by P. Dangelico
“Do you want to interview, or not?”
My thoughts shoot straight to the gentleman’s club. An image of hairy, sweaty men with toothpicks hanging out of their mouths staring at my ass and calling me ‘doll’ crops up.
“What’s the address?”
Chapter Two
In a strange twist of fate, the town I grew up in, the town where my parents still live, is only three towns over from the address the employment agency gave me. Economically, though, they couldn’t be any farther apart. Where as my little town is staunchly working to middle class, Alpine consistently ranks in the top two most expensive zip codes in America. Once upon a time, names like Frick called Alpine home. Now names like Combs, as in Sean, Cece Sabathia, and Chris Rock rub elbows with some of Wall Street’s highest earners.
I drive my mother’s twenty-year-old Camry slowly as I search in vain for a house number that matches the one on the piece of paper I’m holding. Alpine is not your typical wealthy enclave. Nobody that lives here advertises their wealth; they’re notoriously private. Sprawling mansions hide behind high walls and heavily wooded landscapes. If you drove through it accidentally, you would assume it’s just another country town.
I finally locate the correct number on a plain wooden gate and drive up to the black security box, press the intercom, and announce myself. The gate doors peel back slowly, revealing the landscape of the estate. Yes, it’s a bonafide estate. The winding gravel driveway extends past the woods and rough winter lawn, all the way to a large white farmhouse with a glossy black door and matching shutters.
Unexpectedly, my throat pinches as I note that this house resembles mine. The style that is, not the size. This house could swallow three of mine. Or what had once been mine and is currently property of the U.S. government.
I check my face in the rear view mirror. As usual, I’ve harnessed my pin straight, dark hair in a bun. Also, as usual, small pieces have started falling out. The only makeup I’m wearing is mascara. My complexion is medium, tanning easily, the same shade as my father’s, and I have a smattering of very distinct freckles over the bridge of my nose. Coupled with my full lips, makeup tends to make me look like a Broadway performer, or a trany, so I generally avoid everything except mascara and lip-gloss. Let me be clear, every woman that grows up in New Jersey does not look like the Housewives of New Jersey. Personally, I prefer season tickets to diamonds, sunscreen to makeup, and flats to platform heels. But that’s just me.
After straightening my grey Theory blazer and brushing a piece of lint off my slacks, I ring the bell and send up a Hail Mary. I’m not a religious person, by any means, however, at this point I’m ready to try anything other than sacrificing live animals to secure a paycheck.
The door eases open, and my mind draws a complete and total blank. Someone get the paddles––I think my heart just stopped. Josh Duhamel apparently has a doppelgänger, because I’m staring right at him. This dude may actually be better looking. He’s uterus-clenching handsome. His are the kind of looks that turned Neanderthals into homo sapiens with perfect DNA. Long lashed, almond shaped brown eyes compliment a bone structure so symmetrical it inspires poetry.
“Ms. DeSantis?” He smiles warmly and extends a hand. For whatever reason, he seems very excited to see me. I stand there unresponsive, silently staring at him for far too long. His brow quirks in confusion.
“Ah…yes.” It comes out sounding like a question. Wow, promising start. Shaking my head at my faux pas, I reach for his hand. It’s surprisingly rough and calloused.
“Excellent, come on in,” he says, stepping aside for me to enter.
I follow him through the house. It’s completely empty, no furniture. We finally end up in a large living room, which is also empty except for an insane television/entertainment system that takes up an entire wall and two armchairs that look new.
“Have a seat please,” says Mr. Perfect DNA. He takes the chair opposite me and sits with his legs spread apart, an open file on his lap, eyes downcast on said file.
Did he tell me his name and I didn’t hear him? I flip through my mental log and find…nothing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name?” I ask sheepishly. I’m really killin’ it so far.
“Once you sign this NDA, I can answer any and all questions you may have,” he says with a casual smile. Weird and cryptic, though I don’t have the luxury to debate this. After scanning the paper lightly, I sign my name.
“Ethan Vaughn. As his lawyer and manager, I conduct all preliminary interviews for Mr. Shaw.”
“So I won’t be working for you?”
“No,” he says, smiling when he notices me sigh in relief. Even if I have sworn off men for eternity, this guy would have me running into walls all day long.
“You’ll have to excuse my ignorance, the only information I was given is that this position requires me to live on the property and involves childcare.”
His mouth purses. Choosing his words carefully, he says, “Mr. Shaw is in need of a teacher and caretaker for his eight year old nephew.” I hold my breath as he speaks, excitement without a doubt sparking a slightly maniacal glint in my eyes. “You’ve taught third grade for three years, I see.” There’s a strange inflection in his voice. With his eyes glued to my resume, however, it’s impossible to get a better read on him.
“Yes.”
“Sam will have a say in whom we hire, although Mr. Shaw makes the finally decision.” Mr. Perfect’s expression is suddenly tense. “Are you a sports fan, Ms. DeSantis?”
Sports fan? That’s putting it mildly. I played softball up until my senior year at Boston College. Until my shoulder couldn’t take it any longer and it was either live with chronic pain, or quit. If there are balls involved, I’m a fan…get your mind out of the gutter, you know what I mean.
“Uh, yeah…why?”
Looking disappointed, he sighs heavily. Shit, wrong answer. “Because when I say Mr. Shaw, I mean Calvin Shaw.”
I grow very still as I process why that name sounds…holy hot bawls. The starting quarterback of the NY Titans.
“Is this going to be a problem?” he asked warily.
“No,” I reply with a little more kick in my voice. Because it won’t.
I have zero interest in celebrity. It starts and ends with the fact that I’ve had my fair share of unwanted fame lately. This is a simple case of survival. I need to get paid. If the celebrity in question were Jesus, I would wash his schmata and polish his sandals regardless of how many Facebook or Twitter followers the man has. I need this job more than I give a single shit who pays my salary. As long as he isn’t a white supremacist, pedophile, who likes to kick puppies in the head for fun, and has ties to ISIS, I am good to go. Besides, I’m a loyal fan of the other New York team.
Across the open living room, over Perfect’s shoulder, I notice a large man with a towel hanging around his neck walking down the hallway. When I say large, I mean easily six four and all of it muscle. I know this because his sweat soaked, white t-shirt is painted to his torso, highlighting every swell and curve. His hair is dark, nearly black, and long. Much longer than it is in the publicity shots and billboards around the city. And it’s pulled back in one those ridiculous man buns that no man has any business wearing. It also looks like he hasn’t shaved in over a century.
Auditioning for Duck Dynasty? I mean...I know it’s the offseason but God almighty––for the sake of hygiene alone.
He wipes his brow with the towel, and when he opens his eyes, he’s staring directly at me. Even from across the room, they’re the iciest gray eyes I’ve ever seen, cold and unforgiving. A strange feeling sweeps through me. As if I just stuck my finger in an electric socket. The experience is not a pleasant one. I scowl. Then he scowls. Then he turns away. Ugh, this is not good. I’m feeling the heebeegeebees and slightly bummed at this inauspicious start.
A little at a time, I recall bits and pieces of news I picked up over the years. Shaw has a reputation for being closed off. He went from number
one media darling when he was drafted, to Mr. Guarded in recent years. He’s been known to flip off hecklers and refuse autographs. Not a good look in the largest media market in the country. If he hadn’t won a Super Bowl for the Titans already and so beloved by the fan base, he would’ve definitely been run out of town by the ruthless New York media machine.
“Okay, the details. This job has an expiration date lasting ninety days.” Perfect’s voice brings a sudden halt to my musings. I can feel all the giddy excitement I was drunk on only a while ago bleed out of me. “For your services, you will be compensated a hundred thousand, provided all goes smoothly.”
“Did you just say one hundred thousand? For three months of childcare?”
“Yes,” he says with a completely straight face. And the maniacal spark is back in my eyes.
“With a stipulation, however. There will be three payments made. One at the end of each month––assuming you last. I mean, you remain in Mr. Shaw’s employ.”
Oh right, he’s difficult. For a hundred thousand, I could deal with it. Just as long as he didn’t marry me…and lie to me…and run a Ponzi scheme under my nose for five years.
“Agreed. When do I meet Sam?”
“Right now,” he informs me, rising from his chair.
Perfect leads me to a large upstairs bedroom with a playroom attached. A little boy with floppy, sandy brown hair is kneeling in front of an enormous Lego train set he’s meticulously assembling. When I walk over to him and sit down on the floor cross-legged, he glances up with large gray eyes that look somewhat familiar, before timidly returning his gaze to the messy pile of Lego pieces in between us.
“Did you do this all by yourself?”
Once again, he glances briefly at me. Then he shrugs and nods.
“Cool.” For the next twenty minutes, we don’t say another word. I search for pieces on the instruction manual and hand them to him while he assembles.
“All that’s left now is for you to meet Cal––I mean, Mr. Shaw,” says the hot guy that will thankfully not be my employer. “Have a seat and I’ll see if he’s available,” he adds once we’re back downstairs.
I sit there patiently for ten full minutes staring at the bare, ivory walls. Toes tapping, I clench my knees together and fight the urge to visit the bathroom as long as I can. Five minutes later, I finally cave and go in search of one. As I’m rounding a corner, I hear masculine voices. Sounds like an argument.
“No.” The voice is deep and smooth. It’s the sexiest voice I’ve ever heard and I don’t throw that word around casually. The kind of voice that spawned phone sex because this guy could get someone off by simply reciting the alphabet.
“What do you mean, no? Did a barbell fall on your head? We talked about this.”
“I mean no, find someone else.”
“Be reasonable for one fucking minute, Cal. She’s more than qualified, willing to work a temporary job, and I’m pretty sure Sam likes her.”
“Did Sam say something?” His voice is instantly softer, concerned.
“No, he didn’t have to. I saw it myself––he took to her.”
“Get her out of my house.”
Whoa…difficult? This guy is far from difficult. He’s a total, unmitigated jerk. The first doubts about how long I can last begin to creep in. How many others have there been before me?
“Listen, the last seven perfectly qualified candidates have quit within a week. We’re out of options,” Mr. Perfect asserts. Great. The odds are not in my favor.
“E––get that fucking cow out of my house now.”
In my mind, each word is spelled out separately and slowly, followed by a high pitch ringing in my ear.
Get. That. Fucking. Cow. Out. Of. My. House. Bzzzzzzz.
The son of a bitch didn’t even bother to whisper. He might as well have thrown a matchstick on an ocean of gasoline. All the resentment that has been festering beneath the surface for the past three years ignites in a blaze of glory. I don’t even take the time to think, I just react. Hundred thousand be damned. With my purse firmly tucked under my arm and my chin lifted, I make my way to the front door. As I pass the kitchen, I step into the doorway and wait.
They both turn to look at me. My face is a mask of stone cold indifference, the one I perfected during countless interviews with the FBI and SEC.
Perfect’s face drops, suddenly stricken with embarrassment when he reads my expression. Shaw doesn’t flinch. He continues to glare with those icy, lifeless eyes of his. There are a million things I want to say, the vitriol sourly coating my tongue, however, in the end I just walk out. No way am I allowing this irredeemable prick to see how upset I am, to take the last shred of dignity I posses. He doesn’t even warrant the effort it takes for me to be angry. But I am, unimaginable so. He and his unhygienic beard can go to hell.
Chapter Three
“Belvedere on the rocks, rum and Coke, top shelf, and two Heinekens,” I shout over the din of the crowd and the mellow hum of hip-hop music playing in the background. Amber jumps into action immediately. Amber Jones, all around badass and my best friend since the fifth grade when Jimmy Murphy pegged me in the face during a game of dodgeball. While I stood there crying like a little bitch, Amber Isabelle Jones, half my height and weight, tightened her side pony, sauntered up to him without a word, and punched him in the nuts. After that, we were inseparable––my sister from another mister.
She’s the hot flash and I’m the slow burn. When I need someone to kick my ass into gear, she’s the fire in my belly. And when she needs to be talked off a ledge or to be stopped from committing a felony, I’m her voice of reason. We suit each other perfectly. When I told her what had happened with Shaw, she was on her way to my house with a dozen rotten eggs before I’d even finished telling her the story. Amber has the brass ball to do all the things I just fantasize about. God, I love her.
She’s an actress. With limited success so far. But with her beauty, brains and talent, it’s just a matter of time and perseverance before she makes it big. In the meantime, she works as a bartender at one of the most exclusive bars slash lounges in the city. On any given night, One Maple Street is filled with a who’s who of celebrity entertainers and star athletes. After some finagling, and a lot of heavy flirting with the new manager, she scored me a couple of shifts as a cocktail waitress, thank Christ, abating my monetary worries––for now.
In the two weeks since cowgate, I’ve received a number of emails from Mr. Perfect. After apologizing extensively on his behalf, which I believed, and on Shaw’s behalf, which I didn’t, he offered me the job. I accepted his apology, harboring no ill will against him; I heard it for myself how hard he’d lobbied for me. However, I’ve officially reached my limit. My fragile pride can’t survive one more beat down. I know this for a fact. So I didn’t need to think twice about it when I respectfully turned down his offer. Then I cried a day and a half for the loss of the hundred grand.
I know what you’re thinking, that I’m in no position to turn down an offer like that. Not unless I’m required to commit a crime or bend over, both of which I’m not yet desperate enough to do. However, when you’ve had every piece of your life dissected, trampled on, or taken away from you, you cling to the meager remains as if it’s a matter of life or death. As if giving up what little is left of your dignity, you may in fact cease to exist altogether. At least, that’s what it feels like to me. Bottom line, claiming my power to say ‘no’ felt dang good, and I haven’t had a heck of a lot to feel good about lately.
Cow. Ugh.
Truth: every time my head hits the pillow at night that word rattles around my head like loose change…and every morning since that day, I’ve awoken in a craptastic mood. No, I’m not a delicate snowflake. Standing a robust 5’9”, however, does not make me a cow. Granted, I’m less fit than when I was playing softball in school, but I still work out regularly. I’m curvy, always have been. Tits and ass that I used to be ashamed of until I hit high school and realized boys seem
ed to like it. More importantly, Matthew Edward Blake, most popular senior of Norwood High School, loved it. And that’s all that ever really mattered to me. Do I sometimes struggle with my self-image? Of course, I do. Especially when I’m shopping for jeans––show me a woman who doesn’t. But a cow? Mmmmno.
Amber loads my tray with the drinks I ordered. Glancing beyond my shoulder, her hazel eyes narrow when she says, “Someone just sat down on table twelve. Please inform The Mountain that the table he’s occupying is reserved.”
Turning, I spot the large man sitting in the VIP section. The tables in that area are always reserved for people who go by acronyms. This dude does not look like JLo. From what I can tell through the heavy Thursday night crowd, he’s alone and dressed inappropriately for this place. He’s wearing a rumpled white button down and a weathered ball cap with the curved rim riding low over his eyes. My eyes slide down to the Duck Dynasty beard and an electric current zaps my spine, the feeling an unpleasant one.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph…
“Earth to Camilla…Cam?” Amber snaps her fingers annoyingly close to my face. I glare at her and she points to the tray. The bar is packed, three rows deep, and she’s right, she doesn’t have time for this crap.
With dread snaking up my throat and my heart staging a near riot inside my chest cavity, I slink toward the table to deliver the drink order with my eyes trained on Duck Dynasty. He looks completely out of place and painfully uncomfortable about it. I can’t get over the shock of seeing him here and what a strange coincidence this is. Then again, this is my life, a perfect shit storm. For whatever reason, I keep getting more than my fair share.