by Melody Anne
“Sorry?” My screech garnered the attention of most of Scott’s coworkers. “You broke my heart and you’re sorry? I had feelings for you, Scottie. Real feelings. And, instead, you choose her. You . . . you . . . jerk!”
I tossed my drink in his face, making sure to splash some onto Allison’s white blouse as well. That’d wipe that smug look off her face.
“Rachel . . .”
“No. I don’t want to hear it. I’m out of here.” I turned to Allison. “You’d better keep your claws in him, Ashley—”
“Allison.”
“Whatever. Just know, the moment you turn your back, I’ll be there waiting.”
She wrapped an arm around his elbow. “That’s not going to happen. We’re together for good now. You can leave, Rebecca.”
“Rachel. And fine.” I took a good whiff of her perfume, this time letting the tears well in my eyes at the overabundance of florals. “Good-bye, Scottie. Enjoy your life of regretting giving up the best thing you ever had.”
I spun on my heel and pushed past the gawking accountants. A burly man in a dress shirt so tight against his belly, the buttons looked like they might pop if he ingested one more of the onion rings on his plate grinned at me as I reached the door. I shot him a wink, probably giving him the greatest thrill he’d receive all year.
The October sky spit icy water on me the moment I exited the bar and I jumped back with a hiss.
You had to be kidding me.
“Shit.”
I pulled my keys from my purse and scanned the lot.
Right. Straight-as-an-arrow Scottie had insisted we take a cab because we’d be drinking tonight. My car remained tucked in its usual spot outside of my building.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
Huddling under a sliver of overhanging roof, I pulled out my phone and called a cab. A too-pleasant voice on the other end told me a car would be there in ten minutes. I told her to tell the driver I’d double his fare if he made it in five and hung up.
“Rachel?”
I turned to find Scott standing by the door of the bar.
“Don’t tell me you’re asking for your money back,” I said. “That was exactly what you wanted. She came crawling back like I said she would.”
“No. I definitely don’t want my money back. I just . . . I wanted to say thank you.”
Before I knew what was happening, Scott’s arms were around me, and he pressed me against him in a hug. His beard scratched at my neck as I stiffened. I’d never had a client hug me before. He was warmer than the damp night, and all that extra padding in his belly I’d scrutinized actually made him soft, like a teddy bear. I eased into his embrace, then stopped.
“No. Scott.” I pushed him away. “I don’t hug. I told you. No physical contact except if I initiate it for the job. And definitely no hugging.”
“Sorry. I thought, since the job was over, it would be okay.” He slipped his hands into his pockets and the lights of a car entering the parking lot highlighted the pink on his cheeks.
“That’s my cab,” I said, catching sight of the bright yellow sedan. “Hey, since you dragged me here without my car, do you mind?”
I held out my palm. He looked at it for a moment before realizing what I was asking for. “Oh, sure. Will twenty do?”
He pulled out his wallet and I eyed the protruding bills. Twenty would be more than enough, but he’d crossed a line when he’d hugged me. “I’m not that close to here, and this weather will slow us down. Fifty would be better.”
“Fifty. Sure, here you go.” He handed me the cash. “Thanks, again. I mean it. I was a wreck after Allison left me, and now, because of you, I have her back.”
“Whatever,” I said. “I’m just good at my job. Nothing more than that. Remember to tell your friends. Well, except Allison. I wouldn’t tell her if I were you.”
“Right. Of course. Good-bye, Rachel.”
“See you, Scottie. Good luck.”
I left him under the awning and sprinted to the cab as best I could in heels and with more than a few drinks in me. I gave the driver my address and leaned back against the seat. Reaching up, I pulled the blond wig off and plucked the bobby pins out of my black hair so it tumbled down to my shoulders. The cabdriver sucked in a breath, but when I met his eyes in the rearview mirror, he chose not to say anything, thank God.
As an actress-for-hire, I didn’t have an easy time explaining my job to people. Most thought I was just a high-priced escort. That wasn’t even close. Sure, I’d play whatever part the client needed for the job, but I never slept with them, or went beyond the odd touch of the arm or shoulder. No kissing, and definitely no sex. And if a client even tried to initiate something like that, I not only retained their full payment, but I also provided a well-placed kick to their genitalia. Male or female. I didn’t discriminate on that rule.
My job required taking on many different personas. Tonight, it was that of the new fling of a man still hung up on his ex-girlfriend. Next week, I’d accompany a woman into a club that would never let her in otherwise, and help her get the attention of the cute guy on the other side of the room. I could snap from love interest, to friend, to business associate almost without blinking.
Running my hands through my hair, I watched the lights of DC glint off the glass of the window. My reflection blinked in and out like a ghost. Mascara raced down my cheeks in dark tracks, and I wiped at my face. Stupid rain. Ruining my perfectly applied makeup.
Except it wasn’t the rain.
It was how I’d felt seeing Scott reunited with the love of his life. The warmth of his hug when he’d thanked me. The cold of his absence after I’d left.
Don’t get me wrong. I had no feelings for Scott. He was a client, nothing more. But he’d be going home with Allison tonight. And, once again, I’d curl up under the covers alone.
Sure, I could easily find a date to warm my bed. I never lacked for companionship. Men had no problem jumping into bed with me. For them, I was a conquest—the hot chick they could tell their friends they banged that one time.
But, then, a woman with a warmth inside I’d never been able to muster would show up. And I’d be the subject of a different story—one they’d secretly tell their son years later when they finally talked about girls. An example of how there are two types of women in the world: the ones you fucked, and the ones you married.
I’d never been the latter for anyone.
Not that I wanted to be.
I curled my hand into a fist so hard my fingernails bit into my palm.
A beeping from my cleavage made me jump. I pulled my phone out of my bra and narrowed my eyes at the driver for watching.
A familiar and famous name lit up my screen.
Hey, sexy. I’m in town tomorrow. One night only. What will it take to get your fine ass to my hotel?
I texted him back to ask which hotel and confirm I’d be there, then settled back in my seat.
I was more successful than any droopy housewife, and the words on the screen proved it. I partied with rock stars. Award-winning actors. Men with so much money and success, they showered me with green bills and flashy jewels whenever I asked. I was the woman men snuck away from their baby-food-stained wives to be with. I had nothing missing in my life.
And I certainly didn’t want anyone like Scottie-Scott. A man whose idea of a night out was garlic wings and a bar that served whiskey in soap-spotted glasses. A man who tripped every time he walked, and who hugged like a bear.
I took a breath and closed my eyes, steadying my emotions. No, it was the rain ruining my mascara and dampening my skin. It was the rain racking me with shivers so hard, I had to wrap my arms around myself for warmth.
It was always the rain.
Because Veronica Wilde did not cry.
Bax
Wham.
I could almost feel the crunch as the man at the table hurled words at me that might as well have been a baseball bat to my nuts.
“I just don’t see why I wou
ld want to invest,” he continued. The sunlight streaming through the boardroom window streaked silver through his hair. Jesus. Even the dude’s hair looked like it was made of expensive materials.
“Homelessness is a worldwide problem.” I adjusted my stance, turning toward the screen beside me with my PowerPoint presentation. Maybe if I tilted my balls away from him, he’d be less likely to crush them. “Your investment would help thousands of people. Your company would garner goodwill for contributing to a charitable cause, and if you spun the publicity the right way . . .”
“You want me to buy blankets for people on the street.” His voice was deep and gravelly. And the wrinkles around his eyes dictated he had at least thirty years on my twenty-five.
We were the only two in the boardroom. He sat at the end of an enormous walnut-colored table that oozed the scent of lemon Pledge, his hands tented and his dark eyes squinting at the screen.
Not at all intimidating.
“Well, yes.” I hit the button on my laptop to bring up the next slide. “But these are more than blankets. They’re made with recycled materials and have been proven to keep a person from freezing in subzero temperatures. They could literally save lives.” I tapped to another slide. “Over seven hundred people died in the streets last year from hypothermia. And that number increases every year. With more and more people losing jobs and overcrowding in shelters, families are forced to live on the streets. The cold doesn’t discriminate—child, woman, man. We’re losing them all.”
I clicked another slide and the man took a sharp breath. I’d considered leaving the slide out. It had been hard for even me to look at, and was maybe too graphic for a business meeting. But the sight of the blue-skinned child curled over a subway grate in NYC was necessary to get my point across.
“Turn it off,” the man said. “We’re done here.”
“I have more slides.” I reached for my laptop.
“I don’t need to see any more.”
Closing the computer, I tried to smile but probably managed more of an awkward twitch of my lips. His eyes landed on my elbow.
Shit. Could he see the hole in my jacket from there? I should’ve tried to patch it up before I’d left, but I was already late and figured slapping duct tape over it would make it even more obvious.
He coughed. “Mr. Linton—”
“Baxter, sir. You can call me Baxter.”
“Mr. Linton,” he said again, “you cannot be serious with this presentation. First of all, your . . . organization, I guess? It has how many employees?”
“Uh . . .” I shuffled from one foot to the other. “Well, right now it’s just me. But with your investment, I can bring on more employees, and a production team, and—”
“So how many of these blankets have you actually made so far?”
I eyed the prototype I’d laid on my end of the table. “Just the one right now, but that’s all I need to show you how it works. If I could just drape it over you, I’m sure you’d experience how warm it will make you in only seconds.”
“You’ll do no such thing. I don’t need a dirty blanket on my suit. I assure you my jacket is worth twenty times more than that rag.”
Well, that shut me up.
“Mr. Linton.” He spread his palms. “Let me lay it out for you. You come in here with a wrinkled green blanket, a hole in your sleeve, graphic pictures of dead children, and not a single employee or other interested investor. Have I got this right so far?”
“I . . . well . . .”
I glanced out the floor-to-ceiling window. We were pretty high up. If I took a running start and jumped far enough, could I somehow impale myself on the Washington Monument? That might be preferable to standing here and just taking the haranguing from this man.
“Secondly,” he continued, completely unaware of my death-by-Monument plan, “you’re asking me to contribute to the homeless problem by offering to pay for their warmth. Son, we need fewer homeless, not more.”
Blood rushed to my head. All of a sudden, I wanted to fling him out the window instead of myself.
“Sir, with all due respect, giving blankets to the homeless will not create more of them. And, as much as you’d like to ignore the problem, homelessness is not something that is just going to go away. The least we can do is not let them die on the streets like animals. They’re fellow human beings, after all.”
The man grunted. “They’re drug addicts and alcoholics who yell at me when I refuse to give them my hard-earned money. Make them get a job, I say. Contribute to society.”
“It’s not that easy,” I muttered. I folded the blanket and shoved it into the gym bag I’d carried it in. I unplugged my laptop and rested it on the bag. “I can see I’m wasting both of our time here. I’ll show myself out.”
He only nodded as I skulked out of the stuffy room. I shook my head at the redheaded receptionist as I passed. My meeting had been pushed back, so we’d had lots of time to chat beforehand. She’d seemed fascinated by my concept, and had told me she was crossing her fingers for me. And she’d written her phone number on a Post-it and slid it into my pocket with a wink.
The receptionist—or Brittani with an i, as the yellow slip in my breast pocket detailed—was on the phone when I exited. She frowned at the shake of my head, then gave me a look that pretty much told me I’d be better off setting her number on fire rather than trying to use it.
Unfortunately this wasn’t uncommon. With what women called a “nice guy” face and the ability to make them laugh, I could swing a number. But the moment they found out I was straddling the line of unemployment, they usually took off running. Not a lot of women found poverty appealing, for some reason.
Straightening my shoulders against two rejections within the span of thirty seconds, I headed to the elevators. My phone beeped just as I pressed the down arrow. Scott’s name and number lit up my screen:
Dude. Beers. Tonight. ON ME.
I scrunched onto the already packed elevator and rolled my neck. I needed that drink, but if I had to hear my friend whine about his ex one more time, I was definitely going to impale myself on the Monument.
But Scott was buying, and that was a rare occurrence, indeed. Who was I to turn down a free beer? I texted him back a yes, hoping the news was that he’d finally moved on with his life and found someone else. If not, I had a piece of paper with a number on it for him. Unlike me, at least he had a job. Brittani with an i might thank me.
• • •
“Bax! Dude! You made it!”
Scott’s voice cut across the crowded bar as I stepped into my familiar haunt. The Flying Pig was only a few blocks from my apartment, so I’d dropped off my stuff from the meeting and walked there. The crisp fall air helped to clear my mind before I entered the stifling heat of the bar. I dodged the after-work drinkers huddled in groups around the standing tables and slid into our usual booth.
My friend had obviously already started on the beers without me. He swayed in his seat as he introduced me to the others at the table. I knew a lot of them already. Before I’d decided to pursue my own dreams, I’d worked at the accounting firm of Rafferty and Sons. That was where I’d met Scott, his then-girlfriend Allison, and Clare.
Clare.
My body froze as my brain whispered her name.
I’d done my best not to think of her since she’d tossed the ring in my face and slammed the door on our life together. It had been almost a year. Hard to believe her name could still elicit a reaction from any part of me. But I had thought we’d be on our honeymoon by now. Drinking margaritas and screwing on the Hawaiian beach until we couldn’t move. The fact that she’d kept the plane tickets and our hotel room and taken another guy was the extra kick my nads needed.
Fuck.
I ran my hands through my hair. If I kept up this sorry-for-myself bullshit, I’d be crawling home tonight. I signaled Danielle, our usual waitress, for a beer. When she brought one over, I thanked her and told her to keep them coming.
�
��So, buddy.” I took a long pull on the bottle. The barley taste eased down my throat, soothing away all thoughts of Clare and the diamond that still sat in the bottom of my underwear drawer. “What’s the celebration? You’re not exactly known for opening your wallet, even at the best of times.”
The words had barely exited my mouth when a familiar perfume floated to our table. I hissed a breath between my teeth and tensed my body for the inevitable awkward post-breakup scene I was about to witness.
“Allison,” I said. “What are you doing here?”
“Baxter.” She nodded in my direction before leaning over and kissing Scott on the cheek. “Sorry I’m late, darling. I got called into a meeting right at five. Arthur’s a tyrant, I swear. He exists to torture me. I’m just going to go freshen up. Order me a white wine. I need it after this day.”
She left in a cloud of flowers, swishing her hips. Okay, that was definitely new. Both the kiss and the hip-swish thing.
I eyed Scott. “Uhh . . . you mind telling me when that happened?”
“Last night.” Scott leaned forward, leaving the rest of our table to talk among themselves. “I showed up at a work party with another girl and Ally just lost it. She realized how much she missed me.” He tilted so far forward his ass probably left the seat on his side of the booth. “Not only that, but we went home and had the most mind-blowing sex ever. Seriously, dude, she couldn’t get enough. I can’t believe either of us was able to function today.”
I took a gulp of beer and swallowed. “That’s great, man. I’m happy for you. I know how much you missed her.” As does my phone, from the numerous late-night texts I’d received since their breakup. “So, who was this chick you brought to the party? You barely leave the office. When did you have time to meet another woman?”
He sat back in his seat and pulled out his wallet. Glancing at the washrooms, he tugged a card out from between his credit cards and tossed it across the table.
“What is this?”
“It’s the woman I hired.”
“Hired? As in . . .” Now it was my turn to lean forward. “Don’t tell me you got a hooker for the party.”