by Poppy Dunne
I’m not sure who the zookeeper’s supposed to be in this metaphor. A higher power? A sleazy private eye who takes pictures of me getting it on with the woman of my dreams? What a perverted zookeeper.
I digress.
Why am I here, at the Central Park Zoo, standing in front of the lions’ pen right after all my ambitions imploded and I left the woman I love in the grimy, smarmy clutches of Brad and Scott McCarthy?
Yeah. Love. I love her, and I left her. Maybe I should climb over the barrier and into the pen, give the lions a fighting shot at eating me. At least someone will get some amusing YouTube video out of it. Maybe it’ll become a meme. That’s all the legacy I have left. I will be Dead, Handsome Lion Guy.
“Don’t do it,” John says, coming up on my right. He’s taking a day from the office as well. Apparently, Daddy gave him quite a verbal spanking last night. “Those lions are going to be pissed when they discover you’re all gristle and cologne.”
“That and a massive dick,” I reply. “Besides, you can’t talk me off this ledge. You’re the one who told me to come here. You know I’m stupid enough to try anything.” I’m attempting not to be mad at John, mainly because he has nothing to be sorry about and I’m the asshole who ruined our lives.
See? I’m trying real hard to be forgiving. I’m a saint that way. John leans on the railing beside me, heaves a sigh.
“Did we come here to try recapturing our childhood?” I ask. “Because if so, we’re going to need a couple of Super Soakers and a healthy dose of emotional abuse.”
“What happened to Tessa? Did she leave with you?” John peers at me over the tops of his glasses.
“Scott’s got us in kind of a hostage situation, you might say.” Squaring my jaw, I imagine throwing him and Brad into the lions’ den. The idea’s way too attractive. “I play nice, or he takes it out on her. He’s got the ammunition to do it, too.”
John whistles low. “How are we related to such bastards?”
“Hey, you’re the one who got stuck with that genetic burden. Only family I know of for sure is my mother’s side, and they’re all probably working the rodeo circuit in Oklahoma somewhere.” According to Scott, my mother came from certified “tornado bait.” But damn, I’d rather hang out with some jackass cowboys than the McCarthys. “Why are we here, John?”
He claps a hand on my shoulder. Please, please just shove me in. Put me out of this misery.
“You can be a real asshole, Rafe.”
“Love you too, man.”
He frowns at me. “But you’re an asshole who inspires a lot of loyalty from a lot of good people. That means something.”
Are we about to hug? Is this the inspirational speech I’ve been looking for? Is this the day we celebrate our Independence Day before getting Will Smith to knock the shit out of some aliens?
“When I said ‘Why are we here,’ I didn’t mean ‘Why do we exist and what is my purpose.’ It was more of a ‘Why are we at the zoo?’ type of query.”
John shrugs. He beams, even. Well, it takes very little to make him happy. “Her kid likes the zoo,” he replies.
“Is this a universal ‘her,’ or what?”
“More of a ‘related to your assistant’ her.” A woman walks up shouldering about three duffel bags, a purse, and wearing a three-year-old boy like a clinging accessory. The kid squeals with delight when he sees John. He even clambers down his mother and latches onto my cousin’s leg.
“Related?” I remember a text from a certain Becca that started this whole mess. “Tessa’s sister?”
“I have a name. Rebecca.” She shakes hands with me. This woman has a grip like a mini python. Seems more of a natural ball-buster than her sister. Until she locks eyes with John; then she gets positively kittenish, while he blushes as red as his hair.
So. My cousin and Tessa’s sister. That’s…complicated. A lot can happen in a week.
“So are the kid and I third and fourth wheels on your date?” I grumble. That’s a dick thing to say, sure. But seeing Tessa’s sister only reminds me of how badly I’ve fucked things up for Tessa. I’m not sure how this woman can stand me, or will be able to stand me once she knows how things have turned out.
“Oh, only Gabriel’s coming along,” Rebecca says. Yeah, I’m probably not the world’s best candidate for a frolic at the zoo right now. She grins, pushing her riot of curls out of her face. “You have work to do getting set for your big holiday party.”
“I’m not exactly in a festive frame of mind,” I reply, then frown. “Wait. How the hell do you know about the party?”
“I got a call from Tessa.” Rebecca steps closer to murmur. “And she has a plan.”
As Rebecca talks and John and I listen intently, I find the first genuine smile of the day cross my lips. I was so deep into brooding and self-hating, it never occurred to me that Tessa would be working to fix things. Even I underestimated that woman, a mistake I will never, ever make again.
Forget the lions. Tessa Snowe’s ready to go in for the kill.
Nineteen
Tessa
This has been the longest week of my life. I’ve had my ass grabbed more times than I can count, my tits fondled by “accident” twice, and I’ve also begged Brad to install grammar software on his computer. One woman cannot be expected to fix all of his horrendous typos. Thirty-three years old, Harvard graduate, and he still hasn’t mastered the distinction between there and their.
He and Scott have really made a concerted effort to turn my life into hell. Late office hours? That’s only the beginning. I’ve had to run every stupid errand ever invented, up to and including booking an elite escort service for Brad, then bumbling around all the lingerie shops in the city in search of crotchless underwear. Yes. That happened to me.
I told him we could order online, but he insisted. Probably because he knew it would make me squirm to have all those saleswomen blink at me and explain that Bloomingdales isn’t that type of store.
So I bit my tongue and performed every meaningless task. I froze whenever Brad pawed me, but didn’t curse or hit him in the nuts. Because I was waiting for the right moment to strike back.
And here it is, the holiday party. One nice thing about this event is I didn’t have to “work late” with a panting Brad. Scott had me show up at his place directly after office hours to help prepare everything. It was a task he personally entrusted me with. “You may have awful taste in men, but you’re reliable” is how he put it. I know I should prefer working with Scott than with Brad—after all, Scott isn’t a sexually frustrated lemming with the attention span of a gnat. He doesn’t keep looking at me like he wants to screw me.
No, he looks at me like I’m an adorable little mouse and he’s a Burmese python. I’m something that’d cost him no effort to swallow.
That’s just what I want him to think. And at least while I help direct the staff and the caterers and finish hanging the decorations—ice-white trimmings on the tree, ice-white wreaths, ice-white everything to match Scott’s ice-cold heart—I get to be distracted from the two assholes I work for.
Scott’s Park Avenue penthouse is massive beyond belief. It has two levels, eight bedrooms, and a personal gym. Twenty-foot-high floor-to-ceiling windows look out onto a snow-softened Central Park. The foyer is tiled with lapis lazuli blue marble, and I’m pretty sure the bathroom sink is made of pure gold. The furnishings are black leather on white carpet, opulent yet tasteful. Every tabletop is made of glass—Scott is a man who likes to see through everything and everyone he possesses, I suppose. I wonder if Rafe grew up here. If so, he probably had to sit upstairs in his room all day, hands folded in his lap so as not to touch anything.
I stare into the silver ball I’m hanging on the tree and find my face’s reflection warped. Pretty much looks how I feel when I think about Rafe now. We haven’t spoken since he left the office last week, but Becca tells me he got my message. She said he’s on board with the plan.
A thrill whispers up my spine at
the prospect of seeing him tonight. It’s not that I can’t carry this off on my own. Since I was a little girl, I’ve had to know how to handle myself. But those few days I spent with Rafe fully exposed the extent of my loneliness. It’s not just that he’s handsome, or brilliant, or devastatingly good in bed—though none of those things hurt. For the first time since I can remember, he made me feel safe.
Which has made this past week feel oh so much worse. Shit, there are tears in my eyes thinking about it. I blink them back…just as a hand firmly clasps my butt.
Here he is. Prince Charming’s way shittier brother.
“I like this dress,” Brad whispers in my ear, his breath disgusting on my neck. Whenever he’s near me, it’s like thousands of bugs are crawling all over my skin. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming at him, or kneeing him hard in the balls. “It makes your ass look fantastic.”
“Thank you, Mr. McCarthy,” I say coolly, putting the finishing touches on the tree. Speaking of finishing touches, I slide out of his reach and head to the side of the room to check on the catering. He slimes after me, hovering near my shoulder. One of the servers, a young woman, glares at Brad and then gives me a commiserating nod.
Girl, same.
“You know, I didn’t get why Rafe was so fucking hot for you.” He leans casually against the bar table, nearly upsetting the wine. What a smoove. “But I see it now.” He says this like I should collapse at his feet out of gratitude for being noticed. “You’re, like, just hot enough, but in an accessible way. Like, you won’t reject a guy immediately.”
“That’s very perceptive, sir.” I notice we have some miniature gourmet cocktail sausages on toasted brioche. It would be so, so easy to make a comparison to what Brad’s probably packing between his legs, and yet I will not. Look at me be an adult.
Brad huffs. Apparently I’m not responding the way he wants, which is probably to puddle onto the floor in a sobbing meltdown. The doorbell rings, indicating that people have started arriving. Which means I’m about to have several possible avenues of escape from Brad “horndog and halitosis” McCarthy.
Except that the plan needs to move forward, and it can’t if I brush him off like some particularly oily lint. Can lint be oily? Do I want to think about this? No.
“Here.” I nab a bottle of bourbon and pour two fingers into a glass. Okay, maybe three. And a half. “Why not have a drink?” I ask as I offer it to Brad. He wrinkles his nose a bit. Aw. Looks like a newly born bullmastiff puppy when he does that.
No, I’m sorry. That’s an insult to puppies everywhere.
“I don’t really do bourbon.”
Okay, Tessa. Time to act a little bit. Fluttering my lashes, I put the glass down. “Oh, I’m sorry, sir. That was always Rafe’s drink. My mistake.” I head for the sweetest white wine on the table. “Was this yours? The Zinfandel?”
Brad growls possessively, and I realize that the difference between Rafe and Brad growling is the difference between a wolf and a Chihuahua.
No, I’m sorry. That’s an insult to Chihuahuas.
“No, I’ll take it. But you’d better have a drink with me,” he says, right in my ear. I have to suppress a shudder as I pour a bit of bourbon and add ice. I’m not a huge hard liquor girl myself, but I need Brad plastered. The drunker, the better. We clink glasses, and I eye him over the rim of my glass as he downs the bourbon and starts a coughing fit. I discreetly pat his back while scanning the room. There, there. Sorry I didn’t put it in your sippy cup, you big, stupid infant.
What I say is, “Would you like another?”
He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. Go on and belch while you’re at it. “No, I’m good.”
“You might need it,” I say softly, and my grip tightens on my own glass. Because cutting his way through the party, sharp as sin in a dark suit with his hair falling rakishly and his eyes glowering, is Rafe. He approaches us, and the desire to run and throw myself into the safety of his arms almost overpowers me. From the way he looks at me as he saunters nearer, I can see that thought isn’t too far from his mind, either. That, and also his ever-present need to squash Brad into a paste, but one thing at a time.
“Oh, fuck.” Brad takes me up on my booze suggestion and pours himself a healthy glass of bourbon. Good, good. Feed your raging ego monster, you nasty little bastard. As Brad drinks his Rafe-shaped troubles away, my former boss arrives.
How is it possible to miss someone this much after only a few days? I have to keep my hands clamped to my sides to avoid reaching out and touching him. A muscle feathers in his jaw as his black gaze drinks me in, absorbing every detail. The cute, tight-fitting and high-collared black cocktail dress? I hoped he’d like it. Keeping my hair loose around my shoulders? I can see, from the tug of his mouth, that he notices and approves.
“How are you?” he asks, unable to keep his voice deepening with need. My chin quivers; after the nightmare of this past week, it’s like I’m drowning and see a lifeboat bobbing around twenty yards ahead of me…but I can’t swim to it. Not without disturbing the sharks.
Or, in Brad’s case, the guppy with a bad attitude.
“I’m—” Before I can get another word out, Brad’s slimy hand circles my waist and pulls me close against him. It’s an obvious power move, and Rafe rises to the bait. His black eyes flash; he seems to grow taller with rage. It’s like the Incredible Hulk is about to break out at the swankiest holiday party known to man. Funny as that image is, it’s also one we need to avoid. As he rounds on Brad—and as the little shithead inadvertently winces—I answer fast. “I’m fine! Everything’s okay.”
I shift in front of Brad a touch, just to remind Rafe that I’m here. It’s all going to be fine, so long as we stick to the plan and he doesn’t end up in jail dressed way too fancy and smelling way too nice. The fire dampens in his eyes a bit, and Brad clings to me like I’m a piece of driftwood in formal dress. One of these things is fine with me.
“The two of you should stay apart tonight, unless you want Dad reneging on the deal.” Brad says “dad” like it should be a gut blow to Rafe. In reality, I think nothing makes him happier than knowing he didn’t come from Scott’s sperm.
Rafe straightens his cuffs, looking like a GQ model and secret government spy while doing it. Even that motion gets me weak. No wonder Brad resents him so bitterly.
“Is there a line of demarcation? Should we set down some masking tape on the floor so I know where to go for a drink?” Rafe’s eyes blaze, and he “lovingly” grips Brad by the back of the neck. “Happy holidays, Bradley.”
Brad’s already red eyes water even more. He shakes himself from Rafe’s grasp. “My assistant and I need to go deal with the guests.”
“She’s helping you remember names?”
Brad merely grunts and has another bourbon. Boy is really packing it away tonight. Rafe and I lock eyes, an unspoken word passing between us: good.
“Here.” I slide my phone from my shoulder bag. Even on low-grade quality iPhone video, Rafe’s still a masterpiece. “Could you say ‘Happy Holidays’ or something? I’m putting together a compilation video of everyone at the party.”
“It’s good that they’ve got you doing the important things,” Rafe mutters. I click record, and he raises an eyebrow. “Happy Holidays, Scott. You malevolent bastard. Bradley, you’re also a dick. May the spirit of the season be with you, and may the New Year bring you a painful diagnosis of lupus.”
“That was…very you.” I slip the phone back into my purse as Brad stumbles into me and hangs on to my shoulder. He’s panting now with too much alcohol, his eyes bloodshot. He even tugs a finger under his collar. Wow, he can’t hold his liquor at all. Color me shocked.
“C’mon. I wanna go mingle,” he says, his hands smearing down my body to land on my hips. Rafe gives a hissed intake of breath, but I hold up my hand. That’s all that keeps him from throwing Brad into the punch bowl right now.
“You’d better say hi to Scott,” I murmur, and lead Brad aw
ay from his brother. While Rafe deals with the family patriarch, I’ve got to put the next phase of our plan into action.
Because if this doesn’t work, I’ll be stuck with Scott and Brad McCarthy forever.
Twenty
Rafe
It takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to clobber Brad while he slimes himself all over Tessa. Even knowing she can look after herself, I want her away from him. But I have to give her time to work, like her sister said. I’ve got to be ready to make my entrance when she needs me to, but that’s not now. Timing, folks. It’s everything.
Unfortunately, I am not great about running on time. I’ve made a bad habit of it for years at this point.
Dammit. I watch Tessa pass through the crowd, looking fantastic and incredibly fuckable in that tight little dress. Then I close my eyes, and will myself to think about something else. With any luck, it won’t be long before we’re alone together and I’m peeling that dress off of her.
First, though, it’s the final boss level. I need to find Scott.
“Rafe,” a woman with a thick Slavic accent says right beside me. Svetlana Morokovna wobbles on her stilettos, beaming at me while holding up her blinged-out purse. It’s shaped like a…
“Potato.” I shake my head. “You really don’t waste any time, do you?”
“All thanks to your incredible suggestion.” She nods sagely. “Still does not work properly when you put in oven, but with some adjustment—”
“I’d love to catch up, but I have to go talk to the most evil man on the planet. Have some vodka. It’s made from potatoes, you know.”