Magnificent Bastard (14 page)

“Thanks, but we won’t be staying at the house.” I smile harder. “We’ve booked a cottage nearby. We didn’t want to make any extra work for the busy couple on their wedding weekend.”

Phillip waves a hand through the air, seeing my smile and raising me a breezy laugh. “Oh, it’s no trouble. We’ve hired extra staff. And I know Anastasia will want to spend some quality time with you. She’ll be thrilled to learn that Penny has someone special in her life.”

On the surface, the comment is genuine and polite. But somehow he manages to hit “special” in just the perfect way to make it sound like I’m a not-so-bright child who still needs help blowing his own nose that Penny has adopted out of the goodness of her heart.

This douche is good. I didn’t anticipate such a formidable opponent, but I’m not intimidated. I thrive on a challenge. And you know what they say—the bigger the prick, the more it hurts when you cut their dick off.

“And I can’t wait to meet Penny’s mother.” I make sure to hit “mother” in a way that will remind Phillip he’s banging someone old enough to have squeezed him out of the pussy he’s sticking his pecker in every night. “I’ve heard so many fascinating things about her. But it’s too late to cancel the cottage reservation and we’re looking forward to some alone time. You know how it is.”

“Of course I do.” Phillip’s smile becomes a smirk. “I know exactly how it is.”

Penny’s breath rushes out with a soft, shocked sound and it’s all I can do not to grab this dick nugget by the front of his stupid shirt and shake him until his too-white teeth fall out of his head.

Penny was right, he is a master of subtext, and the subtext right now is that he had Penny before I did. And not only did he have her, but he had her harder, deeper, and better because he had her before she was shattered. Before she was scarred and cast out of her own family by a mother who cared more about Phillip’s dick than her own daughter.

There is no remorse in his pale green eyes, no regret. There’s only a sociopath who wants to have his cake and eat it too. He wants to marry Penny’s mom and move on with his life while retaining bragging rights as the only man Penny loved before she was too broken to love anyone in that same, innocent way again. He stole her innocence and hope away and the man is proud of it.

It’s so low, so ugly and selfish, and so not at all what a woman like Penny deserves, that for a second, my character slips.

My gaze narrows and how much I want to hurt him comes flooding into my eyes.

Never in two years of staring down cheating, lying, wife-beating, life-ruining sons of bitches have I ever wanted to punch someone as much as I do right now. And I don’t want to just punch him once. I want to keep punching him, slamming my fist into his face again and again until he isn’t capable of making a smug expression for a damned long time.

Instead, I tighten my grip around Penny’s waist and nod as pleasantly as possible. “Well, good. I’m glad we understand each other. I look forward to learning more about you, Phillip.”

“Same here.” Phillip’s smile spreads to take up more real estate on his face until he’s grinning like the cat that gave every dog in town a bad case of crabs. “Talk soon Penny. We’ll see you at the shower tomorrow, I assume?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” Penny’s voice is still faint and weak. “Unless I can’t kick this headache for some reason. I have the worst migraine. So if you’ll excuse us, Phillip, we’re going to head out.”

“Of course.” Phillip’s brow knits in an excellent parody of real concern. “Take care of yourself, Peeps. Hope you feel better soon. I’m so glad you’re here. Can’t wait to catch up.”

And then the sewer-sucking slime ball has the gall to lean in and press a kiss to Penny’s forehead. I’m so stunned there isn’t time to shift her out of the way. He darts in and out, striking like a snake, leaving Penny wide-eyed and pale all over again.

I nod again, just once.

That’s it.

That is the last bit of evidence I need to seal his fate.

“See you soon,” he says, smiling pleasantly as he circles around us, calling out to someone else farther down the platform.

“Not if we see you first,” I call after him in a jovial tone before adding beneath my breath, “you nasty, petty, lobster shirt wearing son of a bitch.”

“It’s my fault,” Penny whispers, her hands shaking as she hitches her purse over her shoulder and reaches for the handle of her roller suitcase.

“That was not your fault.” I scowl down at her, wondering if I need to shake some sense into her while I’m shaking Phillip’s teeth loose from his smug, evil head. “That was your horror show of an ex being horrible.”

“No, not that. The shirt.” Penny sniffs as she tilts her head down, sending her hair falling around her face. “I gave it to him for his birthday. He used to say it made him think of me every time he put it on.”

And then her shoulders start shaking and crying noises begin to drift from behind the curtain of her hair and I know I have to get her out of here before Phillip sees. If he witnesses her falling to pieces after the first battle, it’s going to make it impossible to win this war.

Wrapping my arm around Penny’s shoulders to conceal as much of her as possible, I grab my garment bag and briefcase and haul ass toward the rental car office at the end of the next block. I hustle my sniffling companion along beside me, feeling like absolute shit, hating myself for not finding a way to spare Penny that hellish interaction.

This isn’t the first time I’ve had a client break down after a confrontation with an ex, but it’s the first time it’s hurt this much.

At that moment, I silently promise to make this revenge as brutal as possible. Penny might not want the full Magnificent Bastard package, but she’s going to get it. Phillip the shit stick deserves nothing less.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

From the text archives of Sebastian “Bash” Prince and Penny Pickett

From Penny:
Are you still alive?

Please respond to this text before tomorrow morning or I’m going to call the police. In an entire year of being your assistant, you’ve never gone more than forty-eight hours between e-mails.

It’s been eighty-three. I’m starting to worry…

A lot.

Bash:
Hey. *checks pulse* Yep. I’m alive.

Penny:
Okay…

Are you all right?

Bash:
I’m fine. It’s just the anniversary of something I would rather not remember. Put me off e-mail—and life—for a while.

Penny:
I hear you. I have one of those anniversaries. They stink.

Is there anything I can do to help?

Bash:
Nah. But thanks for checking in on me.

It’s nice to know that if I fell in the shower and broke my neck, my body would be discovered before it had decomposed too badly. I don’t want to deprive all the ladies of an open casket funeral.

Penny:
Not funny, Bash. At all. I don’t like funeral jokes.

Do you need someone there with you?

Bash:
Why? Would you come over if I did?

Penny:
If you’re as deep down in the despair pit as you seem, then yes, I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes. Thirty-five if I hit the trains wrong.

Bash:
Wow.

You really are worried about me, aren’t you?

Penny:
Yes, you jerk. Now promise me you’re not going to do anything stupid before I get there.

Bash:
You’re worried for nothing, buttercup. I’m not that far down the pit, not even close. As much as I would love for you to come over, I can’t let you come because you’re scared.

I don’t like scaring people for no reason.

Especially people I like.

I’m fine and will be back to normal by tomorrow morning. I promise.

But if you would still like to come over, I’ll give your name to the front desk and leave a glass of wine on the counter for you.

Penny:
Are you sure you’re okay? You swear you would tell me if you weren’t?

Bash:
Yes, I swear I’m okay and that I would tell you if I weren’t.

Does this mean you aren’t coming over?

Penny:
Well, it is pretty late…

Bash:
*farting cat emoticon*

Penny:
That’s cute. And mature.

Bash:
*farting dragon emoticon*

Penny:
Where do you get those? I need them for my phone. I have a couple of younger friends who are obsessed with emoticons.

Bash:
I’ll send you a link.

Sleep tight, buttercup, and thanks for checking in.

It means a lot.

Penny:
Of course. Anytime, boss. I’ve got your back.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Checking in to the cottage couldn’t be easier—the keys are waiting in a basket on the porch when we arrive—and the setting is as stunning as it looked in the pictures. The cottage sits on a rise at the edge of a vineyard with a sweeping view of the vines stretching away toward the main house and the sea beyond. The rear of the cozy, white, almost painfully cute structure is shrouded by ancient oak trees with gnarled trunks and limbs covered with bright green spring leaves that seem to promise it’s never too late for a fresh start.

Penny, however, is not in such an optimistic frame of mind.

“We should go home,” she says, her voice thick though she stopped crying not long after I pulled away from the station in our rental car.

“We are not going home.” I tug my laptop from my briefcase and glance around for some sign of the Internet access code, determined to start searching for dirt on Phillip as soon as humanly possible. “We’re going to stay and make that cock juggling thundercunt wish he’d never pulled the shit he pulled today.”

“It’s pointless. He’s too good. I forgot how good he is. God, I’m so stupid.” She drops her suitcase to the hardwood floor just inside the front door with a thunk, takes five steps, and collapses face down onto the yellow couch in the center of the room.

And there she lies. Unmoving. Like a very nicely dressed corpse.

She doesn’t stop to take in the sunny yellow kitchen to our left or the back deck overlooking the woods or to peek into the bedroom, where a fluffy white bed is waiting to welcome travelers in need of rest.

Or of a hot and heavy dose of afternoon delight.

But I didn’t even mention stopping by a drugstore on the way to the cottage. Getting into my pants is obviously no longer on Penny’s radar. Phillip killed our afternoon of sex-capades. It’s enough reason to hate him if I didn’t have plenty of other reasons already.

But I do. I hate his cheesy haircut, his smug smile, his attitude of absolute entitlement, and his mile-wide mean streak. But most of all, I hate what he’s done to my friend. Penny is no longer the vixen who rode my face in our private train cabin. She is decimated, wrecked, all her joy and fighting spirit sucked away by the first meeting with her evil ex.

Yes, Phillip was terrible, but this isn’t the Penny I know. She doesn’t give up when the going gets tough; she digs in until she gets my schedule nailed down, the proper forms filled out, the clients talked down from the ledge, and the retainer fee deposited two weeks prior to the start of a new client orientation.

I snap my laptop shut and drop it on the entryway table, deciding that getting the dirt on Phillip can wait.

Arms folded at my chest, I cross to stand beside the couch, staring down at Penny’s inert form. “You are not stupid. And you’re not a quitter, either. So come on. Get up. Let’s talk strategy.”

“Discretion is the better part of valor,” she moans, her face still pressed into the couch and her voice muffled by the cushions.

“It’s too late for discretion. We’re already here and the enemy has been engaged. Now there’s no choice but to pick up our weapons and storm the shoreline.”

“I can’t,” she says, still not moving a muscle. “I’m just going to die here on this couch. Use my savings to pay the cottage rental fee through the end of the summer. I should have decomposed enough by then for someone to come fetch the body.”

My lips curve up on one side. “I imagine the cottage has other bookings that might interfere with that solution. And you’ll ruin the couch if you decompose on it.”

“Then wait until I’m dead and you can drag my corpse into the forest for the animals. They get hungry around here. All the rich people lock up their trash.”

I prop my hands low on my hips with a sigh. “I’m not dragging you anywhere, buttercup. You’re going to get up, shake this off, and get back in the ring. Come on.”

“No,” she moans.

“Yes,” I insist. “Get up. Right now.”

“I can’t. I’m in the depths of despair.”

“On your feet, Pickett,” I demand, delivering a swat to her ass that finally gets her face out of the cushions.