Beast (6 page)

I offer the server a sheepish grin as I scoop yet another canapé off of his tray and tuck it into the napkin folded in my palm. I’ve already snatched about half a dozen of those suckers off of his tray.

What can I say? I’m starving
and
I’m bored. I knew that coming to this political fundraiser with Ruthie and Michael would be a bad idea but after what happened with Liam a few nights ago, I just couldn’t sit around my apartment all weekend feeling sorry for myself. So, now I’m here in Scarsdale watching politicians brown-nose to rich donors for campaign dollars.

Fun.

I glance around the room as I bite into my salmon crostini. Blue and white balloons hang in the corners and streamers of the same colors dangle from the high ceilings of this elegant ballroom. A huge banner hangs overhead. “Chester Davidson for President” it announces boldly. I wonder which of these old, power-hungry bootlickers is Chester Davidson and whether he’s making any headway tonight.

I stick out like a sore thumb here. It’s so obvious that I don’t belong. A tall, slender Barbie-doll type hanging shamelessly off the arm of her beefy, old sugar daddy catches my eye. Her hair is swept up into an intricate chignon and a coral-colored gown hangs off of her willowy frame.  When our eyes cross paths, she gives me a mean scowl before turning up her nose and looking away. I avert my eyes and my attention falls on a table of waiflike, done-up socialites speaking in hushed whispers as they stare at me, giggling. When I stare directly at them, they startle for a moment before turning their stares and giggles on someone else.

I heave a small sigh as I glance down at my simple navy shift dress. It’s a little tight around my middle, the result of too many fast-food lunches as I pull repeated 18-hour days at the office. My black, three-inch heels are…
sensible
, for lack of a better word. My hair is pulled into a ponytail low on my nape.

I should go hide out in the washroom for a few minutes and get myself together
. I spin on my heel and smack right into a tall, firm brick wall…Only, it has blond hair and blue eyes and it offers me a disarming smile.

“Sorry,” I mutter feeling even more awkward than I did a second ago.

He just keeps on grinning as he leans in and whispers. “You have a little…” he discreetly taps the corner of his lip.

He’s
still
smiling and there’s no denying that it’s a gorgeous smile. It lights up his eyes, shows off his perfect white teeth and makes him look like the most approachable person in the room.

“Oh…shit…thanks…” I stammer as I crumple up the napkin in my hand to dab the cream cheese off of my face. Damn it – I forgot that I had a piece of crostini in there. Now, I have salmon all over my hand. “Shit…” I mumble as I look down at the mess.

The man chuckles. “Here. Let me help you,” he says graciously as he swipes a napkin off of the table. My cheeks heat up when he gently blots the cream cheese off of the corner of my mouth, then grabs an empty plate from the table behind me and takes the salmon crostini mess out of my hand before handing me a clean napkin.

“Thank you,” I mumble, mortified. I just want to crawl under the table and hide till all the bourgie folks around me go home.

He looks at me and he beams, he absolutely
beams
. His pearly-white smile spreads clear across his chiseled face. There’s an iridescent glow to his tanned skin. His lustrous blond hair is neatly-coiffed and he wears the hell out of a black tuxedo that was obviously tailored just for him. But despite the fact that he’s indisputably a specimen of human perfection, he seems…
nice
.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, his smile only getting brighter.

I’m not usually this clumsy so I feel obligated to explain myself to this beautiful stranger. “I get so awkward at these types of events,” I groan. “It’s really easy to feel out of place.”

“I know how you feel,” he says with twinkling eyes. “These fundraisers can be brutal.”

I laugh because he’s suave and easy-going, the type of man who’s probably never been out of place a second of his life. “I just don’t want you to think that I was raised by wolves. Both of my parents are sticklers for etiquette, actually. They’d be
so
proud of me right now,” I ramble sarcastically.

“Ah – but you were raised by the nanny, weren’t you?” he jokes.

I roll my eyes. “As if...”

“Parents can be difficult. It’s hard to make them proud sometimes.”

I cluck my tongue. “You’re only patronizing me. I’d bet your parents have never been disappointed in you, not even once.” He just has the
way
about him. He’s charming and likeable and good-looking in a Ken doll sort of way.

“Well, you’re right. My parents are pretty freaking proud of me,” he says in a facetious tone as he dusts his shoulders off playfully. My eyes meander down to his strong jaw and his full lips. “It’s not everyday that their oldest son announces that he’s running for president.”

My eyes volley back to his. “Oh, that’s nice,” I say with a warm smile. “President of what?”

His eyebrows furrow for a split-second before amusement bounces in his eyes. “President of
the United States of America
.”

Huh?

“Wait – you’re Chester Davidson?” My voice comes out high-pitched.

He chuckles softly as he stretches his large hand out to me. “Chester Davidson. You can call me ‘Chess’.” His smile is still spread across his lips. I survey him discreetly. He doesn’t look like a ‘Chester’. He’s younger than I expected. And far more handsome.

“And you are?”

I shake his hand softly. “Jasmine Santiago.”

“That’s a pretty name.” His eyes bore into me and I suppress a bashful smile.

Just then, Ruthie and Michael approach us. “Jasmine – I see that you’ve met Chess,” Michael says slapping him on the back.

Chess’s gaze doesn’t shift from my face. “We
have
met. Indeed,” he says.

Michael turns his attention to me. “Since Chess is about to be the next freakin’ President of the United States, I’m running to fill his seat in the state senate.”

He’s a senator?

Senator Chess Davidson. Hell –
President
Chess Davidson.

I can see the excitement on Ruthie’s face from over Michael’s shoulder. “Jazz is an associate in the renewable energy department at Cartwright Moretti Stevenson,” she announces. “She’s 26…and
single
.”

Chess glances at Ruthie and one side of his mouth lifts into a charming grin. “Is that so?” he says with a small chuckle. Ruthie nods vigorously. “Well, if that’s the case –” his hand goes into the inside pocket of his tuxedo. “—I’m gonna have to take you for lunch next time I’m in the city.”

A wave of hesitation rises into my throat. He cocks his head to the side and his blue eyes narrow a touch. He’s gorgeous and he’s charismatic, but I feel uncertain.

It’s Liam. It’s got to be. On some unconscious level, it’s Liam that makes me hesitate. No – I won’t let that jerk ruin my fun. I gave him two chances and he blew both of them. I’ve got to move on with my life. “Okay,” I say quietly. I place my hand in his and feel him slide his card against my palm.

“It was lovely meeting you tonight, Jasmine,” Chess says still wearing that winning smile, his hand still gripping mine.

“Likewise,” I say as I quickly purse my lips to bite back my grin.

He brings my knuckles to his lips and deposits a lingering kiss before tossing me a wink. His eyes shift to Michael. “Let’s go talk politics, shall we?” he says slapping Michael on the shoulder and leading him away.

Ruthie grabs my hand and wiggles it discreetly. She leans into my ear. “Oh my god, Jazz. He’s the party’s shoo-in for candidate for president…and he’s
totally
into you."

“So, this is the hole that you’ve dug out for yourself?” I glance up just as the door swings open and my father ambles into my office, leaning hard into his chrome walking stick.

Fuck – last person I want to see right now.

Wallace Cartwright is one of the founding partners of this law firm. He and his partners, Michaelo Moretti and James Stevenson, built it from the ground up over 30 years ago and today it is one of New York City’s preeminent business law firms. It’s his proudest accomplishment. Might as well be since he never took pride in his family.

I bite back the urge to snarl at him. “Dad,” I say forcing a pleasant tone as I push to my feet.

“Why did you request this decrepit, piece-of-shit office, Liam?” He shuffles right up to my desk, standing eye-to-eye with me instead of taking a seat. “There’s a suite on the 7
th
floor designated specifically for the firm’s managing partner. It’s the office Michael Moretti occupied before he left and you became managing partner. So, why the hell is there a scrawny, little no-name first-year associate sitting in that $3000 Herman Miller executive chair on the 7
th
floor while you rot away in this tiny broom closet?”

“You came all the way here to berate me about the office I selected?” My father retired from the practice of law a few months ago. Now, he spends his days pouring over law journals and drinking scotch in his study. I guess he has time to kill.

He glowers knocking his walking stick against the table. “You’d better tell me that this has nothing to do with that PTSD nonsense. You came back from Afghanistan four years ago. Yes, you got injured. But life goes on. Get over it.”

“Get over it?” I seethe. I can’t believe my fucking ears. My father has always been a jerk but I guess that’s to be expected after 35 years of being married to my frigid, off-putting mother. Still, I’d expect him to have a little more tact when talking about what I experienced in combat. I’m a veteran, for crying out loud. A patriot. And I can’t even get some respect from my own father?

And he’s not done yet. “You’re a coward, Liam. Always have been.” He says, watching me in disgust.

“You need to leave,” I say, my voice cracking to reveal the rage I’m feeling.

He shakes his head. “A fucking coward…” he laments.

“Leave. Now!” I slam my fist into my desk causing my penholder to tip over the side and fall to the ground.

My father ambles towards the door, yanking it open. He turns and gives me one final look. “Sometimes, I’m ashamed to call you a Cartwright.”

I pick up my stapler and hurl it at the door just as he slams it shut.

As I slump back into my chair, my father’s words echo in my head. Is he right? Am I just a coward?

Maybe I am. Maybe I am afraid. Maybe that’s why I spent my weekend alone, battling the guilt and the regret that I’m so familiar with instead of going out and finding Jasmine and finding a way to make her forgive me. One thing’s for sure though; now that I know how much I’ve hurt her, those feelings are amplified exponentially. Rejecting her is a son-of-a-bitch especially since all I want to do is wrap her up in my arms and never let her go.

But I don’t even come close to being worthy of her. I can’t give her the things she deserves.

Keeping my distance from her kills me. Pretending that she’s not everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman tears me to shreds. But it’s the right thing to do. Some people are toxic; they just aren’t meant to have anyone.

I am one of those people.

So, I accept the loneliness. It wraps around me like a dark, heavy cloak and I don’t fight it. I just let it consume me. Because that’s my fate.

And the truth is, I’m scared of her. I’m scared of loving her. I’m scared of the work I’d have to do on myself just to be worthy of her. I’d have to face my demons, look them straight in the eye. I don’t have the strength to do that. Maybe my father’s right. Maybe I
am
just a coward.

I can’t be the man in her life. But I have to find a way to be close. I’ve got to be her friend. That’s a reasonable compromise. A comfortable balance between the intimacy that I’m craving and the distance that’s truly best for her.

I pad over to my door and slip a finger between the slats of the venetian blinds obscuring my office from the rest of the suite. I can see her across the hall sitting at her desk, as beautiful as always. Her hair is clipped back away from her gorgeous face. Her eyes are focused intently on the screen of her computer. She nibbles on the edge of what appears to be an energy bar before taking a gulp from a slim red can.

Is that her lunch? It can’t be.

She works herself ragged, starting long before 9:00 a.m. and going till the wee hours of the morning. The least she can do is eat right.

I immediately call down to the café on the building’s ground floor and order the soup of the day together with a small chef’s salad. I also order a bottle of water and a chicken sandwich. I request that the food be delivered to my office.

Moments later, there’s a knock at the door and my assistant, Luce, creeps in, wordlessly depositing the food on the edge of my desk before quickly turning to leave. The poor girl is terrified of me. She tiptoes around me and she startles ever time I call her name. I bet that she’s secretly hoping to be reassigned to another lawyer instead of having to work with the “beast”. But I don’t have the time to feel bad about that right now. I have to get Jasmine’s lunch to her.

What the hell am I doing?

I can’t just waltz into Jasmine’s office and demand that she eat a proper meal. After the way I treated her a few days ago, she probably wants nothing to do with me. And rightfully so. I was a damned asshole. I didn’t mean a word of it but she doesn’t know that.

But then again, I did say that I wanted to be friends. And friends
do
buy lunch for their friends, right?

Man up, Cartwright. Just go in there and sit down with her. It’s a goddamned sandwich. Stop being a pussy.

My leg bounces nervously under my desk as I sit there contemplating what to do. After a few minutes of internal back and forth, I scribble a quick note onto the back of a recycled envelope and slip it into the paper bag. I call Luce into my office and ask her to deliver the lunch to Jasmine. I ignore the curious look she gives me as I shove the food towards her and tip my head in the direction of Jasmine’s office.

From my chair, I can see Luce handing the bag to Jasmine and explaining to her that I sent her lunch. Jasmine’s eyes narrow as Luce shrugs, turns on her heels and returns to her desk outside of my office.

Within a matter of seconds, Jasmine stomps across the hall, drops the paper bag on my desk and marches out without uttering a single word. With a sigh, I get up, take the food and follow her into her own office.

“What? You prefer turkey?” I can hear the smirk in my own voice as I try to make light of the situation. My heart thunders against my ribcage despite my best efforts at remaining cool.

She sits at her desk and glares at me. “Is this all some big joke to you?” she says in a hushed tone.

I give her a pointed look. “You’re my friend. I bought you lunch. Simple.” I put the paper bag on her desk.

“Screw lunch, Liam.” Her eyes are glassy like she might cry. “You fucked me two years ago and never called. Then you fucked me again last week and threw some bullshit at me about being friends. Now you think that you can just buy me lunch and all is forgiven?”

I stand there with my hands digging deep into my pockets and I stare at her. She’s beautiful when she’s angry. Dark, brown eyes narrowed and challenging. Full lips red and pouting. Nostrils flaring ever-so-slightly.

“I don’t want it,” Jasmine says defiantly with a stomp of her foot. It’s messed up that all I can think about is how much I want to be inside of her right now, feeling her anger squeezing and pulsing around me, feeling her coming undone in my arms, feeling her as she forgives me.

“You’ve been working hard. You need to eat,” I say gruffly as I take a step forward.

“What do you care?” she whispers bitterly.

Seeing the pain in Jasmine’s eyes each time she looks at me makes me wonder if all this is in vain. I’m doing the right thing by keeping my hands off of her but she’s hurting anyway. God – I wish I could be the man she deserves.

“Jasmine,” I warn in a terse voice. “Eat.” I turn on my heel and leave, my heart aching to know I’ve caused her so much pain. I give her a final glance over my shoulder. “And for the record, I
do
care.”