Dirty Scandal

by Amelia Wilde

  Gritting my teeth, I give him a smile, my lips pressed together tightly.

  “Where to, sweetheart?” he rasps, not turning to face me.

  I had memorized the address of my new place—well, my friend Carolyn’s place—and I rattle it off to him, doing my best to sound as if it’s not my first time in New York City.

  “Great,” says the driver in his raspy voice, as he steers the taxi away from the curb. “That’ll give us plenty of time to get to know one another.”

  His voice makes my skin crawl, but I’ve been traveling all day. I’m only half an hour away from my new apartment. I’d give this creep a piece of my mind, but I don’t have it in me right now. Instead, I pull out my phone to scan through my social media accounts.

  That doesn’t last long. It was terrible enough to find out that my fiancé, Derek, had been cheating on me for a year with my best friend. Former best friend. On top of that, now every time I open one of my social media apps, there’s another message from a well-meaning friend or rabid gossip hawk wanting to know what happened?!?!? You two always seemed so happy together.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and open the Maps app, watching the small blue dot representing the cab hurtle down the expressway at fifteen over.

  The driver swerves the taxi into the opposite lane. The jolt throws me into the door next to me, and seconds later the red Ford Explorer he cut off speeds up alongside us, the driver red in the face and shaking his fist at us. My heart pounds. What is wrong with this guy?

  Now that we’re on I-495, there’s nowhere for me to get out.

  The cabbie raises his middle finger at the driver of the Explorer and bursts forth a croaky guttural laugh. Then he glances back into the mirror to look at me.

  “Enjoying the ride?”

  “No,” I say flatly. I don’t necessarily want to antagonize this asshole, but with this kind of ride, there will be no tip. “Please slow down.”

  The driver taps the brakes abruptly, then lets out another cackle. “Sure thing, sweetie. I’ll slow down, and we can talk.”

  “I’m not in the mood to talk,” I say, reaching over to my suitcase and tightening my grip on the handle. The second—and I mean the very instant—we’re in Manhattan, I’m bailing.

  Cars screech their brakes around us and drivers honk their horns furiously at our cab, which is crawling along at something like twenty miles per hour.

  I’m about to open my mouth and demand that he drive like a normal person, when he speeds up again.

  Yep. I’m in a cab driven by an insane person. Seriously, he must be crazy. I could die trying to get to my new apartment. Wouldn’t that be rich?

  It’s like New York City doesn’t want me here.

  “Where you from, doll?” he comments like nothing has happened, and my stomach turns over.

  My cell phone rings. My realtor’s name flashes on the screen, and I’m seized by a wild hope. Maybe she found a buyer for my house already.

  “Hello?” I answer, shouting over the loud country music still blaring from the cab’s radio.

  “Ms. Campbell?” my realtor says. She’s a woman who always looks a little frazzled and right now she sounds that way, too. “Can you hear me?”

  “I can hear you.” I hunch down in the seat and cup my hand over my mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “Well—” she says, and I can practically hear her psyching up to give me bad news. “There’s been a problem with your plumbing.”

  “The plumbing?” This is a new one. When I left my house, it was in perfect condition, ready to be sold. As quickly as possible.

  “Yes. Unfortunately, some pipes have burst in the basement level, and there’s no way we can proceed with showings unless…”

  I tip my head back against the filthy seat and close my eyes, letting her voice fade into the background. New York City doesn’t want me, and Colorado won’t pull its claws out of my flesh.

  “Thanks, Sherrie,” I say when her voice finally peters out. “I’ll get in touch with someone local to make the repairs right away.” As soon as I’ve survived this death trap of a cab ride.

  The driver makes a sharp turn, cutting across another lane of traffic. I end the call.

  “So,” he calls back over the music, licking his lips, “you need help with some plumbing? I’m available right now, hot stuff.”

  He winks. Winks.

  Gross. I’m done.

  “Stop the cab,” I yell over the music, my voice cold and angry.

  He bursts out laughing. “Sweetie, don’t take it so personally. We’re kidding around. We’re having a good time.”

  “Stop the cab!” I shout, louder this time. “Right now, or I’m calling 9-1-1.” I hold up my phone so he can see it in the rearview mirror, my finger poised on the button.

  The leering smile leaves his face as his mouth twists into a scowl.

  “Fine, bitch,” he spits, then jerks on the wheel, cutting across a lane of traffic to reach the curb.

  I’m out the door even as he begins to scream at me, incoherently, and the suitcase fights me too, sticking inside the door.

  “Hey! Hey!” I finally make out some of the words. “You owe me! You owe me!”

  “No way,” I shout back at him, putting all my weight into getting my suitcase out of the car. I manage to wrench it free before the psycho pulls away, practically foaming at the mouth. And—crap. I never got his cab number or even looked at his information.

  Now I’m standing in the rain, still several blocks away from my new apartment, and I have a massive suitcase to haul with me.

  But I’m still alive.

  Things could be worse.

  A car zooms by too close to the curb, splashing me with another layer of dirty rainwater.

  Could be worse.

  2

  Christian

  It’s Pierce Industries’ biggest event of the year, and I’ve got women on my mind.

  Two, specifically. One, Angela, has been sending me text messages all evening. Photos with hot little captions. In each photo, she’s wearing one less piece of clothing, and it’s only 7:30. By the time I get out of here she should be wearing absolutely nothing. I sneak looks at my phone every few minutes as I continue pretending to appreciate the live jazz band playing tunes from a small raised stage at the far end of the ballroom.

  Unfortunately for Angela—and despite how tempting the smooth curves of her body look in the photos—she’s no longer an option. We’ve been on three dates, the absolute maximum number of dates I ever go on with a woman.

  I can’t let her get any closer.

  The thought creeps into my mind like a foggy paranoia, and I brush it away. A tuxedoed waiter whisks past balancing a full tray of champagne flutes, the bubbly liquid glittering inside, and I grab one. It’s the next best thing to sneaking out the back entrance and heading straight to the Purple Swan or my penthouse.

  I’m lifting it to my lips when the second woman who has dibs on my attention slinks up next to me in a silky red dress that leaves little to the imagination. “Another drink?” she teases, her smile amped up with dark red lipstick. It’s a little too much for my taste, but Christian Pierce isn’t particular about shit like makeup.

  I give her a sly half smile. “Melody. We keep running into each other.”

  “It’s a small ballroom.” She swipes a glass of champagne off another waiter’s tray for herself, giving him a saucy wink as he goes by. “You’re quite the attraction tonight, Mr. Pierce,” she says, glancing sideways at me. Her lips don’t leave a stain on the edge of the glass. How the hell do lipstick manufacturers pull that off?

  As if to prove her point, three high-ranking partners, all about my father’s age, approach me right then, their voices loud and boisterous. They’ve clearly been taking a little heavier advantage of the open bar than I have.

  One of them, Stuart, shakes my hand, then claps me on the back. “You’ve finally made it, son. Clawed your way right to the top.”

 
“Of course I did, Stuart.” I’m so gracious. Never mind the fact that I save my wild side for the Swan and the other bars and clubs I frequent in the city, not the office. “You think a son of Harlan Pierce would leave an opportunity on the table?”

  Stuart guffaws, his face pink from drinking, his tie already loosened. “Not for an instant.” His buddies take turns shaking my hand and murmuring their congrats. The official announcement hasn’t been made yet, but word is out.

  Is it ever.

  Once they’ve finished their little display of loyalty, Stuart finally notices Melody. In the skin tight red gown she’s wearing, it’s impossible to overlook her, but Stuart is the kind of ass who likes to play women for second-class citizens. To him, she’s window dressing.

  Like you’re any better. A twinge of guilt arcs across my chest. I’m not any better than Stuart. In the game I’ve been playing for the past ten years, women are nothing more than pawns, entertainment.

  And that’s the way it’s going to stay.

  Stuart’s eyes practically pop out of his head as he lustily scans up and down Melody’s body, all the way from her cleavage down to her stilettos. “Well, hello there,” he says, his tone leaving nothing to the imagination.

  “Hello,” Melody says icily. She’s not much for fat older men, even if they happen to be wealthy. Not when she can go after younger billionaires like me. I’m a prince compared to Stuart.

  Stuart juts his chin at me. “This guy giving you trouble, young lady?”

  Melody gives him a thin smile that barely disguises her disgust. “Oh, no. Not at all.”

  Her tone is cutting, but Stuart laughs indulgently. “You’re a fiery one, aren’t you?”

  I’m about to step in and defuse the situation with some witty remark that will steer Stuart back to the bar, but the music fades and stops. My father has stepped up onto the stage.

  “Good evening,” he says, the same winning smile that I’ve inherited plastered across his face. All around me people set down their plates of expensive hors d'oeuvres to applaud in acknowledgement.

  “Gotta go,” I whisper to Melody. I set my champagne glass down on a waiter’s empty tray, and start making my way through the maze of tables as my father addresses the gathering.

  My timing is perfect. I reach the stage as he says, “…so it’s with great pride that I announce that my son, Christian Pierce, has officially been named Senior Vice President in charge of Pierce Industries’ Entertainment Division.”

  A thrilled smile is painted across my lips as I climb the short set of stairs to join my father on the podium, but below the surface, I’m jumping out of my skin. My heartbeat pulses in my ears. I can never tell if my father does these things because he thinks I can handle the business or because he wants more control. At least when he’s in control, he can still make sure I don’t screw it up.

  As if the fact that I spend most nights out on the town has any impact on my ability to manage my affairs at Pierce Industries. Harlan Pierce shouldn’t have any problem with that lifestyle. It’s the same one he’s been leading for years.

  At least when this grandiose announcement is over, I can make a hasty exit and get on with my night. At the Swan maybe, or back at my place. Maybe with Melody. I haven’t tapped her yet, and I’m in the mood for someone frisky tonight.

  Onstage, in front of everyone else, he pulls me in for a hug, and I scan his eyes searching for a sign that this is genuine. Looks real enough to me, but you never know.

  “Congratulations, son,” he says into my ear, and I clasp his arm above his elbow and grin back at him. Then it’s my turn to speak to the assembly.

  I take the microphone from his hand. “Thank you,” I say easily, as if I was born to do this. “I’ll do my best to make you proud, Dad.” I wink at a woman standing near the stage in a dress with a plunging neckline as the crowd lets out a communal awwww. “With that said, don’t let us interrupt your evening. Let’s all get back to celebrating!”

  The crowd bursts into another round of applause, and I turn to shake my father’s hand once again. In moments, we’re both making our way back through the crowd: my father heading to his table, and me to the nearest exit.

  3

  Quinn

  I’m soaked to the skin, my clothes so wet it doesn’t matter that it’s raining anymore. The real bitch of the situation is the giant suitcase I’m hauling. It gets heavier with every step, and I’m starting to wonder if I needed all the shit I stuffed inside it back in Colorado. Most of my furniture went into a storage unit, while everything from Derek went directly into the dumpster. What’s in the suitcase is the cream of the crop.

  Maybe it would be better to set it down on the sidewalk and walk away, a case of finders, keepers. Everything in there, in some way or another, reminds me of Derek, of Colorado, of everything going wrong.

  But I can’t leave it. Best case scenario, someone picks through it and finds another use for what’s inside. Worst case scenario, my unidentified large black suitcase causes a terrorism panic. Not the best way to make my debut in New York City, if you ask me.

  At least it’s a warm summer rain.

  I stop at another intersection and squint up at the street sign. Three more blocks, and then I’ll be at the new place. Carolyn assured me that it was absolutely fine to stay as long as I wanted. Her old roommate, Jessica, went to Europe to be the queen or princess or something of some tiny country there. Lucky for me, Carolyn decided loneliness isn’t her style.

  We’ll be great roommates. I’m looking forward to things being a little closer to how they were in college. Back then, life wasn’t nearly so complicated, and I hadn’t been taken for a ride by a jackass fiancé.

  It would be a plus, however, if I could get there before it’s completely dark out. I’m not one hundred percent confident that drivers will notice me in my all-black clothing, what with the rain. Even if the sun were out, it would be hidden well below the buildings by now.

  I’m traveling at a snail’s pace, dragging the suitcase behind me. Silver lining? I get to check out a lot of the local restaurants and shops. An outfit in a boutique catches my eye, and for half a second I consider going in to look more closely. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. I look more like a drowned rat than a PR specialist rising through the ranks at Holden Reputation Management, Inc., which is my profession when I’m not carting my belongings through the streets of New York in a rainstorm like an idiot who doesn’t know how to hail a cab.

  I laugh out loud at the reflection. That’s how my day has gone.

  Two and a half blocks to go.

  For whatever reason, traffic is picking up. I thought I was doing myself a favor by flying in after rush hour, but it’s starting to look like it’s always rush hour in this city. It’s Thursday night, and people have places to go.

  I cross through another intersection. Two more blocks. My arms ache from pulling the suitcase. Thank God I’ve been lifting some weights at the gym, or else I’d be hurting.

  I distract myself from the burn by looking into the shops and restaurants on this block—there’s a sushi place I might want to check out later—then step up to another intersection and wait for the light. A guy out for a jog—really?—darts around me and crosses against the light, which looks like a total suicide mission to me.

  He’s picked the wrong moment. A cab driver has to slam on the brakes at the last second to avoid hitting him. My heart leaps into my throat. Shit, that was close! There’s a cacophony of horns honking and shouting.

  Jogger Man never even turns his head, keeps on going down the sidewalk, totally unfazed.

  Jesus. I like to take the occasional risk now and then—for instance, having my job transferred to New York City, despite only having visited it once a few years ago—but getting nailed by any kind of vehicle is not something I’m going to risk. Especially after my luck with the cab driver earlier.

  I’m still recovering from the near-miss I witnessed when the light change
s. I look both ways before I step off the curb, the wheels of my suitcase rattling on the concrete behind me.

  God that was such a close call.

  I’m halfway across the street when my suitcase catches on something, jerking me backward. I give it a sharp tug. It doesn’t come free. What the hell?

  Rolling my eyes—is this day ever going to give me a break—I turn to look at what happened. Did one of the wheels break, or…?

  Nope. One of the wheels has jammed. Right into a crack in the New York City asphalt.

  Seriously.

  I wrench the handle of the suitcase with my newly toned arms, but it doesn’t budge. Underneath the sheen of the rain, beads of sweat start to collect on my hairline. The cars are awfully close, and I do not want to cause a huge scene when the light changes back again.

  A glance at the walk sign tells me I don’t have much time—the thing has already turned red, the hand flashing at me and the seconds counting down. Ten. Nine. Eight…

  How is this thing so stuck? I try a different angle, pulling it to the side, and it moves a fraction of an inch.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I say under my breath, yanking harder with every word.

  I hear moving on the street, an engine revving, I glance up again at the surrounding cars, realizing in an instant that the light has changed. An SUV is barreling toward me, making a left-hand turn, the driver on the phone, not looking.

  One gasping breath, one last powerful pull on the suitcase, and then I jump out of the way of the SUV, barely making it to safety.

  My suitcase doesn’t.

  The SUV connects with my Samsonite with a dull thud. The upside is that the wheel is no longer stuck in the crack anymore. The downside is that the top pops open, sending clothes and books and shoes in every direction.

  Like the jogger, the driver of the SUV keeps going as I stand on the curb, staring after him, my mouth hanging open in disbelief.