by Lauren Runow
I knock on the door and let myself into Abby and Christine’s apartment to see Christine downing a shot of tequila. She’s dressed in a hot-pink strapless dress, and her makeup is smudged.
“So, there I was, wearing nothing but my bra and panties, when he walks in, and before he knows it, I’m reaching in to whip out his incredibly huge—no, monstrous cock. It was thick and long. I wasn’t sure if it would fit in my mouth.”
My feet almost trip on the carpet. I have to brace myself on the TV stand to keep myself from falling.
“You okay there?” Abby asks as Christine lets out a burst of laughter at my clumsiness. She turns to Christine. “I think you scared her with your sexcapades.”
Christine pours another shot and salutes me. “Girl, I have many, many … many, many, many, many stories to tell.”
As Christine downs the drink and sloppily wipes her mouth with her forearm, Abby explains to me, “She seduced her boss tonight.”
“Your boss?” I stare at her, doe-eyed. My jaw practically hits the ground. “I’ve never met someone who actually did the dirty with their boss.”
There’s a temporary pause as the girls stare at me with bewildered expressions.
“You’re an adorable mother hen,” Christine says. It comes out in an endearing tone, but I know she’s ridiculing me. “When’s the last time you had sex? I haven’t seen a man at your apartment in … wait, do you like women?”
I narrow my gaze at her. “That’s none of your business.”
“I bet men are going crazy, trying to buy admission to take a ride. You need to let your freak flag fly, girl. Get crazy and show up in a man’s office in nothing but your bra and panties and seduce the motherfucker!”
I watch her pour another shot and offer it to me. I politely decline. “No, thanks.” As she gulps it down, I ask, “Is that what you did tonight? Showed up in your boss’s office in nothing but your skivvies?”
She nearly spits her drink out as she lets out a burst of laughter. “She said skivvies!” She holds on to the end of the couch like she needs support as she barrels over in a fit of hysterics.
Abby rises and puts an arm around me, whispering, “Don’t mind her. She’s all talk and three ponies into the Patrón. Something tells me, things didn’t go her way with the boss.” She walks over and pulls Christine off the couch. “All right, you lush, let’s get you out of here before you get too drunk to highbrow it.”
With unladylike grace, Christine pulls her top over her exposed bra. “Let’s go, girls. I have a date with Mr. Sexton tonight.”
I raise a brow to Abby in question.
“Her boss,” she clarifies. With her hand on my back, she guides me toward the front door. “Tonight is definitely gonna be a shitshow.”
The San Francisco Museum of Modern Art is an impressive building of curved white fiberglass panels to give the illusion of rippling water and fog.
The inside is equally impressive as we step into the atrium, which is illuminated in lavender lights, making the room seem more like a nightclub than the main entrance to one of the world’s most prestigious art galleries. There’s a DJ at the far end, playing modern dance music, while waiters move about the room, bringing trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
Christine pushes past me as she sets out on her mission to find her boss, the guy she gave a blow job to just a few hours ago. She seems content on being the side piece to a guy who lets her fall to her hands and knees.
“I don’t see him, but I see his little brother,” she says, pointing toward a man over by the bar. “Abby, look.”
He has wavy brown hair styled back perfectly, dark stubble on a masculine jaw, and a set of piercing blue eyes that I can see from halfway across the room.
“That’s Austin Sexton. Come, I’ll introduce you.”
Abby doesn’t even have a chance to object before Christine is pulling her toward the bar.
Feeling self-conscious in my low-cut dress, I cross my arms to cover the exposed skin. As a waiter passes, I grab a flute and take a large swig of champagne.
Maybe some liquid courage will do me good in this dress.
It’s not just the dress. The room is huge and packed with people. Large crowds aren’t my comfort zone. It’s overwhelming and suffocating—as bizarre as that might be since this atrium is tremendous in size and ceiling height.
Christine has Abby across the room and at the bar in nanoseconds, leaving me sandwiched in between two groups of people, unable to get past.
“Excuse me.” I tap a woman’s shoulder. She doesn’t seem to notice I’m here, so I tap again. “I have to get through. Do you … never mind.”
I sidestep around the group and smack into another woman. My champagne splashes and spills all over her dress.
“I’m so sorry,” I apologize as I start palming the silk as if my hand is going to absorb the champagne from her gown. It’s no use. The pale blue fabric looks ten shades darker in the splatter marks cascading down the front of it.
“You klutz!” Her eyes are wide as she stares down at the damage. When she looks up at me, her face is a mix of agitation and shock.
“It will dry in a few minutes. You won’t even notice it. I hope.”
She’s an incredibly attractive woman. Not much older than me with light-blonde hair and a gorgeous complexion. Her dark eyes are accented in pink, which does nothing to soften them. I want to tell her to use a cobalt blue or turquoise to bring out the amber flecks in her eyes … but I won’t because that would be weird. And, right now, she’s looking at me like I’m the last person she wants makeup advice from.
“This is a seven-thousand-dollar Dior. You don’t simply let it dry and carry on,” she hisses like a snake about to bite.
“I’m so sorry. I just got here and am looking for a friend—”
“Who are you?”
I pause. “Tessa Clarke.”
“Who did you come here with?”
I swallow as I look around the room, my eyes landing on Christine and Abby as they talk to the roguish-looking man at the bar Christine pointed out earlier.
“Austin Sexton,” I lie.
I don’t know why I said his name. Probably because it sounded better than, I crashed the party with the girl who lives across the hall, who happens to be the assistant of a major benefactor of tonight’s event, who also happens to be someone she gave a blowy to earlier.
She narrows her eyes at me with a sinister glare pouring from her irises. If I’m not mistaken, she even lets out a slight growl like she’s about to pounce.
I step back in retreat when a hand falls on my shoulder.
“How is everything going over here?” a gentleman, about sixty years old, appears next to me and asks in a manner that sounds cordial, but his tone is laced in interrogation.
I look up at his silver hair and overly tanned skin. His eyes are trained on the woman in front as his fingers dig lightly into my shoulder.
She’s seething from her teeth as she whisper-hisses, “This twit destroyed my Dior.”
“Now, now, Missy. It’s only a dress. You have an entire closet filled with gowns. Why don’t I have Mark grab you something else to wear?” he says as he pulls out his phone.
From his inner knowledge of her wardrobe, I can only deduce that this is her father.
“I need to look spectacular, and I’m not having my assistant raid my closet.”
The man seems to agree with her. “Appearances are important, but I’d hate for you to leave. I could have one of the chauffeurs drop by the house. Just tell the maid what you need.”
She pushes her shoulders back and gives me a snide look out of the corner of her eye. “I’ll go myself. Why would I stay here when they’ll let just about anyone in?”
I don’t miss the insult.
Missy places her hand on the man’s chest and utters, “Tell your son he needs to keep a better eye on his bimbos.”
My jaw drops.
“Your son.”
Holy
shit.
I should be outraged by the bimbo comment, but this is hardly the time to argue the point.
As Missy leaves, I turn around and start to make my way toward the bar when the hand on my shoulder pulls me back.
“Not so fast,” who I assume to be Mr. Sexton says.
I turn around, ready to apologize for my lie. He obviously knows who his son came here with, let alone who he’s dating. Being referred to as a bimbo is insulting but not as embarrassing as him realizing I am a fraudulent faux bimbo.
When I’m facing him, I look up into his coal-like eyes, only to see them staring down the low neckline of my dress and widening at the sight of my breasts heaving with shaky breaths. His head slightly leans back with his torso as he does a complete once-over of my body. My nervous energy morphs into anger as I realize this pervert is eye-fucking me.
“You’ll have to excuse my wife. She is protective of her appearance.”
Now, it’s my turn to stare at him, open-mouthed and dumbstruck. “Your wife?”
His hand travels up my arm. I slap it away, which doesn’t seem to make him happy.
“Playing hard to get?” He seems amused.
“I don’t date married men, and I don’t let men touch me without my permission.”
He laughs lightly. “In that case, may I touch you?”
“No.”
His smile falls. “That’s not how women talk to me.”
“You haven’t met a real woman then.”
I turn to leave, but he grabs my bicep, the anger in my eyes burning into the sight of his hand.
The room is packed with people so engrossed in their own conversations, their own worlds, that no one seems to notice a man of power is grabbing a woman without her consent.
“I suggest you let me go, or I’ll scream so loud everyone in this room will look. You and I both know it will not bode well for you,” I state firmly.
He releases my arm but not without his own threat. “I don’t care for being refused, nor do I care for being shown up. You’re a waste of my time. My wife is right; my sons only choose bimbos.”
I have a thousand things I want to say, but I want to leave his presence more.
Moving fast, I make my way through the crowd. Abby and Christine are still flirting with Austin Sexton at the bar. Missy is at the door, talking to someone and pointing at her dress and then toward me, and in the middle of the room is Mr. Sexton, staring at me with beady eyes.
I distance myself from all of them and run up the grand staircase. At the top, I look back toward the crowd and decide there must be a way out of this building that doesn’t include going back the way I came.
I enter a gallery of modern paintings and pass through another bearing statues of impressionist movements. There’s an exit door, so I run toward it.
My chest falls as I realize the exit hasn’t led me anywhere that will get me out of this building. I’m in a sculpture garden. It’s enclosed with high walls, and the only way out is back through the museum.
I lean against a marble statue to catch my breath. My first night out in months, and I’m escaping the advances of a married man.
Looks like my mother was right. Men are scum.
3
BRYCE
“What are you staring at?” I ask my father, who’s standing in the middle of the atrium at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art.
When he notices I’m beside him, he adjusts his jacket as if he were previously indecent. “Bryce. It’s about time you showed your face.”
I speak with a smile even though my words are anything but cordial, “Wouldn’t miss a chance to see Missy receive an honor for charity work she didn’t do. How much did you have to pay for this little experience?”
The calm on his face dissipates, his eyes telling me he’s unhappy with me publicly announcing this is all a sham.
Missy has been my father’s wife for four years and wears the title of Mrs. Edward Sexton well. She has a panda exhibit at the zoo named after her, a permanent box for being a benefactor at the symphony, and a waiting room with her name on it at UCSF Medical Center, and tonight, she is being honored for her philanthropy at the museum. All means to get her picture in the paper and her name circulating around San Francisco as a high-society woman when she’s really a money-hungry brat from Calabasas.
“Missy is a woman of many talents. I’m just glad she’s making a name for herself.”
“Our name,” I bite. I look over at the bar and see Austin swigging a glass of bourbon with none other than Christine. “What the hell is she doing here?”
My father follows where my attention has diverted and gives a satisfied grin. “Trouble with the assistant?” There’s something in the way he can read my annoyance that feels unsettling.
I catch Austin’s eye and nod toward the back of the room. I need a word with him, and I need one now.
“If you’ll excuse me, Father, I have business to attend to with my brother.”
“That reminds me,” he says as I start to walk away. “There’s been a big change in the business model that I plan on announcing tonight.”
I turn to him and raise my chin.
“I gave Missy half of my shares in Sexton Media. She’s now a partner in the business, and she will be overseeing the entire company for me.”
Just like that, I feel like the ground has been swept from under me. “You’re fucking with me.”
“I wouldn’t joke about our company.”
“Mom’s company,” I say with conviction.
He narrows his gaze. “My company. And, now, Missy’s.”
My fists are squeezing so tight; the skin around my knuckles is stretched thin. I’d never hit my father, but the thought of him handing over a quarter of the company to that good-for-nothing whore has me wanting to slam my fists into the nearest wall.
Missy has not been shy about her distaste of the news business. She finds it “trite” and “outdated.” She also hasn’t worked a day in her life—unless you count courting my father to be her career and her marriage as her retirement. I know Missy’s desires, and they include selling the company.
My father wouldn’t care. He hasn’t accomplished a thing aside from showing up at events as the face of Sexton Media. It was our mother who started it as a community magazine. It was her dedication, her enthusiasm for the digital era, and her business savvy that made it into one of the largest media companies in the country.
I bite down and snarl at the man I call my father, “We still own Mom’s half. You and Missy can’t make a decision without me, Austin, or Tanner on board.”
“I only need one,” he says confidently.
“We’d never falter.”
Father’s head sways from side to side. “I bet I could get one of you to change your business philosophy. Missy can be very”—he pauses to think of the appropriate word—“persuasive.”
I try to ignore the fact he sounds like he’s going to pimp out his wife. With furrowed brows, I ask with accusation, “What do you two have planned?”
He places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a condescending pat. “All in time, son. Now, why don’t you enjoy the party? It’s not often you get to let loose.” He gives me a firm shake and raises his arm toward a friend to say hello.
Even if I wanted to have it out with the old man right here in the middle of the room, I can’t. Sexton Media is my entire life, and these people are business associates.
My father knows I will never do anything to jeopardize our reputation because, in the media industry, your reputation is worth more than gold. And he’s using my passion for our company—the one he so carelessly doled away to his wife—against me.
The heat builds in my face. My muscles tighten as my chest expands. With a clenching of my jaw, I walk over to where Austin is now waiting for me at the foot of the staircase. With his feet crossed and his back leaning against the banister, he looks bored out of his mind.
“Why didn’t you return my calls?
” I bark as I approach.
Austin gives a Cheshire cat grin. “Now, is that any way to greet your brother at a party? This is a party, Bryce. You need to lighten up a little.”
He raises his hand to loosen my tie, but I push him back.
“It’s time you started taking life seriously. The partying, the race-car driving, the women”—I point a finger into the air—“all of it ends now.”
He adjusts his posture and narrows his focus at me with an air of concern. He’s not looking at me like the party boy he pretends to be. He’s looking at me like a concerned brother. “What’s going on?”
I wipe my mouth and run my hand down my jaw. “Missy is officially a twenty-five percent owner of Sexton Media. I don’t know what her and Father have planned, but I don’t have a good feeling.”
“How can he do this? Don’t we have to sign off on something like that?”
“Missy’s family. The bylaws state that we can gift our shares to immediate family without the consent of other shareholders.”
Austin’s face looks equally disgusted. “Dad and Missy are worthless. Dad hasn’t worked a day at the office since well before Mom died. Missy doesn’t know a thing about journalism.”
“And you do?” I know my insult is harsh, but he has to hear it. “You’re the president of Digital Media, yet I’ve been doing your job and mine for years.”
His brows curve defensively. “What the hell are you talking about? I work my ass off—”
“You need to work harder, Austin. Everything you do is a reflection of our family and our business. It’s time you pick up the slack tenfold. That also means the drag racing ends right now. You’re one crash away from losing your life, or worse, everything our mother built.”
“Nice to see you think the company is more valuable than my life.” Austin shakes his head with a mock laugh. “You’re gonna lecture me about risk? A little contradictory, considering you slept with your last assistant.”
The blood momentarily flushes from my face. He has no idea about what happened between me and Christine tonight. Even if he did, it doesn’t change the problem at hand.