by Shandi Boyes
My surname opens doors not many twenty-two-year-olds fresh out of college have access to, but even the bigwigs in the corporate world know not all trust-fund babies get their inheritance in a lump-sum payment. I’m capped to an annual limit—a limit I could live off without cause for concern until the day I die, but I’m not just a man with a panty-wetting face and a magic leg-opening wand for a schlong. I’ve got drive and ingenuity, meaning I won’t just emulate my big brother, Cormack’s success, I’ll trump it. Not only will I have the biggest dick with the McGregor last name, I’ll also have the fattest bank balance. Put your money on it, ladies. I have this in the bag.
Just as I would this blowjob if I could get Tyrone out of my fucking head. He’s deflating my cock as quickly as two new light aircraft, bonuses for our seventeen staff members, and the massive down payment our four-day adrenaline-hyped getaway drained funds from our business account. We’re riding on this meeting more than the influx of clients seeking gift vouchers for the holiday season. Payment is upfront, so even if the gift receiver chickens out, we still get paid. It’s a win-win for us if my insurance assessor gives me the green light.
Please, God, forgive me for what I am about to do.
After giving the big man a few seconds to hear my prayer, I tug Olivia’s head in the opposite direction I’ve been shoving it all morning. “I’ll most likely regret this for the rest of my life, but can I get a rain check?” My dick popping out of her mouth will darken my dreams for eternity.
“You want a raincheck? You’re moments from coming. Can’t he wait a few more minutes?”
I give her a look, one that reveals I’m letting her hair color give her some leverage. “You’ve got more than a few minutes to go.” If you can talk, more like thirty. “But even if I were close to detonation, Tyrone can’t wait. I’ve delayed this meeting for months now. I can’t stall it any longer.”
“But…” she drops her lip in a cute, I want-to-fuck-her-face way, “… I wanted to hang out today? I don’t have any classes until this afternoon, so I thought we could chill. Maybe download some movies? I could cook for you. You like lasagna, right? What man doesn’t? I’ll make that for you… from scratch. Then we can cuddle on the couch until I fall asleep in your arms. Aww, it sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”
She leaps up to clap her hands together, mercifully lodging enough inches between our naked bodies, so I can slip out of my bed minus the stage-five clinger she’s suddenly become. Several alarm bells are ringing in my head. They’re all screaming the same thing—You’ve stuffed up, motherfucker! She’s a stage-five, four-buttons-undone clinger.
“Betty… ugh, I mean Olivia. That sounds really nice, but I’ve got a business to run. I don’t have time for couch cuddling.” She drops her lip again. It does not affect me whatsoever this time around. You only get one chance to divert disaster. I’m not giving it up for anything. “Besides, I’m vegan, remember?”
“What?” She looks seconds from vomiting. She’s not the only one. I like my meat when it isn’t being served to me by psychopaths. “You ate pepperoni pizza last night.”
“No.” I laugh while shoving my feet into the jeans Tyrone slapped me up the head with. “That was slices of the tofu roll my momma makes especially for me. She knows how much I love pizza and didn’t want me missing out on the food porn that comes with greasy packaging.”
Olivia folds her arms in front of her chest—her naked I-really-wish-she-wasn’t-a-clinger chest. “Your mom made the pizza we ate last night?”
“Yep.” I raise my eyes from her tits to her face. “You couldn’t tell the difference, could you? That’s how good my momma is. She looks after her little snookie-bear so well, no one will ever take her place.” If the vegan act doesn’t have her running for the hills, I’m sure my momma-boy ruse will.
Alarm bells of a new type blast my eardrums when she murmurs, “Aww, that’s sooo sweet. I love a man who loves his mother.”
After meandering off the bed, she sashays to me standing frozen only a few feet away. I’m truly stunned. I’ve never had both my vegan and momma-boy ruse shot down before.
After slapping my cheeks with her hands, Olivia lowers her forehead until it braces mine. “Go make your momma proud while I shower. Once I’m no longer smelling like her son, I’ll join you downstairs so we can joint-dial her. I’m sure she’ll be more than eager to share a veggie-packed lasagna recipe with me. She’d do anything for our little snookie-bear.”
Missing my bugged eyes, she spins on her heels and makes her way to my bathroom, her head flinging back when she spots my shattered cell just outside the door. “Don’t go anywhere. With a broken phone, I’ll have no way of tracking you down.”
Does anyone know what the weather is like in Ibiza this time of the year?
Chapter 2
Jamie
“You piece of shit, ass-hat, pimple-faced virgin who couldn’t find a clit if your momma drew you a map.”
“Sorry, ma’am, what was that?”
My eyes stray from my clenched fists to the driver of my cab, mortified I expressed my thoughts out loud. I wasn’t talking to him. I was cursing the idiotic salesman who sold me a ‘supposed’ top-of-the-line Lexus. He failed to mention it overheats anytime it goes over forty and that neither the heater nor the tire jack work. Thanks to him, I’m late for a face-to-face meeting I usually hold over the phone. I’m already pissed my boss is bending the rules for a client he should be glad to see the back of, much less the number of dollars racking up on the cab’s meter. I have dollars to spend, just not on this.
I’m saved from explaining myself when my cab pulls into the entrance of the business I’m in the process of assessing for insurance. It will be wrapped up with a nice shiny bow the instant The Drop Zone’s owners agree to the stipulations we added to their policy. Once that’s done, we’ll draw the exorbitant monthly premium they need for coverage, and I’ll move on to less-demanding clients.
This one is more demanding because people pay them to jump out of perfectly good aircraft. Why is an assessment even needed? That’s lunacy right there. We should just deny their request for insurance renewal and move on, but no, for some inane reason, Hugh, my supervisor, isn’t seeing the risks I am. Being a skydiver, he often quotes there’s more chance of dying from a bee sting than there is from skydiving. Clearly, he hasn’t read the recent statistics on how many people in America are allergic to bees.
After handing my driver a bundle of greenbacks to cover my fare, I exit his cab. It’s late October, but the weather is ridiculous. My satin blouse is sticking to my skin, and my wavy brown locks have more whitewash fizz than the sandy white beach I smell mingling in the air. The owners of The Drop Zone either spared no expense when they snapped up a prime spot on the California coastline for their business, or they have very impressive connections. The flat land separating the rugged mountain hinterland from the sandy white beach is the equivalent of a pot of gold under a rainbow. If their adventure-capitalist business ever fails, property investors will come knocking the very next day—if they aren’t already visiting. Brad is right, this land is the ideal spot for an exclusive adult-only resort complex.
Brad is my fiancé. He works for Markham Properties Corporation. They’re a multibillion-dollar investment firm that owns resorts all over the world. When a zoning permit was lodged for The Drop Zone two years ago, they tried to derail their campaign. They’ve been after this property for years, but the CEO of Attwood Electric had no interest in selling it. Supposedly, this land was purchased with the intention of building a replicate holiday house to the mansion he owns on the East Coast. It went wayward when the founder of Attwood Electric passed away, leaving his entire legacy in the hands of his eldest grandchild. Brad didn’t go into much more detail except to say the CEO is a pompous, arrogant prick who needs to learn how democracy works. I’m not sure how politics came into the fight, but nothing stops Brad from going on a Republican rant when he has a few whiskeys in him.
I
exhale a big breath before pulling open the door of The Drop Zone. The number of heads in the briefing room watching the safety video reveals they won’t have any issues with skyrocketing insurance premiums. There are well over two dozen people in one room, on a Monday, before noon. Wow.
“You’re late.”
My eyes trek a young man I’d guess to be in his mid-twenties when he approaches me from a desk on my right. He has inky black hair, gorgeous dark skin, and sparkling brown eyes.
“You’ve missed the safety brief, so you’ll need to fill in the old-fashioned quiz.” He dumps a loaded clipboard onto the counter in front of me. It’s a safety disclaimer. “It’s a little hard to guess with the getup you’ve got on, but I’m leaning toward one hundred thirty-two, five-six, B cups… am I right?”
I tug the clipboard in close to my chest during his last comment.
He gives me a flirty smirk. “Don’t worry. What you’re missing in the front is certainly made up for in the trunk.” He nudges his chin to a set of scales on my left. “Jump on. Let’s see how accurate I am.”
I’m about to tell him I’m here for a meeting when a word-stealing visual enters my sight. A smoking hot blond is galloping down the stairs at the speed of lightning. Since he’s paying more attention to his footing than the shirt he’s yanking over his head, I’m given a good three-second window to ogle rock-hard abs, glistening pecs, and the quickest peak of a tattoo that should be more amusing than sexy. If you ever accused this man of having tickets on himself, you’d be one hundred percent accurate. He has two lucky number seven raffle tickets tattooed on his right hip—just beside the scrumptious ‘V’ muscle I shouldn’t be drooling over.
When he stops to stand in front of us, the scent of sweat-slicked skin streams into my nose. It’s not the same stinky, sweaty pits’ smell Brad gets every time he returns from the gym. It’s more manly and sweet, which is an odd combination at this time of the day.
“Is she going up?” He nudges his head to me. Not long enough to drink me in as evidently as I did him, but long enough to linger on the three undone buttons of my shirt.
Wanting to put my best foot forward, I fasten my blouse while they talk shop. “Yes, but you’re not taking her. I’ll call in Drew, then you have no excuse to skip your meeting for the fifth time this month.”
“A meeting with a shriveled-dick wannabe who can’t arrive at the time he demanded? Let me take her up, then when we land, I’ll reschedule.”
“They were adamant this time around. Cancel one more time, and our insurance is canceled. He shouldn’t be long. Perhaps traffic is heavy?”
When the dark-haired hottie glances past my shoulder, the truth smacks into me. They haven’t clicked that I’m Jamie Burgess, supposed shriveled-dick wannabee from Metrics Insurance. People often confuse me for a man since most of my communications are done via email. Every once in a while, I added an ‘xx’ to the end of my messages with the hope they’d get the hint.
HR shut that down rather quickly. Allegedly, that’s more hinting for a sexual harassment claim than disclosing my gender. Bob from Birkham Tires wasn’t happy about my supposed proposition for reduced premiums. His tune changed when I was ordered to apologize for my mishap in person. It was too late for him by then. Bridges were burned, and hurtful words were already exchanged. Even if I could get past the fact he’s twice my age with a receding hairline that matches my father’s, he couldn’t come back from that.
Recalling the reason for my trip down memory lane, I try to interrupt the two insanely handsome specimens with the integrity of a woman a few years older than them and light-years ahead in maturity.
I barely get in a word when the blond mutters, “I’ve got a four-button clinger upstairs.”
I have no clue what his comment means, but the dark-skinned hottie certainly does. “A four-button clinger? Are you sure?”
The blond nods. “I did both the vegan and the momma-boy ruse. Neither worked.”
A grin furls on my mouth when the man who greeted me gasps in surprise. I don’t know him, but I’m certain he’s acting. He has the whole I’m-a-shit-stirrer vibe going on. “Then, I guess you only have one choice...”
“Move to Ibiza,” the blond murmurs at the same time his coworker chuckles, “Marry her.”
The blond stops glaring at his friend when I add another option into the mix. “Or you could just tell her you’re not interested?”
He stares at me like I’m crazy. Not a simple mind-your-own-business stare. He stares—more at my recently buttoned-up shirt than anything, but it’s a pulse-quickening stare nonetheless.
His stare-down takes an intermission when his coworker steps between us to give me his best customer service friendly face. “We’ll be just a minute.”
My greeter drags our interrupter out of my line of sight. I don’t need to see them to hear their conversation, though. “You’re not doing this again, Colby! You’re attending your meeting no matter what you say or do.”
The ruffling of paper creeps out from their hidey-hole. “I didn’t want to do this, Tyrone, but you’ve left me no choice.”
“No...” He sounds like someone just told him his cat died. “That’s bullshit. You can’t bring that out now.”
“Why not? It can be used at any time, for any reason. Four-button clingers included.”
I can’t hear the words Tyrone mutters next. He’s either not speaking or whispering very quietly. Too inquisitive to miss out on any form of gossip, I float toward the corridor where they’re camped out. I pretend to peruse some brochures on the way and fix my hair in a mirror on the far wall before flat out sprinting to their side of the office. They didn’t move their confrontation to another relocation. They’re just not speaking loud enough to project their voices to the other half of their office.
With a roll of his eyes, Tyrone removes a cell phone from his pocket. “Fine. You’re a fucking asshole for doing this, but I’ll try and reschedule your meeting.”
Colby’s blond brow shoots up high on his face, his demands unfulfilled. Not needing words to hear his demand, Tyrone mutters, “And I’ll make some excuse to get rid of the blonde upstairs, but if the media circulates a story about you having herpes, don’t blame me. If she’s truly a four-button clinger as claimed, it will take more than an I-love-my-mommy ruse to get rid of her.”
I stop grinning at the relieved expression on Colby’s face when my cell phone commences ringing. It isn’t the standard ringtone you’d expect a thirty-year-old insurance assessor to have. It’s a ringtone Athena installed specifically for my clients. It’s Ice T’s ‘99 Problems.’
She said I needed a song as nasty as my clients when their premiums jump the national standards, but their profit margin doesn’t. I’ve been accused many times in the past eight years of fucking over my clients as if I’m a pimp, and they’re my hookers, so her choice of ringtone is fitting—until Hugh switched my phone consultations to face to face.
Colby and Tyrone don’t appear as appreciative of Athena’s wit as me. They look as appalled as the sisters from St. Augustine Church hoping a fourteen-thousand-foot jump will bring them closer to God.
If I’m not already going to hell, I am now.
Chapter 3
Colby
As an original gangster tells us how he has ninety-nine problems, but a bitch isn’t one, the brunette I was eyeing earlier delves her hand into her soft-leather briefcase. She’s got the dorky businesswoman look down pat—silky blouse, tight pencil-pleated skirt, and thick-rimmed glasses balancing on her delicate yet noticeable nose. Her hair is dark, wavy, and out of control, and she has a slim, yet enticing body. If the glare off her glasses didn’t veer me in the wrong direction, her eyes are aqua blue. She’s pretty if you can look past her fully buttoned-up shirt.
I thought the only nuns I’d be handling today are the ones who come to The Drop Zone to get their rocks off in a way Jesus approves. I had no clue little Ms. Preacher would be visiting me as well.
The chuckle I’m barely containing barrels up my chest when the unnamed brunette’s removal of her cell concedes with the loudening of Ice T’s deep timbre. The more he tells us about the asses, tits, and whores he has, the more crowded the hallway becomes, but there’s no denying the truth. The filthy, badmouth ringtone is coming from Ms. Prim and Proper’s cell.
No fucking way.
Just as the brunette’s thumb taps her phone, Tyrone drags his from his ear. “No answer. Do you want me to leave a message?”
I don’t know if I’m a genius or a moron for trusting my intuition, but something has me demanding for Tyrone to call Jamie back. I’ve only had this gut-churning feeling once before. It was when I was facing O’Donnell’s heart attack six-pound burger from the Irish pub a few blocks from here. My brain was certain I couldn’t handle a meal bigger than my stomach. My ego had other ideas.
As usual, my ego won.
I don’t know who the winner is this round when the connection of Tyrone’s call occurs at the same time Ms. Fancy’s cell phone blows up again. She’s quick to shut it down, but not quick enough for this little black fox.
Well played, Ms. Jamie Burgess. Well played. Believing you were a man had me on the defensive. Now I not only need to switch sides to bring the real game into play—I have to jump ship entirely.
I’d be upset if I weren’t looking forward to it.
After snatching my one and only IOU from Tyrone’s grasp, I make my way to Jamie. My steps are extra swaggered, the excitement flaring from her eyes not hidden by her hideous glasses adding to my natural boastfulness. The lamb has been spotted by the wolf, and she knows it.
“Ms. Burgess, Colby McGregor, co-owner of The Drop Zone. I believe we have a meeting?”
Shocked by my sudden pleasant nature, she takes a step back before accepting the hand I’m offering. The situation goes from confronting to straight-up awkward when her hand slips into mine. The condensation fogging her glasses confirms her rising body temperature. I didn’t need the addition of sweaty palms to seal my theory. My face alone has her heating up everywhere. Imagine the controversy when her body is strapped to mine?
