“Good morning, Mr. Anderson,” Lynn, the pretty blonde receptionist, purrs as I pass her desk. “I trust you had a good weekend.” Her voice drips sex, and she shoots me a knowing smile; an I want to ride your dick again type of smile. The top three buttons of her blouse are undone and her big plastic tits sit up under her chin. Memories of me sliding my cock between the valley of her breasts flood my mind.
Yes, I fucked my receptionist.
Yes, I am aware of how cliché that makes me sound.
No, I don’t give a shit.
“Ms. Holt,” is the only acknowledgment I offer.
Lynn is sex on two legs, and while I enjoyed the night we spent together last month (and the subsequent nights since), I’m too hungover and too keyed up from my run-in with Ellie on the elevator to engage in our usual brand of innuendo.
The cognac Berlutis on my feet slap against the black marble as I make my way down the hall to the executive offices. There are four of us on this floor. Me, my best friend Jalen, Super Bitch—Karen Washington, and Michael Wallace, though he’s hardly here since he splits his time between New York and Chicago.
My office sits in the corner. It’s the largest on this floor, but small potatoes compared to the ones upstairs. Jalen and I are the lifeblood of this fucking company, and yet, we’re relegated to the kids’ table like a couple of jerk-offs.
Smacking my palm on the glass, I push my way inside. Dexter, my personal assistant, stands to greet me. “You’re late,” he grunts, his blond hair gelled and combed into submission. His gray suit is adorned with a lavender bow tie knotted just below his throat. I look at him, then down at myself. My tie is askew and my pants are wrinkled. Fucking Jay. Last night’s victory lap had gone too far. What started as a drink after work extended into a weekend-long party, ending in a strip club at two a.m. on a fucking Sunday. Dexter thrusts a coffee into my right hand. “And you look like shit.”
I lift the cup to my lips. “You’re fired,” I say, welcoming the warm liquid as I pray for the caffeine to do its job.
Dexter rolls his eyes. “Nice try, Max, but we both know you couldn’t tell your elbow from your asshole without me.”
“You are the expert on assholes around here.” I walk the three feet to the frosted door separating my office from Dexter’s desk. The New York City skyline greets me as it always does. The sun lifts over the horizon, bringing me further out of my stupor. Another swig from my cup and I think maybe, just maybe, I can make it through this day without committing a felony.
I set the coffee down and unbutton the buttons of my coat and hand it to Dex, then I undo the suit jacket and hand that over as well before plopping down in my chair. Dexter shakes them out with a dramatic flick of his wrist, hanging them on the coat rack in the corner.
“You know, for someone who claims to be straight, you sure spend a lot of time talking about my sexual proclivities.”
“You got me,” I say powering on my computer. “I’m secretly in love with you. Now bend over and spread ’em.”
Dexter settles into the seat across from me, his iPad poised and ready to go over the day’s schedule. “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone,” he says, and I want to wipe the smart-ass grin off his face.
“Why are you doing this again? Marriage is overrated.” As much shit as I give Dex, he’s a damn good assistant. He’s organized and on top of his game. They say behind every good man is a strong woman, but they lie. The real secret to my success is the take-no-shit, five-foot-six, gay man who keeps my million-dollar ship sailing.
“Not all of us find meaningless sex as fulfilling as you do.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “Love is love. Fine, but why do you need a whole fucking month off?”
“I haven’t had a real vacation in two years.” He arches a brow like he’s daring me to argue. I don’t. He hasn’t had a vacation in two years, and neither have I. People assume Jalen and I got to where we are because of my father, but that’s bullshit. That old bastard made us start in the mailroom.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do without you?”
Dexter brings his hand to his chest. “I’m touched, but don’t worry, I’ve thought of that too.” The look he shoots me makes my hackles rise.
I narrow my eyes. “What did you do?”
“I hired the assistant you’ve been promising me.” He crosses his smug arms over his smug chest and lifts his smug leg over his smug knee.
“You did what?” My jaw ticks. I trust Dexter. This is a million-dollar empire, soon-to-be billion if Jay and I keep kicking ass. I don’t need some dickweed I’ve never met fucking that up.
“I get it, you want that office on the thirtieth floor.” He points his stylus at me, then back toward his chest. “I’m all for the master plan, but if your workload doubles, that means my workload doubles, add in the stuff Jay drops on my desk, and I don’t get out of here until almost nine o’clock most nights. How am I supposed to plan a wedding like that?”
“Wait. Why are you doing Jay’s shit? He has his own assistant.” The computer screen finally comes to life, and I log into my email. There are three from my father that I ignore and one from Vann Attar. He’s a fashion industry titan and my next big deal. I’d heard through the grapevine (Page Six) that he had a falling out with his old financial manager and I pulled some strings (a supermodel I banged a few times) to get his contact information. I reached out, and it looks like I scored a meeting. Jackpot.
“He’s sleeping with her,” Dex whispers conspiratorially. “Now, he feels bad about asking her to do her job.”
Rolling my eyes, I make a mental note to shove my foot up Jay’s ass. “Either way, I don’t want some incompetent fuckwit coming in here messing things up.”
“I wouldn’t hire a fuckwit. She’s actually quite smart, and though she’s inexperienced, she’s got killer instincts.”
“She?” I lift my brow.
“Keep it in your pants, dickhead,” a gruff voice chuckles from the door. Dexter and I turn in unison to see Jalen Thomas, my best friend since prep school, standing in the doorway looking as fresh as a daisy.
“Fuck you, asshole.” I lift my middle finger up. “It’s your fault I’m in this mess.”
“How do you figure?” he asks, taking the chair next to Dexter. He lifts one of his long legs, letting his ankle rest on his knee.
“Is it true that you have Dex following up with your clients while your PA swallows your cock?”
“Maybe.” Jay grins. His pearly white teeth contrast with his dark brown skin. His mom is a high-profile civil rights lawyer, and his dad is an Illinois state senator. The rumors in Washington are that Mr. Thomas is planning to put his bid in for the next presidential election. People are calling them the next Obamas. I often tease Jay that his late nights at the strip clubs are coming to an end. In return, he smiles and says coming is the only end he’s interested in.
Together, we run the Financial District. Two young princes, beating down the doors of the kingdom. We party hard, but we work harder.
“And that’s my cue.” Dexter stands to leave. “She’s down in HR now. She should be up this afternoon. BE NICE.”
“I’m always nice.” I scratch my brow.
“LIES!” Dex shouts. “You always scratch your eyebrow when you’re being dishonest. Lucky for us, I don’t think Ellie is dumb enough to fall for your frat boy bullshit.”
“Ellie?”
“Chase,” Dex tells me. “Her name is Ellie Chase.”
I grin a wolfish grin. Maybe a new assistant won’t be so bad after all.
“Sorry!” I huff, plopping down on the chair in front of Megan’s desk. “I got held up in security, then got stuck on the elevator with some jerk.”
Megan is one of the few friends Erin and I have made since coming to New York. Her younger sister, Hannah, and I were enrolled in the Fashion Institute together. Hannah dropped out and moved to Miami to chase some guy, and since then, Megan has taken Erin and me on as surrogate
little sisters. She says she couldn’t stop Hannah from ruining her life, but she can try to help us. So naturally, she was the first call I made when we found out about our rent.
She rolls her eyes. “You’ll have to be a little more specific in this building.”
“Dexter’s nice enough,” I muse. Actually, I’m really excited to work with him. By a stroke of pure luck, he seemed to like me enough to take a chance on an underqualified girl with a fashion degree.
“Dexter is great. It’s Mr. Anderson who you’ll have to worry about.” Despite her words, there’s an air of whimsy to her voice, like a thirteen-year-old girl swooning over a Jonas brother.
“Anderson, as in Anderson Capital?” I squeak. The room suddenly feels as small as the elevator I nearly lost my life on moments ago.
She shakes her head. “No, as in his son, Max.”
I rack my brain, trying to remember if I can recall a son on the company website. After our shift at Woody’s last night, Erin and I were too amped to go to sleep, so instead, we cyberstalked my new company. Well, stalking might be a bit of a stretch. We gave up after five minutes of scrolling through pages of words about investing stuff.
“Why would I need to worry about him?” I ask, twirling an ebony curl around my finger. My questionable choices in footwear aside, I’m not a complete airhead, though you wouldn’t know it by the way Megan is looking at me. Judgment pours from her bright yellow cardigan, drowning me in shame.
She clasps her hands in front of her chest, an HR smile plastered across her face. Her composure is hanging on by a little tiny thread. Work Megan is encouraging and kind. Big sister Megan wants to call me a dumbass and tell me to do better. “Because Dexter is his assistant, which means you are now too.”
“What?!” I shriek. “I have a fashion degree. I thought I’d be making copies and fetching coffee.”
Work Megan pats my hand. “You’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Dexter will be there to help guide you along…except…”
“Except what?” Sweat beads under my arms, and I just know I’m going to have pit stains on my dress to match the pee stain on my boot. Leaning forward, I press my palms onto her desk. My heart races. Her next words could mean life or death…okay not death, but homelessness.
Big sister Megan pries my clammy hands from her pristine workspace. “Except for next month when he goes on leave for his wedding, but by then you’ll be a pro. Anderson won’t even notice the difference.”
The hammering in my chest slows to a dull thwack. Thwack. Thwack. This must be what cardiac arrest feels like. I am good at a lot of things. I can make an entire dress from scrap fabric, mix the best whiskey ginger this side of the Hudson, and wing my eyeliner in five minutes flat. What I can’t do is be the executive assistant to some trust fund kid who spends his weekends in Montauk. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
Megan throws a stack of sticky notes at me. “Calm down, Ellie. He’s only going to be gone for a month.”
“A MONTH?! Who takes a month off? What the hell kind of rich people shit is this?” I squeak because I’m freaking out. I’m supposed to be answering phones and making coffee for a mid-level accountant, NOT being co-bitch to the boss’s son. It’s too much pressure.
“Look”—Megan narrows her eyes at me—“people who have real jobs get something called paid time off. Now pull it together. You can’t afford to let this opportunity pass you by. All I did was get you the interview. You got the job. If Dexter saw something in you, then you have what it takes. He’s been with Mr. Anderson for years. He knows what he’s looking for, so trust his judgment. At minimum, I need you to pretend like you know what you’re doing.” I groan and drop my head on the desk. She’s right. She’s always right, but that doesn’t mean I can’t whine about it first. “What did you think the job was?”
“I don’t know. I assumed Dexter was like an accountant or something.” Please, God, don’t let me blow this.
“So, pretend you’re working for Dexter the accountant, not Dexter, assistant to the future owner of the company.” She pauses, and I lift my head to see why she stopped. Her pep talk was working. “What’s that smell?” Megan asks wrinkling her nose.
Kicking my shoe off, I drop it on the desk. “I stepped in a puddle.”
“Ellie!” she yells, knocking it off with a sharpie. It falls to the floor with a sad thud. Really, it’s the soundtrack to my morning thus far. “How much was that shoe?”
Shit.
I sink down into my chair and mumble out, “Five hundred.” And ninety-five dollars plus tax.
The little vein on Megan’s forehead pulses like that creepy heart under the floorboard in that Edgar Allen Poe poem. “And how much did your rent go up?”
“Five hundred dollars,” I say, sliding so far down the chair my ass is off the cushion. “I wanted to make a good first impression with my new boss.”
“You don’t need five-hundred-dollar shoes to make a good impression.”
“Well, they smell like subway juice, so I’m pretty sure that plan is shot to hell.”
“Be serious, Ellie. Landing this job is like buying a winning lotto ticket. Not only will you be able to pay your rent, you guys can finally start that website you’re always talking about.”
I peek up at her. “Ellie and Erin Take New York?”
She clears her throat. “We’ll think of a better name.” I right myself in my chair and take a deep breath. Okay, freak-out over. I can do this. I have to do this. “Better?”
I’m still in meltdown mode, but I can’t afford to go home, so I smile and slip my shoe back on. “Better,” I lie.
“Awesome, now let’s take the tour!”
The Anderson Building is huge. Thirty floors in all. The bottom twenty are used for office spaces for various professionals, ranging from doctors to accountants to lawyers.
Our tour starts on the twentieth floor, a daycare. Megan says it’s free for all Anderson employees with children who are not yet school-age. Above the daycare is the mail room, which is surprisingly more like a post office than I had expected. They receive packages, send any outgoing mail, and work with the marketing team to deliver promo materials. The next few floors are the nuts and bolts of the company. Accounting, marketing, and sales. Then human resources, a gym, and my most favorite part of all, the cafeteria.
“So, I can eat whatever I want, and I don’t have to pay for it?” I ask for the fifth time. Thanks to Megan, I officially drank the Anderson Capital Kool-Aid, literally and figuratively.
“Yes, Ellie,” she groans as we walk past a group of women clutching coffee cups in their hands like it holds the answers to all life’s mysteries. My eyes follow the women, and I try not to drool. It smells the way I imagine heaven smelling.
“Coffee?” I point to the women and their magical paper cups.
“Free.” Megan nods. The cafeteria is mostly quiet. I’m assuming because it’s too late for breakfast and too early from lunch. A lady with a hair net smiles at me from behind a counter. A glass case containing pastries sits to her left.
“Bagels?”
“Free.”
“Bacon Cheeseburger with extra bacon and extra cheese?”
“Free.”
“Guac?”
“Free.”
My eyes widen. Nobody gives guac for free. “How are you not eight hundred pounds?”
“The novelty wears off a few months and a few pounds into your employment.”
Employment, right. There was still the tiny problem of me being majorly underqualified to be the personal assistant to Preston Maxwell Anderson III’s personal assistant, whatever the hell that means.
“Tell me about him,” I say munching on my bottom lip.
“About whom?” Megan asks, as she mercifully guides us to the counter. She orders two coffees and a bagel to share, then we move to the side while the nice woman, whose name tag reads DORIS, gets to work on our order.
“Mr. Anderson. Also, do I still smell like pee?” I add with a
whisper.
Megan sniffs around my body. “Nope, all good.”
Shoulders slumping in relief, I probe, “So, Mr. Anderson? What’s he like?”
“He’s young—younger than you’d expect,” she begins, and I don’t know if she realizes it or not, but her head tilts to the left and her voice takes on a sort of dreamy inflection. I hold back a giggle snort, so as not to piss her off. “He’s smart—really smart, and charming, and handsome…”
“It sounds like you have a little crush.”
Doris hands over our breakfast. The bagel is still warm and melts in my mouth, like my nana’s homemade dinner rolls. A moan slips past my lips before I can suck it back in.
A cushion cut diamond shines in my periphery. “Even if I wasn’t engaged, I know better than to fall for one of the Wolves on Twenty-nine. They’re trouble.”
“Wolves on Twenty-nine?”
“Max and Jalen,” she whispers. “They are good at what they do, and they know it. The two of them are responsible for bringing in over fifty percent of the company’s profit last quarter. They are wolves with pretty faces and egos the size of the building itself.” Worry creases her brow, and she pauses as if debating her next words.
“What?” I mumble around a mouth full of bagel.
“There have been…rumors. I don’t know, so much of what happens on the executive floors is kept pretty tight-lipped, but…”
“But what?” I all but shout.
Megan looks around to find the small cafeteria crowd has disappeared.
“Nothing. It’s probably nothing. Just keep your head down and do your job. If anything happens, I mean anything, come and see me right away.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Look, I’m not really supposed to repeat this, but there was an incident; one that ended in a six-figure settlement and an updated fraternization policy. We are rolling it out this week. Zero tolerance. Workplace romances are expressly forbidden.”
“I’m not that stupid.”
“It isn’t about stupid. Max and Jalen can charm the habit off a nun. Your pants—no offense—would be just as easy.”
Pretty Little Mess Page 2
