Bad Reputation

by JC Harroway

  He nods, resting his head back on his hands so all his delicious bronzed chest is on display and his arm muscles flex, distracting me from mounting sufficient outrage. ‘To think I used to feel intimidated by them. If only I’d known they weren’t taking care of you properly.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ I vent my frustration. He’s making me all kinds of hot and bothered. Turned on, then annoyed and then overjoyed... We’re not supposed to be discussing this morning. It’s hard enough to forget when he’s stretched out semi-naked, calling to me like a feast catered to my specific needs. When I can still smell his scent on my skin, can still recall the taste of those lips and the commanding scrape of his sexy voice.

  I scoff. ‘You design outrageously clever software for a living that I don’t even try to understand. Your tech company is worth billions, and no doubt the current negotiations with one of the world’s largest telecommunications giants will make you insufferably wealthy. Why would you be intimidated by anyone?’

  I stare into his beautiful eyes, see the doubt that lurks there whenever Oliver talks about his father, whom he’s christened the world’s crappiest role model. Kids, even teenagers, shouldn’t have to drive their parent to rehab or attend their string of celebrity weddings. It’s a miracle—one Oliver often incorrectly attributes to me—that he isn’t an alcoholic junkie himself, although he’s often wondered if he’s something of a sex addict.

  But I can guess the answer. His success is due to how hard he pushes himself, almost as if he’s outrunning both the reputation of the Oliver I first met and the reputation of his outlandish, rock-and-roll father as well as the frequent comparisons made by those who don’t know the real him, especially the media.

  One of the hardest things to do during the early days of our friendship, while our competitive natures bonded over pool tournaments and university maths club, was to watch him sabotage himself time after time with bad decisions—partying, skipping lectures and frequent one-night stands—which only seemed to increase the hollow look in his eyes.

  ‘The Kimoto deal has reached a delicate stage,’ he says about the Japanese telecommunications corporation, displaying an uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability that I haven’t seen in a long time. This business deal means a lot to him.

  I soften my tone, probing. ‘This is the artificial intelligence software you launched?’ I ask, in no way pretending to know what he does for a living. His company has so many irons in the fire, it’s hard to keep up. If it’s cutting edge, Oliver and the geniuses he recruits to his company are all over it.

  ‘Yes. Kimoto is passionate about robotics. They want my AI software, but they’re haggling over the small print.’ He takes a swig of beer. ‘Anyway, I’m not intimidated by your exes anymore. Although a couple of them did their best to remind me how my family skeletons and past reputation made me unworthy of your friendship.’ He looks away, focussed on the horizon. ‘And, while they may not have taken care of you between the sheets, at least they didn’t taint you, expose you to their embarrassing, media whore of a father and all the baggage he attracts.’

  My heart clenches for him. He’s referring to articles written about his misspent youth, painting him as the philandering, layabout son of rock royalty, a chip off the old block, which I know he despises. Try as he might, despite his self-made billionaire status or his business success, he feels he can’t shake his past. Or comparisons with his father.

  ‘I’ve never met your father,’ I say, my voice tentative, because I know this is his weak spot, the only part of his life where he seems to doubt himself and his intuitive instincts.

  As a teenager, growing up on two continents, shipped back and forth between his acrimoniously divorced parents—his father in LA and his mother in London—he struggled with his identity, which was defined by celebrity gossip mongers before he had a chance to develop his own sense of worth. In the shadow of an extroverted, outrageous and perpetually adolescent father, and an embittered mother who’d been passed on for numerous younger models over the years, it’s no wonder the Oliver I first met had hang-ups of massive proportions.

  ‘Too right, and you’re the better for it, trust me. He’d probably try to marry you or something. No wonder Kimoto Corp are cautious about doing business with me.’ He snorts, but there’s no humour in the sound. There’s a tension in his body, one that regularly accompanies any mention of his father.

  ‘He’s already married,’ I say about his famous father, a larger-than-life character who grew up in South London before hitting the big time as part of an eighties rock band. ‘And I’m sure the business community sees what you’ve achieved, not who you’re related to.’

  Of course, he could simply have embraced the role of LA layabout, living off his trust fund, but he had too much pride and integrity for that, determination he’d channelled into a global success. Just as numbers and balancing accounting records keeps me grounded, nerdy tech-wizardry fuels Oliver’s sense of worth. Despite him looking like the archetypal beach bum layabout the press would have the world believe.

  ‘Anyway, I thought we were discussing this morning,’ I say as a distraction.

  ‘We are, but being friends with me isn’t easy,’ he says. ‘You were accosted by some journo sniffing out a story at that Christmas gala last year. And I’ve lost track of how many times you’ve had your picture splashed over the gossip rags in some speculative bullshit story about us every time you’re single. It’s as if they can’t believe I could attract a friend of your calibre.’

  He’s agitated. I want to comfort him, as I normally would on this subject, but touching him more than absolutely necessary could overwhelm my already strung out body.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it was like for you to grow up in the public eye. To have everything you do scrutinised and gossiped over.’ No wonder his sense of privacy is fierce—he’s the exact opposite of his father, who seems to court the attention, good and bad.

  ‘I’m grateful to your exes, actually,’ he says, his mouth a grim line. ‘At least they protected you from the stories that tried to paint you as pitiful and in love with me, something I failed to do.’

  My heart stops beating. Because, while I too hate the mocking tone of those stories, I fear the world will see that they carry a grain of truth; part of me was, is, a little bit in love with him.

  As his plus-one, I’m the woman most often and consistently photographed with him, often dubbed the desperate off-again, on-again girlfriend. Exactly the thing I’m anxious to avoid, now we’ve crossed the line of physical intimacy.

  ‘I don’t care about the gossip sites. We know what we are to each other—just friends.’

  Or at least we were, before today. Have I become what the world sees? A woman clearly besotted, content to wait in the wings for my chance with him while he takes his time deciding if he’s ready to commit?

  Have I subconsciously followed him around for the nine years it took him to notice me? Yes, I chose friendship over a relationship, but was part of me too scared back then to force his hand and make him choose, knowing he wasn’t ready for a relationship?

  ‘Have we ruined it? Us?’ I ask, my voice barely a terrified whisper. I don’t want him to choose any more than I want to make that decision. I want us to have both, just a while longer. Because I crossed the line with my eyes wide open, knowing that, one way or another, things would be different.

  But I need to know.

  Oliver jack-knifes into a sitting position, swinging his legs over the edge of the lounger to face me. ‘No. Don’t say that. We’re fine.’ The same panic gripping me seems to flash in his eyes. ‘You know your friendship is the only good thing in my life beside my work—I’d never jeopardise that. Ever. I know I broke the “talking about it” rule, but I’d never break the first rule.’

  I warm at his words of reassurance then break out in shivers. ‘But—’

  ‘No
. There is no but.’ He scoots to the edge of the lounger so he can reach across and grab my hand. ‘I need you. You know all my family bullshit. You understand me like no one else—see things in me no one else sees. You’ve never once made me feel like I have to be something I’m not or prove myself. You’ve got my back and I’ve got yours.’

  I shiver at the vulnerability of his pleading expression, struck dumb by my outpouring of feelings for this man.

  ‘Perhaps I was just jealous of your exes,’ he says. ‘Jealous that they could give you something I can’t. Anonymity, normality and protection.’

  His fingers squeeze mine so hard I press my lips together to hide a wince.

  ‘Well, there’s no need to envy them.’ I point out. ‘I dumped them for a reason.’

  He shrugs. ‘It just didn’t work out. Now I know about the sex, I’m not surprised.’

  I hedge, reluctant to continue down the heavy turn this conversation has taken. ‘But the predominant reason for me was the disparity in our investment in the relationship. A woman likes to feel adored. To never have to doubt that she’s the number one priority, not just convenient.’

  He stares, silent, his eyes burning my skin. Why am I telling him this? He’s not interested in relationships. He doesn’t need the pointers. He has as much success with the ladies as he wants.

  ‘Promise me again,’ he says, throwing me off my guard. ‘Promise me that you won’t let what happened this morning change anything.’ He punctuates his words with tiny tugs on my hand. ‘Because I’m not sorry it happened, but I’ll always need you in my life. You’ll always be my best friend.’

  The words stick in my narrowed throat, because our relationship has already changed. Almost beyond recognition. Yesterday morning I wanted him in an abstract, imaginative way. Today I want him with a fire hot enough to turn the sand under us to glass, even though I should be sated, satisfied and heeding the warning signs flashing before my face.

  ‘I promise,’ I whisper.

  What else can I do? We crossed the line. I had my orgasms. It’s time to be mature and remember everything else we’ve meant to each other all this time. Support, laughter, someone who just gets us.

  As a friend, I know I hold the number one spot in Oliver’s life, which is why he always wants me around when he has a social event like his cousin’s wedding. He’s loyal and thoughtful, always on hand when I need advice or a shoulder on which to cry, even if it’s in the middle of the night. Despite his busy schedule, I know he’d drop everything for me if I asked. And he’s my biggest fan, as I’m his, championing my endeavours, celebrating my successes and reining in my insecurities when they surface.

  ‘Besides, no one else would put up with you, so I’m kind of trapped,’ I say to lighten the mood, grateful for his familiar grin, which tells me we’ll be okay.

  Just then the engine of one of the many sea planes that ferries tourists around the atolls snatches our attention. The small sixteen-seater aircraft comes in low, landing in the sea at the far end of the island.

  ‘New holiday makers arriving,’ I say, because I want to return some semblance of normality to our conversation, one that seems to have left us both exposed and raw.

  Oliver’s hand tenses around mine. He looks past me, squinting, as if trying to spy the passengers disembarking the plane onto the small wooden jetty down the beach. Then he stands abruptly, dropping my hand.

  ‘Fucking fantastic. I’ll see you at dinner,’ he mutters, sliding his sunglasses onto his face and heading in the direction of the plane.

  ‘Wait, Oliver,’ I call after him, but he’s already striding away, his back rigid.

  I look past his stiff frame, trying to focus on the people some distance away cluttering up the tiny jetty, spying a group of four or five bodies. One’s taller than the rest, his body language more exuberant.

  When combined with Oliver’s emotional shutdown and abrupt departure, it can mean only one thing.

  His father has come to paradise.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Oliver

  WHEN I STAMP into the restaurant thirty minutes late, thanks to some emails from my legal team that required urgent attention, Neve is already seated between two of my cousins. Two of my male cousins.

  A bonfire builds in my chest. I’m jealous? Comparing myself to her exes wasn’t such a brilliant idea on my part. Yes, I’d given her the orgasms they’d failed to, but that’s where the benefits for her end. Because I also crossed the line, selfishly putting her and our friendship at risk. And no amount of damage limitation, now that Slay is in town for his niece’s wedding, will make me feel any better. Because now I’ll be obliged to introduce them. Fucking disaster waiting to happen. Disaster follows Slay wherever he goes.

  I breathe through the red fog clouding my vision. In some ways, the jealousy is a welcome distraction from the usual shit show that accompanies my father. A shit show I’d spent the rest of the afternoon trying to minimise, because it would be just like Slay to rock up with the media and outshine the bride, probably dragging me in too and jeopardising my deal with Kimoto.

  Nausea threatens. What if Neve sees how similar we really are? What if she learns about my past indiscretion and despises me for my immature weakness? What if she finally sees through me and decides I’m not good enough?

  I can’t lose her. She saved me nine years ago. Her sense of humour and her take-no-bullshit attitude were exactly what I needed to pull my head out of my arse and take myself seriously. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably have dropped out of uni and become more like my old man than I already am.

  I shudder.

  And now, when I’m on the cusp of a deal that will cement my company’s position as a serious player in the international tech world, I need her grounding influence and belief in me more than ever.

  Enter Slay and his impeccable timing.

  Fuck!

  Neve looks up and catches my eye. She’s glowing, beautiful, despite her concerned expression. Her hair’s piled on her head in some sort of casual up-do, her red dress making her fair skin radiant. She’s always looked great in dresses and red is definitely her colour.

  I want to whisk her out of here, hide her away from Slay—I messaged her the news of his arrival—because having my father here so close to Neve, when I’ve managed to keep him well away for years, makes me feel as powerless and gullible as I did at nineteen.

  Because Neve is part of my real life. Nothing to do with my life growing up in LA. A life of excess and parties. A life of fake, superficial popularity with my peers. A life devoid of the male role model and the consistency a teenage boy needs in order to find his place in the world. At least I’d been smart enough to use school as an outlet. My scholarship to a London university enabled me to break free of any financial dependence on Slay.

  I should never have invited Neve to this family wedding when there was a risk Slay might attend. Perhaps I should have stayed away myself, given the current delicateness of the Kimoto deal. The last thing I need is negative press.

  I sigh and cast my gaze down the length of the table, looking for my seat, which is at the opposite end from Neve and my cousins.

  Mike, the cousin to her left, is newly divorced. His round lawyer’s face flushes with excitement as he laughs at something Neve has just said.

  Bastard.

  Rob, the cousin to her right and five years her junior, waits impatiently for his turn for her attention, his fingers tapping the table.

  Why didn’t I organise a private dinner for two? And how long will I have to tolerate this evening before I can get her alone? Then again, if the old man does plan to make a grand entrance, I want her as far away from me as possible. Perhaps she’ll slip under his radar—not that he’s ever overlooked a beautiful woman, regardless of whether he’s married or single.

  I take my seat between the bride, my cousin Shelley, a
nd her maid of honour, who I met for the first time this morning. I smile, desperately trying to recall her name, and then sag with gratitude for my cousin, who had the foresight to arrange place settings. Of course, that means she deliberately sandwiched Neve in between the only two other single men here...

  Shit, I’m a mess. A mess I created the minute I lifted the shutters from my eyes and allowed myself to truly look at Neve. To admit long-buried desires. I should never have touched her, but can I stop now I’ve indulged? Because, despite the rules she needed and the risks involved, I want more. I swallow hard. I don’t think I’ll ever get enough.

  After my brief interaction earlier with my father and stepmum number five, and the threat that they could turn up any second, my appetite is non-existent. I grab a waiter, order a bottle of beer and make trivial conversation with Shelley, an attempt to distract me from my fury.

  Why is Slay here? It won’t just be to celebrate his niece’s nuptials. My father rarely does anything that doesn’t also further his career somehow. But I’m out of the loop. Despite never quite achieving the former heights of his glory days, he’s always tried to stay relevant. Perhaps he’s promoting a tour, or a new album. God forbid it’s a tacky reality TV show... It would be just like him to rock up partway through the meal and buy everyone at the bar a drink—maximum impact set to ensure he, and only he, is the centre of attention. I wouldn’t put it past him or a member of his entourage to have invited the press here so he can upstage the bride and groom and feature on every celebrity gossip site by midnight.

  I glance at Neve, trying to catch her eye again, inadvertently landing myself in conversation with Amelia, the maid of honour, who punctuates nearly every sentence she speaks by touching my arm. Unlike Neve, who’d never heard of my famous father when I first met her all those years ago, Amelia clearly thinks she already knows everything about me and my rock star parent. She fires question after question about what it was like to grow up in the LA scene, which famous people have I met and do I know if my father is coming to the wedding?