ARROGANT PLAYBOY (2 page)

That’s how it’s done.

Kiss them until they’re weak in
the knees.

I pull away like some sensual
Casanova and cock a satisfied smile.

Her wild green eyes soften for
a millisecond before her brows twist.

“Why did you do that?” she
asks.

I step back, two steps
actually, and run the side of my finger against the warmth of my lower lip. Her
spearmint taste settles on my tongue.

“Enjoy the rest of your day,
Odessa.” I step off the elevator, wicked gratification sinking into my bones,
and send her off with a signature ambiguous nod.

Only the last thing I see in
the moments before the door slams shut is her middle finger pointed straight
up.

I slam the call button over and
over. I need the elevator to stop now, but the clunk-clunk and whoosh tells me it’s
too late.

I scramble to my room, tugging
on last night’s slacks and pulling a white button-down over my tight shoulders
as I make a mad dash for the emergency stairway. I’m not sure if I can beat her
to the ground level, but I’m sure as hell going to try.

Two steps at a time, the whole
way down. Ten flights. I’m glazed in a coat of sweat by the time I get to the
bottom and my shirt clings, but I catch the backside view of her as she slips
past the doorman and heads west down twenty-sixth street.

“Odessa.” I call out the second
I hit the pavement behind her. She stops dead but doesn’t turn around until I
get closer.

Her arms fold. “Seriously?”

“What the hell was that?” This
is not my finest hour, but this woman brings out insecurities I never knew I
had.

“The kiss.” Her head tilts. “It
was rude. I didn’t want it.”

It’s still early enough that
the streets haven’t filled with Friday morning commuters.

“You’re a piece of work.” My
gaze narrows. I refuse to release her from my stare. “I can’t
thank
you... I can’t
kiss
you...Women like you are the reason
I don’t date.”

Well, one of the many, many,
many
reasons.

“Give it a rest. God, what’s
your problem?”

“What’s my problem?” I ask.

“I went home with you. I fucked
you. I wanted to leave. You had to take the perfectly nice, no-strings-attached
thing we had and make it all about you and your little bruised ego.” Her head
shakes. “I had higher expectations for you.”

I’m dreaming.

That’s got to be it.

This is some strange dreamland
where up is down and left is right. Yes means no. North is south. This never
happens in real life. I don’t chase women. Shit like this doesn’t bother me. I
love ‘em and leave ‘em and pray to God I don’t run into them around the city in
the foreseeable future.

“Everything about you screams
manwhore.” Her right fist clenches before releasing. “All I wanted was a night
of fun. That’s it. And you said back at the bar that you could give it to me.”

I’m sure I said a lot of things
back at the bar.

“I thought you went home with
me because you felt
sorry
for me?”

“That too.” She lifts her chin,
shoulders squaring. “You have sad eyes.”

“I do
not
have sad eyes.” Fuck. I need to check the mirror when I get
back upstairs.

“You do. You look lonely.”

That’s it.

“You know what, Odessa? You
don’t know me. We’re done here.”

Xavier warned me about
redheads, claiming they don’t just screw your body, they screw your mind
too.
 
I’m not even sure how I ended
up with her anyway. My cock tends to prefer women of the carefree, blithe variety.
Everything about Odessa is clear as mud. She’s as opaque as they come.

She shrugs, eyebrows lifted.
“Okay. Bye.”

I turn and walk through the
doors to my building, past the doorman, and toward the elevator bay.

I’m not sure what the fuck just
happened, but I want to scrub it from my memory with a healthy combination of
bleach and rubbing alcohol, and hope to God I don’t run into her ever again.

ODESSA

Bad
idea. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad. Bad.

I shake my head at myself
because someone needs to. I’m hunched over my bathroom counter, wiping away
what remains of last night’s face with a Pond’s makeup wipe.

Of all the stupid things I’ve done
in my life, going home with a handsome stranger from some uptown Manhattan cocktail
lounge takes the cake. I knew there had to be something wrong with him. Men
that attractive are always too good to be true.

Hunched over his drink last
night and wearing a black suit jacket that hugged his broad shoulders, I had to
step closer to get a better look. And when I stood next to him to order my drink,
that’s when I saw his profile: perfectly straight nose, the promise of a dimple
in his right cheek, strong jaw, thick hair the color of my impure thoughts.

The striking stranger possessed
a raw, unapologetic virility, radiating sex appeal like a nuclear bomb that
dispatched a quiver down my spine and stopped at my weakened knees.

And then he turned my way.
Noticed me. It was all over from there. My night’s destiny was sealed with one
wicked smile and the mischievous glint in his eye.

Sigh
.

There was also the fact that he
was everything Jeremiah wasn’t, and God knows I needed a palette cleanser.

My debaucherous evening went so
well, too, until he had to go all psycho-jealous-boyfriend on me. I’m not sure
why he felt the need to kiss me in the elevator or chase me down twenty-sixth
street, but I’ll let that serve as a reminder that people are never what they
seem.

Nothing about Beckham is sad or
lonely. Aloof perhaps. Arrogant for sure. Too good looking and well dressed?
Yeah. Sad and lonely? Not at all.

I
am
lonely, and that’s the sad truth.

My gaze falls on my deserted
engagement ring, which rests in a ceramic ring tray on my bathroom vanity. I’m
not sure how many carats it is or if it’s platinum or palladium. I was too
excited to care when Jeremiah popped the question after six years of dating.

Six months ago, I said yes.

Two weeks ago, he asked to take
a break.

I told him I understood, and I
removed the ring without making a big fuss like some other women might do. My
southern Jeremiah wouldn’t know what to do if I unraveled anyway. Women where
he’s from are strong as hell. They care more about leaving impressions than
making them. They’re grace and strength even in their ugliest moments.

My insides are currently glued
together with two parts hope and one part dandelion wishes. I’m not sure if Jeremiah
and I will get back together, but nothing’s off the table for now. We’re stuck
in this gray area until he decides what he wants to do.

A buzz from my phone on the
counter notifies me it’s now fully charged. Not only was I an idiot for going
home with a stranger, I foolishly did so without a full charge on my phone.

Looks like haste and excitement
got the best of my common sense last night.

I leave it plugged in a little
while longer and peel last night’s shameless, fuck-me-now dress from my sticky
curves before stepping into a steamy shower. Two hours from now, I’m to report
to Townsend Energy Holdings on Park Avenue for some PR consulting. Apparently
the Chief Branding Officer is in dire need of a right hand and since the last
firm I worked for closed up shop two months ago, I’m officially freelancing.

The water rinses remaining remnants
of the night before clean off, swirling down the drain along with any shame
that may have consumed me on my walk home this morning.

Last night loneliness struck me
across the side of the head as I hummed along with the microwave that heated my
Lean Cuisine. After polishing off two Lifetime movies and a pint of tiramisu
gelato, my wallowing morphed into determination.

If Jeremiah wasn’t tossing and
turning all night, staying in eating frozen dinners, then I shouldn’t either.

Jeremiah was living it up,
surfing the wave of his newfound celebrity status. It was as if someone had
given him some special key and he had to go around and stick it in every lock
he could find to see how many doors would open for him.

Once upon a time Jeremiah used
to be a self-proclaimed foodie. At first it was a cute little hobby of his.
We’d try new restaurants and food stands. He’d blog about it for his
twenty-eight followers. That was that. After two years of late nights and long
hours, helping him learn his DSLR camera, and utilizing every PR strategy known
to man, Jeremiah’s food blog took off and his ad revenue hit somewhere in the
tens of thousands per month.

That’s when the book deals came
and the TV network executives approached him. It took a year, but a cable TV deal
was hatched out, making Jeremiah the star of his own show, EAT ME, JEREMIAH!

Then everything changed.

My college sweetheart fiancé morphed
into an overnight celebrity complete with a dentist-bleached smile, sprayed-on
tan, and highlighted tips of thick, sandy blond hair. I stifled giggles from
behind the director the first time he filmed. He looked like a glammed up
country music star, and the deep-woods, Georgian accent didn’t help. Jeremiah
went from downhome boy next door to gracing the pages of Us Weekly in the blink
of an eye.

Sometimes I wish he’d never
started that damn blog. One taste of celebrity was all it took for him to
become addicted.

I step out of the shower,
wrapping myself in a fluffy white robe and checking the time. I’m good. And
lucky. Going out on a Thursday night when I should’ve been hitting the sack
early and mentally preparing myself for my new job was grossly and
uncharacteristically irresponsible of me.

Without looking, I reach for my
toothbrush, dropping it the second I realize I grabbed Jeremiah’s royal blue Oral-B.
He left without taking a thing. I’m not sure if he thought he’d be back soon
enough or if he figured he had enough money to replace it all, but everything
about him still lives in my apartment.

Everything but him.

My stomach sickened in that
moment, and any excitement I held for his future – for
our
future – vaporized. I wanted
it all back, but it was too late. All that was left was my hope that underneath
his exciting, new façade, the old Jeremiah still remained.

I want to believe we can get
us
back.

I pick up my sparkly ring.
“He’s never coming back, is he?”

A groan passes through my lips.
If I’m talking to inanimate objects now, next thing I know I’ll be a bag lady
feeding Central Park pigeons.

I’m not that person.

It ends today.

If Jeremiah comes back? Great.
Fine. We’ll figure everything out and go from there. If he doesn’t come back? He
doesn’t deserve me.

I comb my hair into a neat bun,
slip on some black-framed glasses, a lacy cream blouse and chic, gray pencil
pants that stop just above my ankle.

Today I’m refined.

Professional.

Today I’m not the girl who
screwed an obnoxiously attractive man from sundown to sun up last night.

Four different times.

Today I’m not the girl
teetering between missing her ex and resenting him for abandoning the good
thing they had.

Today I’m a ball-busting public
relations consultant. I’ll take no shit, and I’ll make no apologies.

I transfer my fully charged
phone into a new bag and check my wallet before dashing out the door. The sky
holds a brighter shade of blue in it, depositing the sun on a downy soft
pillow. An April morning chill bites into my bones though I hardly feel it with
all the anticipation coursing through my veins.

Here’s to the future, whatever
it holds.

BECKHAM

Karma.

That’s what it is.

It’s fucking karma.

For the first time in my
twenty-seven years I spent the entire morning feeling used.

She’s good, that Odessa. I
spotted her the second she slinked up to the bar last night and ordered herself
a lemon drop martini. We spoke for a while, swapping stimulating conversation
laced with sexual innuendos. All I remember after that point is I couldn’t get
her home fast enough. By the time I got her to my bedroom, I was two seconds
from ripping her dress clean off if she didn’t stop fumbling with the zipper.

I just want the upper hand
back.

That’s all.

She’s a microscopic shard of
glass stuck under the top layer of my skin. I can’t see her, but I sure as hell
feel her.

I rotate my office chair,
staring out the floor to ceiling windows at the building across from me. A cute
little marketing executive with nice tits and long blonde hair likes to eye
fuck the hell out of me most Friday mornings. Not that I can see her eyes from
this far away, but in my mind that’s what she’s doing.

Today she’s nowhere to be
found.

I slink back in my chair,
running my palms along the slick wooden arms and taking in the view of the city
in the morning. While my half-brother, Dane, is stationed in Salt Lake City
ensuring the business end of our joint venture is running smoothly, I’m posted
in the greatest city on earth, focusing on our brand and making valuable
connections.

Dane was never a people person.
He could command a room with authority and solemnity, but I could charm the
pants off any high-powered female executives and get a chuckle from the crustiest
of CEOs.

“The consultant is here.” The saccharin
voice of my assistant comes over the phone system.

I twist around and press the
call button. “Send him in, Julie.”

Our New York branch is small,
consisting of Julie and myself, but Dane and I decided to bring someone on to set
up our social media and handle press releases while I’m out hobnobbing with the
people who matter. Besides, Facebook and Instagram have never been my thing.
While everyone is busy posting about how much fun they’re having, I’m actually
out having fun.

Never one for patience, I smooth
my tie and head to the door. Clearing my throat, I check my breath quickly, and
yank the doorknob.

Hell.

Fucking.

No.

The girl before me freezes
mid-step, and for a split second I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked.
She picks her jaw up off the floor and pulls her shoulders back, zipping her
spine.

“Good morning, Beckham.” Odessa
Russo pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose, those familiar pink lips
tightening.

“You’ve got to be fucking
kidding me.” I lean against the doorframe, ramming my forehead against my
clenched fist.

Her arms fold and cinch against
her chest.

“My brother hired someone named
Sam.” And I was expecting
Sam
to come
equipped with a set of standard issue cock and balls…

“Samantha is my first name.”

“Why’d you tell me your name
was Odessa?”

“Because the last thing I need
is some crazy one-night-stand Internet stalking me.”

“Lucky for you, I have better
things to do with my time.” I inhale the perfume-scented air that envelops us.

Funny how she stands there in
cream and pearls like she wasn’t riding my cock all last night. I can still
feel the way her tits felt cupped in my hands as she rode me backwards, her
pointed nipples grazing my palms.

“So you don’t go by Odessa?”

“Not usually. No.”

I can’t call her Sam. Sam is a
girl next door. Sam is benign. Sam is cute and harmless like a fluffy Golden
Retriever puppy. That name doesn’t belong on the smart-assed firecracker
shooting poison darts my way behind thick-rimmed glasses.

“We going to get started?” She
clears her throat and glances over my shoulder. “I assume you have an office
for me. I don’t do shared workspaces.”

“You’ll have an office.”

“You have me for three weeks.”
She pushes past me, our shoulders brushing in the doorway, and takes a seat in
my chair. Her leather satchel rests on top of my desk as she retrieves a thin
tablet and swipes her finger across it. “You going to stand there or are we
going to get started? I charge by the hour, and the first one began about five
minutes ago.”

Fucking Dane. I told him we
needed to hire someone fresh out of college, someone young, competent in social
media, and obsessed with branding. Bonus points if their degree is in marketing
or advertising.

He didn’t listen, claiming I
was looking for a hot piece of ass to fuck, and that’s when he took the reins
and found…
Sam
.
 

I slip my hands in my pockets
and take my time walking back to my desk. She may charge an exorbitant hourly
rate, but she doesn’t get to bark orders at me or run my office.

“Last night didn’t happen.” She
types into the screen of her propped tablet, her nails clicking and her eyes
glued to the screen.

“Excuse me?”

“If
this
is going to work, if you’re going to respect my opinions and
ideas, you’re going to have to forget…what we did.”

“Already forgotten,” I lie,
sinking into my chair and propping my hands behind my head.

“Good.” She drags a slow breath
across her full lips and sits straight, pressing one final button on her device
and lifting her gaze across the desk.

“I’m not calling you
Sam
.” I meet her stare straight on.
“You’re still Odessa to me.”

She pauses, head cocked, and
says nothing before returning her attention to her screen.

My phone buzzes in my pocket,
and I pull it out to find that the girl I hooked up with last weekend sent me
another topless selfie. Fourth picture this week. I don’t respond. It’s not
like I’m going to see the fifth one and suddenly decide she’s girlfriend
material, but I’m sure I’ll get another two days from now.

“Why are you smirking?” Odessa
jerks my attention from the picture of the big-breasted blonde smiling in front
of a bathroom mirror with a fingertip in the corner of her mouth.

“I’m not.”

“Please, Beckham. Let’s focus.”
Her fingers rap against my desktop. “Your company. Tell me about it.”

“We have a website.” I sit back
in my chair again, folding my arms across my stomach. My brother scolds me for
being too relaxed. I feel it makes people more comfortable around me. I’m a man
with more money than God, and I’ve got more game than the New York Knicks. “All
that information is there.”

“Yes, but I’m more interested
in how this company is described by its own Chief Branding Officer.” She
adjusts her posture, tilting her head. “What do you do here and what’s so
special about Townsend Energy Holdings?”

I release an inconvenienced
sigh and sit up. “For starters, we’re innovative. Cutting edge. Progressive.
Future-focused. Our biggest initiative involves working with national power
co-ops to make alternative energy mainstream and affordable. By farming things
like wind, we can bring sustainable, environmentally friendly sources of energy
to homes and businesses all across America, working to reduce greenhouse gasses
and limiting the need for oil drilling also benefits wildlife and climate
change. Our ten-year plan includes bringing alternative energy sources to third
world countries with a focus on sustainable agriculture. I can get into the global
economics of alternative energy savings as well if you’d like.”

Her brows raise, and ripe
satisfaction swells me from the inside.

“Smarter than I look.” I slip
my hands behind my head as if my chair has just morphed into some Bahamian
hammock. Speaking of which, I’d give anything to dig my toes into some white,
sugary sand with an icy Corona in my hand. “I know.”

“Nah. You’re just a good bullshitter.”

I lean forward, my hands
falling into my lap like dead weight. I can’t win with her. Any other woman
would be drooling over some handsome asshole in a three-piece suit spewing
words like “initiative” and “global economics.”

Odessa sits there, less than
impressed.

“Anyone can memorize a script,”
she says. “You sound like you’re reading off the
About Me
page of your website.”

“I wrote that page.”

“My point exactly.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“You’ve used those words so
many times they’ve lost their meaning. I don’t feel any passion from you when
you talk about your company. There’s your first problem.”

“The passion’s there. Believe
me.”

Her brows rise as her lips
press into a straight line. “I don’t.”

My head angles. I’m way too blown
away by this woman’s audacity to remotely consider firing her.

 
And she’s lucky because cutting ties with
people is what I do best.

“It’s not there just because
you say it’s there,” she says. “I need to feel it. Every word you speak needs
to convince me you eat, sleep, and breathe this company. When I spoke with
Dane, he mentioned that you were essentially the face of the T.E.H. He said you
handled networking and partnerships, that your sole focus was projecting a very
specific image of the company.”

“Right.”

“What is that image?”

“We’re making alternative
energy sexy.” I adjust the knot of my tie. “Isn’t that obvious?”

Her green eyes roll. Any harder
and they’d be in the back of her head. “I need you to be serious.”

“I thought we hired you to
handle social media?”

“No.” Her nose wrinkles. “You
hired me – your brother hired me to help you handle your public relations
efforts. We’re starting with branding. I need to get a grip on your brand and
what you’re trying to do before I can fix anything.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Fucking
Dane.

“Dane said I needed
help
?”

“It was implied. Besides, I’m
not sure why else one would hire a consultant if they weren’t in dire need of
help. I’m not exactly cheap.”

“What needs
fixed
?”

“Several things apparently.”

I lift my receiver, speed
dialing our Salt Lake City headquarters and placing the call on speaker. My
brother’s assistant, Marlene, patches me through immediately.

“Dane speaking.”

“Dane, I’ve got our consultant
here.” I don’t disguise my current state of displeasure. “You may know her as
Sam
.”

I peel my gaze from the black
corporate phone and lock eyes with her, not eliciting so much as a single
squirm from her.

“Hello, Dane.” There’s warmth in
her voice though her face is blank. I refuse to release her gaze. “How are you
this morning?”

“I’m well, Sam. Thank you.
Yourself?” Dane asks.

“Lovely, thank you,” she says.

“I’m calling you today,
Brother
, because it seems there’s a bit
of confusion as to what exactly our consultant’s going to be doing here at the
New York branch.”

“What’s the confusion?” There’s
an edge in his tone that tells me he doesn’t have time for this.

“
Sam
here says she was hired to
help
me
fix
our image,” I say. “I wasn’t
aware that I needed help nor that anything was in need of fixing. I was under
the impression that she was brought on to set up our social media.”

“I would’ve hired a college
intern if that’s what we needed,” Dane scoffs. “Sam has a proven track-record
of taking little-known start ups and growing them into superstars.”

“Little late on that aren’t
we?” I release a haughty chuckle, grabbing a stress ball from next to my
computer monitor. I’m not sure why I have it. Nothing about my life is remotely
stressful. I toss it up in the air and catch it with a determined grip. “We
haven’t been a little-known start up in quite some time.”

“True,” Dane says. “We’re big.
But we can be bigger. It all starts with branding.”

“Right. Branding is my thing,
and branding and public relations are two entirely different things.”

“Sam has experience with both.
Didn’t you check out the link to her bio? I emailed you last week after I told
you I’d hired her.”

“Anyway,” I say, my tone flat.
“Just needed clarification, Dane. Appreciate it.”

I end the call.

“What now?” I ask.

Her mouth forms a smug smile
and the flash in her eyes is a big, fat “told you so.”

“You need a better website, something
modern and sleek yet approachable and user-friendly. What you have here is
confusing.” She flips the screen of her tablet toward me. “Yellow and orange?
No…just…no. Who designed this?”