Wicked Torture

by J. Kenner

  "You've managed to present a cohesive plan that integrates all of our potential markets, and at the same time treats each market and its relationship to the product distinctly. There's overlap, but only minimal."

  Like a schoolgirl, I blush with pleasure.

  Stark nods agreement. "It's a surgical strike plan. If it's executed properly, the results will likely exceed your projections."

  "I was being conservative," I admit, imagining the feel of the pen in my hand as I sign my name to the consulting contract.

  "Nothing wrong with that," Stark says. "But the big question is the if." His words bring me down to earth.

  "If I can pull it off?" I keep my tone both casual and confident. "I hope my proposal and my resume illustrate my skill in reaching--and exceeding--all projections and project milestones."

  "Confidence is a valuable tool," Noah says. "And your skill is proven by your resume and what you showed us here today. But we're working under a tighter timeline now."

  I raise a brow, then look between both men.

  "There are rumors we'll lose our competitive edge if we don't jump on this quickly," Noah says, then passes me a print-out with the new, tighter schedule.

  "Oh." I feel a twinge of irritation that neither man told me that from the get-go. But that's quickly replaced by the realization that this is a test. Am I innovative and flexible? Damn right I am.

  I turn my laptop back on and step to the white board where my summary slide is being projected. I snatch up a marker, and proceed to edit my plan right in front of them, talking through each element and how I would revise it to meet the tighter deadlines. "It will be a challenge," I say. "Then again, you both already knew that." I point to my notations. "But it's doable."

  "It is," Noah says with a nod. "If you have the staff to make it happen."

  He's right, of course. And the truth is, I don't. My operation is small, with only three of us working full-time. Me, of course. Maia, who's been my right-hand for years, and who I've just asked to come on board as my partner. And our office manager.

  My practice is to staff up for each project, using trusted freelancers I've worked with before. I've already put five on notice. But getting a larger team together for this new timeframe will be tricky.

  Since bullshitting won't get me anywhere, I tell Noah and Stark exactly that, and am rewarded by the flicker of both surprise and respect in their eyes.

  "Are you saying that you're withdrawing your proposal?" Noah focuses on my face as he asks the question. And I can't tell if his expression holds relief or disappointment.

  "Not at all," I say, my mind churning as I struggle to salvage this problem. "I'm proposing that my team utilize Stark employees."

  Sometimes, I love my subconscious. I hadn't planned that approach, but it makes the most sense. It's already my practice on large jobs to have my team move into a conference room on-site so that we have easy access to the company's support staff. All I'm proposing now is that we go even further.

  Even though Stark International and all its subsidiaries have excellent in-house marketing, I'm not surprised they're using an outside contractor for a rollout such as this--a man like Stark knows the value of specialization. But at the same time, I'm sure there are oodles of Stark employees across the globe who are more than capable of providing support for a rollout of this nature.

  I can practically see my thought process reflected on Mr. Stark's face--and the fact that he doesn't dismiss the idea outright gives me hope.

  As for Noah, I'm almost afraid to look at him. Because if he and Stark accept this revised proposal, then I'll be moving in. This very conference room may be command central, and I'll be working intimately with him and the team every single day.

  The thought gives me pause, but only for a moment, then I'm firmly back on the giddy train.

  The intercom buzzes, which I recognize as a signal from the assistant who walked me in that my time is up. They still have more candidates to interview, but I know the guys who are about to pitch, and they're not pressure players. Which means that unless Stark and Noah saw something seriously impressive before I walked through the door, I'm confident this job is mine.

  "Ms. Porter," Stark says, rising to shake my hand, "it's been a pleasure."

  "Good seeing you again," Noah says. His voice reflects only corporate politeness. But his handshake is firm, and though I don't want it to, his touch sends my body humming.

  "You too," I say, trying to tug my hand free without being obvious.

  "We'll be in touch," he adds, as the dark-haired assistant leads me out the door and back to the elevator. I walk calmly, but it's not easy. What I want to do is skip.

  And once I'm alone on the elevator, I do exactly that.

  Because I nailed it. This job is mine.

  Am I a marketing goddess or what?

  "I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

  It's barely eight in the morning, and I'm sitting morosely at my breakfast bar watching Ares pour green sludge from my Vitamix into a tumbler.

  "Pretty much," he says, then shoves the drink in front of me. "Here," he says. "You're thin as a rail."

  "Well, no wonder, if this is the kind of stuff you're feeding me. There's not an ounce of chocolate in here, much less ice cream."

  He smirks, and I smile sweetly back. But I also do as he asks and take a sip of the nasty thing. These last few months, all my attention has gone to writing songs and working up the Stark proposal. Mundane things like eating and having a life have fallen by the wayside.

  The upside is that I can probably market my eating plan and make a mint. The downside is that I would be vilified across the globe. A diet of coffee and rice is hardly a nutritious choice.

  "That was gross," I say honestly, after I've choked the kale flavored mouthful down. But I am hungry, and it is healthy. "I'm pretty sure you're the devil," I say, then take another sip.

  "No, I'm just her cousin."

  That makes me laugh, which leads to me almost snorting green smoothie through my nose. But it's worth it for the mental picture of Celia with little red devil horns.

  My best friend and former band mate is both organized and bossy, which makes her annoying, though not truly evil. But that doesn't mean I'll forego teasing her, even in absentia.

  Ares takes a sip of his own smoothie and swallows it without any signs of gagging or disgust. "Okay, tell me. Why are you an idiot? Other than all the reasons I'm familiar with, I mean."

  "Be nice to me," I say. "Free living space, remember?"

  Since Seven Percent is heading out on tour next week, he rented out his cute little Central Austin house for the next five months. But the band doesn't hit the road until Monday. Which means he's camping in my spare bedroom until then.

  "Not free," he says. "Barter." He lifts the smoothie. "I'm feeding you."

  I snort. "There's one reason I'm an idiot. Agreeing to put up with you for a weekend."

  He flashes the same wide grin that has girls scrambling up on stage when he's performing. "Bite your tongue."

  "Did that once," I say. "Left a bad taste."

  He laughs. "Bitch."

  "Asshole."

  "But you love me," he says, and he's right. I do. I just don't love him. We did the dating thing for about a week, after doing the casual sex thing when I was still morose about my failed marriage and leaving Owen. Or, more specifically, when I thought I should be morose.

  There were never relationship sparks with Ares, though, much to Celia's disappointment. But we have friendship sparks in spades.

  "You're avoiding the question," Ares says. "Why are you an idiot this time?"

  I leave the smoothie on the bar and move to my sofa, then stretch out, getting comfy. I'm wearing my sushi pattern pajama bottoms paired with a Texas Strong tank-top. Ares joins me, and I lift my feet only long enough to let him sit so that I can put them in his lap. "The job, of course."

  His brow furrows. "I thought it was the perfect gig. Wasn't that what you said whe
n you first got the RFP? In fact, I seem to remember you waving the paper, dancing around this very room, and singing about it being a really big gig. You were off key, by the way."

  "The hell I was, and the job is perfect. Or it was. Now I'm afraid I'm going to get it."

  "With the way your mind works, it's a wonder you don't go through life in a perpetual state of vertigo."

  I smirk. "It's just . . . Noah."

  "Are you still in love with him?"

  The question shocks me. It's so simple. So basic. And so very unexpected that I have to take a few moments to think about it. "No," I finally say. "How could I be after all this time? I mean, we don't even know each other anymore. Not really."

  "Then what's the problem?"

  I exhale, because apparently I'm the problem. "Because I am still in love with the Noah who lives in my head. The one who broke my heart. I'm in love with his memory, with the dreams that I had to let go. And I know it's going to hurt like hell to be working side by side with him."

  He presses his hand lightly against my ankle, his storm-gray eyes on mine as he nods thoughtfully. "I get that. And it may not be an issue. He may be thinking the exact same thing. It may be bothering him so much that he doesn't offer you the position."

  I bolt up, fueled by irritation. "Whoa," I say. "That would be totally unfair. I kicked ass on that proposal. He can't just take me out of the running. He needs to get over it."

  "You think it's that easy?"

  "Of course not, but--oh." I flop back against my pillow, ceding his victory. "I guess I should be able to get over it, too, huh?"

  "It's worth trying to, isn't it? I know Celia will have your head on a platter if you back out of the album. And she'll have mine for not convincing you."

  He's right, of course. For the last few months, Celia and I have been working toward reviving Pink Chameleon. And the more we've accomplished, the more excited I've become.

  I do love my work, but I miss writing and performing. But the nature of my business is such that I can handpick my projects, and that's what I did with the Stark proposal. Get this job--get this paycheck--and I'll have enough money to live for a year in LA while Celia and I compile a new body of work, and then rehearse, record, and possibly even hit the road for a short tour depending on the reaction to the singles we'll release.

  And now that the Stark money stays the same but the time period is truncated, it's an even better deal for me. Get in, get out, get financed.

  The beautiful thing is that I don't even have to walk away from Crown Consulting. With Maia coming on as my partner, she can run the shop while I'm gone, and I'll chime in as needed from Los Angeles or the road.

  In other words, the Stark job would give me the chance to make it in the career that Noah stole from me . . . and also in the one he pushed me toward. Because before he broke my heart and killed my muse, he'd been my biggest fan and my most vocal cheerleader.

  But without the income from this job, I can't afford to take time off. I can still plan the Pink Chameleon revival, but it will take longer and be messier.

  If the dice roll that way, then I'll deal with it. But if I actively screw it all up by walking away from the Stark job . . .

  Well, Ares is right. Celia will go all Game of Thrones on me, and I'll be her very best decapitated friend.

  "Of course, if you don't get the job--or you decide you don't want the job--my offer still stands."

  I roll my eyes. Ares has repeatedly asked me to go on tour with Seven Percent. Historically, they've been a fully male group, though I wouldn't call them a boy band any more than The Police or The Rolling Stones were boy bands back in the day. But now he wants a female lead singer in the mix. One who, like me, can also play guitar when vocals aren't an issue.

  I won't deny that I'm tempted, but Pink Chameleon is my baby. And if there's a chance of reviving it, that's a chance I'm taking.

  A terrifying chance, sure. But I'm finally ready for it. At least, I think I am. And this job will help me get there.

  I look up at Ares, and he grins, obviously seeing my conclusion on my face.

  "It's going to be crazy working with Noah," I say.

  "You're both adults. It'll be fine."

  Sure. Right. I bob my head as I consider. "Maybe," I admit. "And maybe it'll even be nice to get to know him again. I mean, I've always admired his work ethic. I'll probably learn a lot."

  "When will you hear?"

  I automatically glance toward the kitchen and the clock that flashes on the microwave, though I don't know why. Neither Noah nor Stark gave a specific time. "They said they'd make notifications today," I tell Ares. "I'm not sure when."

  "Then let's go out. Get your mind off it. It's a gorgeous day. Want to take the bikes out?" I live in South Austin near the Ladybird Wildflower Center and the Austin Veloway.

  I consider that, decide it's a damn good plan, and tell him so. "Give me ten to change."

  I'm back in leggings and one of my favorite sport tanks with a built-in bra. It's November, and the weather is brisk. But it's also Austin, which means that brisk is pretty tame. I'll grab a jacket on my way out the door, but I'll probably end up tying it around my waist when I get warm on the bike.

  Ares is already changed into biking shorts--which reminds me why I slept with him that one and only time--and a Seven Percent T-shirt. "Ready?" He passes me my water bottle as we head to the door.

  "Let's hit Magnolia for lunch on the way home," I say as we reach my door. I'm looking at him as I pull it open, and so I'm completely unprepared when I turn back to the doorway and see Noah standing right there, his hand lifted to knock.

  "Oh! Noah!"

  Behind me, Ares moves over, obviously wanting to get a view of who's in the door. "Right," he says. "I'll be in the bedroom."

  And then the bastard abandons me.

  "Sorry about showing up unannounced," Noah says. "I should have called." He lifts his hand higher, and I'm certain he's about to run his fingers through his hair. But he checks himself and puts his hand in his pocket. From the untidy state of his hair, I'm thinking that this is the first time this morning that he's resisted the urge.

  "It's okay," I say, though I'm not sure it is. I'd been relaxed and confident only a few minutes before. Now I feel like a teenager talking with a crush.

  Damn me.

  I flash a professional smile. "What's up?"

  It's a perfunctory question. He's here because of the job, of course. Because I got it, and he wants to tell me in person so that we can talk off-premises about working around any lingering awkwardness. And since I'm all for that, I flash an easy, welcoming smile. "You have news?"

  "I do." He swallows, and I notice the way his eyes drift over me. I cross my arms, suddenly realizing how skin-tight my outfit is.

  Noah clears his throat. "Um, right. Well, I thought it would be best to tell you in person."

  I nod, and he draws a breath.

  He's going to offer, and I'm going to accept, and then I'm going to celebrate by ordering gingerbread pancakes with my migas at Magnolia, and Ares can just kiss my not-so-healthy ass.

  I'm about to usher Noah in so that all of that doesn't have to happen on my porch, but he speaks before I can step out of the way.

  "I'm sorry, Kiki," he says, as I try to process those words. "We're going with someone else."

  6

  As far as Noah was concerned, his miserable fucking morning turned into a miserable fucking afternoon. And, unfortunately, that status didn't show any signs of improving now that the end of the workday was drawing near.

  Then again, why would it? It's not as if he was going to do anything for the rest of the night except remember Kiki's horrified expression as he'd tossed a hand grenade through her front door.

  All day, he'd been replaying that scene in his head. Over and over and over again.

  Him, trying to be calm and rational as he gave her the bad news.

  Her, going completely pale before lurching forward and slam
ming the door so hard that it almost broke his nose. Now, he had an abraded wrist and a sore ankle from leaping backward, then scraping his arm as he blindly reached out to catch himself. He'd missed, and he'd winced with pain as he stumbled off the low, stone step that served as a front stoop.

  Not his most graceful moment. And his wrist hurt like a mother, but he supposed he deserved it. He should never have gone in person. He should have called her like he'd called the other candidates.

  But, damn him, he'd wanted to see her again. Because this time, he knew, would be the last time.

  Fuck it. With a violent shove, he pushed back from his desk and stood up. He looked out the window and imagined that he could find her out there. Maybe she was right below him, setting up a microphone at some bar on Sixth Street for a performance later tonight. Maybe she was still in her house, out of view, but tucked away beyond the spread of green on the far side of the river.

  Wherever she was, he knew that right now she hated him. Why shouldn't she? God knew he hated himself.

  With another violent curse, he turned back to his desk, then picked up the manila folder with the resumes of the two consultants he was still considering. He and Stark had selected the final three candidates, but then Damien had left, telling Noah that, as the front man, he needed to pick his own team.

  Damien was right, of course. And Noah had made the first move by eliminating Kiki. As for the rest, it shouldn't be this difficult. Noah should have made his decision by now and then texted Damien to give him the final word, but he kept vacillating. It wasn't a question of selecting the best candidate. It was a question of which was the better of two inferior candidates.

  The best was Kiki, hands down.

  But that was a determination based on her skill set and proposed plan, and that was only one factor in a much larger equation. An equation that included almost a decade of pain, hurt feelings, and inevitable distractions. An equation that had the two of them working together practically round-the-clock for three months.

  Frustrated, he shoved the folders into the canvas and leather messenger bag he used instead of a briefcase. It was only five, and he never left the office this early, but he was feeling trapped. Maybe the walk home would clear his head and magically hand him a decision.

  He punched the intercom on his desk. "Carina, I'm heading out. Tell reception they can transfer calls to my cell until seven."