Bryce: Ex-Business: An Ex-Club Romance

by Camilla Stevens

  That thought makes being with Edie even more desirable. “I didn’t know you were such a connoisseur of Contempo Woman, Pierce.”

  “The eighteen-year-olds I date leave them lying around the hotels I take them to for a few hours.”

  I pause in loading another chip with guacamole to give him a look of disgust.

  “That was sarcasm, dear brother,” he says in the same droll voice I used earlier. “It seems the magazine business has ruined your sense of humor.”

  I crook half my mouth up into a begrudging smile and continue with my chip. “To answer your question, no we’re not official, but yes, I fully plan on trying to make it so. What can I say? I’ve got it bad for her. Feel free to report back to Dad when you fill him in on this little meeting.”

  He shakes his head. “Contrary to what you might think, I’m not that much of a bootlicker, Bryce. I’ll leave you to fall on that sword, though I would appreciate a ticket to the show when you tell him about her. Watching Dad blow a gasket is one of my favorite forms of entertainment.”

  He must see the look of surprise on my face because he continues. “Just because I was smart enough to suck the generous teat of nepotism, doesn’t mean I completely bend the knee for him. This is a means to an end for me.”

  “And what’s your end?”

  “Now, what fun would it be if I told you?”

  “I assume Dad doesn’t know.”

  “No, and he isn’t going to know,” he says, giving me a warning look. “Just like he isn’t going to hear about this meeting from me. On that note, save yourself the humiliation of proving him right about this little magazine hobby of yours.”

  “I’m going to ignore you trying to wind me up with that one.”

  A half-smile appears on his face. “Maybe you and Edie should join forces. You both went to business school. Columbia is no Wharton, but I’m sure they must have taught you something there.”

  That’s another dig I ignore. Dad made a point of grumbling over the fact that I passed on Wharton in favor of Columbia. I wanted to stay in New York where my future magazine would be headquartered.

  I think about last night. “I can think of worse partnerships than joining forces with Edie.”

  Pierce laughs. “Look at your face. You really do have it bad for her don’t you?”

  “You’d understand if you weren’t so busy trolling high school graduations for dates.”

  He laughs and lifts his glass in the air. “Good one.”

  As we continue on into our meals I consider my plan B. Screw it, I should have known all along plan A would be a bust. At least I didn’t have to wipe the egg off my face in front of Dad.

  I wonder what luck Edie’s having on her end.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Edie

  “Thanks for agreeing to dinner with me, Mom.”

  “Of course, darling!” Mom says with her usual exuberance.

  I stare across the table at the woman who “helped” raise me. By that I mean she taught me everything Dad couldn’t about the birds and the bees, at a ridiculously early age. I’m pretty sure I learned what a blow job was before I had my first Blow Pop sucker. Talk about being scared straight. It’s no wonder I didn’t lose my virginity until I was a junior in college.

  She’s dressed to the nines as usual, in a dress that fits her well-kept figure perfectly. Her hair is the same flaming red that it was from my earliest memories, these days cut into a stylishly waved bob reaching her shoulders. She’s not particularly beautiful but she has a certain gravitational charm that lures in almost every man (and woman, frankly) she comes into contact with. As shown by the way she handles our waiter.

  With one hand rested lightly on his arm she leans in with an endearing smile. “I’d like a martini, but done in a very special way. You look like the sort of fellow who can handle it. Now, promise not to judge me?” she says, batting her eyelashes like some coquette. He returns a wary smile and a slight blush creeps up his neck. “That’s my boy. A very dirty martini, with two onions and a twist of lemon.”

  Now, he looks even more wary. Having tried it myself, after a round of goading on her part, I can say it tastes exactly as atrocious as it sounds.

  “I’ll have mine neat, no olive, onion, or lemon,” I say.

  He nods and probably breathes a sigh of relief. We continue on, ordering our meals, and he turns on his heels to get our drinks.

  “Edie, darling,” Mom says, giving me a hyperbolic pout. “It’s been too long since I last saw you. We should really meet like this more often.”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised you’re free on a Saturday night,” I say, giving her a suspicious look as I unfold my napkin into my lap.

  She breathes out that lyrical laugh that seems to leave men salivating, perfectly manufactured to do just that. “Oh Edie, it’s only seven o’clock. You don’t honestly think anyone does anything worth doing at this obscenely early hour, do you?”

  I should have known.

  “Well, I’m glad I didn’t interrupt any of your prearranged plans.”

  “I always make time for my daughter,” she says, raising her voice a bit at the last word so that anyone nearby will hear it. There was a period from around the time I was a teenager until my early twenties where she loathed the idea of me calling her anything other than Cassandra. She wasn’t a young adoptive mother to begin with. Now, that she’s reached an age where even plastic surgery can’t deny her age, she’s back to embracing the novelty of having a black daughter.

  This is why I always preferred Dad.

  Still, she is the vault that contains the information I need so I must persist. At the very least, it won’t be a boring dinner.

  She tsk-tsks any talk until our drinks arrive. Naturally. I don’t know who needs them more.

  Once the waiter comes back with them she takes a long, savoring sip, hums in appreciation, gives him another dashing smile, and then turns her attention fully to me.

  “Now then,” she begins, leaning in with a conspiratorial stare. “I think I know why you called me Edie.”

  “I see word spreads quickly,” I say in a brisk tone with a tight smile.

  “Just because I left the magazine business doesn’t mean I don’t have my finger on the pulse,” she says with a satisfied smile. “I should have warned you against selling out to those vultures in the first place.”

  “I didn’t own the magazine at the time, Mom. Or have you forgotten how you sold it to another pack of vultures soon after I took over as editor-in-chief? They were the ones to sell to Conniver.”

  She purses her lips and waves a dismissive hand. “That was a business decision. And I had every right to sell, after all the years of hard work I put in making that magazine a success.”

  I know who put in all the hard work, people like Veronica and the other editors who acted as life preservers in the ocean of Mom’s impulsiveness.

  I decide not to debate the point.

  “No one is denying that, Mom. But all the same, I now have to make it a success once again, this time without the benefit of a major corporate entity backing me.”

  “Yes,” she acknowledges with her lips pursed. “And you’ve come to me for some motherly advice.”

  “You are the expert,” I say brightly, making her smile with pleasure. The flattery is unnecessary since, if anyone likes to talk about themselves, it’s Cassandra LeFleur.

  “I’m glad to see you appreciate that fact. A mother should have something to pass on to her daughter. I love your father to death, he’s still one of my best friends, but the way he spent that fortune from his grand-mère was a perfect sin, and I say that as a woman who approves of sin in all it’s forms. It’s a good thing I started Contempo Woman when I did, otherwise we’d be paupers!”

  Hardly the case, especially considering Dad still has quite a bit of that fortune left. I suspect she’s bitter because he didn’t sink the entire fortune into her magazine endeavor.

  Which gets me to my reason f
or asking her here tonight.

  “Since Conniver is dumping us, I’ll most likely have to start from the ground up again. I mean, I have some reserves, naturally, but I’d like to use them to keep my staff paid during the transition. Which means I have to begin looking for funding now, or better yet, yesterday.”

  “And you would like to know how I did it, correct?” she asks with a pleased smile.

  “Naturally. Specifically how you got funding,” I say, smiling as I sip my martini. Mmm, definitely needed. I’ll probably need a few more before the night is done.

  “Sex,” she says matter-of-factly.

  I nearly spit out my martini. “What?”

  “Sex, darling,” she says giving me a concerned look. “You do know what that is, don’t you?”

  “Yes, mother,” I blurt out, setting my martini down hard enough for the contents to slosh around. “I’m just a bit confused as to how you made that work.”

  Her mouth turns down into a frown, making her look even more concerned. As though I’m the crazy one here.

  “I had sex with people who I knew would give me the funds I needed. It’s quite easy once you’re both naked and they—”

  “Thank you, Mom!” I interrupt, taking a long sip of martini before continuing. “I know how…sex works. I just—did you really fund it with money from men you slept with?”

  “Well, I only picked people who were wealthy, Edie. Otherwise, what’s the point? Not that the occasional bellboy or waiter,” her eyes flash around for our own waiter and she smiles, “didn’t fill the slots in between in a more than satisfactory manner. Youthful eagerness definitely has its perks.”

  I touch my middle finger to my forehead, rubbing a small circle into it to massage away the pending headache.

  “Edie,” she says in a concerned voice, causing me to move my hand and look at her. “You do know that your father is gay, not bisexual. A woman has needs. Not that I discriminate myself. I certainly had my experimental phases.”

  “Yes, mother, I know about Dad but—you know what, never mind.”

  “That was a time when an arrangement like ours was far more common, which certainly worked to my benefit. I had my dalliances and he had Sergio as a ‘friend.’ I do miss the eighties,” she says with a sigh.

  I continue with my martini, already on the lookout for our waiter to order another.

  “You know, it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility for you to do the same, Edie.”

  Once again, I nearly spit out my drink. At first, I think she’s talking about her fake marriage. When I realize she’s referring to sleeping my way into financing, I’m even more appalled. “I think I’ll leave that one right where it is in the realm of impossibility.”

  “Nonsense, you’re a very attractive woman. I mean, you certainly squandered your prime years on business school of all things. You already had the magazine, after all. But twenty-nine isn’t the end of the world.”

  “I’m thirty-one, Mom.”

  “Really?” She says with a frown of surprise. It disappears as she scrutinizes me. “Well, all the better! I’ve obviously taught you the fine art of personal upkeep.”

  “I definitely learned a lot from you,” I say, allowing her to interpret that how she wishes.

  “If only you’d show a bit more of it, darling. I’ve seen your legs, which you insist on hiding beneath slacks. And your hair. Try wearing it down for once. A bit more makeup, and how about those fake lashes that are all the rage these days? A successful saleswoman knows how to properly display the goods, sweetheart, and you definitely have the goods.”

  “I don’t know whether to thank you or throw up.”

  She purses her lips and gives me an unamused look. “You always were such a serious girl.” She stares at me with confused wonder, as though that’s such a terrible thing, then sighs in resignation. “Then again, I suppose it’s in a child’s nature to rebel against her parents.”

  I cough out a laugh. “I was the rebellious one?”

  “Yes,” she says pointedly. “If you weren’t so successful, I’d wonder where I went wrong. Speaking of which, at the time I created Contempo Woman, it was still a daring and novel endeavor, women being so blatant about sexuality. Today, if anything, modesty is the daring route to go, as depressing as that is. As much as I love my magazine, perhaps this is an opportunity for you to change it into something new and different. Something wild and outrageous, like…nude beaches! Last year, this delightful man took me to this lovely little cove in the French Riviera were no one had a stitch of clothing on, and it was—”

  “Well, mom, as usual, this has been a wonderful meeting,” I say with a sigh, finally catching the waiter’s attention. I lift my glass toward him and tap it with one finger indicating I’d like another. We still have a meal to get through, and I need lubrication.

  “You wanted my advice and I gave it. You can keep the magazine as is, for as long as that lasts. As for funding, surely you must know some wealthy men who you find palatable enough to sleep with?”

  My mind instantly races to Bryce. There’s someone who doesn’t have to sleep his way to the top. Just by owning Wilmington Financial, I know his father is easily worth nine figures, that doesn’t include the old money the family comes from.

  How much of that is Bryce tapped into?

  Hell, why am I even asking?

  There’s no way I’m going to sneak that kind of business transaction into any pillow talk. That’s if we even sleep together again. Not that I’m opposed to the idea of course. Last night was…fun.

  “Oh, I know that look! Who is he? Tell mama,” Mom says, catching the look on my face.

  I instantly morph my expression into pure impassiveness. “There’s no one, Mom.”

  “Well…there should be. Thirty-one is fine and dandy for the business world. Not so much the dating world. And I know your father would love grandchildren. So would I. Once they reach a certain age, they can be endearing.”

  That’s one topic I definitely don’t need this night to segue into. I never told my parents that I’d ever been pregnant with Reggie. He was still in the “let’s think about what we really want” stage by the time I miscarried.

  Thankfully, the waiter comes back with my drink. I take a long, hard sip, mostly to wash those thoughts away.

  “Oh, Edie, darling, I didn’t mean to put pressure on you. You could always adopt like your father and I did. Single mothers don’t have the stigma they once had. Plus, it keeps your figure looking—”

  “Mom,” I say with a tight smile. “Let’s discuss something other than business or kids. What have you been up to lately?”

  She blinks at the sudden interruption, then looks pleased with the shift in topic to her as the main attraction. “Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve been thinking about one of those vaginal reconstruction surgeries. Just because I’m several years shy of sixty—” She’s exactly sixty years old. “—doesn’t mean every part of me has to show it, especially considering my rather…active history.”

  It’s going to be a long night.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Edie

  By the time I make it back to my apartment, I’m three martinis in from dinner with Mom, all only partially soaked up by the pasta primavera I had for dinner.

  I should have known Mom was going to be of little help, at least the kind I have any interest in entertaining. The thought of ice cream and streaming movies is a welcome respite.

  At least until I reach my floor.

  As I head down the hallway, my eyes instinctively fall on Bryce’s door. I doubt he’s even in. From my experience inadvertently hearing him through the door—it’s not like I eavesdropped or anything—Saturday is his most active night of the week.

  No hope of another repeat of Hennessy and commiseration.

  Or whatever it might lead to.

  As I casually stroll toward my door, slower than usual, deep down inside I’m hoping he’ll make a sudden appearance like he did last night
. Maybe open his own door just as I stick the key in mine.

  I move even slower, taking my time as I open my purse, my head turning ever so slightly to peek at his door.

  For heaven’s sake, I feel like a teenager secretly hoping the boy next door has a crush on me. I should be beyond this at my age. Mom’s pearls of wisdom certainly haven’t helped.

  By the time my key is in my hand, and it would be silly of me to drag this out even further, I realize tonight I’m on my own. I sigh and stick it in to open my door.

  I ditch my purse and keys and instantly start peeling off the slacks and blouse I wore today. I take a quick shower and slip into my usual, a Columbia t-shirt and pajama shorts—something Tony the Maintenance Man sadly missed out on—and grab what’s left of the pint of ice cream to plop down on the couch in front of my TV.

  I’m still scrolling through the abysmal selection available—as if I needed the reminder of how pathetic my choices in life have been—when I hear the knock on my door.

  I nearly drop the spoonful of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough in my hand. My heart races, mostly because I never get knocks on my door, especially on a Saturday night.

  Which means only one person.

  Bryce.

  My eyes fall to my threadbare t-shirt and shorts with (for some damn reason) a pattern of dogs on them, and I think about changing into the blue silk kimono instead.

  No, that would be too obvious.

  I definitely feel like a rabbit trapped in paralysis as my mind races with what I should or shouldn’t do, and what the implications of what I do decide to do would be, more importantly, what would Bryce think if—

  I’m interrupted by another knock, this time in a taunting little rhythm.

  That settles it.