Three Weeks Later.
“How do I look?”
“Nervous. Anxious. Sweet. Pretty. One of those ought to be the right answer, right?” Dad chuckled, rubbing my arms.
I had put on a white pencil dress and my black Chucks. Classy. Understated. Plus, I was going for serious and professional today. My dark blond hair was styled in a loose chignon, and I’d streaked my hazel eyes with a dramatic eyeliner. This wasn’t my usual attire of flannel shirts, skinny jeans, and faux leather jackets. Then again, it was my first day at my new job, so not looking like a Tokio Hotel dropout was a priority.
I stroked Dad’s bald head—forsaken patches of white hair scattered around it like sad dandelions—and kissed his cheek, where his veins stood out through pale, bluish skin.
“You can call me any time,” I reminded him.
“Oh, yes. My favorite Blondie song.” He grinned.
I rolled my eyes at his dorkiness.
“I’m feeling fine, Jude. Are you coming home after this or staying at Milton’s?” He ruffled my hair like I was a kid, and I guess to him I was.
He launched into another coughing fit mid-sentence. Which is why I felt slightly guilty for the lie. He thought Milton and I were still together. My dad had stage three cancer in his lymph nodes. He’d officially stopped attending his chemo sessions two weeks ago. Time was slipping through our fingers like sand.
His doctors had begged him to continue treatments, but he’d said he was too tired. Read: we were broke. It was either refinance our house or give up treatment, and Dad didn’t want to leave me with nothing—no matter how hard I fought against that decision. Now I was guilt-stricken, walking around with my lonely, worry-soaked heart, carrying it like a chest full of gold—so many precious, heavy, useless things inside.
My voice was gruff from yelling at him to just sell the damn apartment. I’d finally stopped when I realized I was just putting him through more unnecessary agony and stress.
“Back here.” I kissed his temple and waltzed to the kitchen, pulling out the meals I’d made him for the day.
“You don’t spend much time with him lately. Everything okay?”
I nodded, pointing at the Tupperware in front of me. “Breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks. There are fresh blankets on your bed in case it gets cold. Did I mention that you can always call me? Yes. Yes, I did.”
“Stop worrying about your old man.” He mussed my carefully done hair again as I exited the kitchen, walking to the door. “And break a leg.”
“With my luck, I don’t doubt it.” I grabbed my shoulder bag, watching as he groaned when he settled in his armchair in front of the TV.
He was wearing the same PJs I knew I was going to see him in when I got back from work God-knows-when. Most people wouldn’t have invested in Netflix when they were neck-deep in debt, but my dad barely left the house. Up until very recently, he’d always been suffering from nausea and felt extremely weak. Chemotherapy killed not only his cancerous cells, but also his appetite. The only thing he did have were shows like Black Mirror, House of Cards, and Luke Cage. No way was I going to deprive him of his only entertainment, even if I had to pick up another job on top of this one.
And this is the part they don’t tell you about losing a loved one to cancer: They’re not the only people being eaten alive. When they get it, you get it. The cancer nibbles away at your time with them, feasts on the happy moments, feeds off every second of bliss. It devours your paycheck and savings. It nourishes itself on your misery and multiplies in your chest, even if you don’t have it.
I lost my mom to breast cancer ten years ago.
Now my dad was next, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.
The ride from Brooklyn to Manhattan was long, and I didn’t have my iPod with me. That’s what you get for being a shithead and stealing from a stranger. I’d left it, my earbuds, and my morals back in the hotel suite. No matter. The money had paid two red electricity bills and covered our weekly grocery shopping. And now I had time to read through all the material I’d printed out in advance about the Laurent Broadcasting Company. LBC was headquartered in a gigantic high-rise building on Madison Avenue. They were one of the top four news channels in the world, alongside MSNBC, CNN, and FOX. I’d accepted a job as a junior reporter in their beauty and lifestyle online blog division, which wasn’t exactly my lifegoal. Then again, not drowning under past-due bills was pretty high on my to-do list.
I was grateful for the opportunity, and had almost toppled over when I’d gotten the acceptance phone call. My chance at the newsroom would come. I just needed to work my way up.
For now, I had to make sure I kept this 75k-a-year job. It wasn’t only a great way to get my foot in the door; it could also help me convince Dad to give chemo another shot.
The lifestyle blog—aptly named Couture—was located on the fifth floor of the building, the same floor as accounting.
“They don’t treat us as real journalists,” I’d been warned by Grayson, AKA Gray, the chatty guy who had hired me. “The toilet seats in this place get more respect than the beauty and entertainment blog. They also get better ass, I’m sure. There’re literally no hot people here in accounting.”
I’d come in the day before to get my tag and electronic card and to fill out the paperwork. The job offered kickass health insurance and free gym facilities. In short: if I could marry this job, I would make sure it was happy and give it a foot massage every evening.
I was over a half-hour early, so I made a donut stop and bought enough sugary goodness for the entire floor. The receptionist, an auburn-haired girl around my age named Kyla, was already behind her desk, typing away when I came in. I offered her a donut, and her timid eyes scanned me as if I was trying to sell her an unregistered gun.
“They’re good. I promise. My mom and I used to come all the way from Brooklyn to Manhattan every Saturday just to have them.” I smiled.
“People are not nice here at LBC, though.” She tapped her desk nervously.
“Well, I am. So…” I shrugged.
She plucked a chocolate-glazed donut and showed me to my office. It wasn’t an actual office, but a cubicle on an open-space floor: beige on white and clinically depressing with its uniform plastic dividers and creaking office chairs. Each cubicle had four desks. I’d share mine with Couture’s staff. We’d be three people in total.
“Gray should be here any minute,” Kyla said between moans of pleasure.
I dumped my mismatched backpack under a chair that faced one of the desks without photos and knickknacks, and looked out the window. I had a direct view of the Laurent Towers Hotel, where I’d spent the night with Célian. Three weeks later and it still felt surreal that a man I didn’t know had been inside of me multiple times. Even stranger was the sharp pang of regret that pierced my chest every time I thought about the money I’d stolen from him. I vowed to never do it again, and tried to tell myself that entire night had been out of character for me.
Grayson arrived twenty minutes later. He looked like the lovechild of Kurt Hummel from Glee and your best friend’s hot brother, and he dressed like Willy Wonka. The deep maroon velvet blazer he had on today would’ve looked like a crime scene on anyone else. He waved his hand theatrically as he entered, his eyes still curtained by his huge Prada shades. He sipped his Starbucks as he showed me around the floor, which was beginning to fill with personnel. The accountants and secretaries nodded at me grimly as we passed them by.
“Feel free to erase every single person and face I’ve introduced you to from your memory and use that space to remember Dua Lipa’s beauty ritual, because none of them talk to us or acknowledge our existence. We were illegally and brutally deported from the sixth floor—AKA the newsroom—after the incident-that-shall-not-be-named last year.”
He fell into his executive chair and ran his fingers through his raven hair. “This made Couture extremely difficult to work on, but we still manage.”
“What happened?” I propped my elbows on my knees.
“The big bosses lost someone important.”
“What did it have to do with you?”
“That someone was our boss, and every time they look at us, they see her. Which is why they never look at us.”
I reached out and squeezed Gray’s hand, just as my second and only colleague in Couture strutted in.
“Ah, my fellow lepers and partners in being-pretty crime.” She offered me her hand, her fingernails brushed in blue and green. “I’m Ava.”
I shook her hand. She looked to be in her late twenties like Gray, and dripping chic from head to toe. With tan skin, big curls, and cat-like eyes—plus a red leather mini dress and vintage yellow boots—she could give any pop princess a run for her money.
“Is this dress up as a bipolar nurse day?” She scowled at my white dress. I opened my mouth to explain I was about as fashionable as her keyboard, when she broke into a grin and Grayson laughed from his desk, shaking his head.
“A wrap dress and Chucks? For real?” She wiped tears from the corner of her eyes.
“Which part is more disturbing to you, the thrift-shop dress or the Chucks?” I poked at my lower lip.
“Pretty sure the part where you look like a kid high on Jamba Juice who raided Mrs. Clinton’s closet. Do you have a name?” Ava swiped her gaze along my body.
“Judith. But people call me Jude.”
“Hey, Jude.” She winked.
“Sure she hasn’t heard that one before, Av.” Grayson swiveled his chair to his Apple screen, double-clicking the envelope icon.
The kids in my neighborhood had decided I was too much of a tomboy to have such a feminine name when I was about seven, and that’s how Jude was born. Judith died a slow death, coughing signs of vitality every time I needed to fill out an official document.
“Jude can touch the tip of her nose with her tongue and make fart noises with her armpits.”
“Jude can teach us how to skateboard.”
“Jude knows how to make water bombs.”
“Speaking of disturbing things, Mr. Laurent will be making an announcement today at three, so maybe it’s a good thing little Miss Reese Witherspoon is covered up in a dress so ugly it should be illegal.”
I shot Ava a look, and she snapped her gum in my face. “He likes the ladies, but worry not. His son puts him on a leash.”
Hours ticked by, hoovering the minutes and sucking them into an entire sun-deprived day. I spent them researching the many disturbing ways you can freeze, melt, and scrub cellulite to death. When the clock hit three, the elevator dinged chirpily. But that was the only chipper thing about the occasion. Time stopped. So did the clicking of keyboards, and the radio stations blasting over the floor along with the general chitchat. By the way the air hung and dangled like a sword above my neck, I guessed that Mr. Laurent, the owner of Couture and LBC, had arrived.
Grayson pushed off his desk and motioned for Ava and me to get out of our cubicle. I wiped the cold sweat on my palms over my dress.
“Main attraction’s here. Let’s hope Laurent Senior doesn’t grope anyone and Laurent Junior doesn’t fire us all because he’s on his period.” He catwalked to the main lobby of the floor, hips swaying.
I chuckled. So the infamous New York royals, the Laurents, were a pain in the butt. Hardly made any difference to me. I very much doubted they worked on this floor or that I’d see much of them. I knew of Mathias Laurent, the French mogul. He sounded too important to hang with us mortals on the fifth floor, crunching numbers or trying samples of new, gluten-free perfumes.
The minute we stepped into the already-full reception area, my jaw slacked. It fell to the floor, and my tongue rolled out like a red carpet, cartoon-style.
Jesus Christ.
I could practically hear Jesus in my head, waving his fist. “Stop using my name in vain every time you remember a sin you’ve committed.” He had a valid point. At this rate, I needed to say so many Hail Marys, I wasn’t going to be done until my thirtieth birthday.
Standing in front of me was the hot French tourist who’d done unholy things to my body three weeks ago, looking no less god-like than he had that night, with one exception—now he looked a whole lot scarier.
Célian wore pale gray slacks that seemed like they’d been sewn directly onto his body, a white tailored shirt, and a formidable scowl. He looked ready to behead Kyla and feed her limbs to the crowd of people who’d gathered around him. Beside him was a white-haired man an inch shorter than he was.
Mathias Laurent had small, black, vacant eyes—the opposite of his son’s deep indigos. But they had the same disapproving frown that made you feel like the dirt under their Bolvaint shoes.
And probably the same amount of authority to fire yours truly.
“Let’s cut to the chase. Technically, this is an issue for accounting, but we’ve decided to throw Couture into the mix since you guys are a money pit deeper than Kidd Mine,” Célian began, the icicles he called irises still focused on his phone screen.
My eyes rolled inside their sockets as my knees threatened to buckle.
He had an American accent. Not French. American. Smooth. Familiar. Ordinary. He fired out sentences at the speed of light. I heard him, but I couldn’t listen. Shock gripped my body as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. My dirty one-night stand was my boss. My lying, American boss. And now I had to deal with that—hopefully for a very long time, because I desperately needed this job.
Someone snapped their fingers, and my gaze shot from Célian’s face to Grayson.
His forehead had crumpled into a frown. “You look like you’re trying hard not to cry or having a really intense orgasm. I’m hoping for you that it’s the latter and some kind of a weird-slash-awesome condition. You okay?”
I nodded, scraping up a smile. “Sorry. Zero orgasms happening under this dress. I just zoned out for a second.” Lies. I was about to orgasm just remembering how good Célian had felt parting my thighs with his big, callused hands and dipping his tongue into my slit.
Then words stopped streaming down on everyone’s heads like a scalding shower, and I realized that indeed there was something worse than hearing Célian speak in his perfect American English. And that was not hearing him speak at all. Because now the icicles were pointed at me like a cocked gun.
I glanced up to meet his gaze. He stared at me for exactly one second before his focus snapped to Grayson. “Am I understood, Gregory?” he asked.
Gregory?
“Crystal clear, sir,” Grayson bowed, his voice trembling at the edges.
Célian jerked his chin toward me. “Your cover girl material is going downhill.”
God. Damn. Bastard.
He recognized me, and I knew it. His eyes had kindled, melting the ice and growing darker the minute our gazes mingled. He remembered, and maybe it killed him that I was here in the same way it buried me.
I want my iPod back, my gaze told him. I had over three thousand songs on that thing, and they were all too good to be wasted on that jerk.
“Jude Humphry. Junior reporter. It’s her first day,” Grayson highlighted, almost pleadingly. He shifted in my direction, as if he might need to physically protect me from the sharp-tongued, suited monster.
I suppressed a smile when I realized I’d told Célian my last name was Spears. Well, he certainly wasn’t a Timberlake. He was a Laurent. An American monarch through and through. A billionaire, a powerful force, and judging by our one and only encounter—a raging playboy.
This man was inside you, I internally shrieked. And not just once. His cock was buried so deep in you, you screamed. You can still taste the salty, earthy flavor of his cum. You know he has a freckle on his lower back. You know what sound he makes when he empties inside a woman.
I internally thanked my mind for ruining my panties in public, and nodded. “Pleasure to meet you, sir.” I offered him my hand, my face flushing with embarrassment at my choice of words.
Everyone was looking at us, and there were at least fifty people in the room. Célian—if that was even his name—ignored my outreached hand. Instead, he turned his face to the man beside him. “Mathias, any other words of wisdom?”
Mathias? Wasn’t that his father? Just how cold was the man with the icy blue eyes?
“I think you touched everything,” said the big boss—and he did have a heavy French accent, so at least the lie had a seed. Mathias stared at me placidly, like he could read the secret his son and I shared on my face.
Célian spun toward me, uncuffing his cufflinks and rolling his sleeves up his veiny forearms. “Accounting can go back to their unfortunate line of work. Couture is excused from this meeting—though not forgiven for their horrid blog. Miss Humphry?” He snapped his fingers impatiently.
He was already waltzing down the narrow hallway, knowing I’d chase him like a puppy, and no doubt taking pleasure in that fact.
“I have a bone to pick with you.”
Bone, boner—same difference, right?
I shot Grayson a please-save-my-butt look. His eyes said, I would but I still have a life to live.
I followed Célian down the hall, my Chucks slapping the floor in a hurry. He sliced through the throng of accountants, then stopped at a corner office, opened the door, barked “Out!” to the man inside, and tilted his head for me to go in. I did. He closed the door, and it was just the two of us.
Two feet of empty space between us.
His eyes said war.
Which didn’t bode well for me, since he had bombs, and I barely had sticks.
“Where’d your accent disappear to?” I asked through a painted smile.
“Where’d my fucking cash disappear to?” He answered in the same light tone, but the smirk on him was different. Sinful.
I felt my expression fall. I was so disoriented by seeing him here, I’d forgotten that had happened, too.
“I took it.” I swallowed hard.
“Well, I faked it.” He meant the accent.
“Coincidentally, so did I.” I didn’t mean the accent.
I just remembered the bet we’d had at Le Coq Tail. If he didn’t make me come, I was allowed to take all his cash. Truthfully, I’d never come so hard in my life, but I wasn’t going to admit that. Not after he’d made me feel like a fool for the second time that day, faking a stupid French accent to shake me off his back in case I wanted to exchange numbers.
“Miss Humphry.” He tsked with pity, like I was adorable and exasperating at the same time—a puppy pissing on his two-grand loafers. “It’ll be a long time before you stop thinking about my cock every time you masturbate at the end of a long workday under your cheap covers.”
I was going to kill him.
I knew it right there and then.
Maybe not today and perhaps not tomorrow either, but it was going to happen.
I blew out air and folded my arms over my chest. “I’m sorry I took your money.” It hurt to apologize to him, but I had to do it for my conscience, not to mention my employment status.
He stared through me, like I’d said nothing. “I expect you to keep your lips sealed about our little…” He ran his eyes over my body, but not like he wanted me. More like he wanted to get rid of me.
I batted my eyelashes. “Cat got your tongue, sir?”
“No, but close.” He leaned his shoulder against the door, making shoulders and doors everywhere pale in comparison to how sexy he looked. “Your pussy got my tongue—several times, actually—but also my cock, fingers, and frankly everything else in that suite I could fit into you. I’ll spare you the sordid details because A, you were there, and B, we’re going to keep it strictly professional from here on out. Understood?”
Jesusjesusjesus. The mouth on this guy.
“Lady, if you don’t stop using my name in vain, I’m taking my complaint to a higher level,” Jesus grunted in my head.
“Aren’t you going to apologize, too?” I parked my fists on my waist.
“What for?” He sounded genuinely interested.
How old was he? Thirty? Thirty-two? He didn’t look so young anymore, now that I was sober and watching him through a curtain of red anger and sheer embarrassment.
“For lying to me,” I raised my voice, on the verge of stomping my foot. “For faking an accent and telling me you had a flight back home. For—”
“Not that it’s any of your business.” He lifted one hand, cutting into my stream of words. “And not that I will ever provide you with any more personal information, seeing as you’re officially an employee, and a junior one at that,” he reminded me coolly. “But I actually did fly out to see my mother in Florida. Home isn’t here. But it’s not in France, either.”
“And the accent?” I wished I could club him over the head with a stapler and still keep my job. Unfortunately, I was pretty sure HR would frown on that.
He tugged at his collar, his smile wolfish. “I have a taste for simple, meaningless fucks.”
“No. You made sure I wouldn’t ask for your number or try to give you mine.” I had zero control over my voice at this point, and I think he knew I was a step from punching him square in the face.
He looked at me flatly. “Crazy is not a good look on you, Spears.”
“Well, consider yourself lucky, because I have no intention of exchanging anything with you, be it numbers, fluids, or pleasantries.” I turned around, ready to storm out the door. I took the first few steps, but Célian grabbed my wrist and spun me in place. His touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to my groin, which only proved that my mind was savvy, and my heart was lonely, but my body was just a dumbass.
“Keep quiet,” he warned.
I rolled my eyes. Like letting my boss screw the living hell out of me was something I wanted to send a press release about.
“Yes, sir.” I shook his touch away. “Anything else, sir?”
“Watch your attitude.”
“Or else?”
“I’ll make your life very miserable. And enjoy it, too. Not because we slept together, but because you stole my cash, wallet, and condoms.”
To be fair, the condoms were inside his wallet, and I’d simply forgotten to discard them. Which gave the whole thing an extra layer of embarrassment. I knew I was skating on thin ice, and I didn’t want to crash my way to the bottom of the unemployment ocean. I decided to change the subject.
“I forgot my iPod in the suite. Did you happen to find it?”
“No.”
Damn. “Am I excused?”
He took a step back. “I hope to see very little of you, Miss Spears.”
“Duly noted, Mr. Timberlake.”
I slapped my forehead the entire way back to my cubicle, thinking things couldn’t possibly get any worse. The future owner of LBC looked royally vindictive, regally pissed, and majestically explosive. Because of me. I knew he was going to avoid me at all costs. And it embarrassed me that I was saddened by that, because his scent, voice, and the insanely inappropriate things leaving his mouth fascinated me no less than they infuriated me.
When I got back to my cubicle, my first instinct was to drown myself in perfume samples. But as soon as I walked in, I realized I had some explaining to do. Grayson and Ava sat side-to-side, cross-legged, staring at me like I was a National Geographic special. All they needed was popcorn.
Grayson jerked his thumb in the elevator’s direction. “Explain.”
“There’s nothing—”
Ava butted in. “Mr. Laurent Jr., AKA the news director slash executive producer of the prime-time news show and Lord Assholemort, never offers people eye contact, let alone talks to them.”
He doesn’t, now? Shocker.
“You better start singing like it’s American Idol and I’m Simon Cowell, girl.” Grayson snapped his fingers, wiggling his ass in his seat. “I want to know the how, when, where, and how long. Especially the long part. Inches and all.”
I guess I deserved this. Célian had no business seeking me out and having a private conversation with me on my first day. Besides, these were shaping up to be the only friendly faces in all sixty floors.
I stared down, my toes squirming in my shoes. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. We’ve met before. Briefly. At a…social function.” What’s more social than sucking each other’s privates? “I think we were just surprised to see each other is all.”
The way the lie slid effortlessly from my lips scared me. First stealing his wallet, and now this. Célian Laurent sure brought the worst out of me.
“So you’re saying you don’t know each other.” Ava tilted her chin down, inspecting me like I was a Russian spy.
“I’m not even sure what his first name is.” This was actually true.
“It’s Célian. Now, question—did you listen to anything he said in that meeting?” Grayson raised an eyebrow.
“I…” I searched for words.
Normally, I was far more eloquent. Debate had been my favorite subject at school. I’d gone head to head with my articulate, overtly opinionated, politician-wannabe classmates at Columbia—sons of lawyers and daughters of judges. But just like any woman determined to be taken seriously, I had an Achilles heel. Being caught getting freaky with the boss and salivating all over him was going to make my career freefall like a shooting star.
“Let me help you with that.” Grayson waved his hand. “Mr. Laurent said they’re slicing the budget of Couture by at least ten percent, which may not seem like much, but our blog is virtually running on fumes as it is. I thought this was the extent of it. I was wrong.”
“I’m not sure I’m following.” I frowned.
Grayson leaned forward, catching my gaze. “I’m going to ask again—how do you know the Laurents?”
“Why?” I felt my heart thudding against my chest. Now we were talking in plural?
“I just got this email.” He turned his monitor around so the three of us could huddle in front of it and take a look.
From: Mathias Laurent, President, LBC
To: Grayson Covey, Editor, Couture Online Magazine
Dear Mr. Covey,
As per our earlier discussion and in line with the recent cuts made at Couture, we shall be needing further assistance in the news department.
We will be transferring one of your employees to the newsroom starting tomorrow at nine a.m. Seeing as you and Miss Jones have worked together closely for the past two years, the person reporting to the newsroom will be Miss Humphry.
Regards,
M. Laurent.
President, LBC
“What’s going on?” I swiveled Grayson’s chair, grabbing his shoulders.
I was mildly elated and a whole lot frightened. Working in a newsroom had been my dream for as long as I could remember, but working under Célian was sure to be a nightmare. My feelings were at war, fighting and tugging between joy and abject horror.
“I have no idea. Mr. Laurent Senior has never addressed me in person. I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.” Grayson rubbed his forehead, looking disoriented.
“You think it’s got something to do with Célian?” Ava asked.
Célian was about as readable as a blank sheet. He was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. He’d seemed pissed at me, sure, and he’d been clear he didn’t want to see me again.
“Doubt it. As I said before, we don’t know each other,” I parroted myself.
Grayson darted up to rub my back. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Célian made a name for himself as the cruelest man in the business, which is why we’ve actually been leaving CNN and Fox News to eat dust the last couple years. But at the end of the day, there will be people around. He can’t maim you.”
A ping sounded from Grayson’s computer, and our eyes shot back to the screen.
From: Célian Laurent, News Director, LBC
To: Grayson Covey, Editor, Couture Online Magazine
Gary,
You were expected to send us the Swedish royal wedding piece two hours ago. Unless you’re fond of long unemployment lines and downgrading to a Bronx apartment with unreliable electricity, I would advise against testing my limit when it comes to punctuality.
They’re called deadlines for a reason. If you fail to deliver the piece on time…
Célian.
Grayson double-clicked the little X on the right-hand corner of his monitor, closing the email program.
“About the maiming thing…” He cleared his throat, looking skyward and shaking his head. “Wear a helmet tomorrow morning, just in case.”
