I groan and close my eyes, putting a hand on my forehead.
I feel dirty - in a good way. This is what I’ve always wanted, isn’t it?
Then why do I feel so strange?
I start to walk over to the bathroom to hop in the shower - I have a lot to do today. Technically, it’s still pre-pageant, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to be any less busy today than I will be in the coming several days. But as I’m about to get to the bathroom, I hear my phone buzzing from somewhere in my room.
I don’t know where the hell anything is, between my dress tossed on the floor to the strap of my bag hung on the back of the chair at the small desk tucked into the corner, but I finally find my phone slipped between two straps on my black sandals. Good place for it.
I grab my phone. It is absolutely blowing up with notifications. There’s a missed call from my manager and one from one of the pageant organizers, and several texts. My heart sinks as a very bad feeling comes over me, and I feel my cheeks getting hot as I see the texts from my manager.
This is not good, the text reads. Below it, there’s a link to an article. My heart flies into my throat and my stomach drops when I click on it.
LOCAL BEAUTY QUEEN SLAMS LOVE
“Oh no, no, no, no,” I say out loud, stepping backwards to sit on the edge of the bed. I feel my chest go tight as I try to take a big breath in, but I feel like my lungs are filled with steel wool. I feel like I can’t fucking breathe.
Frontrunner and fan favorite in this year’s Miss Northeast Pageant, Cassandra Blake, may not be the bright-eyed optimist some of her fans believe her to be, according to sources close to the beauty queen.
“Cassie Blake is not what you think,” a friend of Ms. Blake’s has said, on the condition of anonymity. “It’s sad, really. Most girls her age have already had at least one serious boyfriend. Lots are in love and ready to get engaged. But Cassie? She thinks love is stupid.”
What...what the hell am I reading right now?
I scan the rest of the article and it’s as ridiculous as I could have predicted from the sensational, over-the-top headline to the fact that this so-called anonymous “source” is apparently a friend of mine. The article goes on to suggest I’m some party girl who doesn’t want to find a husband, which I interpret to be some kind of slut-shaming, which is mean-spirited and awful but also couldn’t be farther from the truth.
And my heart sinks when I consider how the hell this article could have been published. The only person I was with last night was Jason, and the only other person I even spoke to was Cynthia.
This had to have been her. This is a freaking hit piece on me. And it’s as superficial as marshmallow fluff. It’s hot air. And even though there is no byline - it’s just a blurb beneath my picture - I know it was Cynthia.
If something’s stupid, it isn’t love. It’s this freaking article.
I check the time, realizing that I’m supposed to meet Cynthia for an interview in a couple of hours, when my phone rings. It’s my manager.
“Hey, Mrs. Pathmoore,” I chirp in the most upbeat voice I can manage, even though it’s really damn hard right now. “I was meaning to call you. Good to hear from you.”
I hear nothing from the other end of the phone. Yeah, maybe she thinks I’m full of it. I certainly know I’m full of it right now.
“Cassandra,” she says critically, “surely you’ve seen the article I sent to you.”
“Oh, um,” I start, unsure of what to say.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asks, impatiently.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I reply, my embarrassment giving way to annoyance. “I didn’t write the article.”
“So you don’t dispute its veracity?” Mrs. Pathmoore barks.
“I’m not sure how to answer that,” I reply, “the whole thing smacks of nonsense. I...okay, I was talking to a friend at the bar last night, and I guess this reporter I’m friendly with overheard. It was a joke.”
“So you did say the things in the article? You’ve done the things in the article?”
“Mrs. Pathmoore, I assure you that anything in that article has been blown way, way out of proportion. I said the things in the article, yes, but my comments were taken out of context. Who hasn’t said love is stupid at some point in their life?”
I know I’ve said it on more than one occasion. I’ve said it more times than just last night.
“The most important thing for us to do now is damage control,” Mrs. Pathmoore sighs into the phone, a thick combination of pity and annoyance coloring her tone. “I have a meeting set up for us with the pageant organizers this morning. We’ll have to meet with them to come up with a way to get out in front of this thing.”
“Wait, is it really that bad?” I ask, springing to my feet. I swallow hard and the reality hits me - the crown really might be on the line for me.
I came into this thing a little bit cocky, I will admit. I thought I was really in the running. I mean, I was really in the running, that part wasn’t my imagination getting away from me. My stupid smiling face was all over the TV with a few of the other girls who are audience favorites, and the organizers of the pageant decided to do small bios on us in advance of the contest.
And now, suddenly, it appears that I’m about to be downgraded to the back row.
“Yes, it really is that bad,” Mrs. Pathmoore replies. “I don’t need to remind you that the contestants’ reputations need to be pristine. The little comment about love being stupid isn’t the worst of your problems right now, Cassandra.”
I groan, put my head in my hand, and start over to my closet to pick out a dress for the meeting. Something white. Something that screams virginal. Not virgin per se, because that would be somewhat unusual in this day and age - hell, it was unusual even back in the olden days when girls actually purported to be virgins on their wedding day. But today, at least in my world, you have to put forth the appearance of chastity to appease the old guard.
“Okay,” I say, “I get it.”
“I will text you the information, okay? And Cassie, please start thinking up a sincere apology for the organizers.”
It seems ridiculous to have to come up with a sincere apology in advance. You’d think a sincere apology would come from the heart. You’d think a sincere apology would be something you actually mean, instead of a speech you prepare at the behest of your manager.
“Of course, Mrs. Pathmoore,” I say, “I will be ready to explain myself and show how truly sorry I am for what I’ve said and done.”
“And try to make it believable,” she huffs into the phone before hanging up.
Talk about a wakeup call. I only slept a few hours because I was up half of the night with Jason’s hands all over me, and now I’m scrambling to get ready for this stupid meeting.
I guess I shouldn’t have been canoodling with Jason Anderson in public the way I was. I guess I opened myself up to this.
I grab a hanger from my closet, pulling out a pretty, sweet white eyelet dress. No, that’s not for today. That looks like I’m trying too hard, trying to make some kind of point. I scan my options while shaking my head and pursing my lips and being generally annoyed at this whole thing, while trying to put the bigger consequences out of my mind.
I finally land on a long white maxi dress. This will be fine. This will be appropriate. This will be perfectly acceptable.
Then I make my way into the bathroom, letting my robe fall to the floor, to let this mess of a day begin.
7
Jason
I blow on the open, paper coffee cups in the cardboard holder that I was able to swipe from the lobby and knock on Cassie’s door.
This is pretty much exactly like old times. I remember sleeping over at Cassie’s plenty, but I wasn’t there to hang out with her. I was there to stay up all night smoking weed and playing around with her brother’s guitar collection. I did wake her up lots of times in the morning, though, by knocking on her door with a hot cup of co
ffee and a pasty from the place down the road.
Cassie finally opens the door a crack to check who it is before opening up all the way for me to step inside.
I think she put on this dress just for me. Her round, perfect ass invites me into the room as she walks away from the door and perches on the edge of the bed, pulling on some strappy flat sandals.
“Hey,” she says, her long hair cascading down her shoulders. If I didn’t know we’d just spent the night together, I wouldn’t believe it if someone told me.
I woke up with the biggest hardon I think I’ve ever had, and all I wanted was to roll over and make her cum again and again.
“I brought coffee,” I offer, putting the tray down on the dresser, “but it doesn’t look like you’re in the mood. Should I have brought champagne? It’s a little bit early for me to start drinking, but I won’t judge if you want to.” I’m kidding around with her of course, but I check the time on my phone to tease her. “Damn, it really is early to hit the bottle, Cass. Everything okay in your personal life?”
“I’m sorry,” she sighs, “it’s just...have you seen the news this morning?”
“No,” I say, my chest tightening slightly, “everything alright?”
“Yeah. No. I mean, I don’t know.” She goes over to the dresser and picks up one of the coffees. She knows which one is for her - she always liked her coffee light and sweet, where I like mine black, a straight shot of unmitigated caffeine. “Thank you for this,” she says, taking a sip. “Not too hot. Just how I like it.” She forces a smile.
There’s an uneasy rumbling inside my chest, like I’ve eaten a cyanide pill and the poison is just starting to enter my bloodstream. There’s either something really fucking bad in the news that I’m not aware of, or she regrets what happened last night between us. And from the way she was panting and moaning all night, I don’t think she could regret what we did.
“What’s going on, Cass?” I ask, taking a step toward her.
“It’s…it’s this.”
She crosses the room and grabs her phone off the small desk in the corner, swiping at the glass before shoving the phone into my hands and walking away nervously, chewing on her thumb.
I look down and see the headline.
Beauty queen slams love. I chuckle to myself and toss the phone back to her.
“It’s not funny,” she whines, though there’s a little glimmer of lightness in her voice. “This is a total disaster.”
“Look,” I say, taking a sip of coffee and leaning against the dresser, “the way I see it, there’s no such thing as bad press. And you did say love is stupid, didn’t you?”
“Yeah, I said it, but I didn’t mean it. And it doesn’t matter what I said or didn’t say, or mean or don’t mean.”
“Okay, okay,” I say, putting my hands out. She’s combustible, and so damn cute when she’s annoyed. “So what are we gonna do about it?”
She takes a big breath, emptying her lungs into the room.
“My manager has a meeting set up with me and the pageant organizers this morning. We’re going to figure something out.”
“Can’t you just say the whole thing is a crock of shit?”
“I don’t know if it would really do much at this point to deny it, but when I get to the meeting they’ll have a better idea of how to move forward.”
“Drop out of the pageant,” I say, crossing the room and taking her in my arms. She softens, her arms wrapping around my neck. Cassie looks up at me with those deep, piercing blue eyes of hers. So fucking pretty, but such a fucking dirty girl.
“You want me to quit and do what, exactly?” she says, her fingers coming to the neckline of my black t-shirt, the kind that was like a damn uniform when I was a roadie.
“Shack up with me for the week,” I say, putting my hands on her waist, “I promise it’ll be a lot more fun than anything you could do out there.”
She gives me a small smile and looks up at me, backing away slowly.
“We need to cool off for a bit,” she says, “for the sake of the contest. I’m already in hot water. I’m really sorry.”
“You really gonna let these people dictate your actions, baby?” I ask. This is pretty fucking cold of her, but if it’s what she needs, I’ll pretend I’m cool with it.
She sighs deeply, peering down at her phone before looking back up at me.
“I’m sorry,” she repeats.
“Fine,” I say, scrubbing the side of my face, “that’s just that much more time after this whole thing is over that you have to agree to hang out with me.”
“We can hang out any time,” she replies, tapping at something on her phone and smiling up at me. But her smile quickly becomes a scowl.
“Shit. The meeting’s been moved up.”
“To when?”
She rushes toward the door and shoos me out in front of her.
“To five minutes ago.”
“Let me escort you to your meeting,” I say, putting my arm through hers. “It would only be proper.”
I watch her hesitate, the gears moving in her head. Better to show up with a guy working at the contest, an upstanding pillar of society, or better to eschew me slightly disheveled presence entirely and go at it alone?
“I don’t know,” she says, thinking for a moment, “alright, yeah. It’ll give me a little bit of authority if I show up with you. That sounds bad, but it’s true. And anyway, the article didn’t mention you specifically, or anything.”
“Right, thank goodness the article didn’t mention me,” I say sarcastically as we begin down the hall.
Just being near her feels so damn good. I glance over at her and watch her as we make our way to the elevators.
I’ve always thought of her as someone who I didn’t quite know how to place. As my best friend’s sister, she was off-limits. It’s just something you don’t do - and on top of being Mark’s sister, a girl like Cassie Blake is just a girl you don’t mess with. A girl like that can get you into a lot of goddamn trouble.
But we’re adults now, and I have my shit together. If I’d had my shit together back in the day, what happened last night would have happened a long damn time ago. I’d have had her every damn night, tasting the sweetness of her lips, feeling her curves and throwing her against the wall every time she had that look in her eye.
But I just couldn’t do it. Not then. I’d wanted it. I sometimes think about what it would have been like to be with her back then. Really be with her.
“What do you think the article would have said if it had mentioned you?” she asks, getting a little bit closer to me, linking her arm through mine a little bit tighter.
“I think the article would have been very kind to me,” I say, shrugging my shoulders as I look over at her.
“Kind to you, and yet unflattering toward me?” she says, arching an eyebrow. “Okay, so what would it have said?”
“Hm, let’s see...beauty queen Cassie Blake spotted with a gorgeous mystery man. Cassie Blake is about to go for the ride of her life. Cassie Blake is the prettiest girl who ever came out of Stone Creek, New York.”
Cassie smirks at me as we get to the elevators. She slips her arm away from me and hits the call button.
“That’s very interesting,” she says, “so you think you’re gorgeous?”
“And you think you’re pretty?”
The elevator dings and I cock my head toward it.
“Let’s go, princess.”
8
Cassie
The meeting is being held in one of the executive offices on the ground floor of the hotel, right off the lobby, where they have the archaic “business center,” pool and gym. I see Mrs. Pathmoore immediately as I turn the corner past the hotel’s front desk with Jason, and she motions very dramatically for me to come with her and for Jason to stay behind.
She brings me into the small office and shuts the door behind us. At least they have refreshments here.
“Who is the gentleman?” Mrs. Pathmo
ore asks as I pour myself a small plastic cup of water with lemon and grab a tea biscuit.
“That’s an old friend of mine,” I answer without skipping a beat. No use to draw attention to real nature of our relationship, not that I know what the hell it is.
One night stand? One week fling? I feel my face grow warm in the realization that I have absolutely zero clue what is going through Jason’s head. Even worse, I haven’t had a chance to consider what I want this to be, either. I just haven’t had time for it yet. So far it’s just been an absolutely ecstatic swirl of one incredible night and a quick cup of coffee the next morning. I know he said he wanted to spend more time with me, but so far it’s just been sex for both of us.
And is it wrong that I can’t get my mind off it?
“Is he here to support you...as a friend?” Mrs. Pathmoore asks, her tone dripping with condescension and judgement.
“No,” I reply, “as a matter of fact, he is working here. He is a security guard for the pageant. He has been a bouncer for some of the biggest rock bands in the country. He comes highly recommended. He is very good at what he does.”
I shoot of that rapid-fire series of half-truths and white-lies, caught up in wanting to defend him and maybe make it seem like he really belongs here, despite what Mrs. Pathmoore thinks of him. But I immediately realize it’s silly, because of course he belongs here. He’s being paid to be here, after all.
I hear the door to the office click open behind me and two of the higher-ups of the pageant appear from behind the door - the Vice President of the organization, and host of the whole thing.
I start to put my hand out to greet both of them, but they both rush past Mrs. Pathmoore and me, guiding us toward the big desk in the middle of the room. Their expressions are cold and uninviting.
“Is it really that bad?” I say with a laugh in a vain attempt to lighten the mood. My attempt is less successful than I’d hoped. I knew these people would likely give me shit once I was in the meeting, but the mood in here is really not good.
Second Chance Bride: A Fake Fiancee Romance Page 5