by Cora Kenborn
Unfaithful from her acrylic toenails to her platinum dyed roots, Mrs. Winston Hammerle is the walking, talking embodiment of a Stepford Wife. According to Lollie, her favorite recreational activity is pole vaulting from one available cock to the next in between her husband’s European business trips. Refusing to grow old gracefully, she appears to believe the fountain of youth comes directly from the tip of a twenty-year-old dick. Lollie lost count of all the boy toys she’d caught pulling out of the estate in the early mornings, sporting fresh scratches all over their necks.
“It seems you have issues managing both, darling.”
Lollie shoots an arm out as I step forward, a warning in her eyes. With my mouth opening and closing like a fish, I push against her, inherently knowing my bank account and future need me to shut my mouth while my pride wants to force-feed her butterfly carcasses until she chokes.
I’ve lost my mind. It’s the only logical explanation I can come up with for still being on her payroll. No, there’s more to it than that. Mrs. Hammerle has connections at Tate & Cane Enterprises. She’d invested a couple million into the business and in return has the ears of executives. I need those ears, so I take her bullshit.
“You just have issues,” I mumble under my breath.
Okay, I take it starting…now.
Lollie just shakes her head as I shoot her an apologetic grin. “Grab your things, Preston,” I call out. Reminding myself of the brass ring dangling at the end of this merry-go-round, I stuff down the natural instinct to tell her to shove this job straight up her ass.
Ushering him out the door, I mumble a half-hearted goodbye to Lollie and get us both the hell out of there. The entire trip to Central Park, I repeat the mantra I’d come to survive by when dealing with that woman. If I want something bad enough, I can deal with just about anything to get it. Determination and success walk hand in hand with self-control.
I want an internship with Tate & Cane Enterprises.
Lady Hammerle is my ticket through the door whether I like it or not.
The ends justify the means, and anything that happens in between is just a necessary casualty of war. All’s fair in business and getting ahead.
Does that sound harsh? Probably, but don’t blame me. I don’t make the rules.
But I’ll damn sure play by them.
***
Ten months, one week, eight hours, twenty-one minutes, and seventeen seconds since I’ve had sex.
Not that I’ve kept track or anything.
Holy shit, has it almost been a year? No, that can’t be right. Closing my eyes, I try hard to think back to the last time my vag saw any kind of action that wasn’t battery operated. His name was Kurt…or was it Kyle? Hell, maybe it was Kurt Kyle, I have no idea. All I can remember about him is that he stuck his fingers inside me as if he were mining for gold and used phrases like “giddyup” and “boink.” I don’t care who you are, you can’t respect a guy who growls that he’s going to boink the fuck out of you.
But this guy? I’ll bet money he’s never said the word boink in his life. I’ll bet my life savings—which currently stands at about one hundred thirty-two dollars and sixty-eight cents—that his bedroom dirty talk would make my eyes roll back into my head.
He sits about twenty feet away from me at the western corner of Heckscher Playground, his chocolate brown hair sticking up every which way and dusting carelessly over his ears. A sexy as hell beard fills in his cheeks and skims his chin, giving off a clear rebel with a few worthy causes look. I usually go for the darker, brooding types, but something about the way the sunlight reflects off the strands makes him seem like a breath of fresh air.
That has to be the corniest thought I’ve ever had, because I honestly gag a little.
However, gagging doesn’t stop me from forgetting all about cramming for my business law exam and concentrating more on the way his hunter green t-shirt clings to the muscles in his chest and strains against well-defined biceps.
He’s alone, which is a bonus. Trust me, I’ve watched him long enough to make the assumption. He also has a habit of licking his bottom lip, then biting down on his tongue when he stares at something. I wonder what it would be like to kiss him? I bet he’s a good kisser. Men who absentmindedly play with their lips and tongue usually know how to use them in other ways. The whole package is delicious and almost makes me ignore the fact that he’s holding a camera and taking pictures of little kids.
Oh. Well. Ew.
Perfect, pretty, and pervy. Two out of three don’t win the race, sorry, dude.
“Whatcha doing?” Knocked out of my lusty trance, my face flames as I refocus on my entire reason for being in Central Park in the first place. Preston wrinkles up his red nose and sniffles as he pushes his falling glasses back up with a crooked finger. Springtime in the city is murder on a kid allergic to everything but sleep and water. With glassy, watery eyes, the poor kid looks like he’s gone a couple rounds with a joint and lost.
“Studying,” I answer with a groan.
He cocks his head and sneezes. “About bugs? I can help.”
“Bless you.” He looks so serious, I can’t help but ruffle his perfectly gelled hair. “Thanks for the offer, but this is more like statistics and due diligence laws.”
He seems to mull it over in his head. “A roach can live nine days without a head,” he says after a long pause. “Did you know that?”
“Nope,” I say, unable to hold the laughter in. He stares at me, blinking rapidly as if I’m a complete moron. “I wasn’t aware, but I’ll keep that in mind for my next beheading. Thanks, Pres.”
His answering grin forces one of my own right before he sneezes again, spraying snot all over my textbook. “Laken, can I go play on the slide?”
I nod, feeling a smile stretch across my lips. “Stay where I can see you. I don’t want you getting so popular that all the other kids fight over you.” I give him a wink and he rewards me with a wider smile.
“You’re so silly.” Giggling, he bounds off happily in search of his next big adventure.
Returning to the exam I’m destined to fail, ensuring my future as Lady Hammerle’s foot soldier, I push tall, hot, and twisted out of my mind. My stomach churns as I remember the balled-up rejection letter, causing me to grip my pencil so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t snap. My life may be on constant derail, but I still have a 4.0 GPA going for me. It’s not much to hold on to, but if I play my cards right, and stay on track, I could live out my days as the smartest, most frigid Waffle House waitress to ever flip a pancake.
I continue berating myself well into the third chapter of my text book when five solid years of my life are cut short. The minute that Preston’s congested cries for help hit my ears, I fling my pencil across the grass in a panic and scan the playground for his preppy vest and tailored khaki pants.
Because God forbid the kid is caught dead in a pair of shorts.
The moment I see him on the ground, my mouth drops open, and I take off in a full sprint toward the playground like my ass is on fire, swearing the whole time. Preston lay on his back in the sand, his glasses twisted and bent, fending off punches from another kid who’s straddling him. It’s like a scene from The Sandlot meets Orange Is the New Black as a group of elementary school kids crowd around them chanting and egging it on.
“Preston!” In a blind panic, I grab the bully’s wrist and pull him off Preston’s waist while the kid still swings in the air like some tiny version of Rocky.
Hurried footsteps crowd in from behind. “Get your hands off my daughter!” A defined, tanned arm snakes in from the side, scoops the brawler out of my grasp, and runs an attached hand down the boy’s pigtail braid.
Oh, yum. Pervy guy has a hot accent. Scottish? Irish? Hell, he could be from Mars for all I care. So long as he kept—
Wait. Backup—daughter?
Unable to process what happened, I loosen my hold and step back, forcing my mind to focus on his words and not his delicious accent. “Your what?�
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Pervy, hot accent guy with the camera hugs the bully kid to his chest, raising his eyebrows as if I’d just asked him to smell the number nine. “My daughter. Are you finished manhandling my kid, for Christ’s sake?” His last words trail off as he brushes a hand over her cheek. “Sophie, are you all right?”
Fun fact for anyone paying attention. With me, mad equals verbal. Things fly out of my mouth with wild abandon that should probably stay tucked behind my lips. “Of course she’s all right,” I yell a little too loud. “She was beating Preston like a street thug.”
Quirking his mouth, he gestures to her as if to imply I’m the stupidest being to ever breathe air. “Maybe you missed the fact she’s a girl.”
“Maybe you missed the fact that she could kick Mike Tyson’s ass?”
“Maybe you should’ve been paying attention instead of having your nose in a book?” he counters, taking a step forward.
Fun fact number two about me…I like to argue. I’ll argue about anything. You like apples? I like oranges. It doesn’t matter if apples are really the nectar of the Gods and I think orange juice tastes like a freshly squeezed asshole. If it’s debatable…I’m debating it.
“You should try books sometime. Or reading in general. Maybe you could start with consent forms for everyone to sign for all those pictures you’ve been taking instead of letting your kid run around unsupervised.” Feeling smug, I point to his camera. “Or are they for your own personal enjoyment?”
See? Asshole juice.
His eyes narrow, little flecks of gold swirling in a sea of espresso. “Are you calling me a pedophile?”
“Are you calling me negligent?”
A tug on the hem of my shirt breaks our stand-off as Preston sneezes and wipes his nose on the back of his hand. “I’m okay—”
“Stay out of it!” the perv and I both yell at the same time.
Preston and Sophie back up, their little mouths rounding in matching Os. It’s not until then that I notice everything is deathly quiet. Managing a weak smile, I take in the crowd of onlookers who’ve gathered during my verbal volleyball match with the Ansel Adams protégé standing beside me.
Shit.
The name Laken Cavanaugh doesn’t mean much of anything in this city, but Preston Hammerle is a different story. The last thing I need is some social trash magazine reporting that the Hammerle nanny let the heir apparent get the shit beat of him by a miniature Ronda Rousey while duking it out with her dad on the sidelines. I’ll have to eat a little crow on this one.
But the brawler’s dad beat me to it. Bending down, he holds the little girl’s stare. “Sophie, did you hit this boy?”
She never flinches, her eyes steady on him and her tone flat. “Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“He went too slow on the slide,” she says, cutting her eyes toward Preston. “Don’t get up there and be a baby.” With dark braids, pale skin, and the apathy of a serial killer, this kid reminds me more of Wednesday Addams than a normal kid.
Hot foreign guy scrubs a hand down his face and groans. “Soph…” Pursing his lips, he shifts his gaze to me, letting his amber eyes settle on my denim shorts before trailing leisurely up my tank top to rest on my face. He seems to be appraising me, taking in every curve of my body and feature of my face.
An unfamiliar warmth spreads through my veins, and I swallow hard.
“Look,” he nods to Preston while still holding my stare. “Sophie didn’t mean any harm. You know how kids are, right? Why don’t I buy you both ice cream to make up for it?”
Preston’s eyes light up like a megawatt microscope behind his glasses “Please? I never get to have ice cream.”
And this is how I get killed.
Because all crime documentaries begin with a young, single woman alone in a park with a strange guy taking pictures of her. She probably isn’t even his kid. This is all most likely a ruse to lure me into the back of a van.
“What do you say?” he repeats with a wink. “That is if you’re okay having ice cream with a reformed pedophile?”
Despite myself, I smile. “Double scoop with sprinkles and I won’t call the cops. But don’t press your luck.”
Grinning a wide smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes, he nods to Sophie and tells her to collect their belongings. After bouncing her eyes back and forth between us, she narrows a warning stare at me and regretfully storms off toward the bench.
There are kids who just seem wise beyond their years—old souls trapped in a child’s body. From her hostile reaction, I wonder how many actual souls she’d claimed and trapped inside her.
With the two of us standing there awkwardly staring at each other, he finally extends an arm and holds his hand out by way of a formal greeting. “By the way, I’m Niall Mackay.”
Don’t tell him your name. Do not tell him your name.
“Laken Cavanaugh.”
Shit.
“Don’t worry, Laken,” he says, giving me a wink. “It’s just chocolate ice cream. I don’t pull out the chloroform and gags until the second date.”
“Very cute. This is not a date; it’s a peace offering,” I assure him, taking a few steps toward the bench where I’d thrown everything to run after Preston. “And besides, I’m a vanilla girl.”
“Suit yourself.” Collecting Sophie, he high-fives an overly-excited Preston and turns a glance at me over his shoulder. “Oh, and about the chocolate? Never knock something until you’ve actually put it in your mouth and tasted it.”
His words reignite the flush from earlier and I feel my cheeks heat on impact. Images of what he’d look like underneath those tight jeans and t-shirt instantly dries my mouth and then makes it water. Slinging my backpack over my shoulder, I grab Preston’s hand and speed walk to catch up with him.
Slap my face on a milk carton…I’m in.
Chapter Four
Niall
I stare at this perfect woman, who seems to be the answer to all my problems. Life does not work out this easily, does it?
Tucking her unruly hair behind one ear, her tongue darts out and she licks the chocolate ice cream on her spoon, then makes a face.
“Still not a fan?” I ask with a chuckle.
She takes a drink of soda and shrugs. “I’m just a creature of habit, I guess. I’ve stuck with vanilla so long, I don’t see any reason to stray.”
I can’t help it. I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t mess with her. I reach out and flick a lock of her golden hair away from her face. “So, are you strictly vanilla in all things?” Heat crawls up Laken’s neck, staining her cheeks a scarlet red. It’s adorable, and I have an insatiable urge to run my tongue along the fringe of her blush.
“Are you always so forward with women you’ve just met, or is it just ones you plan on chloroforming?”
Grinning, I drop my spoon back into the banana split that’s now become a congealed pool of dirty lake water and grab the book sticking out of her open backpack. Giving the cover a once over, I raise an eyebrow across the table. “Business law? Do you go to NYU?”
She nods, her long blonde hair falling over one shoulder. “Grad school. For now.”
“That bad, huh?”
Shrugging, she wipes Preston’s mouth with one hand while grabbing the book out of my hand with the other. “I’m a marketing major and have been trying to get an internship with a big firm for over six months now, with no luck. It’s just hard to see the finish line when everything is two steps forward one step back.”
It couldn’t be this simple, could it? She needs money and a foot in the door at a marketing firm. There has to be a way to finagle this girl an internship with Vince or Navarro for her help with Gloria. I have friends in some pretty powerful positions. All the pieces are fitting.
“How so?” I ask, leaning in for emphasis.
“Well, I had to take a year off before college to,” she pauses, swallowing hard, “take care of some things. Sometimes things happen in life you don’t plan for.”
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A down on her luck single mom graduate student. This just gets better and better. My problem is about to solve itself. All I need to do is bait the hook and reel her in. Giving her a sympathetic smile, I nod. “Of all people, I can understand that.”
She shakes her head as she licks her spoon. “I wasn’t handed everything like most college students. I had to work for everything I’ve gotten.” Raising her blue eyes, she stares at me a moment before muttering under her breath. “I got enough financial aid to get me through undergrad because my mom is crazy and walked out on me.”
Although I sympathize with her plight, I smile, thinking of my own free-spirited Ma back in Ireland. “Most mothers are crazy.”
She grimaces and looks down, not returning my smile. “No, my mom is actually crazy. I moved from Florida to New York City to literally start a new life.”
“I’m sure you think so, but—”
Laken swings a gaze back at me. “Have you ever heard of Whitesnake?”
“The eighties hair band?”
“Oh, so you’re a fan?” She smirks.
I shrug and sit back in my chair. “I wouldn’t say a fan, I just know of—”
Dropping her spoon, she folds her hands across the table and pins me without the slightest hint of amusement in her eyes. “You want to know why I’m alone in New York, making my own way? My pothead mother walked out on me to tour the country as a Whitesnake groupie along with my aunt.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“Nope. She just up and left me in the care of my senile grandmother for a life of head banging and random blow jobs.” Sighing, she lifts a hand and swipes her hair out of her eyes. “I spent my childhood at the senior center overseeing games of Bingo and eating early bird dinners at four thirty because my mother found that sucking on the end of blunts and dicks was more desirable than actually being a present parent. Now do you think she’s crazy?”
“I guess so.” I nod toward Preston and smile as he and Sophie switch ice cream cones halfway through their own conversation. “Even with all that, he seems to have adjusted well though.”