No Perfect Princess

by Angel Payne

She gave up a snort but it never erupted into the laugh I expected. “Okay…seriously. Give it up. You just looked a thousand miles away, with your neck under a blade. Penny for your thoughts, Ned Stark?”

  “Penny for yours?” It rolled out before I could temper the how-does-that-feel delivery—and instantly could’ve knifed myself in the balls, were they not still pressed against her ass.

  Well, there was a prime Reddit post.

  Who else has completely killed the afterglow—while still buried inside her? Anyone?

  But proving yet again that this was a night for the unexpected, the knee in my gut and the squirming escape never came. Her hands along my back, though? Her touch against my nape? Her seeking, soft gaze?

  “All I was thinking about…was how good this was. How good we are.” She knew I wouldn’t argue with that, so she plunged on, “And I know things have been…weird…”

  Okay, so the laugh got to be mine, instead. “Weird? You mean how you went from going wild thing with me to hopping in the car with Andre, inside one hour?”

  “I had to.” Her voice broke. Suddenly, I wondered how much rehearsal that had taken. “I had to, Michael.”

  “Right. Because of that phone call you also can’t talk to me about.”

  “Do you think I enjoyed doing that? I love,”—she stopped herself, clenching her teeth and punching out another huff—“Julian. And your mom. And being there—with you.” She broke into a little cry as I pushed up and out, hiking to her knees while I tore off the condom and slammed it into the bathroom waste can. “Michael—dammit! There’s nobody but you, okay? The call—it was business—and—”

  “Right,” I growled. Clawed a hand back through my hair. “Business—that required you to call Andre for a pick-up, instead of asking me to take you—”

  “Because you would have?” She spread her arms. Christ, why did she have to be so delectable, even doing that? Why did her hair have to cloud like that, and her breasts have to be so rosy, and her face have to be so captivating? An angel playing the devil’s game…

  We glared each other down for at least a minute, while I wrestled with a fucking answer. Finally, convinced I did mean it, I muttered, “Yes. I would have taken you.”

  She let her arms drop. Tilted her head, making the light from the living room halo around her head again. “Without asking me a thousand questions about the phone call?”

  Busted. And this time, not in a cute way. “Not a thousand. But…enough.”

  “Enough,” she echoed, “to qualify as the same kind of grill job you’re firing up now.”

  A savage sound ripped up from my gut. I tore another hand through my hair. I’d be a goddamn cue ball if this kept up. “You came pounding on my door, princess, remember? And I held you, welcomed you—without getting any more of a half-ass explanation than you had for me back in the meadow.”

  “And you took that condition. Carried me in here—”

  “Because you needed it!”

  She bounded off the bed—using the other side. “I think ‘needs’ were met on both sides, Mr. Pearson.”

  “Yay. We both get a gold fucking star.” I zipped up my shorts—beating her to the angry cover-back-up act by two fabulous seconds. I didn’t bother with my shirt, taking advantage of the moment she had to deal with hers to grate, “So what happens with all this now, Margaux? What’s the next step? When are you going to let me in?”

  She pulled her hair out from her shirt. Went for flipping it all into some fancy braid to the side, using a hair tie she pulled from her pocket—and actually attempted an eye roll to match the teen scene ‘do. “Okay, seriously, Michael. It’s not that big of—”

  “Stop. Stop.” I stabbed a thumb at my chest. “The guy standing next to you when you got that call in the meadow, remember? ‘Not that big of a deal’ isn’t the kind of thing that pales you by three shades and makes you shake like a permanent brain freeze just hit.”

  She scooted around and parked herself on the end of the bed. “Fine. So it’s heavy shit. But it’s not heavy shit that you need to know. It’s—it’s just best that you don’t.”

  I didn’t sit with her. I knew she wanted me to but sheer shock clamped my whole body, leaving me locked in place.

  Same shit…different used rubber.

  This wasn’t going to change. She wasn’t going to change. But I’d made the massive, moronic mistake of banking on the belief that she would…of thinking that everything we’d shared until now wasn’t just the stuff of hot sexual memories but of mutual communication, affection, and trust. I’d even told myself not to do it, including the blatant self-motivational speech after carrying her in here, and still fallen into the trap. Assumed our mind-blowing sex had to be due to something else working right between us, too…

  Holy shit.

  I’d turned into a chick.

  I walked across the room. I had to get away from the bed—and the reminder it now served as my beyond-belief stupidity. “So let me get this straight,” I said, bracing arms to the door frame. “You want me to stay signed on for sexual relief from the ‘heavy shit’, but it’s just ‘best’ that I don’t know what any of that is.”

  Margaux rose. Her arms were ramrod stiff, her hands working as rotating fists. “The last time I checked, the sexual relief thing was a perk for both sides here.”

  “Which all sounds real good, if this was a business partnership. Is that what it is to you, Margaux?”

  She blinked. “Excuse me?”

  “Because that’s what I’m beginning to feel.” I ground my own fists, crunching knuckles into the wood. “But maybe that was my mistake, right? The whole ‘feeling’ thing. Because if this was just a business merger for you, supply and demand meeting at opportune moments, I could’ve saved you a little time and effort.” I went full-in for the conclusion, spearing her with my stare to drive it in. “I’m simply not for sale.”

  She stiffened. Glared. “That’s disgusting.”

  Instead of replying—and probably saying more that was wrong, rash, or both—I pushed off the jambs, spun, and marched through the living room to my office. In the middle of my desk was the sheaf of papers I’d been staring at, off and on, for the last week. Had even tossed in the trash a couple of times before fishing back out, torn about whether I was looking at them through the right lenses of logic. Then wholly convinced that letting my heart weigh in on decisions might not be such a bad thing.

  Until now.

  “Following your heart”? That shit worked for knights fighting windmills, lost clown fish, and little girls stuck over the rainbow.

  Bad, bad choice for dumb fucks like me.

  As I picked up the stack again, running a thumb over the expensive vellum paper, Margaux appeared in the office doorway. Not-so-mild shocker. She wasn’t one to stick around when anyone pulled what she called “an extreme asshat”, and I was sure I’d just qualified. But right now, I was too spun-out to care.

  “What are you doing?” she asked. Her sneer was gone, in its place a voice closing in on a whisper. Did she already sense what I was about to reveal? Did it even matter?

  The speculation led to my own quiet query. “Damn. I care for you so much, Margaux. But you’re not ever going to let go and care the same way…are you?”

  “Mich—”

  I gashed the air with a hand. “That field’s not worth stomping again. We’ll just ride the merry-go-round and end up back at the same place, probably more torqued than we are now. I know you can’t let me in. I know it’s for my own good. I’m a grown man, not a six year-old who needs to be led through it again.”

  “I never thought you were—” Her face contorted as if I’d stabbed her. I refused to feel shitty about it. Apparently, neither did she. Her queen bee mask snapped back on, so seamlessly fitted that most people wouldn’t have recognized the transition. “Fine. No merry-go-round. You got it, boss. Far be it from me to hold you back from the pity party you’re set on, instead.”

  I didn’t jump at t
he bait. Not out of anger but of exhaustion. I couldn’t do this with her anymore—and if I hung around here, I would do this with her; over and over and over again, like an adrenalin junkie swearing he’d only bungee it off the bridge one more time.

  How many more times before the rubber band snapped?

  With the thought of my head bashing into a riverbed, I held up the sheaf. “These papers are from a law firm called Hayden and Hutton. They’re one of the finest outfits in Atlanta. Client list includes Mercedes, Mohawk, and Rubbermaid. Met them at a USD Law School career day. A couple of weeks ago, they reached out—with this.”

  She blinked. “With…what?”

  “It’s a job offer, Margaux.”

  She blinked harder. “So they’re expanding to San Diego, or something?”

  “No. It’s an offer with their offices in Atlanta.”

  She lowered herself into a chair, gripping both armrests during the jerky movement. “Oh.”

  Every goddamn bone in my body wanted to go to her. To kneel before her like the knight I yearned to be for her, begging her to let me protect her, cherish her, be the completion she needed, too. Instead, I lowered in the chair behind the desk. “I’ve already talked to some friends about it.” When they weren’t turning my body to mush up and down Coronado Beach. “And Mom, of course.”

  “And she’s supportive?” She scowled a little, seeming surprised.

  “Yeah. Weepy, but supportive. Things have stabilized at home. Carlo’s started to go a little growly watchdog about her, which I don’t mind in the least.” I shrugged. “She wants me to be happy.”

  “And you’re not?”

  Screw wanting to kneel for her. “Margaux,” I snarled. “Dammit.” Lurched to my feet, opting to pound the desk. When that jerked her stare to mine, I didn’t stall about taking full advantage. “Tell me not to go.” Every syllable shot from between my teeth, viciously pleading. “Tell me I have a reason to stay. Look at me now. Tell me. Mean it. Tell me—and I’ll shred all of this with my bare hands, right now.”

  A moment. Another.

  Her silence, like spikes of steel, twisting between my ribs, up my torso, into my heart.

  Her tears were the acid poured into those wounds.

  “Yeah,” I finally muttered. “That’s what I thought.”

  I’d taken one last bungee jump—and survived. Barely.

  *

  It was the butt-crack of morning but after Margaux left, I gave up on sleep. Now that I’d really made the decision to burn the bridge, I wanted to strike the match and be done with the whole thing.

  At exactly five thirty two a.m., I slid my key card across the pad next to the designer glass entry doors of Asher and Associates and entered the building for the last time. At a place like Asher, used to dealing with scandals that broke at the speed of light and had to be contained even faster, two-week notices were more a nuisance than a help. Besides, I imagined Andrea being more relieved by my departure than anything, especially if she guessed a “commoner” like me was “sniffing” at her princess. Whatever rift had gone down between her and Margaux, blood was still blood. A mother still loved her daughter. Now the two of them could hunt for a suitable prince together.

  Resignation letter in hand, I walked down the silent halls toward boss lady’s office. The document was brief, to-the-point, and somewhat edited, though I’d not poured a lot of stress into it. The woman wouldn’t read past the first paragraph.

  I only hoped my departure might wake up Chad now, too. He needed to get out of here just as much as I did. In reality, just about everyone on the staff did. Lately, it felt like Andrea checked in her Gucci-clad ass to the office but simply phoned in her brain—with a line that had serious disconnection problems. Her distracted behavior was becoming the source of more and more coffee room “in” jokes.

  Not my problem anymore.

  Thank fuck.

  I repeated the words while placing my sealed letter on Andrea’s space-age desk, its chrome and Plexiglas surfaces beginning to glow with the orange tones of the sunrise. I turned and took in the bay and the Embarcadero, both golden and glimmering in the early morning light, before gazing across the water to the shore at the Naval Base, where SEAL recruits practiced maneuvers with their Zodiacs. While turning for my own office, I promised myself to ping Keir for one last torture session before I left to get fat on peach cobbler, cornbread, and full-sugar Coke.

  I took the long way home, so to speak, in order to duck into the mail room for a box to dump my personal things into. When I emerged, I frowned. I was sure I’d turned the light off after leaving boss lady’s domain but I’d also been up all night. Functioning memory cells were at a premium right now.

  I was halfway back to Andrea’s office before being stopped by the sound of laughter. Andrea’s laugh wasn’t what pushed my brakes. She worked at all hours, especially if a client crisis had just hit. But she wasn’t the only one in there. A masculine timbre rumbled through the air.

  Colin. Of course. I vaguely remembered Andrea telling everyone she’d be in Cabo over the weekend; since she’d returned early, he must have accompanied her straight from the airport.

  I heaved a soft sigh. Twirled the box on my finger a few times, basketball style—like that added to the productive output of the moment.

  Just go get it over with.

  Since she was here in the office and would soon know I was too, the decent action would be a short “visit” to tell her about the contents of the letter. Sooner was better, since Colin was still here. The man balanced Andrea, filling in the places she was weak—like smiling, remembering names, and not treating everyone in the world like “the help”.

  Yep. Best to get my ass in there while the air was still palatable.

  Whoa.

  I froze in my tracks again. Immediately backed away on ninja steps before tucking into the alcove near the water cooler, pressing my back to the wall and controlling my breathing.

  What the hell? Few too many episodes of Jack Bauer, man?

  If what I’d just seen was right, I was allowed the bizarre action. It completely fit the mind blower of a twist to the morning.

  Colin wasn’t the guy at Andrea’s side for the breakfast hour view. And the you-got-a-fine-ass-girl embrace. And the dual glasses of champagne, sloshing over as she returned the sentiment.

  Trey Stone was.

  I risked another glance, taking advantage of the abnormal angle on Andrea’s double office doors, to confirm my eyes hadn’t just fucked over my head.

  They sure as hell hadn’t.

  Dammit.

  “What the hell?” I fired beneath my breath—applying it to both aspects of this craziness. This nod to my inner Jack Bauer? In a word, bizarre. But Andrea Asher, my married boss, getting on with the feels—with Trey fucking Stone? Bizarre didn’t cover a second of it.

  Whop.

  The smack of a champagne cork escaping its bottle snapped my stare back up. Foam dribbled over Trey’s hand. Andrea leaned in and licked it off.

  As Margaux would say: ew. I dealt with a less polite reaction from my throat, swallowing hard against the invasion of bile.

  “Easy, Barbarella,” Trey drawled out. “Time for that later.”

  Andrea perched herself better on the desk—scooting her ass right over my letter—then crossed her legs, leaned back on one hand, and arched her back a little. “You mean after your brilliance makes us five million dollars richer?”

  Koo-koo-ka-choo, Mrs. Robinson.

  “Oh, I don’t know if I’d call it ‘brilliance’—or maybe I would.” Trey sipped his fresh bubbly with one hand and ran his fingertips over her knee with the other. “But it was a team effort.”

  Andrea lifted her flute. “Here’s to great minds, then.”

  “And knowing how to yank the chains you want.”

  “When you want.”

  They clinked glasses, opening a damn good moment for me to move again, but I was riveted in place. This wasn’t like watching
a train wreck or a car chase. This was like driving through a murder scene and feeling like shit for the person who belonged to the spleen on the road.

  Andrea slid to her feet, encased in high-heeled ankle boots on top of black fishnets, and paced to the window. Trey followed like a smitten puppy, shoving aside her hair to nuzzle her neck. She laughed softly. “Now who’s the one who needs an ‘easy Barbarella’?”

  Trey growled. “Don’t tease me, Dre.”

  Dre?

  “No teasing, my sexy big boy. You know that. As soon as the circle’s complete, it’ll be just you, me, and the Caribbean Sea.”

  He pushed a little closer, caging her between the glass and his body, shoving at her ass like—well, a mutt.

  “Gah.” I spat it softly toward the floor. Some things just couldn’t be erased, no matter how much brain bleach you wished for.

  Fido wasn’t getting the message. “I hate meeting like this.”

  “I know. But it was the only way to get free. If he calls me from Cabo, I have to pick up the phone.”

  I guessed that the “he” was Colin. Poor, trusting idiot.

  “You’re right.” Trey pushed away, chugged his champagne then poured himself some more. “What’s a few more days to wait, when we have years of pleasure ahead?”

  Andrea drained her glass a little more carefully. “Do you think anyone’s caught on?” she asked. “At Stone Global?”

  “Like I fucking care. If they do, it’s not traceable back to me or you.” He chugged again. “SGC. Fuck them. Stands for Shitty Goddamn Cocksuckers, you know. They can all smooch my brilliant, tight butthole.”

  Andrea erupted in laughter. When Trey joined in with a snicker more obnoxious than Beavis and Butthead, I knew I’d heard enough—in more ways than one.

  The shit in my office wasn’t worth hanging out for. I left the building via the back stairs then doubled back to the lot, jumping into the Denali with the urgency of fucking Batman headed for the bowels of Arkham. But I was headed for a destination possibly more dangerous for me than that.

  Margaux’s place.

  Chapter Seventeen