The Complete Arrogant Series (51 page)

I reach for her, sliding my palm
against her jaw and cupping my fingers around her soft neck before lowering my
mouth to hers. Without saying a word, I steal a tender kiss. My free hand hooks
the curve above her hip, and her body melts against me for the few, short
seconds my mouth claims hers.

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.”