by Elise Faber
Bitch
Elise Faber
BITCH
BY ELISE FABER
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious in every regard. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation.
BITCH
Copyright © 2020 Elise Faber
Print ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-54-8
Ebook ISBN-13: 978-1-946140-53-1
Cover Art by Jena Brignola
Chauvinist Stories
Bitch
Cougar
Whore
Contents
Chauvinist Stories
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Epilogue
Epilogue
Cougar
Chauvinist Stories
Also by Elise Faber
About the Author
One
Olivia
“You can choose to prepare the files exactly as I’ve asked for them,” I said, “or you can get the hell out of my office, get your shit off my desk, leave my building, and not come back.”
My assistant, a burly six-foot-plus former athlete who’d decided to try his hand at managing instead of playing, glared at me. “I don’t think your system—”
I sighed and tossed the file in the trash. “All due respect, Lane, it’s not your job to think. I’m the VP because I know what I’m doing—”
“But—”
I stood, started to round my desk. “Moreover, this is the third time we’ve had this same conversation, and the previous two times I welcomed you to approach with changes you thought would benefit the company, but I also explained that I expected you to do so after you did things my way.” I sighed. “You’re fucking with my job. You’re handcuffing me when we should be a team.”
“You say team,” he muttered. “But you don’t let me have a voice.”
“Did your coach let you have a voice when he was telling you to get on or off the ice?”
Lane’s jaw worked. “He let us have input on plays.”
“Yeah,” I said. “And I’m still waiting to see writeups of those new, great ideas you have for plays here at Prestige.”
He scowled. “I don’t have time. The job is—”
“A lot.” I crossed my arms, staring down at the peephole in my black pumps. “But also that’s the job you signed up for.”
I was unapologetically obsessed with my work, which meant I paid attention. It also meant I knew my assistant never got in before nine-thirty, never stayed past four, and always took at least an hour lunch break. Personally, I couldn't give two shits about his exact hours or how long it took him to eat his salad. All I cared about was the job.
Simple as that.
Do as I ask, and we didn’t have problems.
Question, and while it was slightly annoying—I wasn’t without ego. But I could put that ego aside and suck it up if it bettered the job.
Because I loved my job.
Repeat, I loved my fucking job.
And this lunatic had it in his head from day one that he knew better.
Look, I wasn’t a total ass. I knew he could do some things better than me. Take a slapshot for one, skate around in that bulky hockey gear for another. I could finagle a puck near a goal without landing on my ass. But while he may know the sport of hockey, Lane didn’t know the first thing about managing hockey players.
“The job is too much.”
I sighed and glanced back up. “Lane, I’ve been patient here. I know you aren’t used to a nine-to-five, but I’m going to have to let you go if this persists. This cannot happen again. As it is, I’ll be writing you up and speaking to Devon.” I uncrossed my arms. “Now, please, get me the file the way I asked for it.”
His shoulders were tense, his jaw like granite, but eventually Lane nodded and turned to leave, muttering something on the way out.
Since I wasn’t stupid enough to think it was a positive comment on my abilities, I ignored it and turned back to my desk. Thanks to Lane’s fuck-up, I was going to have to work late, which meant that I might as well get through some shit that was a lower priority.
The cold voice hit my spine before I made it to my chair.
“What did you say?”
Cole McTavish.
A tall hunk of a former hockey player, all muscled thighs and towering height, with a face that would have been classified as beautiful if not for the several-times-broken nose, the jagged scar along his jaw, and the small, smooth one bisecting his left eyebrow.
Further that, he was about as opposite from me as anyone I’d ever met.
Relaxed, always ready with an easy smile, Cole never raised his voice—at least off the ice. On it, he’d been a terror, a virtually unstoppable force who’d fought when needed and didn’t back down from protecting a teammate.
I’d also been his agent while he was playing.
After he’d retired, I’d transitioned him over to Devon, who’d helped him refine his brand for post-playing opportunities. Now, he was the face for a few hockey companies and one well-known corporation that sold watches. Though, to my and the rest of the female populace’s dismay, he’d turned down the swimwear ads.
I’d been with him in the locker room enough to know what was under those flannel shirts and jeans.
It was definitely billboard worthy.
Lane started to push by him, but Cole grabbed his shoulder and stepped into my office, forcing Lane back.
Devon Scott trailed them in, a stormy expression on his face.
I glanced at my boss and shook my head, silently telling him I’d already handled it, but Dev shook his head firmly back at me. Which was when I realized that what Lane had said must have been worse than I’d thought. Normally, Devon would never get involved in an argument between my employees and myself unless I asked him to.
Which I didn’t.
Since I handled my own shit.
“Tell her what you said.”
My gaze flashed to Cole and his darkened face. “It’s—”
Emerald eyes locked onto mine, sparking fire. “Tell her,” he said, and Lane must have realized exactly how deep of a pile of shit he’d dived into because when I broke Cole’s stare to glance at my assistant, his face had gone pale.
I rested my hip against my desk. “I don’t need to hear it. Lane, get the file.”
Devon crossed his arms. “Tell her,” he said. “If you’re man enough to mutter it under your breath, you’re man enough to say it aloud.”
Lane shook off Cole and spun to face me. “Fine,” he snapped. “I said that you’re such a fucking bitch.”
My lips curved and I huffed. “Okay, great, thanks. Now, back to work.”
Lane’s jaw fell open.
A curl of amusement crept onto Dev’s face.
Cole appeared even more infuriated.
Lane somehow went paler. �
�Wh-what?”
“I’ve got a ton of work,” I told him, “and you say bitch like it’s a bad thing.” I transferred my gaze to Cole and Dev. “All of you are acting like it’s the worst insult in the world.” I laughed. “Believe me, I’ve been called worse.”
“It’s unacceptable,” Dev said, and I loved the guy for it.
But this was also the way of the world.
Most men despised strong women. We were told to smile or look happy or be fine with the scraps they tossed our way. If I’d had an issue with men calling me a bitch, I would have quit this male-dominated field ten years ago when I’d been a lowly assistant like Lane and my boss had been a lot worse than a bitch.
But I hadn’t.
I’d put my head down, got my shit done.
And I’d learned to not give two craps when a man thought I was a bitch.
Because it had become my anthem.
When I negotiated my client to have equivalent perks in their contract, I was a bitch.
When I demanded a different client have access to the same off-season training as the rest of the team, I was a bitch.
When I secured a bonus that was similar to the rest of the big names on the roster, I was a bitch.
So, fine.
I was a bitch.
Great. Congrats. Moving on.
I turned my eyes back to Lane, who seemed to have shrunk two feet in the last thirty seconds. “I am a bitch,” I said. “But I’m a bitch who gets her shit done. However, I’m also one who has no qualms about firing you, so it’s time for you to get with the program or get the hell out.” I lifted a brow. “You’re replaceable, Lane. I want to make it so you’re not, but you’ve got to work with me. If you don’t . . .”
I purposely let the sentence trail for a few seconds then glanced at my watch.
“If you don’t get me the Conner file by five, don’t bother showing up tomorrow.”
His eyes found mine again, and I honestly wasn’t sure which way the tide would flow with that one. Ten-to-one he’d be gone in the morning.
Sighing, I gestured to the chairs in front of my desk as Lane left, thankfully cowed enough that he actually remembered to close the office door behind him. “I miss Becca,” I told Dev.
Becca was his wife, who was currently on maternity leave. She’d become my assistant when she’d gotten together with Devon because HR rules applied even to executives.
“Not sure she’ll come back,” Dev told me. “She’s really happy.”
That didn’t surprise me, nor did it disappoint, aside from the fact that Becca was one hell of a righthand woman. Motherhood fit for Becca. And while I wasn’t the type of woman to stay home with kids and manage the day-to-day lives of a family, that also didn’t mean I had any less respect for anyone who chose to do so. Hell, I had more respect for those making that choice in some ways because the job was hard, the hours never-ending, and I believed that women should have the option to do what made them happy.
Maybe that made me a bitch, too.
“Well, I’m not going to say that’s fine,” I grumbled. “But tell her she’s still required to have lunch with me once or twice a month.”
Dev’s lips twitched, but he nodded. “You just want to see Jasper.”
“The kid’s growing like a weed,” I said, not denying it.
Dev had been on paternity leave for the last six weeks but had come into the office enough for me to appreciate all the cuteness of baby Jasper.
“Not surprising with a behemoth of a father like you.”
“I’m proportional,” Dev said, having heard that particular statement from me more than once, and settled into the chair. Cole followed suit, and I knew this meant the catching-up time had ended, and it was down to business. “Cole and I wanted to get your thoughts on a few opportunities, if you have time.”
I smirked. “If I didn’t have time, your butts wouldn’t be in my chairs.”
Cole chuckled and I watched as the fire left his expression.
Then couldn’t decide if I were disappointed or relieved.
He crossed one leg over the other, jeans tightening over his thighs . . . no his bulge, they were tight over his bulge. Act professional. That’s right, I needed to keep things professional, just like I had over the eight years he’d been my client. Cole was sexy, but he wasn’t for me. He was good and kind and he lived on a ranch for half the year. I was barbed and closed off and wished Louboutin had a credit card.
Devon pulled out his cell, tapped the screen a few times, then began reading off terms of a contract for a car brand.
I glanced at Cole, eyes wide. “Holy shit, this is a big deal.”
He shrugged, as was his way.
“Terms are shit,” Dev said and kept reading, highlighting some truly shitty terms. “Cole doesn’t really need the money, so it isn’t like he’s jumping to do these commercials,” he said when he was done. “But this is a pretty big deal for a hockey player.”
Dev was right. Especially in the States, these types of offers went to football or baseball players. Hockey just wasn’t as popular. But understanding that it was growing and thus pulling in someone who had a face like Cole’s along with a reputation for charity and hard work that made him known to people even outside of the industry, was a no brainer.
That they made the offer at all showed he had some power here.
Not a ton, but at least a smidge—and smidge specifically because I only used technical terms in my office. Ha.
“Do you want to do it?” I braced then allowed myself to look into Cole’s eyes.
“For that amount of money?” He nodded at Dev’s cell. “No. It’s not enough to get me away from my horses.” He sighed. “But I respect Dev’s opinion—and yours, for that matter. If you guys think it’s a good idea, I’ll do it.”
“Hmm.”
I sat back and slipped off my fabulous red-soled shoes. Expensive or not, they weren’t great for curling up in my fancy chair and pondering contract terms. Luckily, I was used to this being my best thinking position and so I wore wide-legged trousers that gave me maneuverability.
Didn’t all women factor that into their clothing choices?
Pockets. Maneuverability. Full-sized pockets—worth mentioning separately because most of the time, the fucking pockets in women’s clothing couldn’t fit a penny, let alone a cell phone.
But I digressed.
Though my digressing in this case had the mutual benefit of sparking an idea.
“How about for charity?”
Dev had been in the middle of reading the terms for print and online ads but at my question, he stopped, a smile turning up the edges of his mouth. “Oh, that’s good.”
Cole glanced between the two of them. “What’s good?”
“The money’s shit, but we don’t have a ton of negotiating power here because this isn’t a normal offer for a hockey player, and even though the money isn’t great, the exposure is enough they could find someone pretty easily.” Dev pocketed his phone. “But you don’t really care about either money or exposure because you’re fine with passing on the offer. The one thing you do care about, however, is the youth ranch, and if we bounce back saying the payment is going strictly to charity then we can bump up the payout, and they’ll be more inclined to do so because they win two ways—it’s a write off for taxes and they get to look like the good guys because they’re partnering with a charity for underprivileged kids.”
Cole froze, face blank, but I knew he was thinking, considering all the various ways this could play out. It was how he’d been on the ice, how he’d been with saving and investing and taking jobs during his playing career.
Then he spoke.
“How much do you think they’ll donate?”
I named a figure.
He smiled.
And just like every other time he unleashed that fucking incredible flash of teeth and lips on me, I got wet.
Two
Cole
“Great, I’ll get
those terms written up and sent over,” Dev said and pushed to his feet.
I rose as well, shook his hand. “Gonna head back to the ranch. Call me if anything changes?”
“Yup.” Dev nodded and Cole turned to thank Olivia, who was still curled up in her chair. I’d seen her in the same position many times over the years, always beautiful, always still as a statue. She wasn’t a woman who wasted—time or movements or words. Though wasting money on those stupidly expensive shoes she wore was another thing altogether.
“Thanks, Viv,” Dev called and left.
I turned back to the beautiful woman—inside and out despite the thorny, tough-as-nails exterior she liked to throw up between herself and the rest of the world. “I second my thanks, Olivia.”
She threw me a businesslike, albeit distracted smile.
Already onto the next project, the next client then.
That stung a bit, just as it always had.
How was she able to make me feel like the only person in her life she gave a damn about, then it was done, and she was moving on to making her next client feel the same exact way?
Business. That was all it was.
Even if it felt like more.
“No problem,” she said and picked up a file from her desk, eyes going to the papers inside. “Let me know if I can help further with it.”
Dismissed.
Yeah, that was a familiar feeling.
“You ever feel like seeing the outside of this office,” I said, heading for the door. “My barn door is always open.”
“Cole?” She smiled over the papers. “That’s never going to happen.”
