by Tasha Fawkes
I turn my attention to my cousin Jerrod, who’s standing off to Dad’s side behind the wide desk. As always, he has a look about him that makes me think his underwear’s too tight. He’s shifty, squirmy, uncomfortable. And forever looking for a way to get a leg up. I doubt there’s a square inch of space on Dad’s ass that he hasn’t kissed. If it wasn't for that...no, I'd still despise him. He's always been a snake.
He's also not usually one to defend me, either. I raise an eyebrow at this turn of events. “You don’t?”
He shakes his head, and his slicked-back blond hair gleams in the overhead lights. “It was just a little squabble. A domestic issue. It could happen to anyone.”
I narrow my eyes. Not helping.
Surprise, surprise.
“And get recorded and plastered all over the internet!” Dad slams the side of his fist against his desk.
I manage not to flinch, but it's a close bet. He doesn’t usually let his temper get the better of him like this. Then again, I’m the only person who gets to him, but only when we’re alone. He's always in control around other people, even the rest of the family. Despite jumping at Dad's response, I get the feeling there’s nowhere Jerrod would rather be.
“It’s not that big a deal,” I sigh.
“Maybe not this one thing,” he snarls. “It’s everything else leading up to this! This little so-called squabble is the straw that broke the camel’s back, Anthony. I’m sick of the way you can’t stop screwing around, no matter what I say. You were supposed to be here yesterday!” He pounds on the desk again for effect. “You weren’t supposed to be out!” Another pound. “But you can’t be bothered to do the smart thing, can you? You’ve gotta be your own man, make sure the whole world knows you do what you want!”
“Uncle,” Jerrod mutters as he moves like he's going to go around to my dad.
“Stay out of it,” I shoot back.
Dad laughs, but there's no humor in it. “At least he cares what happens around here! He does what I ask. I can count on him. Unlike my own son.”
I manage not to roll my eyes too hard. It’s not easy. Jerrod, meanwhile, looks like he’s celebrating his birthday, Christmas, and New Year’s all at once. His eyes are practically dancing, even if he manages to keep a straight face.
Ass kisser.
Dad walks around his desk so we’re standing face-to-face. He’s only an inch taller than me, and he likes to lord that over me whenever he gets the chance. Like it's some great accomplishment that he has any control over.
“I’ve had enough of your bullshit, Anthony. This is my only chance at getting elected, and you know it. I’ve been working toward this for years, and if I lose, there's no coming back from that.”
“Yes. I know that.” Who doesn’t know it? The man’s obsessed with the idea of starting a new political dynasty, like he’s a Kennedy or something.
“But you can’t help ruining it for me, even so. Isn’t that it?” His breath smells like stale coffee and frustration. “If you don’t get your act together, boy, I’m going to have to distance myself from you. You’re limiting my choices.”
That gets to me, even though I hate when he refers to me as a boy. No matter how many times the old man has threatened me, he’s never threatened to disown me, and I know that’s what he’s saying, even though he’s trying to soften it since Jerrod’s soaking in every word.
“I’m giving you one. More. Chance.” He jabs his index finger into my chest, and it takes all my self-control not to react. “If you don’t hit a home run today, it’s over.”
“Home run? Today?” My mind races. Shit. What’s he talking about?
Jerrod doesn’t manage to conceal his snicker, but Dad ignores him. “Yes, today. Your pitch.”
Oh, hell. The pitch to Chambersmith that I completely forgot about, in other words. I'm so fucked.
“Make it happen today, and prove to me that you’re serious about getting serious, or you’re done. Cut out completely.” He glares at me.
I manage to hold his gaze. I won’t give Jerrod the satisfaction of seeing Dad talk me down.
“I will,” I assure him with a smile, even as I panic inside.
Chapter 9
Jane
I smooth a hand over my freshly-curled hair and check the time again. Where is he? It’s well after nine a.m. and I tell myself that I'm simply concerned for my continued employment. After my 'talk' with Mr. James, I can't see him being tolerant of tardiness, especially since there's a big meeting today. What will happen if he gets fired? This will be the shortest and most pointless job I’ve ever had.
I wish I could get the memory of his kiss off my mind. Maybe then I could pretend that I hadn't spent thirty minutes standing in front of my closet, trying to find the perfect outfit to wear. The sort of thing that would not only tell everyone at James Enterprises that yesterday was a fluke, but that would make Anthony really see me.
Knock it off, I warn myself for probably the hundredth time this morning. I can’t allow myself to fall too deep into the memory of that simple kiss. If I do, I’ll wonder what it would be like if the kiss kept going…and going…with a lot more touching. Like a whole lot more. Skin against skin. Palms sliding over the firm muscles I know are hiding under his impeccably tailored suits. His hands on me. Touching places...
And that’s a bad idea.
Messing around with him, or even daydreaming too much about it, is a bad idea. Even if he thinks I’m a hopeless jerk for freaking out and freezing up, it’s better than taking things too far. That kiss was enough. Now, it’s time to get to work like nothing ever happened. That's what I'm here for. Work. To make a place for myself. To start building the life I've always wanted. This is my chance, and fantasizing about something that will never happen—that can never happen—will only get in the way.
My little pep talk to myself would be just what I need, if not for one tall blonde, very excited girl nearly running down the hall in my direction. Crap. I forgot about Chloe. I can't bring myself to rebuff her, not when she's been so kind to me. I want her to be a part of that life I'm building. I've never had a true friend, and I sense that she could be that for me.
So I take a steadying breath and brace myself for the onslaught of questions I'm sure are coming my way.
“What happened, what happened, what happened?” She sits on the edge of my desk and leans down until she’s nearly bent in half. With her eyes sparkling and that eager expression on her face, she looks more like a child on Christmas morning than she does an adult. “Tell me! I’ve been dying since you two left last night!”
My cheeks burn with the heat of a thousand suns, and my bravado fails. “Nothing,” I mutter.
“You lying liar!” She swats playfully at me, clearly misinterpreting my reluctance to speak for being coy.
I've never been coy a day in my life, but she doesn't know that. There's a lot she doesn't know about me, I remind myself.
“There isn’t a woman alive who ended a night with Anthony James without anything happening.”
Ouch. Like I need to hear that. I hurry to correct her assumptions. “Honestly. It’s the truth. He walked me home. We shook hands at my front door.”
Her face falls. I can tell she wanted more. It's like she was the one who didn’t get any. I feel a pang as I wonder if she'll realize that our mutual appreciation for jazz is about all we have in common. Maybe it's better sooner rather than later. I learned young not to form attachments, and I have no reason to believe that adult life in the city will be any different, no matter how much I hoped it would be.
“Sorry,” I whisper with a shrug.
She shakes her head. “And I promised to get you laid last night, too.”
“Oh, please! Like I was going to hold you to that!” I wave a dismissive hand and hope she doesn’t notice the panic that’s bubbling up inside me. She’s like a train running down the same stretch of track in a circle, over and over.
And I'm tied to the tracks, waiting to be blown
into oblivion.
“Don't worry. I won’t rest, young lady. Not until I've found you the perfect one-night stand.” She pats my shoulder as she gracefully stands. “I’m going to get you some action.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I ask, a note of desperation in my question. I just hope she takes it the wrong way because the real reason isn't something I want to share. “Seriously, I don’t need any action. I’m just fine as-is.”
She folds her arms, popping one hip out to the side, a move that would look contrived from anyone else. “Nobody as gorgeous as you is fine as-is. You’re young, and you shouldn’t be alone in that tiny little apartment.”
“I thought you said it was cute.” I try to get her off topic because I would much rather be talking about my lack of space than my lack of a sex life.
“Life’s too short,” she continues like I didn’t say a word. “You should get out there and have a good time while you’re young.”
As if she isn't only a couple years older than me.
Despite our similarities in age, I know that when it comes to sex, we're eons apart. I just can't bring myself to tell her why. After hearing about my sad little childhood and seeing my apartment, I don't want to give her another reason to see me as some naive country girl who's in over her head.
“I don’t need any action, Chloe. Please.” I pause, then add, “It’s sort of personal, okay?”
Her expression changes to one of chagrin and concern. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve asked you if you’re, you know, religious or involved or something.”
I snort before I can stop myself. “I’m not religious. It’s not a religion thing. It’s a virgin thing.”
Shit. There it is. It just slipped out before I could stop it. I remind myself that it’s not a crime to be a virgin. I have no reason to be embarrassed. It's a legitimate choice and not one that means I'm weird. Just like no one should ever slut shame a person who has sex a lot, no one should look down on me for not having had it.
“You’re a virgin?”
I would expect her to sound that way if she called me a zombie or cannibal. Like she’s completely scandalized. Great. She's one of those women who think that a woman having the freedom to choose what to do with her body should only apply to the people who choose not to follow ‘traditional norms’.
“So?” I look around to be sure nobody is listening, but I don't soften my voice. This isn't the sort of conversation I want to have at work, but I'm not going to let her make me feel bad about my decision. “What’s wrong with that?”
She shakes her head, looking more shocked now than anything else. “I just don’t get it. How is it possible that somebody like you could still have her v-card? I mean, you're gorgeous. Guys should be lining up around the block for you.”
“I just haven’t found the right guy yet, is all. I mean, when you’ve gone a long time, and you still haven’t done it, it becomes a little more important to find the right person. It shouldn’t be just anybody.” I’ve rehearsed that speech so many times it rolls off my tongue like I really mean it. And it does the job, too, since Chloe nods like she understands.
Good thing. She doesn’t need to know the real reason I've never let anyone get that close. She doesn’t need to know about him. What he did to me. Nobody knows, and I want to keep it that way. Better to let people think I'm frigid or a snob or anything else other than a victim.
Just the thought of him makes me squeeze my legs closed as if I can somehow stop now what he did then. Sometimes I can still smell his cologne, that thick, choking reek. One of my teachers in high school had worn the same cologne, and I almost had panic attacks whenever he walked by my desk. Sometimes I can still hear his whispers in the dark, when I’m alone and trying to fall asleep. Turning on the light helps chase the memories away, but no light is bright enough to make me forget what it felt like to have his hands on me.
“Jane?”
I pull myself back to the present and remind myself that he stays in the past. He doesn't know where I am, and I intend to keep it that way. This is my new start, and I won't let him ruin it.
“I’m sorry I’ve been pushing so hard,” she says, giving me a gentle smile. “Sometimes I wish I could go back to when I was a virgin, so it could be special. I completely get it.”
“See? You know what I mean, then.”
And thank God for that. I don't have the energy or desire to go deeper into the subject. She's far too easy to confide in, and I don't want her to see my secret every time she looks at me. So I focus on the part she can relate to and hope that will be enough.
“It’s sort of a touchy subject,” I admit. “And I’m not into the idea of just picking up a random guy. That’s why I was so skittish last night. I didn't want to blurt it out in the middle of a bar.”
Instead of leaving me alone or at least changing the subject, she nods, her expression determined. “And that’s why it’s now my mission in life to find you just the right guy. The sort of guy who will make it as special as you deserve.”
Shit.
My mouth falls open. No. No, that is not at all what I want.
Shit!
As I scramble to try to figure out a way to stop her, she takes my silence as gratitude rather than shock.
“You don’t have to thank me. It’ll be my pleasure—and yours,” she adds with a wink. “This is going to be fun.”
I stare at her as she walks away. This is going to be fun?
For who? Because it sure as hell won't be for me.
Chapter 10
Anthony
Well, it was nice having a trust fund. I might as well kiss that goodbye, not to mention everything else: the cars, the VIP treatment at bars and clubs, entry to any party in town, top shelf alcohol, and tailor-made clothes. It was a good life. It’s all over. Hell, at this rate, I’ll be lucky if Dad doesn’t end my life, period. I'm fairly certain that it's only the law keeping murder from being an option.
What am I supposed to do? Besides wearing a hole in the floor of the men’s room as I pace, nothing comes to mind. How the hell did I forget the presentation? Or maybe, just maybe, I didn’t forget. I would have to commit the date to memory and prepare for it and actually give a damn in order to forget about it.
I am so fucked.
How could I be so fucking irresponsible? It's not like I have any real responsibilities. I sit in my cushy office and pretend that the things I do there actually matter when I damn well know that I can walk out the door and no one will know the difference. Except maybe to realize my father's stress level isn't as high.
Am I broken? Is that it? Why can’t I get it together? Why can’t I be the son Dad wants me to be—or at least pretend to be? I've spent so much of my life telling myself that my dad expects too much from me. I've let friends tell me that he's too hard, that I'm an adult and he needs to stop treating me like a child.
Except a responsible adult wouldn't be stuck in this shithole of a situation. A responsible adult would have put something like this on a calendar and set up reminders and actually done his damn job. I can make all the excuses in the world that lay the blame at my father's feet, but it won't change the fact that this is all on me.
I have an hour to come up with something. Only an hour to put together something that’ll wow Chambersmith and his team of suits, or I'll be out of a job and an inheritance. I’ve never met them, but I can just imagine what they'll look like. Pretty much all the stuffed shirts start to look alike after a while.
What can I say that will impress him? What will get through? I don’t even know their full product line, damn it. Why not? Because the playboy billionaire title I've adopted as a shield against my father has become a fucking reality. Somewhere along the line, I went from pretending to be a fuck-up to actually being one. What other explanation is there? I loosen my tie and ask myself if faking a stomach bug would be too much of a stretch.
I take a slow breath and close my eyes. I can do this. I’ve faked my way thr
ough worse. Charm goes a long way, doesn’t it? I tell myself it does and remind myself of the many times I’ve used charm to get me by. Surely I can make something up that sounds amazing but has virtually no substance. It shouldn't be too difficult for me. I knew all about looking and sounding good without having any real character.
Less than an hour later, I walk to the conference room, where Gary Chambersmith and his team of lackeys are waiting. And I still have nothing. Not a damn thing. Dad’s not here, thank God. One thing went my way this morning. I hope it’s not the only thing.
“Good morning. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.” I shake hands with all of them in turn. Charm, charm, charm. I make lots of eye contact, flash lots of teeth. They seem warm and willing enough. That’s a good start.
“Is this it?” Gary’s voice is a gravelly rumble full of disappointment, and his sharp eyes peer at me from over the top of wire-rimmed glasses. “I expected a team to come in and wow me.”
Yeah. I could’ve put a team together if I remembered the presentation in the first place, but I'm as much of a loser as my father says.
I push those thoughts from my head and give Gary some amazing bullshit. “I thought you’d be tired of seeing the whole song and dance. You’re unsure of us, so I don’t want to waste your precious time with a lot of filler. It’s best, in my experience, to cut to the heart of the matter.”
That came tripping off my tongue pretty easily. If the rest of the meeting went this way, I'd be golden.
“And what’s the heart of the matter, young man?”
That’s a damn good question. Time for some more bs.
“First of all, a strong social media presence. Our team is chock-full of young, savvy professionals with their fingers on the pulse of how today’s consumer makes their purchasing decisions.”
It sounds good to me. Not so much to them, if the blank looks on their faces are any indication. Not one of the six people sitting around the table looks impressed, or even interested. I see the last thing anybody making a presentation wants to see: the checking of watches. Already. We haven't even been in here ten minutes and they want to leave. I’m losing them. They’re sliding through my fingers, and I have nothing to stop them.
