Pierced (Tall, Dark, and Handsome Book 2)

by JA Huss

  He looks up at me. Points to himself.

  “Yes, you. What’s your name?”

  “Uh….” He stands. “Bryce, ma’am?”

  “Bryce, you have now been promoted to executive assistant intern to the VP of Social Media. Come with me.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT - PIERCE

  Whoever came up with the expression “New York minute” completely nailed it. Everything in New York moves faster than anywhere else. I know. I’ve been everywhere else.

  I mean, I move pretty damn fast, but New York laps me. And my dad, even at his age, he laps me too. So being with him for a week to discuss taking over a newspaper felt like being a rocket shoved into a Cuisinart or some damn thing.

  But it was exciting. It was awesome, actually. For the first time in maybe ever he treated me like an equal. Every meeting we walked into, every dinner we attended, he really allowed me to speak. He allowed my voice to have purchase. About halfway through the trip I actually had the thought, Oh, shit, he’s dying. That was the only rational explanation I could come up with for why he was being so cool with me.

  And then, just this morning, right before I got on the plane…

  Fils, je suis très fier de ce que tu as fait avec ton entreprise. Je suis très impressionné.

  He’s never told me that he’s proud of me before. Or impressed. And then he said both in two sentences. Back to back. That was… unexpected.

  He went on to talk about the excellent marketing decisions I’ve made and how he now feels I’m ready to start taking on other parts of his empire myself. He noted the Paris deal as something he’s particularly excited to have me run point on.

  And then I thought, Oh, shit, he really is dying!

  I asked him if he was. He just laughed and got on his plane, headed the opposite direction.

  But here’s the really, really weird part about the whole thing: As cool as it was for that to happen, and as long as I’ve waited for my father to show me anything resembling pride, the only thing I could think was, I wish he’d just take off so I can get back and see Myrtle.

  That realization both excited me and freaked me out. Because I’ve been so focused on earning my dad’s approval for so long that to get it was awesome, and to place it in second position below the idea of seeing my VP of social media was friggin’ bizarre.

  It’s heightened by the fact that I haven’t been able to connect with her all week. Every time I tried to call she was busy with a meeting or doing something. And the one time she tried to FaceTime me, I was at a dinner I couldn’t break free from. Long distance sucks. I don’t know how people do it.

  We texted a few times. Mostly dirty GIFs. The seventy-year-old wife of a guy we were at dinner with saw one of them and kind of gave me the eye. I couldn’t tell if it was judgement or if she was hitting on me. Either way… awkward.

  It’s so wild. I’ve known Myrtle for the better part of the last decade, but suddenly, in what feels like a New York minute, everything is different. It’s tough to start something new with a person and then immediately get pulled away from them. As usually secure as I am about things, I have to admit that I have allowed myself to entertain certain unhelpful and anxious thoughts. What if she somehow has regrets? What if she doesn’t feel the same way I do when I get back? What if she starts really reflecting on ‘us’ and concludes it’s a bad idea?

  I suppose that’s a thing people do. Consider negative outcomes in order to prepare themselves for the possibility of being disappointed. I just never realized before that I was “people.” I don’t love feeling vulnerable like this, but oh, well. Even Achilles had a bad heel, I suppose.

  In any case, I’ll find out what’s what soon enough, because I’m replaying all this in my mind as the elevator approaches the fiftieth floor of the TDH.

  The doors open and I step out to see Valerie on the move.

  “Oh, hey, Val.”

  “Hello, Mr. Chevalier. Welcome back.”

  “Where you headed?”

  “I just have to run and handle something for Ms. Rothschild.”

  “Really? What?”

  “It’s for the party. She’s really taken over since you’ve been gone, sir.”

  “She has?”

  “Oh, yes. She has.”

  And then she’s gone. K. That was… odd. But then again, Valerie is odd, so…

  I stroll down the line of executive offices, nodding and saying hello. I pass by Josh Washington’s office, wave hello and he jumps up from his desk. “Oh, Pierce?”

  “Washington! What’s up?” He looks at me curiously. Which is when I glance at the name plate outside his door. Goddammit. “Washburn! What’s up?” Sometimes the best cover is just to pretend the fuckup didn’t happen. Ugh. I really gotta get better with names.

  “Uh,” he starts, as he reaches me in the hall, “hey, I just wanted to check… we’re fine. Right?”

  “Uh, you and me? Yeah. We’re great. You’re my guy, Washburn!”

  “No, no. Well, I mean that’s awesome, thanks. But, no, I mean Le Man. Myrtle’s really been busting my ass to sell space to two new advertisers by day’s end, and—”

  “She what?”

  “Yeah. She seems to think it’s pretty crucial. And I know you were in New York all week with your dad, so… the magazine’s not in trouble, is it?”

  I’m genuinely stupefied by this line of questioning. “Uh, no, man. Everything’s great. So, wait, so Myrtle, my VP of social media, told you that it’s crucial we get two new advertisers by today?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And—and forgive me, but—you’re the VP of…”

  “Ad sales.”

  “Right.”

  “So, y’know, I just assumed that was a direct order from you because, y’know…” He wags his head back and forth. Here we go. Now that Myrtle and I are together, I’m gonna get this ‘afraid to talk to the boss about the fact that he’s seeing an employee’ head wag all the time.

  “Because…?”

  “No, nothing. Just… you’re saying the magazine’s good though, right?”

  I feel totally challenged answering the same question multiple times. “Yeah, Josh. Everything’s great. I’ll ask Myrtle why… just don’t worry about it. Everything’s great.”

  “OK. OK, good. Thanks, Pierce.” He smiles. And as I move a few feet away from him he adds, “Hey! Really looking forward to the party this weekend. Really.” And he winks at me.

  What an odd guy. Man, I have some weirdos working here.

  When I landed, I texted Myrtle that I’d be here soon, but she didn’t text back. As I’m almost at her office, I grab my phone and check to see if I missed a message from her when I hear a deep, husky, man’s voice say, “May I help you?”

  I look up from my phone to see… well, basically John Elway at twenty-three.

  The guy stands up from behind the custom desk and chair that I bought for Myrtle and which, when I left last week, was still sitting in her office, but now is placed in front of her office, just outside her closed office door. Rising to his full height, he must be about three inches taller than I am and about twice my horizontal depth. Guy has a really well-developed chest, is what I’m saying.

  But, for whatever reason, seems like he accidentally bought his shirt in my size because it clings to every muscle on his torso and looks like it wants to weep from being stretched so tight. It’s possible that I notice it more because his tie is very, very skinny. Don’t get me started on his pants. And he’s sitting in front of Myrtle’s office. K.

  I’ve been gone for three and a half days. What the hell is going on?

  “Uh, yeah,” I say. “I’m going in to see Myrtle.”

  I start to walk past him and he puts a bear-claw-sized palm out to stop me. Wait. No. That can’t be right. Lemme say that to myself again.

  He stops me. From going into Myrtle’s office. At the magazine I own.

  OK. Yeah. No, that’s right.

  What the fuck?

&n
bsp; “I’m sorry, sir. Ms. Rothschild is on a call. She asked not to be disturbed.”

  “I—She—OK, well. Thanks.” I start past him again. This time he moves his whole body in front of me. I look around for hidden cameras for the second time in two weeks. Then…

  “What’s your name?” I ask him.

  “I’m Bryce,” he says. “Ms. Rothschild’s executive assistant.”

  When I was running through the list of what ifs in my mind, this was definitely not in there.

  I look around again. Valerie’s still away from her desk and no one else seems to be in sight, so I have to use a phrase that I absolutely deplore, and resist at every occasion, but…

  “OK, Bryce… do you know who I am?”

  He stares at me, his expression unchanging. Then he lifts his other giant paw, in which is what appears to be a miniature note pad. I think it’s actually regular sized, but in his hand… he picks up a pen off the desk, holds it above the pad, and says, “No, sir. I don’t. Who may I tell her is waiting?”

  I—This guy—What the—?

  I bow my head, close my eyes, swallow, take a breath and say, “Pierce Chevalier.” And then I look at him for something resembling, if not ignominy, at least acknowledgement.

  “Can you spell that, sir?”

  Nope!

  But now, fuck it, I just wanna see how this plays out…

  “P-I-E-R-C-E…”

  “And Chevalier like Maurice?”

  Gobsmacked. Seriously. Gob. Smacked.

  “Big Maurice Chevalier fan, are ya?” I ask.

  “Thank heaven for little girls,” he says, and smiles. This guy is… probably exactly the kind of guy who should be working here. I’ll admit it. “I’ll be right back.”

  And then he opens Myrtle’s office door. I get a glimpse of her, wearing a headset, and in the middle of what looks like a very animated phone conversation. Bryce closes the door behind him and I feel my eyes go wide. I do that thing people do when they look around for anyone at all to share a “can you believe this shit?” look with. Still no one.

  And then, from inside Myrtle’s office, I hear what can only be described as an uproarious cackle. Oh, good. I’m glad everyone’s enjoying this.

  A second later, the door opens again and Bryce squeezes his way out. Not because he doesn’t open the door all the way, but because the guy can barely clear the frame.

  “Ms. Rothschild will see you now,” he says.

  My jaw tightens around a tense smile. I nod, and as I walk past him, I think, Fifty Shades of Go Fuck Yourself, pal.

  When I get inside her office, the first thing I see is Myrtle with her hand over her mouth, suppressing a laugh. I can feel the WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON bellow working its way up in my lungs. But that gets quashed by the next thing I see.

  Photos. Family photos. Myrtle’s family photos. All over the walls. Some of the same ones that adorned the foyer of her house. And a desk that looks very… Myrtle. Same with the chair. The whole office feels like… her. And my shoulders drop, the tension falling right out of them.

  She brought part of herself here. Her actual self. The life she’s lived before and the life she’s living now, with me, here, all in the same place. What the fuck is in my throat? It’s hard to swallow. Where did that weird lump come from?

  She pulls her hand away from her smirking mouth, shakes her head and says, “Shit, I’m so sorry.”

  “Um, who? The fuck? Is—?”

  “Bryce?”

  “Yeah, Bryce. Who the fuck is Bryce?”

  “I pulled him from the intern pool. I just kind of assumed he’d know the owner of the company. But I’m starting to get the feeling he didn’t get a gig here because of his attention to detail. Hi.” She runs over to me and throws her arms around my neck. She gives me a kiss, which I gladly reciprocate. “I’m sorry that we’ve been playing tag this week,” she says. “It’s been crazy. How was New York?”

  “Um, fine. Good. I missed you.”

  “You did?”

  “I really, very did.”

  She smiles. “Was it OK with your dad?”

  “Surprisingly so, yeah.”

  “I’m so glad!” She kisses me again. I’m thrilled, but at the same time, I have to ask…

  “So what’s going on here?” I gesture to nowhere in particular.

  “Oh,” she says, stepping behind her desk with a calculated cool. “Not much. I just hung up with the Perrier people.”

  “You did?” I ask, thoroughly confused.

  “Uh-huh,” she says, giddily. “Guess what?”

  “Oh, shit. It’s not had another benzene contamination, has it? That happened when I was a kid and I couldn’t drink it for months.”

  “No,” she says, grinning, “they want to buy ad space in the magazine for the next… year!”

  “What?”

  “Yep!”

  “Guess what else?”

  “Free bottles in the café?”

  “They’re actually going to sponsor the party!”

  “Which party? The Halloween party?”

  “Yep!”

  “On such short notice?”

  “Whatever. It’s a banner outside and a bunch of free bottles at the bar. It’s perfect.”

  I feel my jaw go slack. I don’t know what to say. I manage, “That’s… amazing.”

  “Uh-huh,” she says, nodding and bouncing her eyebrows.

  “You did all this?” She continues nodding. “Why?” I ask.

  She cocks her head to the side and says, “Whatayou mean?”

  “I mean why are you handling ad sales? That’s Washington’s job.”

  “Washburn.”

  “Sure.”

  “He wasn’t taking it seriously. We lost two ad buyers this week. And why were we selling space to DogCo?”

  “What’s DogCo?”

  “I don’t know. I thought you’d know.”

  “Are they the ones that make hunting jackets for dogs?”

  “Hunting jackets for dogs? Who wants that?”

  “I dunno. People who buy stuff from DogCo, I guess.”

  “Whatever!” she says. “That’s my point. Washburn was acting like losing advertisers and selling space to doggy hunting jacket makers was just business as usual.”

  “Well, I think they’re like the Burberry of dog jackets, but whatever. And, I mean, it is business as usual. We lose ad buys all the time. And then we make them up. No big deal.”

  She looks at me with a confused expression. Crosses to me. “But… but you said that the magazine needed the party and the spread and the ad dollars because… because we’re in trouble. And then when your dad had you come to New York this week, I assumed…”

  Oh, fuck me. Jesus Christ. I did. I told her all that shit. Why did I tell her all that shit? Forget that, why didn’t I tell her it was all bullshit? Because. Because it was just something I said, and I didn’t think about it again. Because I’m selfish. Like Andrew said. And I was getting things I wanted from all this and neglected to remember…

  “Pierce?”

  The look in her eyes is so vulnerable and hopeful and proud. Goddammit.

  It’s OK. It’s OK. It doesn’t hurt anything. It helps, actually. Nothing wrong with getting more money. Never a bad thing. And, y’know, if she winds up thinking that it was her who made it all happen and she ‘saved my magazine,’ well, so much the better.

  Yeah. Because it’s always dynamite to start a relationship on a foundation of lies.

  “Pierce?” she says again, this time placing her hand on my chest.

  “Yeah?”

  “Is everything OK?”

  “Yeah,” I say. I look in her eyes and I can’t risk hurting her. I just can’t. Not again. Not now. I’ll explain everything later, but not now. “Yeah, everything’s great.” Besides, she looks so good that… I take her face in my hands and kiss her on her beautiful mouth.

  We stumble back into her new desk. Her desk that she placed here for herse
lf. To do the work that she wanted to do. The work that she did for this company. Because she loves it. The work she did for me. Because… because she thinks I’m pretty cool. That’s OK. That’s enough for now.

  I place her on the desk, push her skirt up, and spread her thighs.

  “Wait,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Here? Now?”

  “Here is where I am now, so… yeah. It’s my company! I can do what I want!”

  And what I want right now is to be inside my VP of Social Media.

  I slip her panties to the side and look down to see a tiny diamond stud. I meet her eye.

  “Friday is bling day.” She shrugs.

  I unzip my pants and pull my cock out. It has no accessories, so I’ll just have to accessorize it with Myrtle. When I slide inside her, her stomach tenses and she looks over my shoulder.

  “What is it?”

  “I want to make sure no one can see.”

  “Fuck ’em.”

  “Are you an exhibitionist and forgot to tell me?” she moans out between slow strokes of my cock sliding in and out of her.

  “Dunno,” I groan. “I’m learning a lot about myself.”

  But just because I’m curious now, and also because I don’t have any great desire for Bryce to come bursting in and get the idea that this is an office perk, I glance through the slender, vertical window to make sure no one is, in fact, looking in.

  Nope. Bryce has his back to us.

  Myrtle moans.

  Oh. Huh..

  I feel my balls tighten.

  He appears to be chatting up the handsome FedEx guy.

  I turn my attention back to Myrtle.

  Well…

  Myrtle’s mouth opens in a silent scream.

  Good for him.

  And in what has to be world record time…

  You go, Bryce.

  She comes.

  Do you, man.

  And so do I.

  Do you.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE - MYRTLE

  It was exhilarating, and satisfying, and empowering to be busy at work all week. I’d almost forgotten what it was like. The crises, the stress, the energy… God, I’ve missed it. But everything about Pierce’s return feels right. I don’t want this VP job, I don’t want to be in charge of people. The only reason I was so aggressive this week is because Pierce wasn’t here to handle things himself. If he had been, I’d just have been back-up support.