Copyright © 2019 by Carmel Rhodes
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing: Kristen—Your Editing Lounge
Proofreading: Judy’s Proofreading
Cover Design: NET Hook Line Design
Interior Formatting: Champagne Book Design
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Also By Carmel Rhodes
Note from the Author
Acknowledgements
About the Author
For Alonna, Amari, and Devyn. My sisters, my best friends, and the biggest assholes on the planet.
Gentrification can blow me. So can the MTA. And since I’m making a list, add the asshole slumlord who raised the rent on our tiny, one-bedroom walk-up in Brooklyn by five hundred dollars.
He can blow me twice.
I shuffle off the 4-train, along with a slew of other commuters, and step onto the subway platform, doing my best to ignore the smell of urine in the air. That’s the New York they fail to mention in the brochures. The city that never sleeps. More like the city that smells like pee.
A man bumps into me in his hurry up the stairs, knocking me into a mysterious puddle. The soft knit of my tan ankle boot darkens, and a little piece of my heart tears off and flutters into the abyss.
“Watch it!” I growl at his back.
He doesn’t even spare me a passing glance. Why did we ever leave California? There are sunshine and smiling faces. All New York has is humidity and assholes.
Commuters continue to pour off the platform and up the stairs, unaware of the tragedy that befell my Alexander Wangs. Then there’s a moment—one I’m not proud of—when I throw a mini temper tantrum in the middle of the Fulton St. train station. Is it my finest moment, arms flailing and stained boot stomping? No, of course not, but these shoes were hella expensive and hella out of my price range. The only reason I bought them is because my twin sister, Erin, talked me into it. According to her, you only get one shot at a first impression. That’s Erin; full of motivational one-liners that belong on posters pasted on the walls of high schools. She’s also full of shit.
I glance down at the boots again and sigh. The train was delayed—thank you MTA—so I’m already behind schedule, which means there’s no time to stop and clean up. It’s a miracle I got this job in the first place; being late on my first day is not an option.
Shaking off as much of the mysterious liquid as possible, I hold my head high and try not to lament the loss of six hundred dollars down the smelly subway drain.
I hustle out of the station and power walk the few blocks to the Anderson Capital. The glass and brick edifice stands thirty stories high. The words, Anderson Building, are etched into a marble slab above the revolving door. Men and women in expensive suits enter in a rush, flashing their badges to security without bothering to look up from their smartphones.
You got this, Ellie, I think to myself to steady my nerves. You can’t afford not to. With every tooth in my mouth on display, I push through the revolving doors. The pristine lobby is beautiful but intimidating. White marble walls trimmed with golden hardware shine bright. It’s like heaven on Wall Street, only I doubt the people rushing through the doors are angels.
The building is old but well maintained. I tilt my head back, marveling at the chandelier above. I’m definitely not in Brooklyn anymore. What was I thinking? I don’t even know what they do at Anderson Capital. All I know is we need money, and Woody’s, the bar where Erin and I sling drinks part-time, is no longer cutting it.
“ID,” a security guard grunts from the desk to my left. Silver dots the black hair on his head and chin. Deep wrinkles frame either side of his brown eyes.
“Oh, ummm…” I dig in my bag, napkins from the bar along with last night’s tips fall onto the marble. “Here you go,” I say, proudly slamming my driver’s license on the desk.
He peers down at the mess around my feet before saying in a low Southern twang, “This is expired.”
My smile falters a bit, but what I lack in money and sophistication, I make up for in great acting skills, and a hunger for…well, I’m just hungry. I need money to buy food, and I need this job to get money. “But it’s still me.” I wink playfully. He might be no-nonsense on the outside, but I bet deep down he’s a marshmallow, like my daddy. He even looks like him. His mahogany hand is rough, probably from years of hard work, but his nails are neat and trimmed, and his uniform is spotless. I’d guess retired military, also like my daddy. Growing up on a military base made it easy to spot career soldiers. They never quite fit in with civilians, no matter how long they’ve been out.
He waves forward a man in a Tom Ford suit—last year’s winter collection to be exact—then returns his attention to me. “How can I help you?”
“I’m new here. It’s my first day. I’m supposed to report to Megan Johnson in HR.”
George, according to his name tag, shoots me a sure you work here, crazy, look and picks up the phone on his desk. It’s an old rotary that’s probably been here as long as the building itself. He sticks his finger in the groove and turns, repeating the steps a few more times. “That’s like the phone on Good Times.” I grin, reaching out to touch it.
George swats my hand away, but the left corner of his mouth tips up in a half smile. More people shuffle in behind me, and I stand there awkwardly, itching to reach down and grab my ones. Rich people are shady, and thanks to the new boots and my freshly loaded MetroCard, these tips are all the money I have to my name.
He glances down at my expired license and I cringe at the photo. Eighteen-year-old Ellie was a hot mess. My already brown skin is tan from the California sun. The black curls on my head point in every direction but down. Then there are my eyes, cartoonishly round because I was in shock. I’m pretty sure I failed the road test, but the instructor knew my daddy and took pity on me.
“Megan, it’s George. I have an Ellie Chase here…okay, I’ll send her up.” I lean down cautiously, keeping a big smile on my face, and fist the money and trash in my hand. George shakes his head, but I can see the smile twitching at his lips as he hands my ID back. “Megan’s on the twenty-sixth floor.”
“Thanks, George,” I sing, shoving the money and license back into my bag, before jogging to the elevators.
“Slow down!” an exasperated George cal
ls behind me. “And for the love of God, go to the DMV.”
I pause, spinning on my Wangs and lift my right hand in salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” And this time, the smile breaks free. Mission accomplished.
Despite my promise to George, I sprint the rest of the way to the elevator. “Hold the door!” I yelp, slipping between the sliding metal.
The heel on my boot goes left, and my ankle goes right, sending me crashing into a wall of muscle and Italian wool before my butt hits the ground with an unceremonious thud. “Sorry,” I say, mortified, as I stare into the darkest pair of blue eyes that I have ever seen.
The man looking down at me is gorgeous. I’m talking Calvin Klein-level fine. Tall, with chocolate hair so thick and so lush, my fingers twitch to touch. His jaw is covered with the lightest hint of stubble, that’s both manly and foreboding. His coat costs more than my rent, but that fucking five-o’clock shadow tells me he’s trouble. I should stay far away from the stranger in Armani, but the way the fabric hangs off his muscles makes my thighs clench. ME! My thighs haven’t clenched since that one time I saw Michael B. Jordan in Times Square, and this man has me pressing my legs together so tightly I fear I’m going to strain my hamstring.
“Hi.” I wiggle four fingers at him and hope my cheeks aren’t as bright as they feel. “It’s my first day.”
Blue eyes’ mouth ticks up into a lopsided smirk. “Why do you smell like piss?”
So much for first impressions.
“Excuse me?” The girl with the wild hair and ash-colored eyes stares back at me slack-jawed. Her Target dress is bunched up around her thighs, revealing long, lean legs. Her lips are puckered into a slight pout. Perfect for sucking dick, I muse then shake off the errant thought that has me discreetly adjusting my slacks. It’s like my dick has a mind of its own, his curiosity piqued by the doe-eyed, piss-scented girl kneeling before me.
Interesting.
Piss Girl isn’t like the runway models I typically bed. She’s hot as fuck, sure. Her light brown skin looks butter soft and her toned body swells in all the right places, but the smell of poverty literally radiates off of her. Who am I kidding? I’d probably still let her wrap those pouty lips around my cock.
I might even enjoy it.
“You smell like piss,” I say again, slower this time, enunciating each word.
Her gray eyes darken, and rage simmers beneath her innocent face. This chick looks like a cartoon character, every expression, every thought that flashes through her mind is on display for the world to see.
Absently, I wonder what she looks like when she comes. Would her eyes roll back? Would she pin her bottom lip with her teeth? Would her body flush the same coral color as her cheeks? I bet she couldn’t fake it if her life depended on it.
“I stepped in a puddle,” she grits, pushing herself to her feet. Her voice is three octaves higher as she smashes the number twenty-six repeatedly.
“You stepped in piss.” Her bag is still on the ground between us, its contents, mostly comprised of trash and crumpled singles, decorate the tile floor. Her ID lands at my feet. “Ellie Chase,” I say more to myself than to her. The name rolls off my tongue and filters the charged air between us. Her eyes find mine and I grin. “Better than Piss Girl, but not by much.”
You know the saying you catch more bees with honey? Yeah, I don’t subscribe to that notion. I give zero fucks about making friends and care even less about hurting people’s feelings, especially the sexy, smelly girl in front of me.
Compassion is for nuns and school teachers. I am neither of those things. What I am, is hungover, late, and undercaffeinated. I don’t have any sympathy for poor little Miss Chase.
“I’d rather smell like piss than pompous asshole,” she mumbles.
I take a step toward her. There’s a mouth on her that’s for sure. I considered it only good for fucking, but there may be more up there than I’d originally thought. At minimum, she’s an interesting sparring partner. Half the people who work here run the opposite direction when they see me, and the other half treat me like I’m still the pimply-faced kid who interned here all those years ago.
“Pompous?” I arch a brow at the same time my dick arches in my pants.
She turns on her heels to face me. “Arrogant. Pretentious. Conceited. Take your pick,” she seethes, jabbing her boney finger in my chest to punctuate each word.
My eyes drop to her lips. A flash of pink darts from her mouth and moistens the top and bottom. Her chest heaves up and down, and if I didn’t know any better, I’d say she’s enjoying our little back-and-forth as much as I am.
“Thank you for the seventh-grade vocabulary lesson, Miss Chase. I’ll inform my father all those years and all that money spent sending me to the most exclusive private schools was for naught. All I needed this whole time was a Bratz doll from Oakland to teach me what’s what.”
Her eyes narrow. “I do what I can to help the less fortunate.”
“Something tells me I’m probably the most fortunate person you’ll ever have the pleasure of meeting.” I’ve got more money than God, and a nine-inch cock. Fortunate is putting it mildly.
She moves closer, so close her chest brushes against mine. So close the coconut scent wafting from her hair rivals the stench from her shoe. I seem to have underestimated this girl. She isn’t backing down. She won’t win, but her efforts are cute. I might let her blow me after all.
Dropping my attention between us, I zero in at the place where our bodies barely meet. Her nipples are visible through the cheap fabric of her dress.
“I’ll take poor and humble over rich and self-important any day.” Her voice is breathy, like our proximity affects her in much the same way it affects me. Which is unsettling, considering I spent last night balls deep in one of the top models in the country. I’ve never been the kind of man who thinks with his little head. I fuck—a lot—but sex is just another outlet to blow off steam. Same as running, or a few fingers of scotch. Something nice to do in my spare time, but it doesn’t rule me. My focus is singular: ascend the throne. I’m done with being the prince, I’m ready to rule. I’m ready to be king.
Dragging my eyes from her tits, I meet her gaze. We stare at each other. Hate and lust and fire crackles between us. The grin on my lips can’t be helped. I haven’t had this much fun talking to a member of the opposite sex since college.
The elevator car lurches and jerks, sending Ellie flying forward. I don’t let her fall this time. No, my hands find the small of her back and I pull her into my erection, letting her feel just how self-important I am.
“Is that?” she gasps.
“Yup, all me,” I say proudly.
Her eyes flash with annoyance. “Not that, jerk. I think we’re stuck.” We turn in unison to peer at the numbers overhead. The twenty-four flashes in rapid secession.
“We aren’t stuck,” I sigh. “This is an older building. The elevator does this from time to time. It will start moving again in a minute.” So much for my nine o’clock meeting. Fucking Jalen and his insistence on going out on a Sunday night.
“This happens often?” she asks, her bottom lip trembling uncontrollably. Miss Chase isn’t such a badass anymore. Her finger hooks inside the collar of her turtleneck dress and she tugs, exposing the briefest flash of her collarbone.
I’m torn between licking her there and making fun of her ridiculous fear. I go with the option that’s less likely to get me slapped. “Don’t tell me you’re claustrophobic?”
“No.” Her chin lifts in defiance. My pretty little badass reemerging. “It’s just my first day and first impressions are important.”
Understanding paints my features. “Ahh, I see, you don’t want to be Piss Girl AND Late Girl.”
“I’m going to die in an elevator with the biggest asshole I’ve ever met in my life. What did I do to deserve this?” Piss Girl pinches the bridge of her nose and inhales deeply, like she’s calling on every ounce of strength and patience she possesses in an effort to resist th
e urge to open-hand slap me.
“I told you, it happens. You aren’t going to die. How do you live in New York if you’re claustrophobic?”
“I live in Brooklyn,” she says as if that’s a reasonable answer.
“Which is located in?” I drawl sardonically as if talking to a child.
She flips me off while pressing her forehead onto the metal door. “Can you just stop talking? I’m really trying not to lose my shit.”
“First piss and now shit. Excellent.” I chuckle.
“Shut up.”
“Shut up?! What are you, twelve?”
She exhales and once again tugs at the neck of her dress. “Yes, I’m twelve, now shut up.”
I grab her by the arm and push her back against the wall, pinning my hands on either side of her head. I do it because she’s seconds away from a panic attack, and I’m the best fucking distraction on the planet. I also do it because her body language tells me she wants me. Even with all her middle school insults, her nipples are like two tiny bullets aimed directly at my head. Her eyes are hooded with lust, and her breath hitches every time our bodies make contact. Despite her fear and annoyance, she lets me press her against the wall because she wants me as much as I want her. “Make me,” I whisper, my mouth inches from hers.
Her throat bobs up and down as she swallows. Her fingers flex, gripping my belt buckle. “It’s my first day.” She says the words so softly I almost miss them. Translation: this is unprofessional. She’s right. A fact I know better than anyone, yet here we are, neither of us able to back away.
“Tell me no.” I lift my hands, creating enough space for her to flee, if that’s what she wants.
“I should.” Her gaze shifts back to my lips. “First impressions, right?”
The car lurches again and the doors slide open. Piss Girl blinks three times, then ducks under my outstretched arm, picks her shit up off the floor, and darts out of the elevator, leaving me oddly amused and hard as stone.
My head throbs as hard as my dick does as I step out of the elevator on the twenty-ninth floor.
Pretty Little Mess Page 1
