“Temporary setback.” Jalen adjusts his Presidential Rolex. “After we sign Vann and get our foot in the door of the fashion industry, Anderson Capital will be in the billionaires’ club. The board, your dad, and even the Crypt Keeper will be forced to take notice.”
I rub my thumb over my bottom lip, chewing on his words. Jay’s right. I need to focus on Attar. People lie. Numbers don’t. “We do this, and we do it right,” I say. “Then Graham fucking Sullivan will be forced to slink back into the pit with the rest of the snakes, where he belongs.”
Vann’s workshop is housed in a loft above an improv studio in Hell’s Kitchen. Jay and I take the stairs up to the third floor. A black door with the words VANN ATTAR DESIGN etched in gold stands between me and my future.
Jay claps my shoulder. “Time to get your head in the game.”
I brush his hand off and smooth down the lapels of my jacket. “My head is always in the game.” I shoot him a lopsided grin before pushing my way inside haute couture hell.
“Cocky bastard,” Jay mutters from behind me.
The main room of Vann Attar Design itself is nothing more than a large open space and a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the busy street below. A young woman with blue hair and a ring through her nose stands from a small desk to greet us. “Hey, Max and Jalen, right?”
Jay grins. “What gave us away?”
“The suits,” she tells us, wrinkling her nose like we reek of three-day-old milk and piss-poor decision making.
Jay and I exchange a look. I’m wearing Tom Ford and he’s wearing Brioni. I’d be willing to bet my Hamptons house that every woman who crossed our paths this morning creamed their panties. “What’s wrong with them?” Jalen asks, tugging his cuff.
“Nothing, they just scream nine-to-five and, well…” She gestures around the brightly colored reception area. Post-modern bullshit litters the space. Avant-garde for the sake of being avant-garde and not at all functional. “We just don’t get many of those in here.”
“Uh…thanks,” Jay grunts.
“You’re welcome.” She smiles and thumbs toward a door. “Vann’s in the back.” We nod and thank her before making our way to “the back.” Jay bumps my shoulder and I look over just in time to catch his eyeroll. “I’ll keep my nine-to-five suit and six-figure salary. She can have the ugly-ass uncomfortable chairs and Smurf hair.”
Chuckling, I say, “What happened to head in the game?”
He scoffs as we enter into the smaller, sparsely decorated workshop. Reams of fabric line the shelves. Swatches and photographs of women in streetwear are pinned to a corkboard along the back wall. A man stands in the center of it all, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares at a half-dressed mannequin. He’s taller than I expected, not quite as tall as Jalen, but my height. Tan skin highlighted by the basic white t-shirt he wears and his long black hair is groomed and pulled back into a ponytail. It’s that Steve Jobs Albert Einstein way of dress. Too much swirling in his brain to be worried about his look. It’s then I realize, Jay and I are in the presence of a genius. I extend my hand. “Max Anderson.”
“Vann,” he says, then Jalen introduces himself as well. After introductions, he turns his attention back to the mannequin. The room fills with a silence so uncomfortable, it rivals that time my mom caught me beating my dick when I was in middle school.
“So”—I clear my throat—“you want to talk some numbers?” I slip an iPad from my briefcase. Jay and I spent the last week putting together an investment plan. Some of our best fucking work. I’m confident that, despite our nine-to-five suits, he’ll be blown away.
“Something’s missing,” he says returning his attention to the doll.
“Umm”—I lift the iPad—“I’ve got everything right here.”
“Not that.” He sighs in exasperation. “This.”
Jay and I both tilt our heads sideways to study the mannequin. “Oh. It looks…” Jay trails off.
“It’s great,” I lie. If I’m being honest, I’m not exactly sure what it is. Look, I’m a fashionable guy. I spend time and money on my clothes. I invest in staple pieces and I’ve never had any complaints from the opposite sex, but this shit right here…it makes no fucking sense. Nevertheless, I’m a professional, goddamn it, and an Anderson on top of that. I can bullshit with the best of them.
Moving closer, I call on every ounce of knowledge I know about fashion, which basically consists of tidbits I’ve picked up after years of fucking my way through fashion week. “May I?” I ask, my hand hovering inches from the sleeve-neckline thing.
“Please.” He bows and gestures toward the franken-fabric.
“This is brilliant,” I gush. “The construction of it is very column-like, but it’s softer than it looks…and this.” I round the plastic bitch. The back of it is held together by straight pins. “I totally see your vision. But maybe add a bit of texture?” It comes out more a question than a statement, but it’s already out there, so I bob my head up and down like an idiot and double down. “Texture is what’s missing.”
“Hmm…texture.” Vann ponders this for a moment then turns to Jay.
“And color?” he offers.
“Color.” Vann pins us with his gaze. “Do you know what it is I do here?”
“Make clothes?” Jay guesses.
“Make art?” I amend.
Vann chuckles and wanders over to a drawing table in the corner. He plucks a picture from on top of it and hands it to me. It’s an old photo of a man and a pregnant woman. Water stains distort the image, but I can make out their faces. “That’s my mother and father.” I hand the picture to Jalen as Vann continues. “They came to this country with everything you see in that photo. I grew up in a one-bedroom box in the Bronx with the last name Attar and the face of a supposed terrorist. Now, magazines are calling me one of the greatest American designers of our generation.
“I don’t need suits coming in to tell me how to spend my money. I need people who understand what it is that my brand represents. I don’t make clothes. I don’t make art. I provide hope to the hopeless. I need people who are committed to help me propel that brand so that the next generation of young kids with Muslim names and Arabic accents know that they can be whatever the fuck they want. And if you don’t understand that, then how am I supposed to trust you with my money?”
“I…we…I totally get it. We tried to approach this in our usual way, and you are nothing like our usual clients. We can do better. Give us a chance to do better.”
Vann sighs and shakes his head. “The fifth anniversary of Attar Design is quickly approaching. I’m doing a big event at the MET to debut this collection.” He points to the dress. “I’ve got a lot on my plate…”
“We understand,” Jalen interjects. “You’re a busy man, and we need to get our shit together, but like Max said, we can do better. We’ll let you focus and we can reconvene.”
“One more chance,” he agrees, holding up his finger. “Come to my show. See what it is I do, then after, you can try to sell me again.”
We shake hands, and the blue-haired girl reemerges to show Jay and me out.
“How the fuck are we going to pull this off?” Jay asks as we jog down the stairs.
I grin. “My new toy loves fashion.”
To: Max Anderson, Anderson Capital
From: Ellie Chase, Executive Assistant to Max Anderson
Subject: Go fuck yourself.
Dear Mr. Anderson,
You’re a dick for not taking me to meet Vann. It’s literally the one thing I’m qualified to do here.
Also, my name is ELLIE NOT PISS GIRL!!!!
I QUIT.
Sincerely,
Sick of Your Shit.
I read the email again, the cursor hovering over the delete button. Dex was right, this helps. I wish I could actually quit, but as big an asshole as Mr. Anderson is, he pays well.
“Somebody’s in trouble…again,” Bitch Lynn sings as she saunters over to my desk. Her heels c
lick-clack on the floors, causing my left eye to twitch. My usual buffer, Dexter, is gone. His fiancé, Mark, surprised him by showing up to take him on a lunch date, which means I’m forced to endure whatever tirade she’s about to go on alone.
Lynn doesn’t like me very much. Dexter thinks it’s because she’s jealous, but I’m not sure of what. Mr. Anderson treats me like I have the plague, and only really talks to me to yell or give me his lunch order. Plus, she looks more like the blonde models he takes to all those charity functions than I ever will.
Looking up from my half-eaten cheeseburger (Doris hooked it up with extra bacon and avocado), I wave my hand for her to get on with it.
Her thin lips curve up into a smile. “Mr. Anderson called. He’s on his way up and he said for you to be in his office. He sounded pissed. I bet he fires you. You don’t belong here anyway.”
“Is that all?” Of course, he’s pissed. He only has two moods: hot jerk and angry jerk. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he called me into his office to yell at me about how much traffic there was on his commute back from Hell’s Kitchen.
“Also, you have a little something right here?” she says, pointing to her upper lip.
My hand flies to my face and lands in something sticky. Great. My shoulders slump in defeat as Lynn cackles all the way back to her desk. I push the other half of my burger in the trash—it lands somewhere next to my pride—then I pull out my compact and clean the extra avocado from around my mouth.
My phone rings. “Mr. Anderson’s office, Ellie speaking, how may I help you?”
“George from security just called,” Lynn chirps. “Anderson’s on his way up.”
I sigh, an apathetic little noise that fills my lungs and seeps from my lips. A few short weeks in the cooperate world and I’ve turned into Eeyore.
“Hey, look at it this way, you haven’t been here long enough to need more than one box to clean out your desk.”
Life is much simpler at Woody’s. For one, I get to work with my sister instead of blonde witches with attitude problems.
You need this job.
You need this job.
You need this job.
Somehow, by the grace of God, I manage not to call her a stupid bitch. “Thanks,” I grit and slam the phone down hard, only I miss the cradle and hit the mouse instead.
Ping!
“What ping?” I stare at the screen, dread covers me in a thin layer of sweat.
Email Sent
“No. No. N-n-n-o.” THIS CANNOT BE HAPPENING. “Come back.” I tap the mouse ten times in rapid succession, but it’s gone. Into the cloud or where things go when you hit send. “Please come back.” I wrap my arms around the monitor, hoping a little love will undo my mistake. Why did I fill in the “to” line?
Think, Ellie. THINK!
I’m on my feet and pushing my way inside Anderson’s office. If I’m lucky, the elevator will get stuck. I fall onto his chair with a bounce. Oh, comfy. Wait. No. Not the point. I tap on the mouse, bringing his screen to life. What did Dex say his password was? I throw my head back. I could call IT and say Anderson locked himself out of his computer and have them reset it, but it wouldn’t help me hack into email. Dropping my elbows on the desk, I sandwich either side of my face with my hands and groan.
The door creaks open and Max stands there, and his brow cocks as he reads something on his phone. “What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is a deep and rich baritone that rumbles through my body. I’m sitting at his desk, banging his keyboard. If I didn’t accidentally quit, I would be fired for sure.
The door slams shut behind him. That audible click sends a chill down my spine. He marches over to me and spins me around to face him, his back to the window. The New York skyline is breathtaking, but the bastard standing before me puts it to shame. Dark hair, ocean eyes, and just the barest hint of a five-o’clock shadow.
It is at that moment that I realize how Anderson does so well in business. He’s an intimidating bastard. That kind of power is a turn-on. If he wasn’t my boss (and an asshole), I would have broken the company’s “no fraternization” policy day one. As it stands, I’m not exactly sure if I even have a job. Think, Ellie. Think.
“I…oh. I um…Dex asked me to…and…” He slides his phone in front of my face. I stare down at the email he was never meant to see and my heart sinks. “Mr. Anderson. I didn’t mean…” I think of my pride in the trash next to my burger and inhale. I refuse to beg a man who loathes me for a job I hate. At least I got one good paycheck. We can pay the rent next month and that will buy us time for me to find something else. I stand to leave, no need to stick around for the fallout. I’ll probably end up crying and the last thing Max Anderson deserves is my tears.
“Not so fast.” The words roll off his tongue in a low rumble. Kind of like the sound of an engine revving, and I’m embarrassed to admit my panties get a little wet. A hazard of the job. Wet panties and broken dreams. They should put that in the ad when they start looking for my replacement. I turn in time to see a blur of blue pinstripes heading straight for me. I stumble back on my heels, but Anderson’s hands on my waist steady me. “You’re quitting?”
NO. I want to shout, but my dumb pride won’t let me admit that, so I nod like an idiot because holy fuck he smells good, and holy fuck his hand is searing my waist.
“I…umm…I just…” I attempt after a very awkward thirty seconds of me bobbing my head up and down like a plastic toy.
“Finally. I’ve been a ticking fucking time bomb around you.” His voice is thick with lust as he pushes me back against the wall so hard the framed degree from Harvard rattles. His hand grips my neck and his teeth sink into my earlobe. His mouth latches on to mine, and he swallows my moans as if they are his lunchtime treat. His lips are cashmere soft, but his kiss is brutal. His tongue owns mine, flicking in and out of my mouth with a precision that makes my knees go weak and my eyelids flutter. His hands roam my body, pinching and squeezing my breasts and my ass. They are everywhere, feeling every inch. “I’ve been waiting to do this since the elevator.”
The words trigger something in my brain and logic and common sense finally make their appearance. I press my palm into his chest and shove hard. “Wait, you were an asshole…on purpose?” My eyes narrow until I can only make him out through tiny slits. “You’ve treated me like shit because you like me?” What are we in fourth grade?
At least he has the decency to look contrite, but I still want to break something, preferably his nose. “I need to get out of here.” Brushing past him, I move to the door like a woman possessed. This day has Super Panda written all over it. My fingers touch the cool metal of the knob, but before I can open it, Max slaps one of his big hands on the wood, trapping me in his office and between his arms.
“Tell me you don’t want this too. Tell me to leave you alone.” Anderson is at my back, his hand trails up the side of my leg, lifting my skirt with it. He fingers the delicate lace thong on my hip. “Tell me,” he repeats. His fingers against my flesh render me mute. I press my forehead into the door and keep my mouth shut. He chuckles darkly as he plays with the lace. “These are nice.” The fabric digs into my flesh as he rips the nice panties from my body. “They’re wet, too.”
I’ve never had a guy rip my panties off before and it’s totally as hot as it sounds. “We’re going to hell.” Well, technically the unemployment office but same thing.
“Well, in that case, we should make this count.”
I spin around, still a little angry about him acting like a child for the last three weeks, but also—safe space—a little turned on at the sight of my tattered underwear pressed against his nose. My mouth drops open, which is pretty much the worst thing I could have done because before I can blink, he is pushing my panties between my lips, like a gag. I taste myself, and him, as he kisses me through the lace. My tongue darts under, searching for his, searching for more. “Please.” The word comes out a garbled and desperate moan around the panties. I should feel
degraded. My boss has me pinned to the wall, my skirt bunched around my hips and my panties shoved into my mouth. I should want to go to HR, but I don’t. I don’t want anything in this moment except to grind against the hardness stabbing into my stomach.
“What was that?” he teases, nipping at my chin. Even his teeth are sexy. Each bite sends me closer and closer to the line—a line, if crossed, could potentially mean losing the job I sort of—accidentally—quit. With his teeth against my flesh, so raw and primal, I can’t think straight. What is it that I’m begging for?
I want this.
I want this man who I shouldn’t want, because he’s a rich prick and because sex with him is sure to end in disaster, but none of it matters right now. Not in this moment. “I need this,” I moan. The panties in my mouth fall between us, and we stare at them. At the implication of them. The office is silent, save for the rapid boom boom boom of my heart threatening to escape my chest and the tick tick tick of the clock on the wall.
“Is this what you want?” He steps closer, the distinct hiss of his zipper sliding drowns out the ticking and the booming and leaves me panting.
His cock is as beautiful as I imagined—not that I spent that much time thinking about it. The glorious bastard is long and rigid. A thick vein runs down the length of it. A vein that I trace with my index finger. A vein that I’d very much like to trace with my tongue.
“Jesus Christ, Piss Girl. You’re looking at it like you want to swallow me whole.”
“In your dreams.” And mine.
Anderson tugs me forward, slamming me into his chest. His hands dig into the meat of my ass, and he lifts me off the ground, grinding his erection into my center. “Maybe if you’re a good girl, I’ll let you lick me clean, but I’ve waited too long to feel your cunt wrapped around my dick.”
I am far from a virgin, but no one has ever spoken to me the way Max does. Moisture leaks from my core. My body is screaming go, go, go, while my brain is yelling no, no, no.
Pretty Little Mess Page 6
