Killian
The media was a necessary evil in my life. Yes, they were bloody invasive, at one time publicizing the most gruesome moment of my life for all the world to see. Paparazzi followed me everywhere, wanting to dig through my most personal business, never giving me an inch of privacy.
But it also meant I was doing my job well. If I was on the top of their radar, it meant I was winning games, bringing our country glory and all that bullshit. And it also meant they exposed rats when they infested my life.
In the case of Leah Watson, the media was a bloody godsend.
I’d been absolutely horrified when I saw her face on that morning’s paper. But that horror quickly turned to red hot rage as I read the story on the inside cover, finding out all about Leah’s past and her strife to become the wife of an athlete. She’d tricked me all right, and I wouldn’t soon forget that.
I’d spent the rest of the week reading any article about her in my spare time.
Leah Watson. Senior at University of Oklahoma. Public relations student. Former girlfriend and high school sweetheart of all-state wide receiver Taylor Mason. I’d read interviews with anonymous sources, most likely some of Leah and her ex-boyfriend’s classmates or friends, who said they were due to get married. That Leah had had their future all planned out, that she couldn’t wait to be the wife of an NFL player.
They detailed what seemed like a coldness about her, how she always seemed on for the cameras. So I went to YouTube and watched her. Or rather, I watched her wanker of an ex droll on about himself and his Boomer Sooners, whatever the bloody hell that was, while she sat in the corner of the shot.
In almost every single interview, award speech and ESPN feature, she sat in the background. In a dress or sweater set that didn’t suit her, with an expression of admiration plastered on her delicate face. He never thanked her, or as a matter of fact, he never even mentioned her. I studied her in each video, the way each smile never quite reached her eyes, the way she looked so hesitant to touch him or talk, like if she said or did the wrong thing, the sky might fall.
That girl was nothing like the woman who had been writhing on my bed, completely bare and open for me, five days ago. That woman was daring, cheeky and feral. With those long, sloping legs, tiny waist, and full, edible tits. God, I was getting hard in Jimmy’s car on the way to the match just thinking about it.
And that pussy. My god. Completely hairless, all of that rosy skin, soft and sweet like whipped cream. Those quivering, puckered lips so coated in her wetness that I could have slid into her without warming her up at all. I had to bite my tongue to keep the growl in my throat.
Yes, Leah was a bombshell. But she was also a minx, shifting her personalities in front of your eyes. And I’d had so many of those women in my life, it wasn’t the star-fucking goals that bothered me. It was the deception. Especially because I could find myself actually starting to fancy her. After Eve, I never thought I’d fancy anyone again.
Especially because, for the first time in five whole years, I had slept through an entire night without the terrors invading. When I’d woken on the couch, her breathing softly brushing across my face, my arm halfway under her, I had smiled. I’d stretched and reveled in the perfectness of a quiet morning after a restful sleep.
“I’ve invited Leah to the game.” Jimmy spoke up from the driver’s seat of his Range Rover. It was as if he could read my bloody thoughts.
“And why would you do that, now?” Bloody hell.
“Because, she still works for you. Even though you haven’t bothered to utilize her or even speak to her for a week. That poor girl didn’t do anything, Kill. Have you even spoken to her about what the papers are printing?”
“Oh, we’ve spoken alright…” I grumbled, pretending to examine my fingernails.
“I went to see her. She looks like hell, Killian. Poor lass looks like she’s been crying for a week. Leah’s a nice girl, and you could put an end to this if you would only tell the media she is just your employee. It isn’t like you to let them trash an innocent girl like this—“
“She isn’t a nice girl! She isn’t innocent!” I blew my fuse, screaming at him like a petulant child.
Jimmy cocked his furry gray brows at me, his ruddy cheeks pushing a whistle from his lips. “Now, I don’t think you believe that for one second…”
Thankfully, we pulled up the player’s entrance at Cafsham Stadium just then, better known as Windingham’s home field. I scrambled out, pushing past the photographers crowding the gates to the tunnel that led down to our locker room.
The team was buzzing today, the locker room a hive of anxiousness and testosterone. I dressed quietly, getting pumped up by the blaring rap coming from Reese’s locker.
I stared over at him, willing him to behave and play like a champion today. I’d already tried to drill that mission into him this week in practice. The match today was big. Bloody massive. Dorring United were top of the table, six points up on us where we sat in third place. If we won today, we would go up three points, moving into second and putting us within two points of Dorring.
“Remember what we talked about, McAteer.” I shouted, not loudly but stern enough that I momentarily wiped the cocky grin from his face. Jesus did he remind me of myself at that age.
“Yes, yes, old man. Just make sure you try to keep up with me. Wouldn’t want you to break a hip while I’m trying to pass to you.”
Tosser.
“Hey Ramsey. What’s the name of that new little piece you’re shagging? She’s a looker.” Ashby Holmes waggled his eyebrows at me and I could feel the blood begin to simmer through my body.
Ashby always had to be extra cheeky. Just a little bit more of a sarcastic, obnoxious dick than anyone else.
“Yeah, she’s young too. Probably real tight—“
My glass, which I’d been drinking green superfood juice from to prep for the game, smashed dangerously close to Ashby’s head against the wood corner of his locker when I threw it across the room.
The team erupted into “what the fucks” and “bloody hells.” Ashby tried to charge me but was held, practically in a choke hold, by Olivier.
“You’re bloody mad, Ramsey! Absolutely mental!” Ashby shouted, red, spidery veins popping out in his eyeballs as he slobbered.
I stood against my locker, arms crossed over my chest, a cocky, shit-eating grin on my face. I strolled closer to him, causing Olivier to tighten his hold on a thrashing Ashby.
“Don’t you ever make comments about my personal life again.” I spit, and strolled to the tunnel, ready to take the pitch.
The game flashed by in a blur of passes, mad dashes and blinding, pissing rain. We won, adding three points to our overall standing, but it wasn’t easy.
I flashed my eyes up to Jimmy only every five seconds or so. No one ever filled the empty seat next to his.
12
Leah
Did you know that there is a heaven? In fact, it resides right in London, England if you weren’t aware.
In between Paddington and Piccadilly Circus, there is a shop called Primark. And in there I found Jesus.
Okay, so maybe I didn’t find the savior of the Christian religion, the person they wrote bible passages about. But Primark came pretty close. It was a Londoner’s Forever 21 on steroids, with multiple floors and any department a woman could possibly think of.
After sulking in my bed for five days, feeling dejected, broken and ashamed, I had decided to pick myself up and really start anew. Heidi, after apologizing over her comments and the shoe incident, had assured me that not only would the press die down in a day or two, but that I would be replaced by some British drama queen or other. And sure enough, one of their reality TV stars had "lost her knickers" at a club opening and I was redeemed.
There was absolutely nothing I could do to calm the media storm. No comment from me, or Killian, or even Jimmy would quell this blood lust while it was so fresh on everyone’s mind. The new strong woman in me wante
d to shout from the rooftops, deny everything. But that would only circulate the story more, and you know what they say about people who deny. A statement from Killian might have dimmed the flash of it a bit, but with such a playboy attitude, the media probably wouldn’t believe him anyway.
Which had made it possible to venture out on this unseasonably warm London afternoon. I'd walked the mile and a half over to Primark, which Emma had directed me to. She'd given me her fashion fairy godmother advice of picking out everything that I normally wouldn't wear and buying it.
Looking around the store, that was almost everything.
I had no sense of me, therefore, I had no sense of what I liked to put on my body. For the first three years of high school, before Taylor, I was sort of a tomboy with a rustic, Southwest style. Comfy jeans, boots and the odd plaid button down were what mostly comprised my wardrobe. When Taylor finally sunk his claws into me, I'd started to change when he made comments about how hot a girl looked. We'd be at the diner or at a party, and he'd make some under his breath comment about me dressing more like those kinds of girls. So I did. I bought the crop tops and the Daisy Dukes. I wore shirts that had my boobs spilling out or pants that rode so low you could see the newly purchased thongs I got just for him.
When we made it to college, he had not so subtly suggested I start portraying myself in a certain way. I made mental notes each time we watched a broadcast, whenever I attended an event with wives or girlfriends. I researched what NFL wives wore, and started buying clothes that I thought only the most respected of those women would wear. I dressed in appropriate, pretty but casual pieces for the events I attended with Taylor. Dressed in custom t-shirts and jackets with his number on them for his games.
I'd always been the pet project, never in control of my own image. And I found an enthusiasm bubbling to the surface as I surveyed the racks and racks of items.
Ponchos, skater skirts, red jeans, pumps, lingerie. I picked up items I had never in my life thought to wear. I made several trips to the dressing room, arms loaded down with hangers upon hangers of clothes. I laughed as I tried on a ridiculous pair of overalls that made my camel toe so pronounced it looked like I was trying to machete the material with my vagina. I found a gauzy, hippie sweater with fringe that I surprisingly loved, and a pair of heels with a loafer toe that I immediately threw in my basket.
All in all the afternoon cost me 300 Pounds, really about 450 dollars, but when I thought about it in British currency it made everything a little better.
But what was priceless about my splurge? I was finally coming into my own, doing and buying things for me. That I wanted to wear simply because I liked them. Not because I thought they’d purvey a certain image.
I walked along Oxford Street admiring the bustle and pure energy that London solely owned. I stopped for waffles and ice cream at a stand that smelled too delicious to ignore. As I wolfed down the last melty, chocolatey bite, my phone began to buzz.
It was probably Jimmy, who I had been ignoring since I skipped the Windingham game. I couldn't stand the thought of getting to the stadium, all of those people staring at me in the stands, wondering if I was fucking Killian Ramsey. The paparazzi snapping pictures of my every move. No, it would have only caused more uproar, and I'd come here to avoid that.
The other reason I was avoiding my now insistent cell phone was because low and behold, my pain in the ass ex had decided to worm his way out of the woodwork. Taylor had been texting me non-stop since the articles about Killian had come out. His messages ranged from slut shaming to rudely assuming I would have never moved on from him. Looking back, I didn't know how I'd been trapped by that jerk for so long.
But part of it stung. I’d been so invested in our relationship, our future, and here he was joining everyone else, piling on about something that I hadn’t even done. Of all people he should have known me best. Known that I was not the type of girl that was being portrayed in the media. My stomach lurched when I thought about his words, the voicemails he’d left. There was a time in my life when he’d been the moon and the stars in my life, we would lay with each other for hours and talk about the world, our lives, what we were going to accomplish. The teenage girl inside of me wept for the loss of that first love, about what an ugly person, on the inside, Taylor had become.
When the phone started up for the fourth time, I pulled it out, wary of the jolts of cancer my body must be getting from the tenacious caller.
73Bulbs corporate office number flashed across the screen. That was strange. I hadn't heard a peep from them since I'd started working with Killian. It was as if I didn't exist anymore since I wasn't in their offices.
I quickly swiped to answer it. "Hello?"
"Yes, Ms. Watson. Cressida Bennett would like you in the office straight away."
A cold sweat moved over my skin, pimpling it and causing that funny feeling of dread to run down the back of my neck. My mouth hung open for a minute, unable to think for the sheer nausea passing through. Cressida didn't call people in. And if she did, especially a lowly intern, it wasn't about something good. The woman didn't do compliments or pats on the back, I knew that much.
"Um...I can be there in an hour." I said offhandedly, cataloging my purchases to create a suitable outfit and clocking the amount of time it would take if I started running back to my apartment now.
"No need, what is your location? Her driver will pick you up and bring you."
Shit. I was not dressed in any state to meet the infamous owner of Europe's most prominent PR firm. And I was also getting really good at the whole internal cursing thing. I'd never been one to cuss, but found it was very cathartic.
"Miss?" The chilly receptionist brought me back to the present.
"Yes, I'm on Oxford Street across from the Disney Store."
The line went dead. What was it with all of these professionals having absolutely no time for pleasantries?
Fifteen minutes later and a black town car pulled up. And the James Bond lookalike driver, who was the first person I'd interacted with in this country, stepped out.
"We meet again." Jasper smiled, grabbing my bags and putting them in the backseat as I walked towards the car.
"Yes, how do I keep landing myself in these situations?" I cracked a grin.
"You know this can't be good, right?" He teased me as we climbed in, me in the backseat and him in the front, driving towards my doom.
"No really, please make me feel worse." I teased right back. I found his honest, openness and sarcasm refreshing. And if I wanted to flirt with the gorgeous driver a little, hey, why not? I was about to be in a sour mood, why not milk the good attitude I had while I still could.
"At least you got to see me again. Even though I'm not Killian Ramsey, I still think I'm a handsome bugger."
I shot him a withering look, and then glanced down at my bags. "Um, you need to not look back here for a few minutes."
"Come again?"
"I need to change. So keep your eyes on the road." I began sifting crazily through my purchases, settling on an emerald green blouse and the new pair of black slacks I'd bought with my new black loafer style heels.
Jasper snickered as I wiggled my way around the backseat, although I didn't see any prying eyes lurking in the rear view mirror.
"You've had quite the experience in your first week here, haven't you?"
"You don't know the half of it..." I grumbled as I finally secured the last shoe into place and ran my fingers through my day-old hair style. It would have to do though, because we were pulling up to the 73Bulbs office.
A sleek, grey granite building in the middle of downtown London, the office screamed expensive even from the outside. The offices were no less stylish, with white marble floors, grey granite walls and mirrored accents all over. I took the elevator up to the third and final floor, which housed only Cressida's office and her assistant's desk out front.
"I'm here to see Ms. Bennett..." I trailed off, the perfectly coiffed strawberry blon
de not even lifting an eyelash in my direction. Her long red nails clacked on her keyboard as I stood, awkwardly trying not to smooth my off-the-hanger blouse.
"She'll see you now. You can go in."
I took a deep breath, trying to fight the waffle trying to expel itself from my stomach. I would not vomit all over Cressida Bennett's carpet.
Pushing in, I saw her sifting through papers on her beautiful white desk. She glanced a shrewd caramel-colored eye at me, and motioned for me to sit in one of the blue suede armchairs in front of her desk.
"Miss Watson, isn't it?" She gave me the full head to toe once over as I tried not to cringe. I probably looked rumpled and cheap as opposed to the dress she wore.
She was a natural brunette with what looked like very expensive highlights. Her hair hung down her back in perfectly blown out curls, floating gently on the shoulders of her scarlet wrap dress. She was an older woman, but you wouldn't know that if you looked at her skin. She must have cornered the market on anti-wrinkle procedures.
"Yes. Hello, Ms. Bennett, thank you for bringing me in today. And thank you for bringing me on here...at 73Bulbs. It’s been such a great experience so far."
I knew I was rambling and tried to stop myself from digging my fingernails into my already over-sweaty palms.
"Well, it wouldn't appear that you were happy to be here since you haven't shown up for work in a week."
My stomach dropped. Someone had told her I wasn't at Killian's game, or that I wasn't helping with his schedule this week.
"I...um…I was…”
"No, don't interrupt. We have a way of knowing and finding out things here, even if you're not physically in the office. For instance, sleeping with your employer. Don't they teach you any etiquette in America?" Her snide voice chilled my bones. "I don't know what I was thinking when my dear friend Edie came to me asking for a position for her friend's niece. Your resume was a little lacking, but I thought you would be a hard worker. At least that is what she ensured me. Except here you are, an airheaded American with bad style and a knack for sleeping with athletes. And as if all of those things didn't count you out of this business automatically, you're now blowing off the one assignment that you seemed keen on blowing only days ago."
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