister from another mister,” I echo solemnly.
“So you’ll do it? It won't be so bad, I promise.”
I shrug helplessly. What am I going to say?
“Of course I'll do it. Who’s my new boyfriend?”
“Emmet Riordan,” she smirks.
I think my heart just stopped. Seriously. I can’t hear it anymore.
“Breathe, Bella,” she coaches me.
“I am breathing,” I lie. “You want me go out with the president of the company? The millionaire? Wait… billionaire?? And write about it?”
“Yes,” she nods, eyebrows arched. She steeples her fingertips under her chin and gets a far off look in her big blue eyes. “I want a Cinderella story, soup to nuts. Little mouse friends and glass slippers and everything. Ooh — get yourself photographed picking out shoes at Gucci, going to openings at the MCA. Billionaire stuff, but not pervy. Build me a G-rated fairy tale. Okay, maybe PG. But in public, for everyone in the world to see.”
I shake my head in confusion. Emmet and Dillon Riordan are co-presidents of the entire company, after inheriting it from their dad upon his passing a decade ago. Early on, the publishing business was still in gold rush years. Emmet and Dillon were all over the newspaper tabloids and gossip television, living like rock stars while they somehow managed to get more and more wealthy, no matter how much money they spent. Or how carelessly. They had well-publicized affairs with a couple of married supermodels, mysterious songwriters, actresses… pretty much the whole menu of bangable ladies. Plus the a la carte.
Every time they did something bad, they seemed to get rewarded for it. Their stock went up, their new ventures skyrocketed to internet stardom, whatever. They couldn’t miss. Which begs the question: why would one of them need to date me?
“Yeah, Hannah, I'm still not getting it. How on earth does that have anything to do with the merger?”
Hannah rises from her chair, turning her back to me as she walks to the wall of windows and stares out. I can tell she does not want me to know the whole story, which means there is no way of getting it out of her. She’s Fort Knox when she wants to be. It’s part of her success.
“It’s gonna be great. You’ll probably really like him. Everybody does. And then we can get you back on track, okay?” I think she’s losing interest in this conversation. She picks an imaginary piece of lint off her skirt.
“But how? How am I supposed to date someone I don’t even know? When I don’t even want to date, you know, anyone?”
“You’re the writer. Figure it out. Tell me a story.”
“But how?” I whine again, and she pivots on her heel to glare at me, her expression very near to anger.
“Make up a character, Bella, and then live it. Do whatever you have to… I don’t care. But in case you’re really not getting it: the serious journalist you want to be has zero chance of existing if there’s no Riordan Publishing around to publish her works. Understand?”
“Make up a character,” I repeat numbly, letting the words sink in. Make up a fucking character.
“Yeah,” she insists. “Fake it til you make it, like the rest of the goddamn world does every day. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We’re done here. I know I could ask her a million more questions, but it would just be like throwing pebbles up at Juliet's window when Juliet's pretending not to be home.
“Well, I guess, um…”
“Thanks, Bella. You’re a lifesaver,” she mumbles, more calmly, but she's not looking at me anymore. She scowling at her laptop again, seeming to be a lot farther away than just on the other side of the desk.
So I guess that's that, I tell myself as I make my way back to the elevator, retrieving my validated parking stub and pressing the elevator button.
I’m going to invent a new me.
I’m going to date a billionaire.
And the new me — the character with a job she wants to keep — is going to pretend to enjoy every minute of it.
Hannah better appreciate this.
She will; won’t she?
CHAPTER 3
Dillon
I take the corners too fast, screeching through the parking garage ramp like a kid who’s just stolen his dad's car. This floor is almost deserted except for the back wall. I guide the Ferrari through the lanes, relishing the feeling of its tight steering, sensitive as a schoolgirl.
The back wall is all lined with engraved placards for the reserved spots. Jerking the wheel to the left, I whip into the spot marked Emmet Riordan. He won’t mind. Brothers share, like I'm always trying to
tell him.
The engine is almost silent but when I shut it off, and I can see just how low and sensual that sound really was. Kind of a subliminal hum, a vibration that thrums through the whole chassis. Pretty sexy.
Just had a hummer this morning, as a matter of fact. I try to remember her face, and what the hell was her name? She gave me one of my top-ten blowjobs ever, jamming me deep into her throat and still managing to hum like a kazoo band in that sexy, low voice.
It was all her idea. I expected her to leave after I fell asleep, like they usually do. I thought she had to get to class or something, but I guess she wanted to stick around. Then she dropped back under the tangled sheets and started pushing my ball sack around with the tip of her nose. Singing to herself or something, I thought. Then humming, then deepthroating me with a soundtrack. Maybe some kind of voodoo, I don't know. It worked just fine, that I can definitely say for certain.
Now what was her name?
Just thinking about it — the blowjob, not the name — is getting me hard all over again. I ease the seat back a little bit and settle into the supple, leather bucket seat, my hand jammed against the base of my cock. I feel it twitch, hard. Yeah, I'm ready again. Maybe not such a great blowjob after all? Not a lasting one, in any case.
Should I do it? Actually beat off as I’m parked in my brother’s reserved, special parking space? With my eyes half-closed, I kinda see his name up there, through the windshield. That's a little weird.
I close my eyes. She had the blackest hair I've ever seen. So dark, with highlights as shiny as plastic. She moved her head up and down, and it seemed as though I could almost see a reflection of the whole Chicago skyline, right there on the side of her head.
Beautiful.
Thud.
I sit upright, looking around. I felt the car move. Did some motherfucker just hit me?
“Excuse me?” I ask over the roof of the Ferrari as I get out. There’s somebody there, shuffling in the space between cars but too low to see.
There are LED lights in cans, one over each spot. It’s a nice detail, and safe too. It almost looks like a hotel bar in here. After half a second, a mahogany brunette head pops up, followed by one of those oval-shaped, pretty, brunette girl faces. Straight nose. High cheekbones. Big, brown eyes with long lashes.
“Excuse me?” she repeats, like I've offended her. Lots of sass in that voice. This is going to be good.
“I think you just hit my car.”
She squints at me like this is some kind of trick. Like I’m going to abduct her in the parking garage of my own company or something.
“I just dropped my keys,” she scowls, as though that says anything.
“You hit my car,” I repeat as I walk around the back to inspect the damage. Dammit, I just got it out of the shop. Again. I'm not in the mood to be replacing another body panel.
“I told you, I just dropped my keys,” she holds up her fingers and jingles the ring. “See?”
I don't answer, just scowl at the side of the sleek machine, kneeling to get a better look. I don't see any immediate damage, but sometimes you don't see that kind of thing right away. Not until you get it out in the sunlight, at least. Sometimes there’s a dent you don’t notice until you compare it with the other side. So I keep looking, measuring mentally.
And I hate it when people assume that just because I don't need the money that I don't mind when they mess up my shit. Kind of a pet peeve, I guess you could say. A quirk.
My fingers slide softly along the panel, feeling for divots. As I get close to the front of the passenger door, I notice that she's edging away, practically all the way to the concrete wall by now.
“You scared?” I ask her without looking up.
She doesn’t answer right away, but puts her feet shoulder width apart. I bet you a hundred thousand dollars she's got her arms crossed now, looking tough.
“Well?” I look up at her, just tipping my head while I'm down here practically laying on the ground. Close enough that I could reach out and stroke her ankle. Close enough that I could lean forward and tongue the circumference of her kneecap. I get a little whiff of something… is that perfume?
Oh, she's one of those girls who sprays a little Chanel up her twat. I like that.
I stand up slowly, rising parallel to her and watching her eyes track my height until I finally stand over her. Even in her stiletto heels, I still have a good five inches on her.
And I'm totally right, her arms are crossed. Somebody owes me a hundred thousand dollars.
“Well?” she asks defiantly, setting her jaw slightly to the side.
“You're not Hannah Bonham,” I remark.
She flinches a little bit back but holds together pretty well. Then she takes a step forward, forcing me back down the little lane between the two cars. If I wasn't a gentleman, I wouldn't have moved. I am totally a gentleman, no matter what anybody says.
“I'm just visiting,” she mutters as she keys open her door. She squints her eyes as she looks through her front window and sees Hannah’s plaque on the wall, then shifts her gaze to Emmet's plaque. Then, just like clockwork, she looks at me with that mixture of surprise, uncertainty, and fear that I love so much, whenever I meet a new employee.
“I really didn't hit your car,” she says in a much smaller voice.
“Maybe your… what is that? Hermès? Something pretending to be Hermès?”
She glances down at her bag. The tip of her nose goes adorably pink.
“I don’t think my fake bag hit your car either. I would have felt it.”
I should get mad, just to see how she reacts. See what she’s really made of. But apparently that’s the sort of thing that gets you labelled a douche in this town. Whatever.
I shrug, because really, do I care all that much? But it is fun to watch her squirm. “Probably wouldn't matter if you did.”
Her eyes shift back and forth uncertainly for a moment, as though figuring something out. She takes a deep breath and looks up at me, smiling pleasantly. Plainly curious, but suddenly slightly more confident.
“Bella Cage,” she nods, holding out her hand. I shake it, noting the strength of her fingers, the rustling warmth of her palm against mine. It feels surprisingly comfortable there, like it's a good fit. Like it's custom-made. Her skin is soft.
“I think I’ve heard your name before,” I say, watching her eyes dart back and forth between mine. She's taking deep, measured breaths. Her pulse is probably elevated. I bet that perfume between her legs is getting more intense.
"Well, it's nice to meet you, um, Mr. Riordan.”
Mr. Riordan. That's a nice touch.
I look down, noticing that we’re still holding hands.
“Oh,” she says softly and drops my hand, then balls hers into a small fist that she lets fall to her side.
“So… perhaps a drink? To start?”
“Excuse me?”
She takes a short, deep breath and squints at me shrewdly. “A drink? Doesn’t that sound like a decent way to start off?”
I find myself licking my lips. Did this woman just ask me on a date?
Her eyelids flutter softly, her long lashes trembling. I can’t stop looking at her. She’s such an interesting mix of hard and soft. There’s a firm set to her lips but her gaze is a touch unsteady. I know her heart is racing but her feet are still planted shoulder-width apart like a dedicated recruit.
“Whatever you like?” she persists. “I like American whiskeys, if that suits you.”
I am amused beyond measure. Here's this strange woman, parked in the CEO’s parking space, possibly doing fifteen thousand dollars worth of damage to my car. And yet, she's got the balls to ask me out.
What a delightful creature.
“I prefer Japanese whiskeys.”
She raises her eyebrows briefly, as though she considers challenging me. Then she merely replies: “Yes, I'd like to try them.”
I cross my arms, leaning against her car briefly. It is some kin
d of macho girl crossover, like a RAV4 or something like that. Something city girls get to make it look like they actually leave Chicago every once in awhile. Maybe go up to Wisconsin. Antiquing in Galena. Visiting relatives who live on one of those fucking farms out west like in Plano or something. I’ll bet this thing has never been west of California and Ashland Avenues.
“What about my car?”
She swallows. I see her throat undulate and not too subtly think blowjob in big neon letters in my mind. I’d like to slide down that throat. My cock twitches in agreement.
“I really don't think I did anything to your car. I think I may have just bumped it when I bent down to get the keys.”
“Bumped it?”
“Yeah, you know…” She does little pantomime, twitching out one hip suggestively.
“So you’re admitting it now? Looks like those hips could actually do some damage, you know.”
Her eyes narrow. I bet she's getting mad.
“You're messing with me,” she says. It's not a question.
I back away, letting my eyes trace her outlines from the gleaming tips of her Louboutin pumps to the subtle shadows of her nipples beneath the fabric of her dress. Calvin Klein, I’m fairly certain. Nothing wrong with that. He’s a nice guy. We played volleyball at his place on Martha’s Vineyard once. Memorial Day or something like that.
“Am I messing with you?”
She wrestles a polite little smile onto her face. I'm not sure what's going on there. To be honest, it sort of seems like she dislikes me, so I don’t know why she’s trying to get in my bed.
“I'll have a car come pick you up tomorrow at eight."
She scowls prettily. “You don't know where I live.”
“I own the HR department, though, don't I?”
“I — I suppose you do,” she says finally. It's almost like a little white flag poking over the edge of the bunker. A tiny, adorable surrender.
“How about The Copper?” I ask her, waiting to see how she reacts. There's nothing there, even though she should probably know already that reservations are impossible to get. It's ridiculously exclusive, and she should absolutely be impressed.
