Bedwrecker

by Kim Karr

  Which is why I’m back home so fucking soon after hightailing it out of here. Not because I want to be here, either. This city holds way too many memories I’d rather forget. My job, all the women, a restlessness I could never quite understand, and then my father’s sudden death. Nothing I want to be reminded of.

  Good thing I’ve been on the move all day with no time to think about any of that shit.

  As soon as the plane landed in New York City, I spent the entire afternoon being shuffled from one fashion show to another. Simon Warren’s show was first on the agenda, Jordan having flown out yesterday to be here for the preparation of presenting the fall line. After that he took Maggie and me to three other shows.

  The final show of the day has just finished. It was Austin Mars—the company Cam is in the process of buying—and I arranged to have a drink with Austin to get a feel for him and his business style.

  You see, I’m not sure I agree with Cam’s business model. He wants to grow the company by adding fashion brands that complement Simon Warren. I think he might be better off considering taking over companies that have a decent share in markets Simon Warren is not in, and turning them into Simon Warren locations. It will be the fastest way to grow the brand.

  Talking with Austin Mars will help me better assess his company and its disposition before knowing for certain if my idea is viable with his brand.

  Maggie and I are down at Pier 59 Studios and have to meet her mother for dinner at seven, which is just over an hour from now.

  Leaning against the wall outside the large room where the show was just held, I can tell Maggie’s feet are killing her. She wore sky-high heeled boots all day and slid on the ice at least twice that I’m aware of.

  I glance at my watch again. Shit, we’re going to be cutting it close.

  The minutes tick by as we wait for Austin to finish his meet-and-greet. With each passing tick of the clock, I begin to worry about cutting the meeting times too close.

  Maggie looks down at her watch, and I can tell time is becoming a concern to her as well.

  The buffer zone now clearly beyond both our comfort levels, I turn to her. “Hey, why don’t you go and have dinner with your mother, and then I’ll meet you both for drinks at the hotel at nine.”

  As expected, she can’t just agree with me. Sometimes she infuriates me with her willpower. Which she is doing right now as she shakes her head no. “No, it’s fine. I can just let my mother know we might be late. She’ll understand.”

  Although I have to say that keeping things professional with Maggie has been easier than I thought, sometimes I have to take a deep breath. Sure, she has her job, and I have mine, and when we’re not vying for control like right now, we actually work well together, but the bottom line is I’m in charge.

  That holds true both in and out of the bedroom.

  However, I’m not a fucking idiot. I know playing that card is a huge risk, and believe it or not, I’m willing to take it.

  Approaching the situation with finesse, I lean toward her. When I catch a whiff of her delicious scent, I feel my excitement right in my dick.

  Fuck.

  Breathing her in, it becomes glaringly evident that it has been more than twelve hours since I have been inside her.

  Fuck.

  Drawing in a deep breath, I force myself to insist she go. I know her feet are killing her, I can tell by the way she’s standing, and also, I really hate to keep her mother waiting. “Maggie, you should go,” I tell her.

  She worries her lip with her teeth. “No, I shouldn’t. I should stay with you to facilitate the meeting with Austin.”

  I want to nip at that lip, but resist the urge. “Mag . . . gie.” I draw out her name in insistence.

  She grabs hold of my tie and pretends to be straightening it when she’s really tugging on it as if to strangle me. “I heard he likes good-looking men in suits.”

  A quick glance around tells me everyone else from Simon Warren is gone, so I put my mouth on her ear and lick around it. “Jealous?”

  She tugs on my tie harder. “No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  I laugh and plant a quick kiss on her lips. “I’m a big boy and can handle him. Promise. Now call the car service, and I’ll grab a cab.”

  She releases her hold on me and visibly sags against the wall. I can tell she’s beyond exhausted. I am too. We hardly slept last night and have been on the go all day. “I left my phone in my purse, which is in the lockers at the back entrance,” she sighs.

  I move a little closer. “We could trade services.”

  Her brows pull together. “What are you thinking? Maybe I could blow you right here and in exchange you’ll get my bag for me?”

  I make a show of looking around. “Would you mind? I don’t think people will notice, do you?”

  Her lips lift into a smile. “And you call me crazy.”

  Pulling my phone from my suit pocket, I hand it to her. “Make the call. I’ll be right back.”

  By the time I return with her purse in my hand, she’s talking to a man with dark brown hair that is combed straight back over his round skull.

  When I’m close enough, Maggie outstretches her hand. We exchange her purse for my phone and before I can say a word to her, Austin Mars is right up in my face. He grabs my hand before I even have a chance to lift it. He starts shaking it vigorously. With a huge smile he says, “Ahhh, Keen, Keen—you and I must become fast friends.”

  In the whirlwind of him talking on and on about how young and wonderful I am, I find it hard to follow him. To be honest, I’m too busy trying to follow his enormous jowls, which seem to sway back and forth like sails on a rough ocean.

  “Now about that drink,” he says, slapping a hand on my shoulder. “I was thinking we could go up to The Deck.”

  I nod in agreement as I look around for Maggie.

  He rubs his round belly and laughs. “They also just so happen to serve the best clams . . .”

  While he’s discussing his food preferences, my head swings around, still searching for Maggie. She is nowhere to be seen.

  What the fuck?

  She left without so much as a goodbye?

  With my blood boiling, I turn my attention back to Austin, whose own head seems to fit directly upon his chest without the benefit of a neck.

  An hour and a half later, I find myself raring to leave despite the enlightening conversation and the floor-to-ceiling windows in front of me that provide one of the best panoramic backdrops of the Hudson River and the Lower Manhattan skyline.

  Perhaps because of the three scotches Austin insisted I drink, I break one of my golden rules of business and pull my phone out during our meeting to check and see if Maggie has called or texted.

  An apology is what I expect to see.

  While Austin’s pudgy fingers dip his cocktail fork into the slimy confines of a clamshell, I swipe my finger across the screen and pull up my phone log. Nothing new. Next I pull up my text messages.

  Nothing from Maggie, but there is a text from Sarah.

  212-567-0987: Your brother told me you were back in town. I’d like to meet up with you for a drink and catch up like old times. I miss you. Call me. XOXO Sarah

  Sarah is the friend I guess I’d call my go-to girl. We went to grad school together, and although I never considered her to be my girlfriend, she was about as close to one as I’ve ever had.

  After my father died, though, I found myself so caught up in trying to get ahead, in trying to prove to him that I was the man he knew I could be, that she fell by the wayside. I’m not proud of the way I treated her, and I do owe her a call.

  “You sure I can’t interest you in any?” Austin asks, pointing to the bowl of steaming clams.

  I hold my palms up. “No, I’m fine, but thank you.”

  Squeezing another lemon off the pile, he begins to talk again.

  Unable to focus, I return my gaze to my phone. First I type a text to Maggie.

  Me: I’ll be at the bar at the
W on time. I’d like you bare under that skirt you have on by the time I arrive.

  I return my attention to Austin.

  “ . . . and so, my friend, this is the long and short of it . . .”

  Tapping my fingers on the table, I wait for a return text. And wait. And wait. And wait.

  Nothing.

  Austin wipes his mouth with his napkin. “Now Keen, I’ve always prided myself on being a careful man; taking unnecessary risks is not something I find attractive in business . . .”

  Not exactly agreeing with him, I nod anyway and listen to his years of experience. Soon he’s digging into another clam, and that’s when I allow my attention to shift back to my phone.

  Nothing.

  My fingers hover over the keyboard on my screen as I consider sending another text, but then reconsider. She’s meeting with her mother on Simon Warren business and maybe like me, she doesn’t think it’s appropriate to have her phone out during meetings.

  Unlike this meeting.

  As the empty bowl in the middle of the table fills with clamshell halves, Austin never stops talking or eating.

  With my concentration blown, I use this time to text Sarah back.

  Me: Hi Sarah, I don’t think meeting up is a good idea. I know I’ve been a shitty friend and want to apologize for that. Hope you are doing well. Take care.

  Dear John letter it is not, but I should have done that long ago. Stringing her along wasn’t exactly stand-up of me.

  Before putting my phone back in my pocket, I set the alarm to notify me when it is time for me to leave, and set my attention back on Austin, who I’m not certain even noticed I’d ever taken it out.

  Austin continues on about his years in the business and I find my eyes drifting to the clock over the bar.

  It’s not like I’m counting down the minutes until I see her.

  It’s not like I’m counting down the seconds until I taste her.

  It’s not like I’m counting down the moments until I’m inside her.

  Really, it’s not.

  Maggie

  People always accuse me of being overly dramatic.

  But this is not one of those times, I swear. It’s true. I’ve been sucker-punched—twice in one day—and I’m still trying to catch my breath.

  The white-clothed table is cluttered with half-drunk glasses of Chablis and littered with crumbs from a basket of hard French rolls.

  The Bull & Bear at the Waldorf Astoria is filled to capacity. The lights are low. Votive candles flicker on tables, illuminating tiny bud vases of sturdy red carnations.

  My palms are flat on the slick leather bench, and I wish I could fist the material to keep myself from wanting to rip the cloth from the table.

  I should have known something was up when my mother suggested this restaurant. It is the very first fancy restaurant she took me to when we moved to the city and the restaurant she took me to before she moved back to California. I thought she’d selected it tonight because she knew how much I loved the Waldorf Salad and Onion Soup Gratinee.

  Talk about wrong.

  It was totally more of a comfort thing.

  “Honey,” she reaches for my hand, “don’t look like it’s the end of the world.”

  “You’re never moving back to California?” I ask, just to clarify.

  Yeah, that little revelation came after the one that Cam is closing the women’s division of Simon Warren. The same one my mother runs, or ran, I suppose.

  She gives my hand a little squeeze. “Never is a long time, Maggie, but for now, I’m going to stay here in the city.”

  I take a swig of my wine, more than ready for a shot of something much stronger, and set the glass down a little sternly. “Tell Cam to demote Keen and give you his job. You’re more experienced.”

  She gives me a raised brow. “Margaret Elizabeth.”

  I lift my chin, although I can feel my lip wobbling. She never calls me that. “Mom, why not? You’ve been with Simon Warren since the doors opened. Cam can’t can you just like that.”

  Okay, so I do feel slightly bad for running over Keen with a bus, but in my mood right now it could have been a tractor-trailer.

  My mother sets her knife down on her plate and pushes it aside. The steak only half eaten. The potatoes untouched. “Camden did not can me. I will be transitioning to the corporate level and continue to work for him in a consulting capacity.”

  I’m in the middle of punching my salad with a fork until it submits to being eaten, when I jerk my head up in surprise. “Then why aren’t you moving back to West Hollywood?”

  Her entire being changes. Everything about her lights up. “Maggie, I met someone. His name is Winston Trust and we’re in love.”

  I jump to my feet and rush around the table to hug her. “Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?”

  She squeezes me tightly. “I wanted to tell you in person, about everything.”

  I squeeze her right back. “What does he do?”

  “He’s an international diamond broker.”

  “Oh my God, diamonds! When do I get to meet him?”

  “Soon, very soon.”

  I pull back. “You’re in love. Really?”

  She nods, and a slight blush coats her cheeks. I’ve never seen my mother blush.

  The waiter returns to our table and I scurry to get out of his way. Once we tell him we are done and the check is taken care of, I look over to my mother. “Have you ever been in love before?”

  She waves a hand. “Oh Maggie, I’m an old lady. It’s not like I’m drawing X’s and O’s all over the pad of paper at my desk.”

  Picking up a clean knife in front of me, I find myself doing just that. XOXO, I spell out and then look up. “First of all, you are not old. And second, that doesn’t answer my question.”

  Her smile fades. “I was in love with your father, and after how badly that ended, I never thought I’d be able to love again.”

  Visions of those damned white horses blind my sight for a moment. But that’s my sorrow, not hers. I refocus. There’s a deep sadness in my heart and a happiness at the same time, so I focus on that. “So tell me, when exactly do I get to meet this Winston of yours?”

  Role reversal is so fun.

  She puts her napkin on the table. “Tomorrow night. Bring Keen over to my apartment.”

  “You’re not coming to the hotel for drinks?”

  Bending over, she puts her purse in her lap and digs around in it. “Winston is waiting for me, and I don’t want to be too late.” Then she looks up. “I hope you don’t mind?”

  I wave a hand. “No, not at all.”

  “I’ll have my driver drop you at your hotel,” she says, standing up and smoothing her skirt.

  I stand too. “You know what, Mom, I think I’ll walk. It’s not that far.”

  “You sure? It’s cold.”

  I nod and glance down at my phone on the table, at the text Keen sent me a while ago.

  The one I refuse to answer.

  Maggie

  Peacock Alley is such a gem.

  While I sip on my whiskey at the bar in the lobby of the Waldorf Astoria, I consider getting a room at this hotel. It’s just that the whole moving-my-things-from-the-W-to-here seems like a real pain in the ass.

  Sure, I wouldn’t get to see Keen’s clean-shaven face, which by the way is just as hot as his unshaven look. And I wouldn’t get to gawk at his gray slim-fit three-piece suit that looks every bit as hot as those jeans he wore last night. Still, neither is why I don’t change hotels.

  Honest.

  It’s not.

  Like I said, it would be a pain in the ass.

  Don’t believe me.

  Refusing to think about him, I set my sights on the tuxedo-clad man in the corner. Admiring the piano player here at Peacock Alley has occupied my time for at least fifteen minutes. It’s not his good looks that caught my attention, but rather the songs he has been crooning.

  “Can I buy you another?”

&nb
sp; Surprised by the closeness of the voice, I jump a little in my seat, and when my heel gets caught in the rung, I almost slide right off the bar stool.

  These damn boots!

  A good-looking younger man with shoulder-length blond hair catches me before I fall.

  “Thank you,” I say, bracing the bar for stability.

  With a smile, he sits beside me on the empty stool and unbuttons his suit jacket. “I don’t usually have that effect on women.”

  I take him in, feeling a little buzzed, and full of a lot of bad judgment. “You mean you don’t usually sweep them off their bar stool with a few words?”

  The sparkle of good humor remains in his eyes. “So may I buy you another?”

  I look down at my glass with only a few drops left and lift it. “Sure, why not.”

  He motions for the bartender, and when he arrives, Blondie looks over at me. “What will it be?”

  “Whiskey, neat.”

  Those brows of his shoot up. “Make it two,” he tells the bartender.

  The bartender nods.

  “Drowning your sorrows?” Blondie asks me.

  I lean an elbow on the polished wood of the bar. “Something like that.”

  “Boyfriend problems?”

  I sigh. “Well, he’s not my boyfriend. I don’t like to label relationships, but yes.”

  “Care to talk about it? I’m a good listener.”

  I shake my head no. “Nothing to talk about. He wants other women.”

  Blondie looks me up and down. “Damn shame.”

  I give him a smile. At least he’s making me feel better.

  The bartender sets two glasses in front of us, and Blondie picks his up and lifts it. “Here’s to moving on.”

  Wrapping my hand around my glass of amber liquid, I lift it and clink his glass. “To moving on.”

  But what if I don’t want to?

  Blondie sets his glass down and holds out his hand. “I’m Kyle Langston.”

  I take his offered hand. “Nice to meet you, Kyle. I’m Maggie May. And if you even breathe a word about the famous Rod Stewart song, I’ll shove you right off that stool.”

  He gives me a quizzical look and it makes me wonder just how young he is.