Indebted To A King

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Drug companies are big in Philadelphia. I'm not exactly sure why, but a lot of big pharma companies have large offices or are headquartered here. I started working as an entry level sales representative for my company a couple months after graduating and have worked my way up to sales manager–leading a team of five. As jobs go, I haven't been working there that long, but I've been working there long enough to know that this low numbers thing isn't going to bode well for me.

  When I first started out as a sales rep, it was easy, or at least it was easy for me. Selling pharmaceuticals (in my opinion) is all about being personable, looking your best, and building trust with physicians so that they feel comfortable ordering from me and not someone else. It also doesn't hurt that I get to sell the most popular drug on the market.

  Men define their manhood based on their virility. Their dicks. If they can't get it up or keep it up, their whole world ends. It's my job to keep doctors up to their eyeballs in my company's generic brand of Viagra, so that they can prescribe it to their patients, recommend it to their friends, and to give it out like candy. In fact, I'm pretty sure that some of those men think I'm doing the Lord's work.

  You'd be surprised about the types of men who want a prescription even if it's under the generic name of Sildenafil. It's not just baby boomers suffering from erectile dysfunction who legitimately want to maintain healthy sex lives with their significant others. It's young guys too, and not because they medically need it. Some are single men who want the drug in order to be able to go all night, and the next night, and the next; and some are not single and want it so that they can keep up with the Mrs. as well as their chick on the side.

  So the demand is there. That's actually the easy part. But now that I head my own team of sales reps, my job is much more complicated. It's all about making projections, meeting sales goals, and lots of team building. I'm not only responsible for my own results, but for the productivity of five other people as well. I'm a hard worker, and I want to climb the company ladder, but I'm learning the hard way that meeting productivity expectations isn't as easy as I hoped.

  That's why I'm getting drunk.

  "You're late tonight."

  I turn around toward the stranger's voice and notice a man who looks unimpressively like many of the other men in here (average height, overworked, slightly buzzed) approaching me with a glass of wine in his hand. He's actually my type in a sad sort of way. I tend to go for the corporate shark types. The suit and tie. The man who doesn't look like he's ever put in a hard day of work with his hands. Not because I'm terribly attracted to them, but because I've decided that they are in my best interest.

  I have my reasons for this, but if I had to sum it up, I guess I would say that I choose men like him because that's what grown women are supposed to do. Pick men who actually look like adults, act like adults, and not like overgrown kids. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.

  I grew up as the daughter of Dan Pearson. My father was a bona fide superstar in his day. A point guard for the Philadelphia 76ers back in the early 1990s. Some say the most underrated basketball player to have ever played the position. I grew up in a privileged world. Private schools. Expensive gifts. Elaborate summer vacations. That was the nice part. The not so nice part of our life was the fact that my father's antics often overshadowed any talent he may have had; and they especially overshadowed any illusions one may have had about us having the perfect family. We didn't.

  My father was considered a "bad boy" of the league. He hated structure and didn't think the rules applied to him. There was plenty of drinking, drugs, gambling and lots of women over the years. I think my father was a plaintiff in at least five different paternity suits, and while not all of them were legit, one actually did result in the birth of my younger sister, Dawn. So, while bad boys may look and sound good in theory, in real life they're all smoke and mirrors. Style and no substance. Immature. Headaches. I avoid them at all costs. I will not waste my time on them. No woman should, although I think that my best friend Elizabeth may be a lost cause at this point.

  "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

  I'm not sure that I heard him correctly. The music is really loud, and I may have misheard him. I could have sworn he just said that I was late arriving tonight.

  "You like Pinot, right?" he asks as he tries handing me the glass.

  Okay, now I'm not sure whether to be flattered or freaked the fuck out. I give the head bartender, whom I know, Marco, a quick glance and he responds with a head nod. Letting me know it's safe to accept the glass from this perfect stranger. Men often buy me drinks here, but I only accept them if I know the man or if Marco has poured it himself and watched it the whole time.

  "Umm, yes and thank you." I take a sip. It's delicious. Guess I'm starting tonight's "get blitzed" mission off with wine instead of the hard stuff. "Have we met before?"

  "We have not, but only because I haven't had the chance to introduce myself to you. You're quite the popular girl at Lotus."

  "Uh, I guess." Not really sure if that's a compliment or not.

  "As I was saying before, I notice that you usually come around nine on Friday nights, but tonight you arrived a little late."

  I raise my eyebrow at his creeper-like observation.

  "And before you run for the hills, the only reason why I know that is because I come here at the same time too. Pretty much every Friday night I stay late at work, have a drink with a few of my boys, then we head over here. I always see you when you're headed inside. You're kind of hard to miss. You're a very beautiful woman."

  I smile with some reserve. "So I take it you already know my name too."

  He looks a bit taken off guard by my bluntness, but there's no need for us to beat around the bush. I can see where this is headed. I'm pretty sure he knows who I am because of who my father is, not because I'm such a "beautiful woman." Puh-lease.

  "Of course. You're Sloan Pearson." He extends his palm for a handshake. "Nice to finally meet you. I'm Cord Prescott."

  I don't shake Cord's hand but instead take another sip of my wine and give him a long hard glare. I don't really like that he's been watching me for however long he has. It's weird. While my gut reaction is to say "thanks for the drink, Cord, but this feels forced," I won't–because I'm starting to think that the only reason I haven't gotten laid in eons is solely because of me. Coming to a club just to get plastered is stupid. The whole point of this place is to meet other people, isn't it? Maybe I've judged Cord a little too harshly and too quickly. Perhaps that's my problem. I'm seriously jaded.

  "Nice to meet you, Cord."

  An almost smug smile spreads across Cord's face. Bleck! His arrogance is a huge turn off, but like all his other noticeable flaws, I dismiss it.

  "Want to dance?"

  I take a final gulp of my wine and set the glass down on the bar.

  "Sure. Let me run to the ladies' room first though."

  I'm either going to psych myself up, while I'm in the bathroom, to either dance with this guy and get to know him a little better or ditch him. I think I'm leaning toward the latter.

  "I'll be right here. You want me to order you another glass of wine?"

  "Are you trying to get me drunk, Cord?"

  "Maybe." He winks.

  Good grief.

  "Don't bother," I say as I stand off my stool and smooth my skirt down. "I don't put out on the first date . . . or the second."

  Cord grasps one of my arms. Not roughly but the contact is still unwanted.

  "Not a problem," he says. His mouth practically salivating and not in a good way. "I can wait."

  I don't mind the occasional one-night stand, it's the norm for a place like this, but a girl has to have standards, and right now I'm not too sure Cord will meet a single one of them. Sadly, at this point I feel like I'm just passing time. This guy seems like all the other duds I've met lately, and I'm bored already.

  As I decide whether or not I'm going to ditch Cord, I scan the periphery of
the room, wondering if I'll catch a glimpse of one of the club owners. There are three of them and they're like rock stars in here.

  One is Elizabeth's fiancé and soon-to-be baby's daddy, Roman Masterson. Damn attractive but a real son of a bitch. While I can't deny that the two of them share something powerful, I wouldn't want any part of that type of love. I've always pictured my bestie with a soft-spoken, computer nerd, much like herself. Not Roman. He's too alpha. Too condescending. Too much.

  Then there's Roman's best friend, Camden King. Now he actually is a computer nerd, or rather a computer hacker, but there's definitely nothing soft about him. He's just another overbearing jerk who's always sporting what I call the "alpha scowl" across his face. I tend to avoid him at all costs, because I never know what he's thinking behind those cold eyes of his. It always seems like he's talking about me.

  And finally, there's Camden's brother, Cutter King. The one who's at the club the most. He's actually the worst one out of the three, because you don't tend to see his assholery coming. He smiles a lot. Laughs a lot. Flirts a lot. To the untrained eye he seems fun and easy going, but I know better. It's all an elaborate setup. A ruse. Because from everything that I know–he's not nice, he's not funny, and there's nothing easy about him except for the fact that he'll sleep with anything with a vagina.

  The only reason why I look for him is out of habit. To gawk. I can't help myself. Roman and Camden tend to stay in the background, tucked hidden away in the club's office upstairs (when they're here) but Cutter doesn't.

  He likes to stay among "his people." To hold court. It's a sight to see. Those women, or the "mindless minions" as I like to call them, are absolutely ridiculous when they're around him.

  Eyelids fluttering.

  Breasts heaving.

  Mouths giggling.

  All waiting for their self-appointed king to bestow his blessings of an eye wink, an ass grab, or a quick and dirty grind in the corner of the club.

  I observe the lunacy from afar. It's best that way. In fact, anytime I come to Lotus, I try to stay completely out of Cutter's way. This is mostly because I don't want to actually have to be forced to speak to him. I made such an ass out of myself the last time I did, that I refuse to risk a repeat performance. He probably thinks I'm in complete lust with him, which I'm not, it's just that he uncharacteristically threw me off my game that night.

  Admittedly–it was a train wreck.

  Three

  Sloan

  Six Months Ago

  Elizabeth's Aunt Juliette changed the venue for this year's Philadelphia-Montgomery Autism Awareness Gala, and by the looks of this place, it was a smart decision. In years past it's been hosted in the classically designed ballrooms of the some of the best hotels in Philadelphia including The Rittenhouse Hotel and my favorite–The Ritz Carlton, but this year it's being held in The Castle. An event space on the campus of a small, local university that's drop dead gorgeous and dramatically different.

  With its expansive entryway, dark mahogany wood floors, oversized staircases, and exquisite crown molding–the space literally looks like an old-world castle inside. I have a thing for interior design, so I really like how Juliette used modern touches to complement the old-world architecture of the room.

  I have a long history of coming to fundraising events like these. My parents were invited to a ton of them over the years and always brought me along. I didn't appreciate them much when I was young. I found them boring, pretentious, and I would've much rather spent my evenings drinking behind the bleachers with all the other over-privileged brats at my high school.

  As I look around the sea of attending guests tonight, while there are some good looking, single, men here I wouldn't mind meeting, I realize that not much has changed since I was a kid. Same crowd. Same social climbers. Same agenda.

  "Here to catch an investment banker tonight, Ms. Pearson?"

  Scratch what I just said.

  A lot has changed.

  Now it seems as if they allow anyone into these events.

  "Very witty," I say with a great deal of sarcasm to the dressed-up caveman seated next to me.

  He grins like he thinks that I am actually amused by his degrading question, even though it's closer to the truth than I care to admit.

  "Me. See. That. You. Found. Suit," I retort in the manner that Jane would speak to Tarzan.

  Then he lets out a deep belly laugh that garners us a few glances from the other guests at our table.

  "Let's dance, princess."

  Ick, I think to myself. I hate that overused, unimaginative term of endearment.

  "If you're going to address me, please use my name. It seems like you and your friend Roman have a problem with calling people by their God given names. Is that how they do things in your 'hood. Everyone gets a ridiculous nickname?"

  "You were much nicer when we first met. Why can't you be that girl again?"

  "I'm not even going to dignify that with a response. Now go away before people think we're here together. As if."

  I motion for him to shoo with the back of my hand.

  "Scoot. Shoo!"

  The asshole laughs even harder.

  I can't imagine what on earth I'm doing to encourage him. I sat on the edge of his chair for roughly ten seconds when we first met at Lotus. I was doing my flirty thing, not thinking much of it, and he's been giving me googly eyes ever since. Why I'm not inspiring that same type of adoration from the gazillion other men I've met over the last few weeks is anyone's guess.

  "Fine," I say in frustration. "I'll move then."

  As I motion to stand up, Cutter King grabs me around my waist with clear purpose. His eyes dancing. His grip strong. And he pulls me in toward his very large pecs. Then he stands up slowly. Making sure to slide his chest against my breasts as he rises to his full height.

  He's tall. Really tall.

  Muscular. Massive.

  Brick hard and built like a caveman.

  Strong enough to bash the head in of any intruder. Fast enough to catch any prey. And I'm not going to lie, big enough in all the right places to give me the fuck of a lifetime.

  "Save that dance for me, princess."

  Now I understand. Why Elizabeth always wears panties under her dress, and me going commando was a bad idea. Because what the hell is going to soak up all the wetness that the bass in Cutter's voice just produced between my legs?

  "I need to excuse myself please."

  And all I hear is Cutter King's arrogant, rumbling laughter echoing behind me, as I hightail it from the table to find the nearest ladies' room.

  After cleaning myself in the bathroom stall, I exit to find myself in the company of two other women at the sink area. I politely nod hello and begin washing my hands with several pumps of lime basil hand soap.

  "This is quite an eclectic crowd," one woman says to the other.

  "Yes, it is. I think I saw an Action News truck outside too. This event is probably going to get some eleven o'clock press coverage."

  "That would be nice."

  "And did you see that guy with Juliette's stepson?"

  "The tall one?"

  "They're both tall."

  "I know who her stepson is. I'm talking about the one who looks like a Viking."

  The first woman looks at me in the mirror and cracks a small smile. At first, I wonder if she knows that I was talking to said Viking just a few moments ago, but that isn't it. She just seems a little embarrassed by the content of their public conversation and is probably wondering if I'm judging them. I cordially return their smile, but continue with my primping process in an effort to act like I don't care ... as well as to eavesdrop.

  "Yeah, him. I don't think I've seen him at this event before. I definitely would have remembered."

  "Me too. He's gorgeous."

  "And young."

  "And did you see those tattoos? I think he has more than the stepson."

  "I'd climb him like a tree."

  They both start giggl
ing like they're sixteen years old again.

  Oh good grief.

  "He's too young for us though."

  "Yeah, he is, but it's all right to look," woman number one says giggling. Looking at me when she says it. "My husband looks at other women all the time."

  I bite.

  "I think it's totally fine to look," I add. "I'm sure the man you're referring to appreciated it."

  "Oh, my goodness, do you think he saw us?"

  "Don't worry. I'm sure a guy like the one (asshole) you're describing didn't give it a second thought. He's probably used to it. He may even enjoy it."

  Present Day

  It doesn't take long for me to spot him. Cutter is always the tallest man in the room. Covered in ink. Dressed much more casually than everyone else in a simple black tee, dark wash jeans, and a clean pair of black work boots. Standing powerfully at the end of the bar like he owns the place—which I guess is only right because he does. Towering over some Kardashian-built brunette who is staring at him like she desperately wants him to sire all of her offspring.

  It's like watching a car accident on the freeway. I should really mind my business and keep it moving, but I can't help but stop and stare. That is until he turns his head and cuts his eyes clear across the dark room to meet mine. I immediately dart my eyes away and hold myself stock still. Only remembering a moment later to breathe. Angry with myself that I've been caught rubbernecking.

  Remember who he is, Sloan.

  A manwhore.

  Remember who you are, Sloan.

  A woman with a brain.

  I raise my eyes back up. Meeting his head on. My plan is to stoically hold his stare until he turns away. My prediction is that it should only take a moment for him to become disinterested and turn back to his very attentive fangirl. Guys like Cutter have the attention span of a squirrel.

  Hmm, he's still staring.