by P. Dangelico
“Alexa.”
“Right.”
With that, I shut the door and skip to the kitchen. Where I find Fancy leaning against the island with his arms crossed in front of that stripper worthy chest, his face as neutral as the Swiss.
“A ragging case?”
“You’re welcome.”
“The angry sort?”
“You think she would’ve gone away if I suggested you had a tummy ache? That is a hardened stalker you’ve got there, Fancy Pants.”
He shakes his head, his gaze falling to the floor. When he lifts his chin, he has his poker face back on.
“I got rid of her, didn’t I?” Turning on my fluffy heels, I head up stairs.
After heading to the corner market, I spent the better part of the day in bed, worrying about my future and pretending to read. As late afternoon welcomes the dark, I crawl out of my bunker of despair and into the bathroom. I have no idea where Fancy is, nor do I care. The magnitude of my plight has finally sunk in and I can think of little else.
After a terrible shower with practically no water pressure, I find a message from Camilla on my cell and call her back.
“Tell me everything.”
“Well, outside it’s Windsor Palace, and inside it’s a dump.” I run a finger along the lampshade and inspect the dust that it picked up. “I’m living with Miss Havisham.”
“I mean, what happened at the party––with Parker?”
I was afraid of that. It’s like someone stuck a pin in me. I instantly deflate, a thousand pounds landing on my shoulders. “I can’t do serious right now,” I mumble. “If I do serious, I’ll get hysterical. I’ll cry and I’m afraid I won’t be able to stop.”
“We won’t do serious, then.”
This is why I love her. No one understands me the way Cam does. “Okay, good.” I breathe out a sigh of relief.
“Back to Ethan as Miss Havisham. Does that make you Estella?”
“Of course not, it makes me Pip. He’s more Estella than I am.”
“And the townhouse is a wreck?”
“It’s The Money Pit. I don’t understand how he can live here. And then, this morning, get this, I wake up to loud banging and find him looking like Thunder From Down Under, going crazy at the wall with a sledgehammer. I was about to go grab some singles until he turned around.”
“Ethan? My Ethan? We’re talking about the same person?”
“Yes. And slow your roll, you greedy grubster, he’s not yours. You wanted Shrek and now you’ve got him. That one’s yours. Good luck, by the way.”
“I do love me some Shrek,” she replies chuckling.
“Your husband hates me.”
“He does not hate you.”
“Is this going to turn into Sophie’s Choice somewhere down the road? Don’t send me to the killers.”
“No one is going to the killers. Not even Parker unfortunately.”
Dressed in the bath towel, I’m pacing, restlessly walking in circles, because even as I’m talking to Camilla the scene at the party, with Parker so innocently, so nonchalantly telling me how in love he is keeps playing on a loop like the worst horror movie I can imagine.
In the shower, it came to me, the reason I flipped out at the party. It wasn’t so much that it bothered me that Parker’s in love and ready to live his happily ever after. No matter what, I would never begrudge anyone a chance at happiness. It was that he managed to make me lose trust in myself, in my own judgment. And all I keep thinking now is––what if I’m wrong about everything?
“She’s a model,” comes ripping out of me. “How original, right?”
“Was she there? Did you see her?”
“No. She was somewhere important doing some important stuff. That’s not even the bad part. He finally got funded on the script we developed together and he’s giving her the lead role. And he had the gall to tell me TO MY FACE that she’s the best thing that ever happened to him.”
Flopping down on my makeshift bed, I absently stare at the water stain on the ceiling. It takes the shape of my ex-douchebag’s face and mocks me. “That’s when I started flipping chafing dishes Jersey style. He basically called the two years we were together a mistake, that we were incompatible because of my abrasive personality, and it would be career suicide to work together.” I scoff. “Oh––and he expects me to be happy for him. He actually said those words. He said if I ever cared about him, I would be happy for him. Fucker thinks he’s the Dali Lama.”
“I never liked him.”
It’s cold, a palpable draft swirling through the room. Shivering, I get up and drop the damp towel while I search in vain through my suitcase for my sweats. “I won’t fare well as a prison bitch. You know I won’t. My mouth will get me into trouble, and within a week someone will have me collared and calling me Sparkles.”
My hands are shaking and it’s not from the cold.
“That’s not going to happen. Ethan, Cal and I won’t let it. You’re not alone.” Camilla’s voice is fierce, her inner lioness coming through loud and clear. “Fucking Parker. I swear I’m going to get a voodoo doll and put a hex on his peanuts.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“What are friends for?”
“To put hexes on exs?”
“Yup. I have to make dinner. Call you mañana.”
“Sure.”
Tossing my iPhone on the mattress, I turn and blanche. Across the open bathroom door, Vaughn stares back at me, his steady gaze unblinking. With a squeak, I grab the towel and cover my bare cooch.
Busted.
Chapter Six
The next morning I roll out of bed, jam my slippers on, and shuffle down to the kitchen. Even though I’m barely conscious, I’m smirking. I haven’t seen Fancy since I caught him staring at me naked.
So I forgot to close my side of the bathroom door, so what? Arrest me for being too preoccupied with the rest of my life to remember to shut a freaking door.
How long he was standing there, I’ll never know. Although judging by the fire on his cheekbones that I noticed when I walked to the door and slammed it in his face, I suspect it was longer than was absolutely necessary.
Do I give a hoot that he saw me naked? No. In my line of work my body is an instrument. If I was at all self-conscious, I wouldn’t have a chance in hell of making it in this business. I’m just glad I remembered to shave, otherwise there would’ve been a lot to be embarrassed about. Single girl shaving habits, if you get my drift.
A distinct male voice drifts up the staircase.
“Cedric, listen to me closely, you need to chill out. I promise you I’ll get you everything you asked for…did I say everything? Yeah, I did…all you have to do is not fuck things up with any more negative press––”
Sounds like Fancy’s hit the ground running. In the kitchen I find him seated at the island, cell phone to his ear, looking perfect as always. Before him is a plate loaded with scrabbled eggs and some kind of brown toast. I would expect nothing less.
“Did you hear what I said?”
I did and this Cedric sounds like a serious pain in the ass. He turns and takes me in––very obviously, I might add.
You saw it all last night, dude.
“I gotta go, Ced. No more nightclub brawls, ya feel me? Okay, later.” Placing the phone down, he leans back in the stool and crosses his arms, his mouth pressed tight. I need about a gallon of caffeine before I can even begin to decipher that look.
“‘Sup,” I grumble. My sleep mask slips down and I push it higher up my forehead. No response from him. Maybe he’s not a morning person, either. Maybe Cedric took everything he had to give.
In the massive refrigerator I find all sorts of healthy food. I push that crap aside and locate my Monster drink and frozen waffles. After dropping two of those suckers in the toaster oven, I pop open my drug of choice. Still no word from the man wearing the subtle frown behind me. I can, however, feel his relentless stare singeing the fine hairs on the back of my neck. Turning, I lean back against
the counter and meet his examining gaze squarely.
“What?”
“Are we going to talk about it?”
“Talk about the fact that you’re a filthy peeping Tom?” I shrug, indicating my total lack of interest in the topic. “I don’t think there’s much to say. Except that I better not find any videos of my bald eagle on some obscure Ukrainian porn site, or we’re gonna have a problem.”
“I wasn’t…” His rebuttal fades into a tired sigh. “I specifically told you to close both doors.”
I go with this just for fun. “Whatever, Tommy McPervertpants.” He glowers and I hide my amusement by taking a big gulp of my Monster drink. The toaster signals that my waffles are ready.
“That’s your breakfast?”
He’s back to watching me intently. As soon as the caffeine hit my bloodstream, I figured out what that look on his face is. Equal parts displeasure and fascination. As if I’m some strange breed of extinct, scaly beast that’s lumbered into his cave and left a trail of slime in its wake. I take a big bite of the waffle and wave the sucker around.
“These aren’t even gluten free.”
“You shouldn’t eat that junk. I made scrambled eggs and millet bread toast. Help yourself.”
Millet. Bread. Toast. Lovely.
“Thanks, but I’ll stick with the junk.”
He frowns at this. Apparently my diet does not meet his Holy Fanciness’ standards. “Be at my office around noon and I’ll introduce you to David Pitt.”
“Is this really necessary? If you would just call Parker and get a statement from him––”
“David is one of the best criminal defense attorneys in the city,” he says, interrupting. “Let’s leave the lawyering to him. I won’t risk anything going sideways with this case.”
He won’t risk it. Mmmkay.
His cell phone rings and he glances at the screen. Lips thinning, he answers it. “Andi, I’ll be there in twenty…I don’t give a shit, tell Jerome I’ll call him when I get an offer in writing…yeah, you can quote me.” His gaze cuts to me, eyes running up and down my body, momentarily pausing on my oversized t-shirt. “I gotta go.”
After hanging up, he makes his way around the island to where I’m leaning next to the sink. Mr. Perfect rinses his dishes before placing them in the dishwasher. He’s standing awfully close. As a small woman, I place serious value on personal space and this man is all up in it. Like way up in it. He is definitely encroaching if I can feel the heat radiating from him on the side of my face, or the fine wool of his suit against the bare skin of my upper arm. And even though it’s slowly making me mental, I don’t budge.
“The new contractor should be here in an hour. I would appreciate it if you could let him in.”
The opium cloud also known as his scent wraps around me and my eyelids get a little droopy. And yet––I don’t budge.
“Sure,” I say, staring blindly ahead. Whatever game he’s playing isn’t going to work. He’s got another thing coming if he thinks I’m going to be cowed by a pretty piece of man meat with a cute bubble butt. Also, I’ve decided to go on the counter attack. If he gets any closer, I’m going to accidentally step on his anklebone. I’m wearing my poop slippers, probably won’t do much damage, but it’s not like I can shiv the guy. That wouldn’t be right.
He looks down, his focus entirely on my nonexistent boobs. “Nice shirt.”
I’m wearing my second favorite gift from Cam. It’s another oversized t-shirt. This time, however, there’s a cartoon drawing of a voluptuous naked female body on the front and back––complete with red sequin nipples.
“I always wanted big hooters.”
He blinks. He blinks again. Cold and quiet, an iceberg stares back at me. This cohabitation thing is going to be really pleasant. He’s going to make three months feel like a Siberian winter. Grabbing a paper towel, he dries his hands, chucks the paper in the waste bin, and turns to leave.
“You’re fine the way you are,” I hear him say as he walks out of the kitchen.
Huh?
The front door shuts, leaving behind a wake of confusion.
After fussing with my black jersey wrap dress for far too long because, really, who cares what I look like––never mind that I spent a little longer blow drying my shoulder length straight hair when I never, ever blow it dry––I grab my coat and purse, ready to head out when the doorbell rings. I open the door to the vestibule and find the new contractor along with a crew of men standing on the front steps.
“Hello there, blondie,” he says in a gravelly voice while running his greasy eyes up and down my body. “You the assistant?”
“No. You the contractor?”
“The very one,” the portly misogynist retorts. “Bill Morrison.”
I quickly slip on my winter coat. And the answer is yes, I have a double standard when it comes to sexist name calling and leering. Women get a free pass. We have a long way to go to balance that scale, and God knows I’m going to do my best to contribute.
“You’re an hour and a half late.” His guys file past me and into the townhouse, carrying heavy construction equipment, tools. All the stuff necessary to fix this money pit.
“I’m here now and we’re wasting time talking about it.”
This guy’s attitude hits me in all the wrong places. He walks past me and into the living room. Against my better judgment, I follow.
“I have a meeting to get to, but we need to go over what the schedule is for the upstairs renovations.”
If I have to live in this hazard pit for the foreseeable future, I can at least make sure it isn’t detrimental to my health. I have a lot of energy, and I don’t like to see stuff undone that should be done. And if it helps Fancy in any way, if I can give him something in return for getting me out of my “situation”, why not.
I start ticking stuff off finger by finger. “The upstairs bathrooms should be the first item on your list. The water pressure sucks and the shower door is about to fall off the rusted hinges. Also can you please make sure Mr. Vaughn has a generator? They’re saying we could get some nasty weather by the end of the week.”
Looking around, he says, “We’ll get to it when we get to it.”
“No. No, that’s not the answer I was looking for. The upstairs bathrooms get done first.” Glancing at my cell, I realize I’m cutting it close. “The bathroom, Mr. Morrison. I’ve got to go.”
Twenty minutes and a serious hustle later, I arrive on time at the address Fancy gave me on Lexington and 52nd . The building is art deco, nice although not exceptional in any way, just your run of the mill city office building. The elevator doors open on the 30th floor, and I step into the reception area of Vaughn Sports Management.
Color me impressed. As I take in the shiny nickel letters spanning the maple covered wall, I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever get to see my last name somewhere that does not include a bill, a pink slip, or more recently, jail house discharge papers. If I remember correctly, Camilla mentioned that Vaughn is around Cal’s age, which makes him either thirty-three or thirty-four, a mere three to four years older than me. And yet, look how much he’s accomplished. I, on the other hand…no need to follow that sentence to its logical end.
The young receptionist sitting beneath said letters greets me and takes my coat and gloves, after which, she asks me to take a seat while she lets Fancy know I’m here. It’s all very hush hush in the office. Beyond the reception area I can see people rushing back and forth, and wonder if he has a ‘no talking’ policy for his employees. From down the hall, a very tall woman approaches. How to explain...
She’s the embodiment of a 1950 bombshell. Jane Mansfield with natural red hair, fiery and bright and naturally curly even though she punishes it into a tight, low bun. Head to toe in black, all buttoned up, no hint of skin showing, big blue eyes hiding behind black framed glasses. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out she wears her clothes as armor. Also, she’s wearing heels. Because five ten is insufficient. She feel
s the need to add a couple of inches to all that glory. Reaching me, she holds out her hand and greets me with a perfunctory smile.
“Miss Jones, nice to meet you. Andromeda Carrys, Mr. Vaughn’s assistant.”
Perfect. That’s just perfect.
I’m staring. I know I am, but I can’t make myself stop. There’s so much to take in. The hair. The skin. The Angelina Jolie lips. He must be in lust with his assistant. That’s why he avoids the pussy parade. He must be. What man wouldn’t be when he looks at this all day long. I’m practically in lust with her and I’m straight.
“Miss Jones?” Her voice is soft and feminine, and in direct contrast to how she dresses.
“Ah yes,” I say, shooting out of my seat. Restless, I smooth my dress for no reason whatsoever. The one that I now determine makes me look Amish. Then again, I could be in a crotchless latex jumpsuit and look Amish standing next to this woman.
Oozing sex appeal, Andromeda the bombshell sets off for Fancy’s office while I obediently follow in her shadow. Apparently walking is a sensual act. I never got this memo. I guess we’re doing this now––sexy walking. Must be the new thing.
She knocks twice and opens the door, motioning me inside, then closes it behind me.
“Sunava bitch is going down…romancing my client behind my back is an act of war,” Vaughn says into the cell phone. He looks up and our eyes lock. His eyebrows gently pull together. For a moment he looks pleased which sets me at ease. “I went to see Sean’s mother and made sure she understood that Kaplan doesn’t have her son’s best interest at hand…yeah, his mother loves me.” Until his eyes scan me from head to foot and his mouth tightens. And my ease quickly turns to discomfort. Fidgeting, I stand there longer than I should. “Yeah, listen I have a meeting. We’ll discuss this later…I’ve already put in calls to two of Kaplan’s clients offering them a better deal…I’d do it for free just to teach that fucker a lesson…okay…later, Barry.”
Placing the cell on his desk, he rocks in his chair and fixes his shirt cuffs. “You can come in. I won’t bite,” he casually offers.