by Lauren Rowe
A lump rises in my throat. “Thank you.”
With a little wink, my professor turns on her heel and strides to CeeCee’s line. My skin buzzing with excitement, I watch her apologize to two students at the front before exuberantly hugging her old friend. The two women talk for quite some time. Long enough that I find myself glancing at Reed after a bit, to make sure he’s still there.
When I spot Reed across the room, he’s talking to a female student. A pretty redhead who’s got her hand outstretched, like she’s offering him something. Is that a music demo in her palm? I bet it is, just like Alessandra predicted. Whatever it is, Reed’s clearly not interested in taking it from her—also, exactly as Alessandra predicted. God, I was so naïve.
“Georgina,” my professor says, drawing my attention.
Oh my God. It’s CeeCee. She’s standing before me. Looking like the legend she is.
Brief introductions are made, after which I begin babbling like the fangirl I am. I tell CeeCee about my admiration for her, for her magazines and fashion sense and philanthropy and business acumen. About my love for investigative journalism and her latest magazine, especially. And when I’m done rambling, CeeCee looks charmed, not annoyed. So much so, she invites me to join her and Professor Schiff for coffee at the nearby campus place—the one where I first met Bryce, actually.
But just before our threesome reaches the double doors at the front of the hall, I can’t help glancing over my shoulder once last time at Mr. Music Mogul. To my thrill, he’s watching me intently. A lion tracking a gazelle. Or, rather, a rich, powerful man watching the nobody he assumed he was going to fuck, just because he felt like it, walking straight out the door without even saying hello to him.
With a wistful smile, I flash Reed a wink, letting him know I’m as disappointed as he is not to get to experience whatever deliciousness might have transpired between us. And then, I straighten up and march out the doors behind CeeCee and my professor, feeling enthralled I’m getting this amazing opportunity... but also, if I’m being honest, a little disappointed I’ll never get the chance to say the words “yes, yes, yes!” to the man who instructed me to say them, whenever opportunity came knocking for me.
Chapter 7
Reed
“Honey, I’m home!” Josh hollers as we enter the crowded bar, and Henn and I laugh.
All three of us have fond memories of this place, but especially Josh, since he’s the one who tended bar here in college, albeit briefly. Just long enough for Josh to realize he loved tending bar, but hated punching a clock. A few months into his first-ever stint as an hourly wage worker, Josh struck a deal with the bar owner: Josh could tend bar whenever he wanted, without notice, provided he paid for whatever drinks he poured—using only expensive top-shelf liquor—and generously tipped whichever bartender he’d screwed out of tips by showing up unannounced.
Some of the guys in our fraternity house razzed Josh for essentially paying to work. But I totally understood: Josh wanted the same thing I’d wanted when I’d paid that sorority girl to eat her pussy a few years before—all the pleasures of a job he thoroughly enjoyed, without any of the associated hassles or commitments. As far as I was concerned, Josh was a genius for striking that deal with the bar owner, Bernie. In fact, he was my fucking hero.
I nudge Josh’s shoulder and motion to the pool table. “You and Henn get next game while I get our drinks.”
“You bought dinner,” Josh says. “I’m buying drinks.”
“Fuck off, Faraday,” I reply, already walking away. “I could buy dinner and drinks for three lifetimes, and still not repay you for everything you bankrolled in college.”
When I arrive at the crowded bar, I elbow my way to an open spot at the far end... and promptly lose my shit. It’s her. The sultry, sassy brunette from the music school event this afternoon. She’s the bartender. And she’s every bit as boner-inducing as she was this afternoon. More so, actually, now that she’s dressed to maximize her curves—and, surely, her tips—in a low-cut tank top, push-up bra, and skin-tight jeans.
She’s standing in profile to me at the moment, taking orders from a rowdy group of frat boys, all of whom plainly think she’s as big a knockout as I do. And who wouldn’t? She’s a bombshell, this girl. A bodacious siren plucked straight out of a Fellini flick. Thick, dark hair. Full, tempting lips in the perfect shape of a bow. Eyes that blaze with confidence. Sass. Charisma. Her skin is olive. Her limbs long. And those curves! Jesus Christ. They’re enough to make a careful man do some seriously reckless shit.
When she left the lecture hall with CeeCee without saying a word to me, despite all the winks and smiles and heated smolders we’d exchanged for a full hour, I was shocked. Also, impressed. But, mostly, intrigued. Was she a wannabe pop star playing a master game of chess by ditching me—gambling I’d track her down through CeeCee? Or had I pegged the girl all wrong, and she was merely CeeCee’s new personal assistant or niece?
The latter scenario seemed like a long shot, given the nature of the event and the girl’s pop-star good looks—not to mention her brazen flirting with me. Nobody her age would ever flirt that aggressively with me, just because. They always want something. But I had to know for sure. Hence, my decision to do the very thing she was most likely counting on: I resolved to call CeeCee tomorrow to track the bombshell down, even if it turned out she was a music student wannabe pop star who was decidedly off-limits to me.
It’s funny. Dumbshit guys at parties always assume I fuck aspiring artists, the same way I snack on kale chips. All the time. Without a second thought. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. In actuality, I don’t touch anyone who’s hoping to further her career by fucking or blowing me, no matter how attractive she might be. It’s the same whether she’s an aspiring artist, an artist I’ve already signed, or one of my employees. They’re all off-limits to me. No exceptions.
See, what I’ve learned, after a few unfortunate missteps early on, is that even the hottest sex isn’t worth risking the possible fall-out—the risk that the same woman who throws herself at me on Tuesday will claim I’ve used my power and influence inappropriately with her on Wednesday, once it’s clear I’m not going to give her what she wants.
I mean, sure, I’ll fuck models or actresses who want to use me indirectly to boost their clout or Instagram following or finagle an introduction to a powerful friend. That’s the way of the world. But fucking a woman who thinks giving me a BJ will directly advance her career—whether that’s getting her signed to my label, or assigned to a headlining slot on a tour, or getting a promotion at one of my companies? Nope. I won’t touch that woman with a ten-foot pole. Ever.
Well, until today, apparently, when I saw this bartender and immediately started flirting with her, without knowing for sure if she was free and clear or not. And then, to top off my recklessness, started telling myself all sorts of things I never tell myself. Stuff like, Rules are made to be broken. And, Maybe it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I fucked a wannabe, just once... All the same things I’m telling myself now, yet again, as I watch this siren mesmerize that pack of fraternity boys into handing over all their cash.
Holy shit, she’s mouth-watering. If I were casting her in a music video, I’d make it a tribute to old, black-and-white Italian flicks. The video would take place on a vineyard. She’d be The Vineyard Owner’s Daughter in a peasant dress with a low neckline. The sultry virgin bursting out of her dress, who comes out of her villa with a jug of water and a basket of grapes, just as a group of soldiers shows up demanding lodging...
“Can I get you something?”
I peel my eyes off the siren to find a male bartender standing before me, his eyes narrowed. He looks like a younger version of Henn. A wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly kind of guy with a goatee, the same as my sweet best friend—although, unlike Henny, this dude has forearm tattoos. Clearly, the ink is his attempt at “edging up” his classic nerd-vibe. It’s not a bad look for him, actually.
“I’ll wa
it to order from her,” I say, motioning to the object of my lust at the other end of the bar. “We met today on-campus. I’d like to say hello.”
The guy flashes me a look of disdain that says, You and every guy in this bar, douchebag. But all he says is, “I’ll let Georgina know.”
Georgina. It’s the perfect name for her—a name I’ll enjoy growling into her ear as I fuck her raw, without mercy...
No, Reed.
Stop.
You’re almost certainly not going to fuck this little college kiddie, with or without mercy, because she’s almost certainly an off-limits wannabe. Not to mention, quite possibly, a fucking teenager. Although, come to think of it, if she works behind the bar, she’s got to be at least twenty-one...
It doesn’t matter, my brain says. She was at an event for music students. Walk away.
But I want her, my dick replies, rather forcefully.
Well, tough shit, my brain replies. You can find out why she left with CeeCee today, simply to satisfy your curiosity, but that’s it. After that, you’re going to walk away and shoot pool with your best friends, and forget this gloriously endowed goddess with the most kissable lips you’ve ever seen exists.
My dick laughs heartily at that. And so, I laugh, too. Out loud. Like a fucking lunatic.
The bartender whispers something into sultry Georgina’s ear that makes her turn around. And when she spots me, a wide smile spreads across her sensuous mouth.
Returning her smile, I put my arms up like, I guess it’s fate, huh?
She saunters over to me like she owns the joint, places her elbows onto the bar, and leans over, giving me a much-appreciated view of her pushed-up tits in her tank. “Well, well, well,” she says. “Look what the cat dragged in. Did you follow me here, Mr. Rivers?”
Up close, she’s mesmerizing. Irresistible. I swear, if this supernatural girl can sing a note, and maybe even if she can’t, I’m going to launch her to the top of the pop charts, even if I have to buy stock in Auto-Tune to do it. “I wish I could take credit for this happy reunion,” I say. “But this is pure coincidence...” I look down at Georgina’s nametag, just for appearance’s sake. “Georgina. Or should I call you Miss... ?”
“Ricci. But, no. Call me Georgina or Georgie.” She extends her hand with full confidence, and when I slide my palm in hers, my skin ignites at the point of contact. Lust. It’s palpable. Undeniable. Sending my heart rate skyrocketing and my dick tingling.
I want her, my dick shouts, deftly muting out my brain’s objections.
“Hello, Georgina,” I say, shaking her hand. “Georgie. And, please, call me... Mr. Rivers.”
She laughs. “Well, that hardly seems fair.”
“Life isn’t fair.” I lean forward, a wide smile etched onto my face. “Although, sometimes, it can be pretty fucking awesome, when you least expect it.”
She returns my smile, a gleam in her hazel eyes. “This truly is a coincidence?”
“I’m smart, but not clairvoyant. I was at dinner with friends, and then happened to stop in here. How could I possibly have known you work here?”
“You could have followed me. Or had me followed.”
“Pretty sure that’s what’s known as stalking, sweetheart. Way beneath my pay grade.”
“You sure about that? I’m getting a serious stalker vibe from you.”
“Okay, full disclosure, I was going to call CeeCee tomorrow to gather intel about you, in order to track you down. So, maybe stalking isn’t beneath me so much as your accusation is a day premature.”
She giggles. “What would you have asked CeeCee about me?”
“Your name, to start with. Your age. I definitely would have asked if you’re a music student.”
She shakes her head. “Journalism. I’m graduating next week.”
My dick cautiously jumps for joy. She’s not off-limits. “Congratulations. Are you a musician on the side, maybe? A singer?”
“Nope. Just a writer. My passion is investigative journalism.”
I’m losing my mind with relief. Euphoria. Lust. Even as the business side of my brain is slightly disappointed I won’t have the chance to make her a star. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“I’m turning twenty-two next month.”
She just keeps getting better and better. “I’m relieved to know you’re not a teenager,” I admit. “The thought occurred to me at the panel, as I was flirting with you, that your age could very well end in the word ‘teen.’ Once I realized that, I was pretty disgusted with myself for continuing to flirt.”
“Not disgusted enough to stop, apparently.”
I chuckle. “True.”
“So if I’d turned out to be nineteen, you would have hung up with CeeCee tomorrow, and not tracked me down?”
I pause, unsure. Hearing her say that out loud, it doesn’t ring true to me, even though before today, I would have sworn I’d never be caught dead pursuing a teenager. But, come on, I saw Georgina today and brazenly came on to her for a full hour, even though I knew there was a good chance she was eighteen or nineteen... So can I honestly say I wouldn’t have pursued her if it had turned out she wasn’t old enough to order a beer?
But, still. There’s no reason to say any of that out loud, and come off as a dirty old man. And so, I say, “If CeeCee had told me you were a teenager, then I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have tracked you down.”
She laughs. “Liar. If I’d been nineteen, you’d have told yourself ‘Hey, she’s legal,’ and then done exactly what you’re doing right now. Whatever that is.”
“Whatever that is? Oh, God. I’ve got to step up my game, if you don’t know. Georgina, sweetheart, I’m hitting on you. With all my might.”
She bites her luscious lower lip. “Oh? Good to know.” She smiles. “I think it’s interesting you think nineteen is too young for you, but twenty-one isn’t. Explain that one to me.”
“Oh, twenty-one is too young for me, too.”
We both laugh.
“Actually, before this moment, I would have sworn I’d never hit on a twenty-one-year-old. Never say never, I guess.”
She adjusts her elbows on the bar. “To what do you attribute this astonishing reversal of yours, Mr. Rivers?”
I motion to her, like the answer is self-explanatory, and then add, “It’s easy for a man to draw imaginary lines in the sand before he knows Georgina Ricci exists in the world.”
She blushes. “Aw, well. Don’t beat yourself up too much about being a creeper. Age is just a number, anyway.”
“I think you have to get to your late twenties to be able to say that with a straight face. Before then, you come off as naïve.”
“Oh, I’m not naïve. Not in the slightest.”
My dick tingles at the possible subtext of that statement. Does she mean that as code for something naughty? Is she trying to tell me she’s a freak in the sheets? “I didn’t mean to insult you. I just meant there’s a lot of highly formative life experience a person acquires between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five.”
“There’s a lot of highly formative life experience a person acquires between the ages of zero to a hundred.”
“Well, that’s true.”
“Speaking for myself, I’ve acquired an ocean of ‘highly formative’ life experience between the ages of ten and twenty—too much of it, to be honest. But that’s life. If we’re doing it right, then we’re constantly learning and growing.”
“True, again.”
“Except when it comes to you, I guess. You’re so smart, so much smarter than the rest of us, you’re all done learning and growing, now that you’re the wise old age of thirty-five.”
Holy motherfuck. Just this fast, this sassy girl’s got me tied and trussed like a pig over a spit. And I’m loving it. I lean forward, smiling. “First off, I’m only thirty-four. Don’t rush me. And, believe me, just like everyone else, I’m still figuring plenty of stuff out.”
“Which proves my point. Age is just
a number.” She lays her cheek in her palm. “You’ve honestly never dated someone my age?”
“Not since my early twenties. And, to be clear, I don’t plan to date you, Georgina. Just seduce you.”
Her eyebrows rise at my brazen comment, though she seems more amused by it than offended. “Points for honesty. Damn.”
“I’m a big fan of honesty.”
“When it suits you, apparently.” She smirks. “I’m pretty sure you’ve already lied to me at least a couple times.”
I shrug. “Things may come to those who wait, but only the things left by those who hustle.”
“Ah, so you admit you’re a hustler?”
“I do. Proudly.”
She drags her teeth over her sensuous lower lip. “So, tell me, Mr. Wise Old Rivers, why don’t you date—or, sorry, seduce—much younger women? Is it some sort of firm rule for you, or has it just sort of happened that way?”
Good God, she’s relentless. And I fucking love it. “I haven’t given it much thought. I don’t tend to be in situations where I meet women your age, other than in a business context, which means they’re not a good idea for me to pursue, no matter their age. And, also, if I’m being honest, I’m a sucker for a confident woman—and genuine confidence, in my experience, as opposed to youthful cockiness, or play-acting confidence in mommy’s heels, usually takes a bit of time to develop.”
Oh, I’ve pissed her off now. “‘Play-acting in mommy’s heels’? How condescending.”
I chuckle. “You asked me a question, and I answered it honestly. You don’t like honesty?”
“I like honesty. Just not assholery.”
I laugh heartily. I think she might very well be perfect.
“Just a tip?” she says, twirling a lock of dark hair around her finger. “Don’t look down your nose at me and treat me like I’m a stupid child, which I’m not, if you want to have any shot at ‘seducing’ me. I’ve got a bit of an allergy to assholes, I should warn you, and also a bit of a temper. And I don’t tend to respond well in the face of condescension or assholery.”