Bound to You: Volume 1

by Vanessa Booke

  “Thank you, Mary. Don’t go home too late.”

  “Of course, sir. Goodnight.”

  I swallow the irritation nipping at my heels as I make my way up the elevator to the thirtieth floor. The sight of the familiar marble flooring and gunmetal windows eases my nerves somewhat. I’m home. StoneHaven Publishing has been my home for as long as I can remember. It’s filled with countless memories of summers spent helping my father as he built this company piece by piece. Every summer I watched him labor over it for hours upon hours. I’m pretty sure this company is and will always be my father’s baby. No, I’m damn sure.

  After a four-hour flight, and two hours spent trying to get through the city, I’m exhausted. This past week has been grueling. I thought Los Angeles would be a nice break from the hectic New York scenery, but LA was just one of my father’s distractions. He had me meeting with potential investors almost every day. I thought he was looking to expand and open up an office in California. I should’ve known better. He agreed too easily to send me to California. While I was working, he was planning an engagement.

  As of this morning, I am supposed to announce my engagement to Alison Price, the daughter of one of my father’s investors. It isn’t as if I actually asked Alison to marry me. No, my father bartered with Grayson Price and this is the deal they came to. This is the 21st century, and yet somehow this feels archaic. The roles have reversed over these past centuries. Now, I’m being put up for auction. My father has a new mission for me – marriage. Just the thought of it sends my stomach turning. Married to one woman for the rest of my life is insanity. And it isn’t even one I particularly like.

  I thought we settled this argument before I flew to Los Angeles, but apparently our conversation was moot because I received a text message from a fellow colleague congratulating me on my upcoming nuptials. The part that had me confused was why I was supposedly getting married in the first place. I thought it was some cruel joke. But I was so wrong.

  My father’s office sits in the furthest corner of the floor. Much like his egotistical self, he demanded the office with the best view overlooking the city below. I’m not sure why he wonders who I get my traits from. It’s obvious. The floor is clear of employees, with the exception of security doing their nightly rounds of each floor. Sometimes I wonder if we need so many people clearing all of the floors.

  I find father sitting at his desk reading over a slew of documents. He doesn’t bother looking up as I enter the room. He’s wearing his bifocal glasses again. Emily, my little sister, is always teasing him by telling him that he looks like Benjamin Franklin with them on. If only she could see him right now. Father mutters something, which as far as I can guess, is him telling me to sit down.

  “Good evening, I’m glad to see you finally made it in,” he says, taking his glasses off and rubbing the dark circles under his eyes.

  “Father, I need to speak with you about this impending marriage you seem to think is happening.”

  He looks up with a smirk of amusement. I know all too well that he’s up to no good. If I could stare daggers at him right now, I would. I don’t understand why he wants to micromanage everything, including my life. He places the stack of documents in his desk and leans back in his chair. His composure reminds me of when I was in high school and we would talk about the importance of studying. Father hated that I wanted to play sports in school. He’d rather me read all day. He finds greater value in the mind than in the body. I beg to differ. I think there’s plenty of value in the body, especially when it comes to women.

  “Yes, I think now is a good time to discuss your upcoming marriage, but first I would like to discuss this issue of getting you a new personal assistant. I went ahead and had HR post a temporary position up on the site. We have several candidates lined up. Interviews will be held Monday morning. If you’d like you can be there, but if not I think I can manage on my own.”

  "Father, I don't need another assistant,” I say with annoyance.

  "You're right, son." he says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "What you really need is a babysitter."

  "What?" A babysitter? “I’m 28, not ten.”

  “You haven’t proved that to me yet.”

  “I spend this past weekend speaking with investors under the impression that we were looking to open another office in California.”

  “I’m just glad to see you finally taking an interest in the family business,” father says.

  It’s difficult to appreciate something that’s nearly destroyed our family. But I’ve learned to love this business.

  “I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.” I begin to stand, but my father’s words stop me.

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” he says, turning in his chair. “You forget your income comes from this company. You were born into wealth. You haven’t really worked a day in your life. I’ve been trying to teach you to be responsible, because one day you’re going to inherit this company and with that comes certain expectations.”

  “Yes, and marrying me off to one of your investors’ daughters isn’t enough to show my commitment to this company, and to this family?”

  “No, Alison Price’s money may save this company, but if you don’t handle things properly, you can still run it straight into the ground.”

  “I refuse to marry someone I don’t even like.”

  “When I married your mother I wasn’t in love with her. The love came later on. Sometimes it’s better that way.”

  “Yes, because you and mom are a perfect example of a lasting relationship.” The words come out more bitter than I intend, but I can’t help the anger rising in my chest. My mother isn’t an easy topic for either of us. She married my father because of his wealth and she left us when we were at our lowest. She was everything to my father, to my brother, to me, and my sister Emily. Was being the keyword.

  "You understand you’re making my life a living hell, right?" I ask.

  Father chuckles softly. "Since when is living in luxury hell?”

  "You know I'm not going to make this easy,” I warn.

  "Of course not," he says, smiling. “I wouldn’t expect any less. Nicholas, just give Alison Price a chance. I need you to behave while we're in negotiations with her father. You’ll see; at the end of all of this, you’ll understand why I’m doing what I’m doing."

  I highly doubt it.

  "Keep her happy,” he says, eyeing me. "Our relationship with her family is critical. At this time, they're one of our biggest investors. I hope I don't have to remind you that any ties you have with other women need to end. Now."

  “Like I have a choice,” I mutter. My father looks up at me with a smirk. He doesn’t have to say it. I know the answer.

  "Perfect, I understand."

  “I want you to know that this was all Alison’s father’s idea. Apparently, she has a strong attachment to you. With good reason I’m assuming.”

  It was one night. One big mistake. I should’ve known Alison couldn’t see it as a one-time thing.

  “It meant nothing.”

  “I was afraid you might say that. I think you should seriously consider spending more time with Alison. You may find that she grows on you.” Father drums his fingers at my silence. "Perhaps, at some point, you may find the idea of her becoming your wife a pleasant thing. She’ll make you a great wife."

  Yes, like mother? The idea of having a wife gives me a headache.

  “Are we done here?” I ask, bored.

  “One more thing. You will have a personal assistant. He or she will be here to keep an eye on you and keep you out of trouble. You're a public figure for this company, and I can't have your face splashed all over the tabloids because of your 'extracurricular activities.'"

  His words sting with each emphasis. We couldn’t be more different. My father doesn’t seem to remember the importance of mingling at social events or parties with other New York powerhouses. He thinks all I do is sleep around, while he spends his time buried
away in his office. He wasn’t always so cold or hard with me. He changed when my mother left. The memory of her still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.

  “I guess there’s nothing else to discuss.”

  “Good, then will I see you Monday for the interviews?”

  “Yes.”

  I leave my father’s office without another word. Although I’m fuming inside, can’t but hope that this mess will somehow fix itself. Maybe if I speak with Alison I can make her understand how marrying me would be a mistake – for both of us.

  On my way home, I get a call from Tristan Knight, my childhood best friend. I haven’t heard from his mug for several weeks now. He’s been working on some top-secret project and he’s pretty much kept me out of the loop. All I know is it has something to do with his art.

  “Nick! How have you been, buddy?” From the blaring sound of the music blasting from the other end, I know Tristan’s out somewhere, probably starting his weekend early.

  “Tired, I just flew back in town,” I grumble.

  “Aw, but not too tired for drinks with some lovely ladies, right?”

  “Tristan, I refuse to get pulled into one of your double date fiascos again. Plus, there’s probably something I should tell you.”

  “Look, just get down here. I have some big news and it sounds like you do too. I want you to be here.”

  Big news? Tristan doesn’t throw around those two words lightly, so I’m genuinely intrigued. I guess I won’t be staying home and catching up on some much needed sleep. I do need to stop by my apartment to change. I can still smell the sweat from sitting for four hours on the plane.

  “Alright, where do I meet you?”

  “You’re going to like this place. It’s called Riptide. It’s over in Chelsea.”

  The city of New York is a fearsome thing to behold. The city lights shine down on the club, lighting it up like a Hollywood stage. My body hums with excitement as Carol and I step out of her black Escalade and onto a red carpet swarming with paparazzi. Apparently, this is the place to be. Carol warned me about the press being at club openings, but I don’t think I’m ready for this many people.

  “Just follow me, the doorman knows we’re on the list,” she says, straightening her wistful strands of mocha brown.

  I pull at the hem of my dress, conscious of the way it slips up, revealing a little too much of my thunder thighs, as we make our way down the red carpet. A few cameramen snap pictures of us, whistling as we walk up. I wonder if we’ll be in tomorrow’s paper? I’m suddenly grateful that I’m wearing a black cocktail dress. At least with the black, my unwanted love handles are hidden. I hope if my picture somehow finds it way on the Internet, Miles sees it. Nothing right now would give me more satisfaction than for him to know I’m doing wonderfully without him.

  Hundreds of people gawk at us as they wait in line to go into the club. I’ve always wondered what it would feel like to walk to the front of a club line, drop a name, and then be escorted inside. Usually, I’m the one waiting in line, watching the bouncer admit all of the supermodel twigs inside.

  “You’re going to love this place,” Carol says, grinning.

  The front doorman to the club looks up with a smirk as he spots us. The mischievous look behind his eyes tells me he knows Carol well. He reminds me of a sexier version of Russell Crowe. Silvery grey hairs run through his short, brown hair and goatee, and his eyes crinkle slightly when he smiles.

  “Ms. Livingston, it’s nice to see you again.” His British accent is thick. I can almost see him in some 19th century gothic story, walking across the moors of Northern England in his riding coat, searching for his long lost love. His eyes wash over the both of us with interest. Carol must be a lot bigger of a name in NYC than she let on.

  “Hi, Derrick,” she says, winking. “We’re finally here, sorry to hold up the party,” she says, smiling.

  What a flirt.

  Something tells me Carol has a lot of confessing to do later. His eyes dip to Carol’s neckline. There’s intensity behind them as they trail back up to her almost-innocent smile.

  She knows the effect she has on him.

  I can’t help but laugh.

  “Right this way,” he says, holding open front door of the club and never taking his eyes off her backside. “Welcome to Riptide.”

  “Carol, what the hell was that?”

  “What was what?” she says coyly.

  “The doorman and you. You guys were eye-fucking each other.”

  “Oh that,” she says dismissively. “We just made out once in his car.”

  “Just made out?”

  “Well, it started as just making out.”

  “Unbelievable,” I say, laughing.

  The inside of the Riptide is phenomenal. The club’s beach theme is present within each detail of the décor, from the blue lights spinning across the dance floor engulfing the room with rippling waves, to the faint scent of citrus and the ocean breeze wafting in the air. Even though it makes me miss the weather in California, it’s nice to have a piece of it here in New York.

  “They really like giving you the whole experience here, “ Carol says, squeezing my hand. “Do you mind getting us a drink? I’m going to run to the ladies’ room.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  “We’ll look for my client as soon as I get back.”

  “I think you’re being much too harsh, Nicholas. Alison Price can’t be the worst woman to marry,” Tristan says, giving me an incredulous look. Somehow, Tristan convinced me that coming down to Chelsea wasn’t going to be a waste of my time. For the past hour we’ve been talking nonstop about my father’s overbearing expectations for my life, which eventually led to talking about Alison Price. My future wife.

  “You have absolutely no idea how annoying she is.”

  “Annoying enough to not have sex with?” Tristan asks. I can almost see the sarcasm dripping from his lips.

  “It was one time.” I toss back my glass of whiskey. The liquid burns down my throat, creating a warm pool in the pit of my stomach.

  “When is it not?”

  It’s true, even my closest friends know that I pick up women for sex, but most of these women know my reputation. It’s no secret around town – the tabloids do their hardest to keep it that way too. I don’t romance women; I fuck them. The problem is I fucked the wrong one. Alison had other ideas about us when I met her this past summer.

  “How did you meet her again?”

  “We were at the black tie event at the museum. Remember, you donated the painting I told you I wanted.”

  “Ah, now I remember.”

  The night started like most, guests were getting drunk on champagne and having fun, throwing away thousands of dollars in the live auction. As for me, well, I appreciated a more discreet way of spending my money – the silent auction table. Alison and I got into a bidding war over one of Tristan’s paintings. She kept watching the auction table, waiting to pounce as I left. We went back forth for most of the night, trying to outbid the other. I wasn’t about to lose. I wanted the painting. After a while, I had a feeling she wasn’t interested in the painting any longer. I tested my theory, and she finally gave in when I wrote my cell number next to my bid. I guess I can technically blame Tristan for all of this. At the time, I had no idea she was the daughter of any of my father’s friends.

  “C’mon, let’s have another drink and get you out of this funk. There’s plenty of beautiful women here to take your mind off things,” Tristan says, grinning as he raises his glass of wine.

  Funk isn’t even close to how I would describe my mood; more like steaming mad. I can’t shake the irritation from earlier in the day. My father has managed to ruin everything. I’m being forced to get engaged to an insufferable woman, and now there's also plans for a wedding. A club is the last place I need to be, no matter how beautiful the women are, but I can’t back out on a promise to a friend.

  “Speaking of women, did you meet any beauties in Los Angeles?�
�� Tristan inquires. “Is it true that most of them have plastic tits?”

  “I met a few. Some had plastic tits, but not all of them.” I laugh. “There was one in particular that I can’t get off my mind.”

  “Wait, what did you say? Nicholas StoneHaven is smitten with a woman?”

  “Smitten? No.”

  “So tell me about her. She must be something to behold if you can’t get her off your mind.”

  “She’s different than most of the women I date. Younger, curvy, fiery hair, and lips that made me want to fuck her 40,000 feet up in the air.”

  “Ah, so you met her on the plane?”

  “Yes.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Nothing. We kissed. That was all.”

  “How very old school of you.”

  “I’m surprised, Nicholas.”

  “Believe me, I wanted to fuck her. But being arrested by a U.S. Air Marshal wasn’t an option. My face would’ve been splashed all over the papers.”

  Meeting Rebecca was definitely the highlight of my trip. I could kick myself for not getting her number. Having her body meshed against me while I kissed her pouty lips made me feel like a high school boy going through puberty. I was pretty sure at one point I almost came just having her brush up against me.

  “So when are you going to tell me about the big news you mentioned over the phone?” I ask, pushing away my lust driven thoughts. The crowded room around us is stifling with plastic smiles and glazed eyes.

  “Well, I wanted to wait until she got here…”

  “She? Are you dating someone I don’t know about?”

  Tristan breaks out into laughter. “No, of course not.”

  “Good.”

  “Am I really that horrible that I shouldn’t even be in a relationship?”

  “No, I’m merely saving you from having to make the same horrible mistake I’m being forced to make.”

  “I’m meeting a prospective PR specialist who I’d like to hire for the opening of my new art exhibit, Trinity. She’s the one who put together this event,” Tristan says with a contagious grin.