by Nadia Lee
“Hi, Preston.” I smile.
Today, his gaze is more intense than usual. And he glances down at my chest. Okay, that’s weird. My breasts aren’t huge or anything, and Lola, Inc. has a strict anti-sexual harassment policy…and Lola enforces it. There’s no reason for people—men or women—to check my girls out, but people have been doing exactly that.
I point my index finger at him and make a hook.
He comes closer, sudden wariness in his gaze. “Yeah?”
“Why were you looking?”
He clears his throat. “Looking at what?”
“Preston, I know when a man is checking out my chest. No matter how slick you think you are, you aren’t that slick.”
He clears his throat again. “Um. I didn’t really… No offense, Kristen.” He raises both of his hands.
“None will be taken if you tell me why you were looking.”
“Why are you asking me? I can’t be the only one who—”
“Precisely. You’re not. So what’s up? Is there something on my chest? My clothes?”
His complexion turns beet red. “No. You look great. It’s just…” He shifts his weight, left to right and back.
“Yes…?” My patience grows thinner with every ticking second.
Suddenly, my phone rings. One glance at the screen and my heart starts beating a little faster. It’s Antoine. I pick up the phone, my thumb over the green button.
Seizing the opportunity, Preston moves away, pushing his mail cart like his ass is on fire. Of course, I know exactly where to find him.
I answer in my sweetest tone, “Hello?”
“Where are you?” Antoine demands.
“At work, naturally. It’s only”—I check the clock on my laptop—“four eighteen.”
“Good. Gather your things and meet me at the delivery entrance to the cafeteria on the first floor. It’s in the alley. No matter what, do not go outside using the main entrance.”
“What? Why?”
“Do it now. I’m waiting.”
Oh, wow. This is the first time he’s ever called…then asked me to play hooky with him. I’m so tempted, but…
“Karen, do you mind if I leave early?” I ask my boss, who’s walking past on her way back from the break room.
She stops, turning toward me in a skintight black leather dress that leaves nothing to the imagination. But she has the model-esque body to pull it off, along with expertly carved facial bones and enough attitude to own the ensemble. Her shoulder-length, super silky, straight black hair spills forward as she leans closer, and she gives me a stare, her brown eyes unblinking. Then she finally nods. “Sure. It’s probably better that way.”
Huh? Before I can ask what she means, she walks off, long legs eating up the hallway as her stilettos hit the industrial beige carpet.
Curiouser and curiouser.
I shove everything into my laptop bag and purse and hop into an elevator before Karen changes her mind…and before Antoine gets tired of waiting. Maybe he sensed I was going to be lonely this week. I was sort of bummed that I couldn’t think of a good reason to spend time with him after I go get my car from the hotel today. When Dominic and Liza were in town, Liza invited Antoine to dinner and stuff. He never turned her down, probably because she’s very good at making people say yes. Then she made sure to let me know Antoine was coming, so I could just “drop by” and join the meal.
On the other hand, Antoine sounded a bit tense on the phone. Is something wrong? I doubt anything’s happened to Dominic and Liza. They texted me last night after landing safely in Bora Bora.
Maybe I’m just overthinking this. I always do when it comes to Antoine. Liza often tells me I need to just let my gut be my guide, but it’s sort of hard when I feel like I can’t afford to make any mistakes. Everything I do has to be perfect.
When I reach the cafeteria, the owner, Mrs. Lim, tsks, shaking her head. I heard she’s in her fifties at least—and she must be that old, since she has two children in their thirties—but her pale golden skin looks smooth enough to belong to a woman twenty years younger. She’s skinny except for her waist, and she always wears untucked shirts to hide it.
“Terrible shame, that,” she says in heavily accented English, her thin lips curving downward. “You know, it’s fake. I know.” She points at her heart.
What?
“Come. Your friend called.” She gestures at me, leading me to the back of the cafeteria. “You ask your brother to fix it, yes?”
Ask Dominic to fix what? Ever since his engagement to Liza, a.k.a. Elizabeth Pryce-Reed, one of the most famous heiresses and philanthropists in the world, everyone in the building has learned more about me than I ever wanted them to know. Mrs. Lim is no exception.
Antoine is in the cafeteria kitchen, near the big delivery door. He hands Mrs. Lim a couple of hundred-dollar bills. She waves them away without making eye contact with him, then flees before he can force the money on her.
He sighs heavily and gives me a searching gaze. Unlike my coworkers, he doesn’t look at my chest, damn it.
He sticks his head out the door, then says, “Okay, let’s go.”
I walk out after him, and he opens the passenger-side door to the same SUV he brought to pick me up this morning. I hop in; he shuts the door, climbs behind the wheel, and we’re off.
The car smells like leather and Antoine. I stare at him, wondering what his plans are for the evening. Maybe he’s going to take me to some romantic place for dinner because he doesn’t want me eating alone. Well, I wouldn’t care if we went to a cheap diner with torn vinyl seats and cracked linoleum. I just want to spend time drinking him in.
As the SUV makes a turn and gets on the wide road where Lola, Inc.’s main entrance is, I see photographers. No, not photographers—that’s too respectable a word. They’re paparazzi. Lots and lots of them. They’re shameless, like scavengers circling around, looking for scraps to feed on, and the building’s security team looks like they just bit into a rotten peach.
I crane my neck. “Wow. What’s going on?” Lola sometimes does custom work for a few select celebs, but I don’t think any are visiting now.
“You don’t know?” Antoine’s voice is extra grim.
“What?” I ask, sudden dread replacing the euphoria of being picked up by Antoine.
His face tight, he hands me his phone. I tap the screen. All the air seems to whoosh out of the car.
On the screen is a picture of me. And I’m topless.
Chapter Five
Kristen
“Oh my God!” I screech. “How…? What the hell is this?”
My hands shaky, I stare at the picture. My brain registers the details. As much as I want to call it a fake, it’s not.
“It’s from the pool party yesterday,” I blurt out, then smack my forehead a few times, praying this is just some weird ass dream induced by the extra fishy fish tacos I gorged on for lunch.
When I wake up—any second now!—my face will be wet with drool from napping on my desk. At least that’s preferable to this!
“Ming Ming’s party,” Antoine says.
“Yes.”
Ming Ming is one of Liza’s closest friends. She defies the stereotype of a good, submissive Asian girl. Not that she’s super wild, but she pushes the boundaries without crossing the line that would bring shame to her politically connected family. It’s a skill I admire greatly.
“Ming Ming apologized for what happened,” I add.
And she looked as though she wanted to flay the obnoxious teenager who yanked my bandeau, her face like some demonic goddess of fury. Her security team seemed ready to hand her knives and hold down the intruder. The only reason she didn’t is probably because there were too many witnesses. And maybe because I just laughed it off as a harmless stunt. What can you do with a bratty teen anyway, except hope he matures into something better than a bikini-top yanking idiot? I wasn’t going to have one minor incident ruin the party for me, and I still had a fabulous time an
d forgot all about the prank…until now.
I give the phone back to Antoine. “I’m sure this is going to die down soon. It isn’t like a sex tape, and I’m not famous or anything.”
He runs a hand over his face. “That’s debatable. You didn’t read the so-called article, did you?”
“No. Should I have?”
“The cocksu—the ‘writer’ hinted you flashed an underage boy.”
“I did not!”
Antoine says nothing.
“You know I didn’t, don’t you?” I ask, desperate.
He looks insulted. “I can’t believe you have to ask.”
“Just making sure.” I have no idea how Antoine feels about me. Or what he thinks about me. He’s like a rock—doesn’t give you much to work with.
“I suggest you don’t look at your social media accounts.”
“Why not?”
He sighs heavily. “It’ll be better that way.”
Just what the heck is happening on social media? I fish out my phone and swipe to the second home screen, where I keep all my distraction apps. Oh my God. The Facebook app alone has over four hundred notifications. Twitter is worse. I don’t even want to look at Instagram.
Still, I open Facebook. Maybe people are sympathetic. I mean, it isn’t like I asked to have a picture of my bare boobs posted online.
But that isn’t how it goes. So many are outraged I dared to show my breasts to a “poor, helpless child.” Some are even comparing me to a pedophile, saying I should be prosecuted and locked up. Nobody cares that I was the victim at the party. And the Hollywood Blaze cropped the picture so that it looks like I’m flashing the jerk. If I flashed him, why does my side still sting a bit from the rough yanking?
My teeth clench. All these people saying crap about me have no idea what really happened. But they’re piling on based on a freakin’ online tabloid site’s lurid speculations.
I stew during the entire drive home. Me being the center of a manufactured crime is not one of the circumstances under which I dreamed of spending time with Antoine.
Thankfully, the front of my apartment building is paparazzi-free. They probably haven’t realized I already left Lola, Inc.
Antoine walks me all the way to my apartment door. I stop, then turn to him. “Sorry for being a bother,” I say tightly. It isn’t how I envisioned the rest of the day.
“No, it’s my fault. I should’ve been there yesterday.”
He should’ve, I agree. Not to guard me, but to appreciate me in my new bikini and to let me ogle his body. “It’s not your fault. You don’t know how things might’ve turned out if you’d been there. The party was crowded and hectic.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
Normally that would cheer me up, but not right now. “Sure. Thanks.”
I stab the key into the lock and twist. The key turns easily, and I walk inside, slamming the door shut. I punt a couple of empty Amazon boxes, wishing they were that teen’s ass instead.
After dumping my laptop bag and purse on my couch and kicking off my shoes, I walk toward the bedroom to change. The door is ajar. Suddenly I sense something move in the bedroom and stop. What the…?
I don’t have a pet. There shouldn’t be any movement. I sniff. The air smells odd too…some kind of acrid musk…
Sweaty, overeager paparazzi? Breaking and entering is a real crime, but they probably don’t care about such minor technicalities. I clench my hands. Okay, fuckers, bring it on.
I kick the door open.
A man in his late thirties or so jumps up from my bed. His fiery orange-and-red hair sticks out like porcupine quills, and the feverish light in his bloodshot eyes makes him look positively deranged. But what hits me the most is the fact that there isn’t a stitch of clothing on his lanky frame, which is paler than my bed sheets.
“I’ll show you what a real man feels like between your legs!” he announces with arms spread, a toothy and maniacal grin splitting his face.
My gaze takes in what no woman ever should. I reach for a heavy crystal vase full of roses on my vanity, and I shriek bloody murder.
Chapter Six
Kristen
I absorb the scene around me, feeling like an observer looking in from far away. It seems crazy I’m in the center of this…insanity. My small apartment buzzes with activity. Four cops fill the living room and bedroom. The pervert is face-down on the living room floor, wrists cuffed tight. He’s bleeding from a gash on his forehead and from his mouth and nose, staining the carpet.
Pink roses are scattered on the floor. They’re from Dominic and Liza’s wedding ceremony. Ming Ming told me I should take them because they’d be good for about a week and do wonders for my home. Well, they’re toast now. Somehow the vase survived the head smashing. Guess the human head isn’t as hard as I thought. I dropped the vase as soon as it hit him, ready to kick the guy the way—and in the place—he deserved. I’ve been taking self-defense courses since my kidnapping scare, and I wasn’t going to be a victim.
Except Antoine, appearing out of nowhere, pushed me behind him and took care of the beating up himself.
The cop who looks the nicest and most understanding out of the bunch took my statement already, and now I’m waiting for them to be done with Antoine. From time to time, they steal a glance in my direction. I feel my shoulders rising. They’re probably judging me. A topless girl flashing an underage boy. She probably asked for this…
After what feels like an eternity, I’m allowed to leave, along with my purse, laptop bag and a carry-on case with toiletries and a change of clothes and shoes. Antoine and a couple of officers escort me out.
There’s a swarm of paparazzi outside. “Fucking vultures,” Antoine says.
“Don’t worry. We’ve got guys to run interference for you,” the nice cop says from behind us. Officer Brady, I remember now. Mr. Understanding. He looks all-American wholesome, with golden hair and sky-blue eyes, smile lines fanning from the corners.
Sure enough, there are officers pushing a sizable crowd of paparazzi away from me and Antoine as we make our way to the SUV. Antoine shields me as he helps me inside the car, and he moves quickly getting in. Then he honks once and starts moving the vehicle with more speed and menace than I expected.
The paparazzi part. They can probably sense Antoine is very willing to mow them all down if they don’t get out of the way.
I glance in Antoine’s direction. His jaw’s tight, muscles bunching and un-bunching. Crap. He’s mad.
Then I notice the blood on his knuckles. “Are you all right?”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. “Of course.”
“There’s blood on your hand.”
He flexes it around the steering wheel. “I didn’t feel anything when I punched him, and I don’t feel it now either. Not my blood, anyway.” He adds under his breath, “Fucking papholes.”
“What?”
“Paparazzi assholes.”
This is a serious situation. A pervert violated my home and sense of safety. The stains I later noticed on my sheets made it obvious what nauseating things the creep was doing while waiting for me to come home. I’m going to have to get rid of the bed now. That sleazy site is trying to paint me as some kind of whore who doesn’t deserve any consideration or decency, and many, many people are piling on.
But I can’t help it. I snort, then giggle uncontrollably even as my eyes prickle with tears. I place a hand over my belly as the muscles there clench hard.
“Uh…” Antoine gives me the look normally reserved for a ticking time bomb. “Are you all right?”
“Well…it could’ve been worse. What can I do except laugh?” I wipe the tears from my eyes. “I’m not going to cry, Antoine. I’m not giving them that much power.”
His shoulders relax a fraction. “Good.”
I sit for a bit, then say, “I’m sorry you missed the look on his face when I picked up the vase and started screaming.”
“Did he look terrified?�
�
“Ready to piss himself.”
A corner of his lips quirks up. “You need to work on your scary face. I didn’t see any puddle of piss when I busted in there.”
“Ew, gross.” I giggle again. “It’s bad enough that he bled all over the living room carpet.”
“That’s what incinerators are for. Afterward, you can redecorate your place the way you see fit.” Antoine says with mock seriousness, “With pink carpet.”
“Pink?”
“Your favorite color.” He shoots me a teasing grin. “Isn’t it?”
It is. And suddenly I’m feeling all giddy he noticed.
My phone rings. The screen says Dominic. I inhale, then add an extra bit of perkiness to my voice and hit the green button. “Hey! How’s Bora Bora? Getting bored with paradise yet?”
Antoine makes a face and shakes his head almost imperceptibly. Guess I overdid it.
“What the hell is going on?” Dominic demands.
“What he means is, ‘Are you all right, Kristen?’” Liza says, her voice laced with concern.
“Yeah, fine,” I say. “I’m okay.”
“Are you alone?” she asks, then makes a soothing noise, probably for my brother. I can picture her running a hand down his shoulder and arm.
“No. I’m in a car with Antoine.”
“It’d probably be easier and faster with all of us on speaker,” she says.
“Okay.” I hit a few buttons on the console, and my phone’s connected to the Bluetooth speakers in the car.
“I got a call from the police,” Liza explains.
I almost forgot. LAPD and the sheriff’s department all think she walks on water. She’s raised so much money for both over the years.
“A naked rapist in your room, Kristen! This… Argh!” Dominic can’t even continue. I’ve never heard my older brother at a loss for words.
“Nothing happened,” I say. “The only thing that’s hurt is his head…which I bashed with a vase. Also, Antoine hit him. Like, really hard.” The memory of his fist connecting with the creep’s face is still satisfying.
