Montaine

by Rome, Ada

  “Show me you can handle the small stuff, and maybe I will let you tackle something more substantial. Do you understand?” He enunciated the last words extra slowly, as if I were hard of hearing or simply stupid.

  “Yeah. I understand.” I crumpled the receipt and shoved it into my pocket. Kill hopped from the desk and walked away without another word.

  ***

  “You’re working late.”

  I sat hunched over my computer, my eyes strained and stinging from the dull monotony of endless proofreading. When I lifted my head, I realized that the only other person in the room was Trent Montaine. He stood a few feet away, a messenger bag slung over his shoulder and his eyebrows raised in an unspoken question.

  My heart jumped with surprise. I blinked with the sudden shift of focus from my laptop screen to the overhead fluorescent lighting.

  “I lost track of time, I guess.” I peeked at the clock in the bottom right corner of my screen. It was almost 8:00.

  Trent’s gaze slid over the top of my desk and settled on a pile of shirts draped on wire hangers and covered in plastic. I had angrily dropped them onto my desk hours before when I returned from the dry cleaner only to find Kill’s office already empty and locked.

  “What is that?” Trent asked with a note of suspicion.

  “Kill’s dry cleaning,” I was unable to keep the disgust from my tone. “He asked me to pick it up for him.”

  Trent breathed in deeply and slowly. He exhaled through his perfect nose in a way that articulated an equal measure of disgust, or at least frustration. His broad shoulders slumped slightly as he set his bag on the floor. He perched on the corner of my desk and leaned toward me, resting his weight on one brawny arm. His nearness sent my stomach into somersaults. I tried unsuccessfully to slow my rocketing pulse with a few deep breaths of my own.

  “Look, Kat,” he began. “I was just kidding with that stuff I said yesterday, about my only hiring you because you’re a woman. I apologize if I gave you the wrong impression. I’m an asshole about some things, but not about my hiring decisions.”

  I was unable to stifle a smile. He bent low to catch my eye.

  “There’s the smile that I haven’t seen yet.” He grinned with a magnetic and luminous charm that made my head swim and my cheeks flush hot. “The truth is, I hired you because I see great potential in you. I was impressed with that story you wrote about the women’s rowing team.”

  “You actually read that?” I asked in shock.

  “Of course I read it,” he laughed. “It was part of your application. I read hundreds of them from students all over the country. Yours was the best. I wouldn’t tell you that if it wasn’t true. I don’t give praise easily. You have to earn it. You did.”

  “What in particular did you like about the story?”

  His eyes glinted with a keen excitement, and his smooth lips curled upwards with obvious delight. “You ask questions like a real journalist.”

  “I am a real journalist,” I said defensively.

  “Relax, feisty.” He placed a hand on my forearm for the briefest instant. It was long enough for a rush of warmth to race through my veins to every extremity. “I liked your story because you didn’t stop with the cheerful tale of a team finally obtaining the funding they needed to survive. You went the extra step. You asked the serious questions about fairness and equality. You gave a real sense of the motivations and struggles of the athletes themselves. That’s the kind of writing I look for.”

  “That’s the kind of writing I strive for.” I stared up into his penetrating blue eyes, which were locked tightly on mine. I broke away first, looking shyly down at my fidgeting fingers. I could still feel the heat of his gaze.

  “I want you to enter the contest…for the cover story.” He rapped his knuckles on the desktop and pointed a forefinger at me for emphasis. “Promise?”

  I looked up and nodded. “I’ll start researching story ideas.”

  “Good. That’s what I like to hear.” He stood and lifted his messenger bag from the floor, slipping the strap over his sturdy shoulder. “It’s almost eight o’clock.” He paused. “Do you have any plans right now?”

  For a moment, I entertained the crazy thought that Trent Montaine was about to ask me to dinner. “No. No, I don’t,” I hurriedly blurted.

  He clucked his tongue. “That’s a shame. A girl like you should have plans.” He turned and marched in long strides toward the exit. “Get out of here, Kat Raney,” he shouted from across the empty room as he pushed open the heavy glass doors. “Save those pretty brown eyes.”

  With a final backwards wave, he was gone.

  Chapter 5

  “I’ll clothesline that dirty hussy!” Marcie shouted over the din of pulsing drumbeats. “If she doesn’t back off in exactly five seconds, she’s toast. I swear it.”

  Marcie’s eyes glinted with menace as she watched the side of the stage, where Vaughan leaned lazily against a curtain, clutching the neck of a guitar in one hand and flipping his long curls back from his forehead with the other. A voluptuous, raven-haired girl was raised on tiptoe, her lips only centimeters from his ear as her shoulders quivered in a giggle. Her breasts were wrapped in a skimpy strip of fabric that looked more like a brightly colored bandage than an item of clothing. Her smooth back arched. Her hips, stuffed into skin-tight leather shorts, angled with an invitation.

  “Maybe she’s just a music theory student interested in discussing his unique take on modern punk rock.”

  Marcie shot me a burning glare that could have torched a forest.

  “Kat’s right,” Tony chimed in. “Maybe she’s a music critic and she wants to hear about his classical influences.”

  “Oh, you two are truly hilarious.” Marcie slumped in her chair and scowled. She tossed a curled lime peel garnish onto the sticky tabletop and downed her martini in one long swig.

  My eardrums felt ready to burst from the carnival of noise that surrounded us. Thumping bass, shouted conversations, screeching guitar. From our spot on a raised platform near the back of the club, we had a good view of the stage, the surging and pulsing crowd beneath it, and the teeming bar, where lines for drinks were five deep.

  Tony placed his hand on the back of my chair and leaned toward me.

  “Thanks for inviting me! This is fun!” he yelled. Even though he was only inches away, I still had difficulty making out his words. I also couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or genuine.

  When Marcie told me that Vaughan’s band would be playing at Squirrel, the oddly named but incredibly trendy downtown club, I reluctantly agreed to go. It was Wednesday night, and I needed to be up early the next day. Still, my first few days at the magazine had been both stressful and tiring. A stiff drink didn’t sound half bad.

  On a whim, just before we hopped on the subway, I texted Tony and invited him to join us. I hoped that he and Marcie would hit it off, and the side-by-side comparison of the smart and quick-witted Tony with the dim and dull-witted Vaughan would spark her interest.

  Tony looked handsome in a black form-fitting, short-sleeved button-down shirt that was far more appealing than his usual collection of pastel office polos. Unfortunately, Marcie had spent the entire night alternately gushing over Vaughan’s guitar abilities, which I judged to be subpar at best, and obsessing over the female attention he received once his band finished their set and retired to the wings.

  “Where’d they go? I don’t see them?” Marcie’s head popped up like a prairie dog and swiveled from side to side as she scanned the stage and its boundaries. Her dangling silver chandelier earrings swung wildly. Her pert body in its clingy red mini dress stretched straight as a flagpole.

  Vaughan and his new friend were no longer visible behind a screen of waving arms and bouncing heads. Onstage was some kind of punk metal group. A shirtless and sweaty lead singer with chains looped around his pierced torso screamed into the microphone. He flailed his head up and down with enough force to cause serious whiplash. With a
final prolonged squeal and a thunderous mechanical thud, the band went silent. The crowd erupted in cheers. People made their way to the bar for fresh drinks. Vaughan was nowhere to be seen.

  “That’s it. I’m going after that scumbag.” With the alacrity of a gymnast, Marcie hopped over the railing and darted through the milling throng, her red dress a fiery flag of anger, until she too disappeared from view.

  “She’s interesting,” Tony said matter-of-factly.

  “Cheers to that.” I clinked my glass against his beer bottle. We both took a long drink. My vodka-heavy concoction sloshed around in my brain and loosened my tongue. We no longer had to shout at each other in the sudden lull, but my eardrums still buzzed. “So, do you like her?”

  Tony almost choked on his beer. “You can’t just ask a guy that. That’s not fair,” he laughed. “Besides, she seems a little…um…preoccupied at the moment.”

  “Vaughan is just a phase. Marcie deserves better. She really is a great girl once you get to know her. A bit manic at times, but she has a good heart. And she’s smart as a whip.”

  “Why do I get the idea you’re trying to sell me on this?” He took another sip of beer.

  “Give it time. Then I won’t need to sell you.”

  We drank in silence for a few more minutes, observing the line of fashionable people that streamed through the entrance. Even a Wednesday night in Manhattan was an opportunity for endless partying.

  “Wait. Isn’t that Trent?”

  “Trent’s here?” Now it was my turn to choke on my drink.

  Tony eyed a small excited knot of people to the right of our platform. He jutted his chin in their direction. Sure enough, Trent’s towering and sinewy physique sliced through the crowd, a lick of black hair flopping enticingly over his forehead.

  He wore the same gray t-shirt and dark wash jeans that I’d seen in the office earlier that day. Grasping his arm was an impossibly tall and lithe blonde, her sticklike figure draped in thin folds of silver fabric that left her long back completely exposed from her swan neck all the way down to the minor swell of her tiny round ass. Her delicate features and shining mane of upswept golden hair looked familiar. I stared, trying to make the connection. Then I realized where I had seen her before. Times Square. A billboard ad for perfume. She loomed over the city, three stories high and utterly naked but for a few strategically placed daisies.

  “Damn.” Tony’s jaw hung loose.

  “You might want to close your mouth. You’re drooling,” I said testily.

  “Jealous?” he poked me in the shoulder.

  “Oh please. She probably has the I.Q. of a sock puppet. What’s there to be jealous about?”

  “Mmmm-hmmmm,” Tony crooned, taking another sip of his beer and trying to hide the smirk that threatened to break across his lips.

  “You jerk,” I laughed. “Remind me why I invited you tonight?”

  “To hook me up with your friend, who may or may not currently be murdering a rival for her lover’s affection. Thanks for that, by the way.”

  I tossed a rolled-up napkin at him, swallowed a hearty gulp of vodka, and slammed the glass onto the tabletop with a resounding clank.

  “Careful. Don’t break the fine crystal.” It was Trent’s droll voice, and it came from a spot only inches behind my head.

  I swiveled in my seat, my eyes wide and my mouth agape. There was no sign of the glistening blonde. Trent settled into the chair on my left, his legs spread wide and his fingers hooked into the belt loops of his jeans. His blue eyes watched me with a searing focus.

  “What are you doing here?” I stammered in surprise.

  He threw back his head and laughed, his thick Adam’s apple bobbing. “Is that any way to greet your boss? ‘Nice to see you, Trent. Fancy meeting you on this fine evening.’”

  “Nice to see you, Trent. Fancy meeting you on this fine evening,” Tony echoed with a sarcastic edge.

  “See, Tony knows how to do it right. You could learn a lot from him, Kat.”

  “I keep telling her that, but she won’t listen.”

  “So,” Trent sat up and rested his elbows on the table, the muscles in his forearms visibly shifting under the skin. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you both be at home, sound asleep and dreaming of all the ways that you can help my magazine make even more money?”

  I lifted my drink and swallowed a last bit of vodka to steady my nerves. The alcohol swished within my skull and sent my internal balance momentarily off kilter. I slapped my palms onto the table to regain my center of gravity.

  “My roommate’s boyfriend played in one of the bands earlier. I invited Tony to come along.”

  “I see.” Trent glanced from me to Tony and back again. He lowered his eyebrows as if deep in thought and then nodded with pursed lips.

  “Looks like the bar’s cleared up a little. Think I’ll go grab another beer,” Tony interjected. “Anyone else want anything?”

  Trent and I shook our heads in unison. Tony bounded down the platform stairs and melted into the crowd.

  “You and Tony, huh?” Trent nudged me with his elbow.

  “What? What about me and Tony?”

  “Aren’t you two on a date? Did I interrupt?”

  “Oh, God no!” I blurted a bit too quickly and emphatically.

  “Well, why not? What’s wrong with Tony?” Trent tilted his head to the side as he observed me, a smile barely lifting the corners of his mouth.

  “Nothing’s wrong with Tony. We’re just friends, though. I’m actually trying to set him up with my roommate, but I have to peel her away from the rock star first.” I made air quotes around “rock star.”

  Trent shook his head ruefully. “Why do the girls always go for flash over substance?”

  “Girls? You’re one to talk!” The vodka had substantially lowered my inhibitions. Words flew out of my mouth faster than my brain could process them.

  “Excuse me?” He sat up straight and cocked an eyebrow.

  “What about Miss Daisy over there?” I made circles with my hands and held them over my nipples. “Are you dating her because she has substance?”

  A perfect grin beamed across his face. My breath caught in my throat. He really was ridiculously handsome.

  “Just because she’s attractive doesn’t mean she’s stupid,” he replied in a lecturing tone.

  “No, I guess not,” I conceded.

  “But to tell you the truth,” he leaned forward and lowered his voice to a near whisper, “she really is very stupid.”

  We both broke into loud laughter, catching a few interested glances from adjacent tables.

  “Where is Miss Daisy anyway? Did you abandon her?”

  “Ah, Miss Daisy will never be abandoned.” He surveyed the teeming club and immediately zeroed in on her location at the far end. She was easy to spot in her shimmery silver dress. I followed his gaze and saw her embrace a man with a bronze tan and an open-collared shirt from which black chest hairs sprouted in tufts. “See, she’s already found her next target.”

  “That guy looks familiar. Who is he?”

  “He was on one of those bachelor shows. Millionaire Bachelor. Royal Bachelor. Dipshit Bachelor. I can’t keep track anymore.”

  “You don’t seem too upset about losing her to the Dipshit Bachelor.”

  “I’m not. They’re made for each other. I like more of a challenge where my women are concerned.” He paused and cleared his throat. “But I’m sure the tabloids will make a story out of it. Trent Montaine abandoned at club! Miss Daisy finds love with Dipshit Bachelor!”

  “Montaine forced to spend evening in company of Plain Jane!” I said in my best newsboy imitation.

  Trent stared at me frankly and openly, his eyes traveling over my light auburn hair that cascaded in shining waves and the tight violet dress that clung to my curvy figure. The ruched fabric snugly outlined my waist and hips. The plunging neckline, draped low and loose, afforded a generous view of my cleavage.

  “Kat, you a
re anything but a Plain Jane. You are stunning.”

  The surrounding club with all of its noise and clamor seemed to fall instantly away. I opened my mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

  “Finally got my beer!” Tony’s cheerful voice cut through the fog and brought the pulsing club back to life. He plunked the bottle onto the table. “Did I miss anything exciting?”

  “Not at all. Kat was just criticizing my taste in women.” Trent threw me a sideways grin.

  Marcie hopped over the railing and landed with a thud beside our table. She panted heavily. Rivulets of mascara ran down her cheeks.

  “Kitty Kat, we have to get out of here.” She gripped my arm and attempted to hoist me from my seat.

  “Why? What’s going on?” Her fingers were tiny vises encircling my flesh.

  “Don’t ask questions. There’s no time.” She swiped her palms over her wet cheeks, leaving black smears like a Halloween mask.

  “I think you’re being a bit overly dramatic. What happened back there?”

  She relaxed her grip on my arm. Since there were no more empty chairs, she flopped theatrically into my lap with a heavy sigh.

  “I searched backstage and found Vaughan making out with that bitch in the rubber band top. He had his hands all over her huge tits! So, I screamed and pulled her off by her ratty hair and came away with these.” She held up a fistful of long hair extensions, which she tossed onto the table in a ragged heap. “And he was all like, ‘Babe, what’s wrong?’” She expertly imitated Vaughan’s signature slow drawl. “What’s wrong!? He has his tongue down the throat of some piece of trash, and he has the nerve to ask me what’s wrong. What a dick. Anyway, she started screaming when I ripped out her hair. So I ran.”

  For the first time, she looked up and registered Trent’s presence at our table. Her eyes bugged out wide. Her jaw hung slack.

  “Marcie, you remember Trent Montaine.”

  “Y-yes,” she stuttered breathlessly.

  Trent turned his head toward the stage. “Well, don’t look now, but there is a large-breasted girl in a tube top staring right in this direction.”