Head On (The Head On Trilogy)
Read Head On (The Head On Trilogy) Online
Authors: Sophie Newsome
Head On
by Sophie Newsome
Book #1
of the Head On trilogy
Kindle Edition
First Published October 2013
Parts of this book were originally
published in 2012 as
Accidentally... a Prostitute
and
Weekend in Vegas (Accidentally... a Prostitute 2)
Copyright Sophie Newsome
All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, without express written permission from Sophie Newsome.
Special thanks to: Cassie, Helen, Amy, Martha and Peter.
Table of Contents
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four
Bonus
Extract from
Head On
Prologue
I lay on my back in the luxurious, air-conditioned hotel room. The bed-sheet was pulled down to my waist, exposing my breasts. Still a little breathless, I stared over at the window, through which I could see the tips of a few nearby skyscrapers.
Sitting up, I realized I was sore. Really sore. In five or six different places. I blinked a couple of times. Looking down, I saw a clear bite-mark on the side of my left breast. There was dried semen on my belly. I lifted the bed-sheet and saw more semen drying in my matted, sweaty bush.
"Huh," I said, still a little shocked. It had been, by any stretch of the imagination, a fucked-up day.
Part One
The First Encounter
Kathryn
"It's not fair," I said a few hours earlier, standing in my (soon to be former) office.
"Life's not fair," said Donna, my best friend and (soon to be former) colleague, staring at me with a look of pity and concern. "This is how the world works." She smiled. "So, how does it feel to be chewed up and spat out by the corporate machine?"
"How does what feel?" I asked. "Being fired, or being single?" The truth was, both had happened to me in quick succession. One week ago, I was engaged and I had a good job at a top Manhattan advertising firm. Then my fiance dumped me for a woman with bolted-on pneumatic breasts, and my boss fired me for making a few stupid little mistakes. Now I was staring at a cardboard box, which was supposed to hold my meager possessions as I took the walk of shame out the door. I had half an hour to get out the building before security were going to come and escort me from the premises, and although I
hated
the idea of making a scene, part of me liked the idea of literally being dragged kicking and screaming out the door.
"You'll get a new job in no time," Donna said. "Trust me, I know these things. You've just got to, you know, bend a little bit."
"Bend?"
"Relax," she continued. "Accept that life's a game. The rules are just a guideline, to help you work out how other people are playing the game. All those other chumps out there, desperately trying to play by the rules and get ahead the old-fashioned way, are your competitors. But really, there are no rules. It's dog eat dog, and you just got eaten."
"Thanks," I said wearily, feeling faintly nauseous at the thought of sending out hundreds of resumes, attending scores of interviews, and maybe - if I was really
really
lucky - getting another dead end job. That, or I could just move back to Ohio and live with my parents for six months, like my sister. Like my unemployed, single, lonely, clinically depressed, diabetic, possibly slightly alcoholic sister...
"This time next year, you'll be laughing at all of this," Donna continued.
"I'm laughing at it now," I said, staring around at the empty office. "Just not for the right reasons."
"Come on," Donna said, grabbing my arm, "let's get out of here. I'll buy you a big, strong drink somewhere."
I nodded. It seemed like the smart thing to do. After all, I couldn't hang around all day feeling sad in my old office. I literally couldn't: security would be along soon to escort me from the building and make sure I didn't take anything that wasn't mine. "This sucks," I said quietly. "This sucks big, hairy balls."
"You'll be fine," Donna said, tugging me toward the door.
"Hang on," I said as we were about to walk out. I turned and took one last look at the desk where I'd sat being miserable for the past six months. Suddenly, without any warning whatsoever, I felt tears in my eyes. Quickly sniffing and blinking them away, I took a deep breath and turned to Donna. "Okay," I said, "let's go and get that drink." We stepped out of the office and I pulled the door shut. My name, Kathryn Hoskins, was still on the glass. That'd be gone soon, and there'd probably be a new girl sitting at my desk by the end of the day. Dog eat dog indeed.
"Lighten up," Donna said. "You know what you should do when life gives you lemons?"
"Make lemonade?" I ask.
"Nah," she replies. "Screw that. Slice 'em up and put 'em in vodka." She could clearly see that I was upset, but she was too good a friend to drag the subject out into the open and make a fuss, so we headed in silence to the elevator. I could feel the eyes of all the office workers following me. I knew they'd be talking about me as soon as I was out of earshot, but that was kinda okay: after all, I'd gossiped about other people in the past who had been fired, so I guess it was my turn.
I wish I could say I'd been fired because I did something outlandishly crazy or wonderful. I wish I could say it was because I failed to conform to the corporate culture of Drake Parkin Industries, or that I rebelled against conformity. But the truth is, I was fired because I wasn't particularly good at my job and finally someone noticed. I was too careful to make any really big mistakes, but I made too many little ones and, finally, I made one slightly medium-sized mistake that cost the company a few thousand dollars. Millicent Pritchard, the bitch in charge of my division, had been looking for an opportunity to can me for months, and I finally served my ass up to her on a silver platter. So it was mundane lack of ability that caused me to get shot down, rather than anything very exciting. Such is life.
"You still up for Friday?" Donna asked as the elevator doors closed and we began our long descent to the ground floor of the huge Drake Parkin Industries building.
"Friday?" I asked.
"Yeah," she replied, "Friday. You know: head to the club, get drunk, maybe hook up with some vaguely hot guy, generally make tits of ourselves and then meet up for coffee the following morning, totally hungover, to compare war wounds."
"I don't know..." I said, really not feeling like I wanted - or could afford - to party any time soon.
"Come on!" Donna said, trying to get me excited, "I
promise
you'll regret it!"
For the first time since I got fired, a faint smile crossed my lips. "Maybe," I said.
"Oh shit," Donna said, "you can do better than that. I know what 'Maybe' means with you. It means 'No', and I'm not taking that for an answer."
"Okay," I said as the elevator came to a stop and the doors opened to reveal the lobby. "I'll come. I'll even try to be good company."
We stepped out into the cavernous, minimalist lobby and I stopped to take one last look, to breathe in the lack of atmosphere one final time. I'd never been in such a luxurious building before, and I was pretty sure I never would again. Say what you like about Drake Parkin Industries - their logging companies in South America; their links to the South African diamond trade; their super-PAC donations to a string of redundant political mouthpieces - but over the past decade they'd built themselves up to become one of America's richest companies. It had been fun to be part of that company for a while, to be tangentially related to such enormous wealth. For a while, I'd even dreamed of working my way up to the top. But that ride was over, and the cold blast of a spring Manhattan day awaited me on the other side of the revolving doors at the far end of the lobby.
"You forgot your box," Donna said, bringing me back to reality.
"Huh?" I asked.
"Your box," she said. "It's up on your desk. You want me to go get it?"
I shook my head. "There's nothing in it except a stapler without any staples," I said.
"Shit," Donna said.
"I know," I replied. "Sad, huh? I didn't even raid the stationary cupboard before I left."
"No," Donna said, literally grabbing my head and turning it to the left.
"There he is!"
Looking over to the other side of the lobby, I saw a well-dressed - and extremely attractive - man in his early 30s, walking impatiently toward the door. There was something immediately very striking about him, as if he belonged completely and utterly in this insane world of wealth and excess.
"You know who that is, right?" Donna whispered, letting go of my head.
"Who?" I asked innocently.
She nudged me in the ribs. "Drake Parkin," she hissed.
I stared at her.
"Founder and CEO of Drake Parkin Industries," she continued. "Your boss! Or rather, your boss's boss's
boss's
boss. Well, until a few minutes ago." We watched as the great Drake Parkin spoke to a man by the door. "They say he makes a hundred thousand dollars every minute," Donna said, her voice filled with wonder, as if she was in a trance. "Do you know what I'd do with a hundred grand?"
"You'd waste it," I said.
She nodded. "And so would you. But it wouldn't matter, because we'd only have to wait sixty seconds before another hundred grand dropped into our laps! Imagine that kind of life!" She paused for a moment, clearly dazed by the vision of such a wealthy guy. "Money's addictive, you know," she continued eventually. "They should get some scientists to study it, 'cause money's as addictive as any goddamn drug. People will do anything for money, even things they think are way beyond them. You dangle money in front of them, they turn on a dime."
"That's not true," I replied, before seeing the glazed look in her eyes. "For most people, anyway," I added.
"Bullshit," she continued, watching as Parkin shook hands with the guy by the door. "Money trumps morals, any day."
"Great," I said with a sigh. "This is just what I want to see right now: a hot guy who's rolling in money."
Donna smiled. "You should go and ask him for your job back."
I snorted with laughter.
"I'm serious!" she continued. "That's the kind of get-up-and-go attitude that people like Drake Parkin respect. You're never gonna get anywhere if you scurry around like a timid little mouse, patiently mailing resumes and waiting for people to call back. Mice don't impress guys like Drake Parkin; you need to be a tiger! Men like Drake Parkin live in isolated bubbles, and they love it when someone punctures those bubbles and shakes them up a bit. They like to see some initiative, you know? Some get-up-and-go and all that crap. You'll probably end up with a promotion!"
I watched as Drake Parkin headed out the door. "Yeah," I said absent-mindedly, "I'm sure that’d work a treat." I gave her a withering look. "You watch too many movies, Donna. The world doesn't work like that."
"Do it!" Donna insisted. "You'll regret it if you don't try."
I shook my head as we headed across the lobby toward the exit. "You know what I'm gonna do right now?" I asked. "I'm gonna go home, and I'm gonna watch TV and read, and eat cereal for lunch. Everything else - the job, the pathetic social life - is gonna wait until tomorrow. I need - no, I
deserve
- a half-day vacation."
"What about that drink?" Donna asked.
"Save it for Friday," I replied, unable to face the prospect of a drunken night out.
"Whatever," Donna said as we walked through the revolving door and emerged on the busy, loud Manhattan sidewalk. As expected, a chill wind rushed straight toward me, blowing my hair into a mess of brunette strands.
"So," I said, "we meet again."
"Who you talking do?" Donna asked.
"My oldest enemy," I replied. "Reality."
"I thought your oldest enemy was gravity," Donna said.
"They usually work as a team."
"Look, he's still here!" Donna nodded in the direction of a large black limousine that sat waiting at the curb. It was a hugely imposing and intimidating sight, the kind of car that makes you feel guilty for even daring to look at it.
"Cool," I said, "but I think I'll take the subway."
"Go knock on the window and ask for your job back," Donna said.
"Sure," I replied. "Why not? That's what everyone does."
"I mean it!" Donna insisted. "Show some initiative for once! Are you a mouse or a tiger?"
"I'm a mouse. We've already established that fact." Sighing, I realized that she still hadn't given up. "I'm not doing it," I say, giving her a hug. "I'll be fine," I said. "I'll have a new job within a week."
"In this economy?" Donna asked. "Are you kidding me?"
"Hey!" I said. "You told me I'd be fine!"
"Yeah," she replied, "but that was just to make you feel better. Honey, you're totally screwed."
I sighed. "I can't go over there and butt in. I got fired. I accept that. I'll go find another job."
Donna stared at me, incomprehension written across her face. "You know your problem?" she asked.
"No," I said, feeling mildly irritated, "but I hope you'll tell me."
"You've got morals," she replied.
"Everyone has morals!" I countered.
"Not in New York City," she said. "Everyone fakes it. This ain't a city where morals are gonna get you very far. You've got to be selfish. You've got to take what you can get, when you can get it. And right now, fate's dropped a big opportunity right in your path. You might never, ever have another chance to go and talk directly to such a powerful man. So forget about morals and go get Drake Parkin to give you your job back. Be a tiger, not a mouse."
I shook my head. "I can't just abandon my morals," I said. "If I could, they wouldn't be real morals in the first place, they'd just be lies I told myself."
"Isn't that the definition of a moral?"
I sighed. Clearly, Donna was just trolling me now.
She smiled. "I know you can do it," she said. "I've seen you when you're drunk. Those morals slip away pretty easy in the right circumstances. There's nothing wrong with that. It's how the world is
supposed
to work. Your morals have to be flexible and relative,
or you'll sink."
"My morals are not flexible," I replied.
"Look!" Donna said, pointing at someone behind me. "That's Drake Parkin's P.A!"
I turned to see an older man pacing the sidewalk nervously. He looked concerned about something, as if a major emergency had begun to unfold. He was talking on his phone, a look of urgency and annoyance on his face. It looked like he was trying to arrange something for his Lord and Master, and was being thwarted at every turn. I'll be honest: I felt a little bump of satisfaction at the thought that things weren't going swimmingly in the world of Drake Parkin.
