Sinful Abandon

by Jeannine Colette

He leans back on his heels, his chin rising a touch. “I get it. No, it’s not really an age thing or even a position thing. Let me ask you, Heather, what would you think of me if I told you I had millions just waiting for me in a trust fund when I graduate?”

  He moves toward me, that incredible frame of his towering over me. His hard muscles are defined through the crisp white shirt. He pins me with his hips against the copy machine and lifts me in one swift motion. “If I were loaded, filthy fucking rich, would you think of me as a boy”—he pushes his groin into me, and I gasp as his powerful erection presses hard against the apex of my thighs—“or a man?”

  On instinct, I swing a leg around his hip. The feeling of him on top of me is so familiar, so right. He runs the tip of his nose up mine and threatens me with a kiss. My mouth parts as he draws closer and away. Closer and away. He’s teasing me, tempting me with the thought of feeling his mouth on mine again.

  I raise my arms to put them on him, anywhere, somewhere, but they’re halted midair when he catches them by the wrists and holds them away from him.

  His body tenses beneath my leg. My eyes open to see the cobalt hot with anger.

  “Too bad I don’t have a goddamn pot to piss in.” He throws my arms down and steps back. His jaw is clenched.

  If he could spit on me, I’m sure he would.

  I take a few shaky breaths. “You have it all wrong. This has nothing to do with money. I woke up this morning, and I was the happiest I’ve been in years.” I can’t believe how things have changed. “I broke up with Jarrod. I wanted to see where this thing would take us.”

  A deep breath escapes his lips, and with it, some of the anger also leaves his eyes. He takes a step back toward me, the beautiful smile I saw last night back on his lips. “Then, let’s see where this thing takes us.”

  “No.” I hold out my hand, halting him from coming too close.

  He furrows his brows and looks away. He knows exactly what I am going to say.

  “You’re still my intern.”

  “I’ll give it up.”

  “You’re only twenty-one, Ryan. Your twenties are for screwing anything that moves. Not shacking up with someone who’s a decade older than you. You’re supposed to date around and find out who you really like. Find out who you are. You’re so young. You don’t know what’s out there.”

  I think my soft speech has kicked some sense into him.

  For a hot second.

  Ryan bites his lip and curses into the darkened room. “You think I’m too young to know what I want? I got news for you, Heather. I know more about life and love at twenty-one than you’ll know at forty. Because I let myself feel things, and I don’t put a label on people.”

  He points a finger at me, and suddenly, I feel like the child in this situation.

  “I know who I am, and I know what I want. I can’t believe I started my day off finally thinking I found the woman of my dreams. More like a fucking nightmare.” He hisses as he opens the door. Just as he’s about to leave, he turns and adds, “Nice dress.”

  With the slam of the door, my heart jolts.

  Clenching my eyes tight, I try to quell the tears threatening to burn down my cheeks. I refuse to cry over a man, especially one I’ve only known for a few hours.

  Turning the pain into something more useful, I straighten my dress, wipe the undersides of my eyes, and storm out of the copy room and down to Jarrod’s office, passing the secretary while she’s motioning to me that he’s on a call.

  Opening the door, I stop for a second, allowing him to adjust to the fact that I just barged into his office.

  Jarrod holds the phone to his mouth. “Hold on one second,” he says to the caller. He puts the phone to his chest.

  “Five carats,” I say. “As your wife, I refuse to wear anything less than that.”

  Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

  I just sold my soul to the devil.

  I’m being very New York today. Black dress, black heels, black sunglasses, and my hair is pinned high in a bun fit for a ballerina. I look like Audrey Hepburn going to Tiffany’s, but I feel like I’m going to a funeral.

  After drinking my weight in Tito’s—on an empty stomach, mind you—I found myself dancing in my living room to late nineties pop, and I might have started crying when an NSync ballad started playing.

  “Morning, Heather.” Meg’s voice trails off as I saunter past her, not even taking off my sunglasses. She’s up from her desk in record speed, adjusting those red-rimmed glasses as she follows me. “I have your notes for the pitch meeting, your noon lunch was canceled, and Jarrod was here this morning.”

  I open the door and see a small black bag with gold writing on my desk. I reach back and take the folder from Meg’s hands without looking in her direction. I’m staring at the bag when I hear the door close behind me.

  I take off my sunglasses and continue to stare.

  Walking over to the desk, I peer inside. A black box is in there. Dipping my hand inside, I pull out the box, open it, and procure another box. This time, it’s velvet.

  “Holy shit,” are the words that pour out of my mouth when I open the box and see the massive rock sitting on the velvet cushion. I hold the box up to the light and tilt it in the air, letting the light reflect off the five-carat brilliant cut round diamond engagement ring sitting on a band of pave diamonds.

  It’s not exactly the proposal all girls dream of, but it’s certainly the one I asked for.

  I slide the ring onto my finger and am instantly weighed down by the size of it. My hand and heart have never felt heavier.

  Why did I tell Jarrod I wanted a ring? Why did I say anything?

  Putting this ring on proves that I am everything Ryan accused me of being.

  I bang my fist on the wall. Why do I, all of sudden, have to have a conscience about the matter?

  Ryan acts like he knows the ways of the world. He doesn’t know what it’s like to be dirt poor. To have to steal groceries at ten years old, so you have something to eat. And then come home to have your dad and his woman of the night take them from you.

  I give Ryan ten more years, and he’ll be a womanizer like the rest of them. He’ll be cheating on his girlfriend or wife. Maybe he’ll be an elusive cad, a lothario who strings women along, only to ditch them for another. Men only care about two things—their dicks and their wallets. The smaller one is, the bigger the other one seems to get.

  And Ryan has a small wallet.

  I bang my fist on the wall again.

  Just because he is an exceptional lover does not mean he’s worth changing my plans and my lifestyle. Ryan thinks I don’t know a thing about love. Maybe I don’t. What I do know is a lot about lust, and what we shared the other night was pure, unadulterated lust.

  And why am I worrying so much about what the kid thinks? I should be worried about what my colleagues might think. They’ve been whispering about me for months, excluding me from their camaraderie. People aren’t stupid. They know I’ve been sleeping with the boss. I’ve just been too good at hiding the evidence, so they couldn’t prove anything. Especially now that Jarrod and I are engaged. We’re in love.

  At least in their eyes, we are.

  I look out my office window to the slimy green waterway that sits in between buildings, imposing on the city and making it impossible to get across town without having to cross one of the ridiculous bridges.

  Let me tell you something about the Chicago River in the summer. It smells like rotten eggs.

  I saunter into the conference room and take my seat.

  Ryan is seated at a chair along the wall on the opposite side of the room. Children aren’t allowed at the big kid’s table.

  His head is down, as he’s scouring over notes on a legal pad. His brown hair is brushed back, the ends a touch too long. He’s wearing a blue-and-white-checkered shirt and khaki pants along with metal-framed glasses that cause me to let out an internal groan. Of course he has the sexy Clark Kent thing going on.
>
  As if he can feel my stare, Ryan lifts his head. Those blue eyes connect with mine. My breath hitches, and for a second, I can’t think of anything but the desire to crawl across this table and mount myself on top of him.

  His chest puffs out. His tongue skims his bottom lip.

  My mouth parts, and while I’m actually contemplating asking him to move to my side of the room, I see his gaze sweep down my neck to the scoop of my dress and then over to the slope of my arm before crashing on the ring on my finger.

  His eyes turn dark. His face pulls in. Vileness and disgust are written all over that beautiful face.

  I flip the stone around, so it’s nestled inside my palm, and I open my folder.

  I don’t have time to be judged.

  “Morning, people.” Jarrod walks in. He stops at the head of the table and throws his books, papers, and phone down. Adjusting the button on his jacket, he takes a seat and rifles through his things as he starts the meeting.

  He takes his time with working his way around the table, listening to everyone pitch him their story ideas. All the while, I sit and wait for him to look my way, curious to see if I am wearing his ring.

  “Ryan Pierson, star athlete, what do you have for me?” Jarrod says, bringing Ryan to attention.

  He holds out his yellow pad, glancing at his notes. “‘Sexless in the City,’” he starts. Then, he raises his eyes to Jarrod. “I noticed you do a lot of segments about the best places to meet someone or how to create the most compelling Internet dating profile. You even had a few ‘Best Sex’ segments in the last few weeks on how to increase libido. I thought we could do something about the young twenty- and thirty-somethings in the city who are still virgins. Look at why they’re making the choices they are and follow them on a night out on the town. It has to be difficult, having that conversation with a potential hook-up.”

  Jarrod’s head is bobbing in interest at this idea.

  “It’s lame,” I say.

  The room turns to me.

  I look to Jarrod. “No one cares about a bunch of Bible Belt virgins saving themselves for marriage.”

  Everyone in the room looks down at their notes on the table, afraid to argue with the great and powerful Heather.

  Except for one person.

  Of course.

  “It doesn’t have to be for religious reasons. Maybe they just value their bodies,” Ryan defends. “And so what if it is about religion? We should shun them because they’re not spreading their legs for everyone?” He leans in, his words directed toward me. “Or is that what you’re supposed to do in your twenties? Screw everything that moves.”

  I purse my lips. “So, you think women who go out and have one-night stands are whores?”

  “I never said that.”

  “You said they don’t value their bodies.”

  “I said, there is something admirable about a person who wants to wait to share themselves with the one special person they plan to share their life with.”

  “So, following a stranger up to their apartment would make that person a disgrace?” I turn to Jarrod. “I think we should explore the art of the one-night stand. We’ll call it, ‘Sleeping with a Stranger,’ exploring what compels a person to go home with someone they don’t know.”

  “That’s an interesting—” Jarrod starts.

  “Go home with a stranger? What would compel a person to ask a stranger into their home in the first place? In today’s day and age, it can be quite dangerous,” Ryan barks from his side of the room.

  “‘City Slickers,’ about con artists who leave out critical information about themselves in order to bed women,” I counter.

  “‘City Suckers,’ women who only date men with power,” Ryan nearly shouts.

  “Men who make women feel bad about the choices they make.” I rise from my chair, my hands splayed on the table.

  “Women who marry for money,” Ryan sneers.

  That last line gets Jarrod’s attention, who turns and looks down at my hand with a slight rise of his brows. He quirks a grin. “Well, it looks like we have our own War of the Roses thing in here.”

  The room chuckles at his comment. I take a seat and adjust my hair. I haven’t gotten that worked up in a meeting in years.

  Jarrod looks to me. “I think you and Ryan make a good team. Take him under your wing.” To Ryan, he says, “You’re getting a first-class education in production, working with Heather. Consider this a gift. I think you two will come up with some interesting story ideas.”

  My jaw drops, and I’m about to protest when Jarrod rises and speaks in a louder than usual voice, “I have an announcement to make.”

  Please don’t. Please don’t. Please don’t.

  “Heather and I are getting married.” His words are matter-of-fact.

  I rub my forehead with the pads of my fingers. There is silence as the staff processes what Jarrod just said. It isn’t until Meg starts the awkward slow clap that everyone follows suit and offers their congratulations.

  Jarrod leaves without acknowledging a single pat on the back or a handshake. That leaves me to accept the good wishes from a roomful of people who don’t like me.

  While I should care about their distaste for me, all I can think about is the man on the other side of the room who looks like he lost the war.

  The problem with taking someone under your wing is, you have to guide them. That only works if you know the direction you want to go.

  “Ryan, the intern, is in your office,” Meg says as I round the corner, coming in from a morning meeting.

  My Pradas halt on the carpet squares. “Why?”

  “It’s your one-on-one session.” Her words are slow, explaining this as if it were common knowledge to everyone.

  I force a look of disgust. “Reschedule for next week. I’ll be down the hall. Come fetch me when he’s gone.”

  “With all due respect, you have canceled on him. Three times.” Meg looks at me over her red-framed glasses. “I know you don’t usually mentor, but he’s a really nice kid. Mr. Bellomy is your fiancé, but he’s still your boss, and since he’s assigned you to look after Ryan, I think you owe the boy at least fifteen minutes of your time.”

  My body is arched back. My eyebrows are hovering over my eyes. If I had a Q-tip, I’d clean my ears to make sure I’d just heard what I thought I did. “Where is Meg, and what have you done with her?”

  Her mouth flies open, and a series of gasps follows. “I’m sorry, Heather. I don’t usually meddle but—”

  I hold up my hand to her. “No, I like it. Everyone around here is too nice. It’s good to have a woman with some brass balls in the building.”

  Meg nods her head, her hands meekly crossed in front of her body.

  With an exasperated breath, I walk into my office and pause at the broad shoulders of the man sitting in the chair opposite my desk. He’s facing the windows, looking out to the river. His leg is resting on the opposite kneecap, his foot dancing in the air with nervous energy.

  I stand in the doorway and look at the back of Ryan in a way I shouldn’t. Like someone who knows what it’s like to be held in those arms all night as he runs his finger up and down her arm while he tells stories of growing up in Chicago. Like someone who wants to sit on his lap and play with the curls at the end of his hair, asking him to tell her more jokes. Like someone who wants to rub her palms over his tensely held shoulders to take away the stress and work out the knots and kinks. Maybe do a goofy impression and see that incredible grin of his again. No other employee in this building would cause me to stop and stare the way I am right now even if it’s only at the back of his head.

  Suddenly, his foot stops shaking. His shoulders rise with a deep inhale, his head lifting with the movement.

  Ryan addresses me without turning his head, “Are you coming in, or are you just going to stare at me all day?”

  I startle at the accusation.

  Pushing my shoulders back, I walk into the room and take a seat at my de
sk. I turn to the screen of my computer and start scrolling with my mouse, moving it around the desktop, even though I have nothing worthy of looking up at the moment. Still, it’s better than facing him.

  I open an email to Meg and start typing.

  With my eyes on the screen, I flatly say to Ryan, “What can I do for you?”

  His body is stiff, controlled. There is no movement coming from him. Just the deep bass of his voice. “Surprised you showed.”

  I answer, unimpressed, “You get ten minutes. Give me your three best story ideas.”

  “I’ll wait until you’re done typing. You seem distracted.”

  My fingers pause on the keyboard, my eyes still on the computer screen. “I have to get this memo out. It’s far more intriguing than ‘Sexless in the City.’” I throw in an annoyed sigh for good measure.

  “Actually, I was thinking of another story line. Something a bit more human interest,” he says.

  My curiosity is piqued.

  God, if I could only just give myself the opportunity to look at him, I’d bet he had that sideways smirk on his face. Or maybe he’s biting his lip, the way he does with the side of his mouth pulled in, making the rest jut out in a way that makes me want to suck on it.

  I swallow hard and take a deep breath, cleansing myself of the ridiculous thought, before I start typing again. “And?”

  “It’s called ‘Never Have I Ever.’ We take the anchors and all the correspondents, even the weather girl, and find out what they’ve always wanted to do but never have, and then we follow them on that experience.”

  “Been there, done that.” In my defense, I’d be this rude to any staff member. I consider myself an equal-opportunity bitch.

  He doesn’t seem to notice. “Not on this show and not like this. It would run once a week for five weeks, and after that, we’d have viewers write in with something they’d never done. The traffic it would drive to our social media pages would be insane. We could even use Facebook Live and record the events as we were filming them. Make it interactive, as if the show were going on beyond the broadcast time.”

  And, now, my fingers halt completely.