Fugly

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I gave it some thought, the little vindictive devil on my shoulder rubbing its hands together. No, stop. It didn’t matter how horrible that man was, I wasn’t the vengeful sort. But I could be an opportunist.

  Whoa. I suddenly realize I wasn’t in some weak “take it or leave it” kind of situation. I had leverage. I had some power of my own here to negotiate a different deal.

  So what exactly did I want? It wasn’t plastic surgery.

  Was it?

  “Can I ask you something, Danny? And I want you to be honest with me.”

  “The answer is yes. You should get a tattoo of Maxwell Cole on your back.”

  I flipped her off with my eyes.

  “Sorry.” She held up her hands. “Ask away.”

  “Do you think I should have my face done?”

  Her eyes flickered with shock. She hadn’t been expecting that question. “Does this have anything to do with your meeting Maxwell Cole today?”

  Yes. But not in the way she probably thought—that I wanted to be his girlfriend or something stupid like that.

  “Just answer the question,” I said.

  “Umm…that’s a hard one.”

  “Danny, I want an honest answer. No BS.”

  She nodded and looked down at the floor. “I think that if it’s something you want because it’ll make you happy, then great. But if you’re considering it for any other reason, then no. You shouldn’t change who you are just to make other people like you. You’re also the happiest, most genuine person I’ve ever met. So I’m not sure messing with your face would make you any happier.”

  I sighed. Danny was right.

  “What’s brought this on, Lily?”

  “Nothing.” I cracked a smile to lighten the mood. “But you’re right. All of the pretty girls I know are miserable dirty whores. And, yes, that comment was directed at you.”

  She laughed. “Bitch.”

  “Crazy bitch,” I countered.

  “It’s a dirty job.” She stood from the bed and grabbed her heels from the floor. “But not as dirty as the rim job you’ll be giving Max Cole, you sick little slut.”

  “Ewww!” I laughed. I was anything but a slut, and we both knew it. But even if I were, I doubt I’d ever go around licking butt holes. Yikes.

  “Did you at least offer him your customary ‘thank you’ blowjob?” she asked, trying not to crack herself up.

  “Yes. I offered. He accepted. And next I have my sights set on getting pregnant with his love child just to make you jealous. My years of hard work and graduate school are finally about to pay off.”

  “Excellent. And be a good friend, would ya? Ask him to throw in a quickie for me as part of your signing bonus?” She made a dreamy little sigh. “Okay. I gotta mix up some vitamin water and take a shower now.”

  “Meeting up with Calvin?” Calvin was her new boyfriend, and for whatever reason, she always drank a bunch of vitamin water before seeing him. It was kind of strange.

  “Yep, I’m meeting up with my real man for some real dinner and real, very mediocre but vigorous sex. Let me know what happens with my dream lover, ’kay?” She left the room, leaving me there with my thoughts. My very indecent sex-fantasy-filled thoughts.

  No, I decided. That was ridiculous. I would never ask for that. I didn’t even want Maxwell Cole. Especially after learning what a disgusting pig of a human being he was.

  I groaned and pushed my hands through my hair.

  So I didn’t want surgery. Or sex. (Ridiculous.) What did I want out of this deal? A line on my résumé and a paycheck didn’t cut it, considering what I’d have to endure seeing that man on a regular basis. Maybe I should be asking for stock options to fund my own company.

  God. What am I thinking? I can’t take this job. It’s degrading. Besides, he only wanted me for some hidden agenda and not because he believed in me, which meant accepting the role would go against everything I believed in.

  But then why had I already made up my mind to see him in the morning? Was it to turn him down to his face? Or was it because I had a burning desire to see him again and find out the truth?

  What did he really want with me?

  The next morning I put on my favorite navy blue skirt, tan heels, and a tight cream silk tee with a low-cut neckline. Simple. Sexy. Elegant. I wore my blonde hair loose and wavy—my natural look—and applied a little bronzer to my cheeks and mascara to my very light lashes. Yes, I enjoyed feeling feminine. Even my underwear was known to be a little racy, and it didn’t matter that no one would see them. I had never deprived myself of the pretty things in life most women enjoyed, and I never would. I had just as much right as any to want soft skin, nice clothes, and a great job. I was no different from any other woman with needs either. And right now, I needed answers. As painful as the truth might be.

  He’s probably some fucked-up creep with a fetish for ugly women. It would explain his dating track record. Though, I now suspected all those “girlfriends” were really PR stunts.

  Time to find out.

  I got in my red Mini and drove back to C.C.’s headquarters, located not too far from the Chicago Board of Trade building downtown. When I entered the spacious, bright-white, heaven-like lobby (minus the pearly gates), I told the receptionist—different from the day before—I was there to see Mr. Cole but didn’t have an appointment. That won me the “oh, another female stalker” look.

  “He really does want to see me. Would you mind calling his assistant, Keri?” I told the woman.

  Skeptically, she dialed. “There’s a Miss Snow to see Mr. Cole.” She listened. “Okay. I’ll send her up.”

  She handed me a visitor’s badge and gave me a strange look. She was gorgeous, by the way, and now I knew why: Mr. Cole didn’t want to be greeted each morning by someone who wasn’t up to snuff.

  As I got inside the elevator, a man in a suit—slender build, light brown hair, and pretty brown eyes—got in with me. He held a laptop and some files in his hands.

  “Can you push the top floor, please?” he asked, looking down his nose at me.

  “Already pushed,” I replied.

  “Oh. You going up to the big guy’s office, too?”

  “Yep.”

  His expression leaned toward judgmental, like he didn’t understand why I was there.

  “Are you new?” he asked, sounding overtly snobbish.

  “Not exactly.”

  The elevator chimed and the doors opened. We both stepped out, and Keri was already waiting for me.

  “Miss Snow, nice to see you again.” She shook my hand and then dropped her smile, looking at the guy who rode up with me. “Hey, Craig. Mr. Cole says you’ll have to wait a few minutes to start the meeting.” She dipped her head at me. “Right this way, Miss Snow. Mr. Cole will see you in his office.”

  Wow. If looks could kill, Craig was in the process of dismembering me. Hannibal style. I guessed he wasn’t too pleased about getting bumped.

  “Nice meeting you,” I said anyway. No one wanted to be on an AMY’s (Angry Middle-Aged Yuppy) shit-list.

  “Good luck,” he said, but really meant “fuck you” by his tone.

  Changed my mind. “Thanks, Amy.” Fuck you back.

  I entered Mr. Cole’s office and found him once again on his phone, sitting with his large feet propped up on the desk, looking like the picture-perfect sex god, his broad shoulders pushed all the way back into the chair. His thick brown hair was a mess, a few loose strands falling over his forehead like he’d forgotten the hair product this morning or had just gotten laid and passed on the comb.

  Keri closed the door behind me, and the sound snagged his attention.

  His eyes did that weird wash and scrub over my body while he continued his conversation. “Yeah, Jer. I get it. But this is not the time to cut orders, so do whatever it takes to make sure it doesn’t happen.” He listened for a moment, his eyes still on me. Well, on my tits, anyway. It was an odd sensation, almost like he was forcing himself not to look away and my breasts were h
is home plate—safe! It made me feel kind of naked. “All right. Send an update at close of business.” He hung up and pasted on a smile. “Well, this is a surprise.”

  “I figured I owed you since you showed up at my apartment unannounced.”

  He stood from his desk, giving me a glimpse of his outfit. No suit today. Instead, he wore jeans—loose around his hips, faded and sexy—and a dark gray button-down that perfectly hugged the contours of his very fucking sexy and hate-worthy body.

  “Well, I’m pleased you caught me. I only came into the office to take care of a few things; then I’m off to the airport.” He gestured toward the light gray table and chairs near the window. “Would you like to sit?”

  All right. This was strange. He was being extremely cordial and pleasant—completely phony.

  I sat, and he took the chair across from me, this time not pushing away. I could see a sheen of sweat collecting on his brow. Was it physically paining him to be this close to me?

  “So, Miss Snow. Are you here to accept my offer?” he asked, sounding like he’d won some giant victory.

  “No.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Then do tell. What brings you and your dirty little mouth back to C.C.?” He grinned, seeming amused.

  No. He looks…he looks…nervous. But he’s trying to hide it. Or was that just my imagination?

  “My dirty little mouth and I have some questions.” I noticed again that he wasn’t looking at my face, but at the base of my neck. And the sweat on his brow had grown to a visible dew.

  “Then, by all means, ask away,” he replied.

  How was it possible he looked cool and calm and falling to pieces all at once? I didn’t know. But it had to be the same skill he used to look hot and masculine while simultaneously revolting me.

  I cleared my throat, forcing myself to look past his perfect face and body. I needed to see him for who he was, just like I needed him to see me. “This is only going to work if you and I are honest with each other.”

  “We seem to do rather well with that, you and I.”

  “True.” I had to acknowledge that for two complete strangers, neither one of us seemed to have a filter with each other. Not that I wasn’t normally a direct person, but something about this man brought it to a whole new level.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “I want to know what you meant when you said that I am what you need. What do you really hope to get out of hiring me?”

  “I think I made myself clear yesterday.” His gaze only hit my eyes for a moment, but the hardness shook me. My question had displeased him.

  Well, too bad.

  “You only told me you wanted my help, but not why,” I pointed out.

  He scratched the back of his thick head of hair, and I noticed his rolled-up sleeves, or more accurately, the hard ropes of muscles popping up on his forearm. “I’m afraid that’s none of your business.”

  “It is if I’m going to come here every day, knowing you’re disgusted when you look at me.”

  “And you will be disgusted when you look at me. I’d say we’re on an even playfield. Except, I’ll be paying you. Quite well.”

  As I looked at his face, I saw a bead of sweat trickle down his temple.

  “Seriously?” I sighed. This was too much. “I can’t do this, Mr. Cole.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Look at you. We haven’t been in the same room for more than a minute and you look like I’ve got a gun pointed at your balls.” I laughed bitterly.

  He frowned. “Does this seem funny to you, Miss Snow?”

  “Yes,” I spat.

  “Not to me. Not one bit.”

  “Then how do you find this? Entertaining? Are you getting some kick out of degrading me? Is that what this is about—some weird fetish you have for making the ugly girl your slave or—”

  “I’m not that sort of man,” he said bluntly.

  I stared at him, waiting. He’d have to give me more, and he knew it.

  A long moment passed before he finally spoke. “Some people have a fear of heights or small spaces. I have a fear of…” He looked straight at me, and my mind filled in the blank.

  “Ugly people? Oh, come the hell on.”

  “It is called cacophobia, Miss Snow. It is a disorder.”

  I blinked at him, trying my best not to laugh hysterically and roll on the floor. “Oh, boy. I get that you have a huge ego and probably don’t want to admit you’re a disgusting, shallow bastard, but don’t hide behind a doctor’s note. That’s pathetic.”

  His fist came down on the table, jarring me in my seat. “That’s enough, Miss Snow. I see you enjoy being a coldhearted bitch, but my issue isn’t here for your goddamned amusement.”

  My smiled vaporized as his angry hazel eyes burned.

  “You’re serious,” I said. “You really have a disease.”

  “A disorder. And yes, I’m dead fucking serious.”

  I wanted to ask how he’d gotten it, but did that really matter?

  “Wow. So hating me has a scientific name. How wonderful.” I folded my arms across my chest and looked out the window. Being disliked because a person was a complete superficial asshat was one thing, but to know that Mother Nature created people who were predisposed to see you as a plague or threat or something to steer clear of really stung. Later, I would look up “cacophobia” and learn it also drove a person to pursue their own perfection. It would explain his body.

  “I do not hate you, Miss Snow,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “But I am the way I am. Don’t take it personally.”

  I shook my head at him. “God, you’re such an insensitive prick. If anything is personal, this situation qualifies.”

  “What’s personal is you’re being quite the bitch.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Can you blame me?”

  “No.”

  At least he was fair. “But I’m not getting it,” I said, trying hard to let it all sink in and not succeeding, “you’ve dated some pretty unattractive women.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So they were all just for show?” I asked, referring to the multitude of photographs I’d seen in the tabloids.

  “The press likes to make assumptions. I simply allow them to.”

  I had guessed that might be the case. “And the models you use? Or your company’s slogans?”

  His expression showed no sign of shame. “My affliction provides me with some very unique and valuable insights regarding what women face. I’ve used it to my advantage.”

  So that meant he was fully aware of how hurtful his behavior toward unattractive women felt to them. Then he used those insights to sell them the antidote. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? On one hand, it was like a wolf becoming a politician, telling all the rabbits of the world not to feel bad when his kind chewed off their legs and maimed them. On the other hand, it was also like telling the women of the world not to fall victim to the fucked-up, degrading, judgmental ways of men. Don’t listen to us Maxwell Coles of the world—we’re idiots.

  Yeah, I liked that second analogy better. Still, I found this all very confusing.

  “So why not see someone for your little problem. Why hire me?”

  “I am seeing someone, and she advises the only way to eliminate the problem is to accept it into my life, to confront it—similar to any phobia.”

  “I see.” I bobbed my head and then stared at his large hands. They were laced together on top of the light gray table. He had beautiful hands. He had beautiful everything. And now I knew he wasn’t just an asshole. Okay, yes. He was still an asshole, but part of his behavior was attributed to a disorder he was trying to get help with.

  I whooshed out a breath and lowered my forehead to the table, rolling it from side to side. “I can’t take your offer. It’s wrong.”

  “Wrong? Please explain what’s so wrong.”

  Half speaking to myself and half speaking to him, I muttered, “I can’t work for you. Not like this.” I
needed to know I was there because I’d earned it and deserved it.

  “Like what?”

  My head shot up. “You know like what.”

  He leaned back and folded his fit arms over his chest. The way his biceps stretched the fabric of his sleeves caught my female eye like a fish to a worm.

  “We are two people who can help each other,” he said piously. “You can help me overcome my obstacle. I can give you a better life. Why is this wrong?”

  Because seeing you every day and knowing I cause you pain, just because I’m not pretty, makes me feel ugly.

  “You want to give me a job I haven’t earned,” I replied. “You want to buy me a face I wasn’t born with. You want to rob me of my self-esteem so you can have an easier life.” I stood from the table. “I can’t feel good about any of it.”

  He stared up at me with an unreadable expression. “Then tell me what you really want. What will make you feel good about it?”

  “There isn’t anything.”

  “Why did you want to work here in the first place?” he asked.

  “Because I wanted to learn from you. I want to run my own company someday.”

  He laughed. “You? You don’t have the backbone and you certainly don’t have the killer instinct.”

  “Are you saying I have to be an asshole like you to be successful?” I asked.

  “Absolutely. A leader has to fight for what they want and be willing to step on a few toes. But you? You’re running for the door, like the fake that you are.”

  Yesterday, he’d called me a fake, too. I wondered why. “How can you call me that? You of all people?” It was really insulting.

  “Because you only pretend to be tough and confident. But you will never be me, never run a successful company, and never amount to shit in this world if you don’t truly believe in yourself. You won’t even make it to the next goddamned block because you don’t have the balls to ask for what you want.”

  “I have balls. Look at me; I’m here, talking to you and turning you down.”

  He grinned. “For all the wrong reasons.”

  “For my reasons.” I scowled.

  “Stop playing games, Miss Snow. Tell me what you really want. Demand it. Let me see your claws.”