Devil You Know

by Bagshawe, Louise

  Rose stared at Anna suspiciously. She was a short, luscious-looking chick, with porno lips and platinum hair and more than a handful of T & A. She was carrying a few pounds, maybe, but she was definitely attractive, in that easy sort of way.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “See these earrings?” Anna twirled her head. “You should go for it, too. He’d love a chick like you. Maybe you could even date him for real, you know? It’s worth a shot.”

  Rose bit down on her lip. She wasn’t going to say that she’d never have casual sex with any guy, much less with arrogant Jacob Rothstein. Anna didn’t see the world the way she did.

  “He’s really not my type. I just have to study with him,” she explained.

  Anna giggled again. “Is that what they call it these days?”

  Rose shut up. She couldn’t convince her, and she didn’t want to try.

  *

  When she turned up at Rothstein’s rooms it was noon on the dot.

  “Come in,” he called, to her smart rap on the door.

  Rose opened it, but did not enter. Rothstein’s room was sumptuously decorated; it looked like dorm-room via Ralph Lauren. English country house chic.

  “Why don’t we study in the library?” she suggested.

  “Um, because we can’t talk there?” Jacob Rothstein said. He looked her over again, and she bristled.

  “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” Rothstein said innocently. “You’re an attractive girl. What am I supposed to do, go blind?”

  Rose entered his room and closed the door behind her.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like you.”

  Jacob snapped his fingers. “Damnation. And my first impression was that you couldn’t wait to jump my bones, you were so bowled over by my devastating good looks.”

  “Save that for girls like Anna Kent, OK?”

  “Ah.” Jacob’s eyes lit up. “Anna. She was lots of fun.”

  “She returns the compliment. Now if you would just get to work, we can complete this assignment and I can get out of here.”

  “Perfect.” Jacob turned to his books. “Just out of interest, though, enlighten me. What exactly have I done to make you dislike me quite so much?”

  *

  God, she’s gorgeous, Rothstein thought. She didn’t want him staring at her? Too bad; he’d already inventoried the hand-span waist, the long, lean legs in those sexy blue jeans, the tumbling waterfall of sleek, black hair that, amazingly enough, did not look as though it had been dyed, the soft, olive skin, and those incredible eyes.

  Of course, the eyes were fake. They had to be colored lenses. Nobody had palest-blue wolf-eyes like that, so intense and startling under the soft lashes. He wondered if those tits were real, too, but honestly—who cared?

  She was the total package, and didn’t she know it, he thought. Rothstein liked chicks. His tastes were catholic, as far as bed went. Short girls with lusciously slung hips and big tits—delicious. Tall, lean girls with that arrogant model look—great. He didn’t like extremes of weight in either direction; apart from that, he really didn’t care. Rothstein enjoyed sex and wasn’t looking for commitment. He took pride in his lovemaking, regarding it as a form of art. When women sobbed and scratched in his arms, Jacob thought he was doing OK by them.

  But Rose Fiorello would be nobody’s one-night stand, even if it weren’t for the fuck-you attitude and the general air of frigidity. It was as though the ice in her eyes had spread little frozen tendrils all over the girl’s body. She was the polar opposite of come-hither beauty. Rose was stay-away beauty. Moral beauty. Which made her all the more appealing.

  Jacob had seen her before. Most of the males that studied history had seen her before. She was always bolting out of her seat after lectures, as though an errant wasp had stung her on the ass, carrying her thick sheaf of notes with her, looking neither to the right nor left, for all the world like a Wall Street banker barreling through the crowd on his way to work. She was pure New York, with that don’t-mess-with-me attitude.

  You could not miss her. She was tall and spectacular. Her clothes might be plain, but they did nothing to detract from her beauty. Her long hair was, surprisingly in this heavy-metal decade, not teased, back-combed, crimped, or otherwise messed with; just sleek and glossy, like an otter darting from a stream. Her eyes were just startling. Her figure was lean, but not skinny; she had some tits and ass going, he thought approvingly. And her face, from the shockingly gorgeous eyes to the high, aristocratic cheekbones, the full lips, and the long, straight Roman nose, was just … perfect.

  She was a million miles from Malibu Barbie, but really, so what.

  Other girls at Columbia—and Barnard, which was across the way—dressed more sexily. They had implants, miniskirts, towering heels, Donna Karan, manicures, bleached-blond hair. There were plenty of milk-fed, all-American, rosy-cheeked beauties hanging around this campus.

  Not one of them was like Rose Fiorello.

  But asking her out was taking your ego in your hands. He knew guys that had tried it—or at least attempted to try it. Mostly, they never got further than “Hi,” or “Excuse me, sugar—” before Rose cut them off and barreled out of the lecture hall.

  She didn’t mingle. She didn’t socialize. She wasn’t in student politics or dramatics or night-classes.

  Her whole, gorgeous body threw off her lack of interest in everyone around her.

  Jacob had suggested to Professor Bartlett that Rose be invited to join the symposium. He had studied her carefully. She seemed to pay the most attention in Bartlett’s lectures, according to his informants. And he assumed she would appreciate a challenge.

  Well, he thought dryly, I got that right.

  “Let’s see.” Rose shut his door and sat down on one of his chairs, perching on the edge of it as though it were contagious. “Why don’t I like you? Maybe because I hear things. Cheap Lotharios don’t really do it for me.”

  Jacob arched a brow. “Honey, there’s nothing cheap about me.”

  “Don’t call me honey.”

  “And I doubt you heard anything before last night. You may have asked afterward. It was clear then that you didn’t know who I was.” He grinned. “I like the idea that you had me checked out later, though. Now tell me; what did I do to you last night?”

  “Do? Nothing.” Rose’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe your fancy suits and watch that costs what some students here live off all year bugged me. Maybe I noticed your cocky attitude and thought you needed a little deflating.”

  Jacob thought about making a joke on the topic of Rose not being that likely to deflate him, but decided against it.

  “Maybe I don’t particularly warm to little princes who come to college with Daddy’s money and assume they own the place.”

  “Maybe you should pull that stick out of your ass.”

  “Excuse me?” Rose said, outraged.

  Jacob looked at her evenly. “Oh, get over yourself, kid. You can dish it out, but I don’t have to take it. I make no apology for the success of my family. In fact, I’m very proud of it.”

  “I bet you are.”

  “Damn straight. And as to my being here on Daddy’s money, I made four-point-oh and the ninety-seventh percentile on my SATs. Don’t make the mistake of thinking rich kids are all stupid, just because you won a scholarship. I deserve to be at Columbia. In fact, I deserve to be anywhere in the Ivy League. I’m in Professor Bartlett’s class because I am one of his best students and aced my midterms. And if some girls like me”—he shrugged—“you know what that is? None of your business.”

  Rose stared at him and tried to think of a decent retort. Nothing sprang to mind. Shit.

  “Now we’ve cleared the air,” Rothstein said after a second, giving her a superior smile, “if you want to storm out of my room in a tantrum, can you please do it right away? Then you can call Professor Bartlett, and we can both get reassigned.”

  “You’re not as h
ot as you think you are,” Rose hissed.

  Rothstein moved a fraction closer to her, staring her right in the eyes.

  “How do you know?” he said softly. “If you want to find out, there’s a spot here for you anytime.”

  He patted his bed.

  “You’re making a pass at me?”

  “Don’t look so jumpy. I’m issuing an invitation. I don’t take any chick to bed unless she asks me to. And…”

  That lazy, confident gaze trickling over her again. Rose fought an impulse to squirm.

  “… you’d have to ask me at least twice.”

  Rose deliberately settled back in her chair. He was attractive, she admitted it to herself.

  But not to her.

  She thought of William Rothstein. Loathsome, ugly slug; very little like the princeling in front of her, except in his arrogance. Rose tried to recall William’s features, but time had blurred them; she had only an impression of revulsion, and the memory of the sound of his voice, the cutting, contemptuous words.

  She smiled thinly, despising him and his clan.

  “Don’t hold your breath. And as for me storming out of here, I hate to break it to you, but you’re really not that important. Shall we turn to the subject? I’ve brought some books.”

  *

  They worked through the lunch hour. Rose argued her points quietly and methodically, but she was crackling with adrenaline. She wanted to stare at Jacob Rothstein, the heir to the company she was going to destroy. Not that he would know it. Rose wanted to scream it in his ear, to hit him, to let him know without the shadow of a doubt that she was after him, that it wouldn’t be long now.

  But she did not. She simply debated with him, took notes, and discussed the topic.

  Rothstein was infuriating. After that introduction, he’d just continued to work as though nothing had happened. He was smart, too, and he knew his period. He could match her point for point. In fact, he had insight. At the end of an hour, the two of them had prepared a remarkable paper.

  “It’s been interesting,” he said, offering his hand when she stood up to go.

  Rose let it hang there.

  “We aren’t friends,” she said.

  Rothstein shrugged.

  “Your loss,” he said. “I was looking forward to getting to know you.”

  Rose turned on her heel and walked out.

  “See you tomorrow, toots,” he called after her.

  Rose’s heart didn’t stop pounding until she’d got out of his building and two streets away from campus. Bastard, sexist, womanizing bastard! Patronizing jerk! She was hot with fury, almost fighting to get her breath.

  It took twenty minutes of bus ride to realize she had made a mistake.

  Rothstein was a scion of Rothstein Realty. If she was serious about striking back at them, she should use him—the same way he’d used all those chicks. He looked at her like a sex object, and he said he was proud of the company. She shouldn’t have any hesitation about deceiving him.

  When she saw him tomorrow, Rose thought, she’d be nicer to him.

  The arrogant son of a bitch.

  Eighteen

  “Yeah, baby,” Fiona crooned. “Yeah!”

  Poppy thrashed out the last chord on her bass and tossed her black mane of hair into the red spotlight trained on her. That was it; last song. She felt the sweat dripping from her body. Her leather pants looked hot, but they also felt hot. She needed H2O badly.

  “Thank yew!” Fiona screeched. “Good night!”

  Poppy smiled out at the crowd who were clapping dutifully. A couple of metal-heads in the front who had been leering at the band all night stuck their fists in the air and whooped.

  Make noise, make some noise, Poppy thought.

  But she knew it wasn’t working. Fiona grabbed one of her hands and Lianne, their rhythm guitarist, the other. Behind the drum-kit Elise stood up and did her patented Nikki-Six drumstick twirl. The band bowed and blew kisses to the audience.

  “Hey man, they want an encore, let’s do ‘Outcast,’” Fiona hissed.

  Poppy could see the crowd was already drifting off to the bar.

  “No they don’t. Let’s go.”

  To forestall further debate, she waved at the club and ran into the tiny dressing room at the back. It wasn’t much bigger than a bathroom stall and didn’t smell much better. Graffiti from a hundred club acts covered the walls. Poppy thought about scrawling her own—Snaggletooth was here and we sucked ass. At least that would be honest.

  The other four girls followed behind her and went straight for their pathetic rider, a bottle of cheap vodka and a carton of cranberry juice. There were also some plastic bottles of water and Poppy drained one of those instead.

  “Dude! Did you hear that! We fuckin’ rocked,” Fiona gloated. “They were, like, so into it, man. And I sounded awesome, I sounded like Lita Ford.”

  Hoo boy, Poppy thought.

  “Yeah, we rule,” Lianne said. “Those guys were totally staring at us.”

  “I thought we sucked,” Poppy said. “We really need some new stuff. And more practice.”

  “You’re so negative.”

  “Shut up.”

  “You don’t know.”

  “Ignore her, she’s always like that.” Fiona scowled at her bassist. “Maybe we need some other chick on bass.”

  “She looks good, though,” Elise said.

  “You’re real lucky, Poppy. Lucky that not too many chicks play bass,” Fiona said again, like she always did. “Anyway,” she added, tossing her long blond hair and brightening, “guess what? Fix your makeup, ladies. Guess who’s waiting to see us after the set?”

  Poppy had a sinking feeling.

  “Joel Stein, that’s who.”

  “Please tell me you’re joking,” Poppy said.

  “Who’s Joel Stein?” Lianne asked.

  “He’s this big-time manager. And he’s here to see us!”

  The other girls screamed, jumping up and down and clapping their hands.

  Poppy blushed from pure embarrassment. Her band, Snaggletooth, had only just started. The girls didn’t want to rehearse enough, their songs sucked, and they all thought they were about to be discovered by John Kalodner and turned into the next Guns N’ Roses. Joel Stein, she knew who Joel Stein was. He ran the Dreams management company. He had a huge stable of multi-platinum bands and a handful of up-and-coming new acts.

  She hoped Stein had not come to see them. They were nowhere near ready. Poppy wasn’t sure if they ever would be.

  “We’re gonna meet him at the bar. Let’s go!”

  “Wait!” Elise said. She turned to the small, grimy, cracked mirror over the doorway and adjusted herself, undoing her leather zip-top to show a generous amount of cleavage. The band tarted up; lipsticks, liners, perfumes were all generously applied. Poppy reluctantly checked that her mascara had not run.

  “Wooh! Yeah!” Fiona was giving that annoying screechy cheering she loved to do. “Let’s go, Snaggletooth!”

  She flung open the door and raced out into the club. Poppy followed. Girls ignored them totally; a few of the guys patted their asses as they threaded their way through the packed darkness.

  “Hey, babes. Great band.”

  “You ladies are hot, you want a drink?”

  “What’s up, sugar?”

  “See?” Fiona turned around and looked disdainfully at Poppy. “They love us, man.”

  They reached the stairs that led up to the bar area. There was a tiny, cordoned-off section in the back; the “VIP” room, what a joke, Poppy thought. A small cubbyhole that only stank less than the rest of this poorly ventilated cess pit because there were less bodies crammed into it like human sardines. Oh no … there was a guy there …

  Fiona flashed her laminate at the security guard and he drew back the shabby red rope to let them in.

  “Joel, dude, so nice of you to come,” Fiona purred. The other four swarmed around him, batting their eyelashes and jiggling their boobs.
Poppy blushed some more; no matter, it was too dark in here for that to show. She looked at Joel Stein. He was tall, well-dressed; beautifully cut chinos, a pressed white T-shirt, a Rolex, a gold pinky ring, and long hair in a ponytail, with Ray-Bans on top of his head. Typical record exec, one of those fit forty-year-olds.

  He glanced at her.

  “How do you do, Mr. Stein,” Poppy said politely, and offered her hand.

  Stein shook it, crooking an eyebrow. Fiona kicked her, none too subtly.

  “So, hey, we rocked! Huh? Huh? We should talk contracts!” Fiona screeched.

  Stein’s face was impassive.

  “I’m gonna have to pass, girls. You’re a good band, but you’re just not what Dreams is looking for.”

  “Whaddya mean, pass? Didn’t you see the set?” Fiona demanded.

  “Shut up, Fiona. Thank you for coming to see us, Mr. Stein,” Poppy said.

  “You always ruin everything, Poppy!” Fiona’s voice was almost a scream now. “Keep your fucking trap shut!”

  “Um, good luck with finding management,” Stein said.

  “No, wait!” Fiona yelled, but he was gone.

  “Oh—shit!” Lianne rounded on Poppy. “You just blew it for us! We could have talked him into it!”

  “You’re fired!” Fiona yelled.

  “No, man, we can’t find another chick bassist,” Elise moaned.

  “We’ll get a guy then,” Fiona snarled.

  “No, Fi—”

  “Save yourselves the trouble.” Poppy’s disgust overflowed. “Joel Stein isn’t stupid. He didn’t think we were good, he was just being polite. We don’t practice enough to be good. The songs suck and Fiona has a voice like a barn owl. It takes more than long hair and big tits to be a rock band. I quit.”

  “You suck as a bassist! You’re always off-beat!” Elise, the drummer, accused.

  Poppy considered this. “You’re right. I do. But you know what the man said—‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again. Then quit. No use being a damn fool about it.’”

  Fiona reached out and pulled the laminate off Poppy’s neck. “Fuck you, bitch! You’re out of Snaggletooth!”