ARROGANT PLAYBOY Read online

  “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.

  Chapter Two

  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.

  Chapter Three

  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.”