Filthy Gorgeous (13 page)

Bullshit. I’m no saint, but believe it or not, I do have a certain code of ethics. Rules. As far as I’m concerned, a man who cheats on his woman will cheat in business.

Fact.

I shrug. “I have to tell her, guys. For the sake of the business, of course.”

Parker spits his food into a napkin and jabs my arm with a chopstick. “You are not telling her! Jeez, are you crazy? Stop thinking with your dick!”

Karl laughs. “Ella Bryant must be a spectacular lay. We’ll have the project wrapped up in two weeks—three at the max—then go knock yourself out. Although I’m sure Strickland will do that for you. Besides, aren’t you forgetting something?”

I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “What?”

“She cheated, too, remember? With
you
. Or has your oxytocin-addled brain forgotten that already?”

I shake my head. I don’t believe that for a second. I know a lady player when I see one and it sure as hell isn’t Ella Bryant. I’ll get to the truth, one way or another.

Parker continues. “You’ve only known this chick a few days. Quit buggin’ out.”

Karl’s face turns from silly to serious. “Agreed. Say nothing. Do nothing. Keep your mouth closed and your zipper shut. The bonus I’ll get from the completion of this campaign is funding my trip to California.”

See how men and women differ?

For guys, this is a simple morality-versus-cash situation. If this were the Sister Code, you’d be sitting around in a circle, cackling like the witches from Macbeth, and discussing the best ways to exact revenge on his cheating ass.

Car tires?
Slashed.
Expensive suit?
Ripped to shreds
. Penis?
Doesn’t bare thinking about.

Joking aside, it pains me to say that the guys have raised some valid points. I want to ‘fess up and let the wheels fall off Tyler Strickland’s locomotion of sin. Ella deserves to know the truth, but the guys are right. I can’t tell her. Not yet. Tyler would rearrange my face. I’d never walk, let alone fuck, again. We can kiss goodbye to the House of Aubrey account, and Cousin Timmy will wind up with my pot of gold.

And that’s not going to happen. Not on my watch.

I’m hornier than a ferret on meth, but I’ll play the long game. I’ll wait for two or three weeks. Then I’ll tell her the truth. I’ll make my move like a Grandmaster, and I’ll pound Ella Bryant’s ass so hard that she won’t be able to walk for a month.

Easy.

What could possibly go wrong?

Chapter Nine

Variety is the spice of life. That’s why I have a harem. Forget winning an Olympic gold medal or hooking up with a lingerie model; having a bevy of attractive women, willing and available at the drop of a hat is the ultimate male fantasy.

It’s fun, but there are drawbacks. It’s a delicate scenario, and like spinning plates, the whole show can come crashing down at any moment. Each arrangement inevitably plays out in one of two scenarios. Either the lady winds up riding her way to pastures new; or she demands more commitment.

I’m a sexy guy—it’s normally the latter.

Don’t believe me?

Let me prove it to you.

Vermont. Viagra. Love potions. Shania Twain. What do they all have in common? Thanks to those sneaky algorithms that advertising companies employ to scan your private messages, these seemingly unrelated subjects tell me all I need to know about the contents of what I’m about the read.

From: Nicola Kaufman

To: Alexander Slade

Date: June 26 2013 20:58

Subject: Me & You in Vermont?

Hey handsome,

I managed to get the cottage for the weekend. Don’t forget those handcuffs …

Call me

N x

I’m not going to reply to Nicole, but don’t get all angry on my ass. Nicole just got herself hitched after a whirlwind romance with some boxer. Like I said, I do have morals.

I click the next mail.

From: Renée Morin

To: Alexander Slade

Date: June 26 2013 22:03

Subject: Friday

Alex,

You didn’t get back to me about those figures …

Are you still free to revise them on Friday evening? Shall we get take-out?

Renée

I sigh. Just so you know, ‘revising the figures’ is our secret code for fucking each other’s brains out. There’s no way around it—I have to cut her loose. I’ll deal with her later. I never end a relationship by e-mail.

I scroll to the next message and what I see next makes me spit coffee all over my screen. Paging Dr. Phil—we have a winner in the contest for the mother of all bat shit crazy electronic mails.

This one’s golden, worthy of a place on the team notice board.

Look who it’s from.

It’s Lisette, my level-seven clinger. I’m flirting with the idea of self-castration to make sure I never receive another one like it.

Ever.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then take a look at this:

From: Lisette Strevens To: Alexander Slade

Date: June 27 2013 00:34

Subject: <3

My darling Alex,

I miss you so much but I know we’ll be together and that you just need some time. I’m happy to give you that time, Alexander. I love you and that’s what people in love do. I know you love me too, Pumpkin.

I lit a candle for you. It sits on my bedside table and the flame is burning brightly. I like to think that it represents our love for each other, Alexander. I went to see an astrologer yesterday. Madam Xena drew up our birth chart. She said that the opposition of your Mars and my Pluto could be challenging, but not to worry! It’s just passion! We’ll fix you, Alex. Now I’m going to listen to our song.

Yours lovingly and forever, my sweet.

Lisette

XxXx

P.s. Turn over for a poem

Yep—she’s not only a fire hazard, she’s frigging insane. I’m going to spare you the poem; it’s already making me blush. For the record, there’s nothing romantic about her choice of song. Shania Twain was blasting from my car the night she gave me a blowie in Battery Park.

If proof was ever needed of my ability to attract the crazies, it’s right there in black and white.

And my father wonders why I never want to get hitched.

Speak of devil, and he doth appear via video call. Seems he’s been using his vacation time to sharpen his pitch fork and is keen for round two.

I answer and my father gets straight down to business.

“Therapy,” he announces.

I blink. “Excuse me? Therapy?”

He casually sips a Mai Tai and nods in the affirmative. “Therapy. There’s a sex addiction treatment center in Midtown. Your mother and I think you should attend.”

Sex therapy?

That escalated quickly.

“Dad, I’m not damaged,” I plead. “I’m just a regular red-blooded male.”

Whose balls are bluer than Heisenberg’s crystal. Whose virginity is on the verge of growing back.

Don’t roll your eyes. I’m not weird, trust me.

Men crave sex.

It’s in our D.N.A.

Remember how I told you that men have an uncanny ability to compartmentalize their life? It’s true; with the exception of sex. Or, should I say, the lack of sex. Like an obese chick at fat camp craving cupcakes; it’s all we guys think about.

Anyway, back to the Lord of Darkness on line one. “Leonard Montgomery called me up yesterday. He wanted to know if all was well with you.”

I wrinkle my brow. “Who the hell is Leonard Montgomery?”

“You’ve met him, son. He’s a member of my business club. He came to our summer ball last year. He manages the Hotel Vermont.”

I rub my chin. Hotel Vermont … lobby … plant … Nina … oh …
that
Leonard Montgomery.

“Son, he asked if you’d be so kind as to replace the fern plant you debased.”

Christ, my father has spies everywhere. I grab the Aubrey contract and wave it in front of the camera as a hopeful distraction.

“Dad, umm … you know, we’ve had traction since you’ve been away. Huge developments. I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

Knock-knock.

My head snaps up to find Ella scrutinizing me from the doorway.
Great timing.
I flick the call off and give her my full attention. She looks fucking beautiful, doesn’t she? I take in her mussed blonde hair, and those long tanned legs. Now I’m drooling like a Mastiff at an osteology convention.

There’s hesitation in her voice when asks, “Do you have a minute?”

I shuffle some files around my desk. It’s all for show. But I’m not going to show her. I’m too interested. It’s a male pride thing.

“Well, I am kinda busy right now, but for you? Sure.” 

She takes the seat opposite and crosses one of those endless legs over the other. “Busy organizing your little black book?” 

Ouch.
Seems we’re back to square one. Yep, she thinks I’m a man whore.

“Are you here to antagonize me, Ella?”

She shakes her head and smiles. “Tyler thinks he left his wallet at your apartment. He asked me to drop by and collect it.”

I form a steeple with my hands. “Ah, yes. Tyler. That was quite a shock you gave me this morning.”

Her eyes fall to her lap. “I had no clue you were working with Tyler until he gave me your address.” Then she looks up. “Look, about last week. Tyler and I were on a break, and I was angry.”

Ella doesn’t owe me an explanation. I believe her, but I push my hands through my hair and try to look as wounded as possible.

There’s still a good chance I can get a pity-fuck out of this.

“And so you took advantage of me, Ella. Is that it?” I ask calmly and adjust my tie.

Her mouth rounds in surprise. “No, no. It’s not like that.” She bites her bottom lip. “Tyler and I have had a few issues.”

Yeah, I’d say they have issues alright. Tyler Strickland has dipped his dick in half of Manhattan. Did you see him rubber up on his home video before he roasted his cheerleading squad?

Me either.

Look at her eyes. They’re soulful and brimming with desire. Ella Bryant is hot for yours truly and she’s fighting it like a bad case of jock itch.

Her sorrowful eyes look up at me from underneath those thick lashes. “Alex, I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about …”

I lick my lips and interject. “My tongue tornado?”

She looks panicked. “Yes, that.”

Well, that’s another first. Women love bragging about great oral sex. At least, when they get it from me. I lean across the desk until our faces are a hair’s width apart. “Sure, but I have a question for you.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Will you think about my tongue tornado while he’s fucking you?”

Can you guess what she does next?

Yep—she slaps me.

I press two fingers against my left cheek. It’s hotter than the sixth circle of hell.

***

Half an hour later and we’re almost at my apartment. Ella is punishing me with the silent treatment. Her arms are crossed over her chest and she’s staring out of her window. She’s obviously still cooling off—any sane woman would be looking in my direction.

“Ella, I’m sorry. Really.”

Silence.

At an intersection, I eyeball legs her in the wing mirror.

“Quit staring at me like that or I’ll get your other cheek, too.”

I smirk. “That’s okay. I love spanking.”

She turns to me and there’s a sudden seriousness in the tone of her voice that takes me by surprise. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure—I’m all for road head. I’ll play the officer, but I’m warning you; if you don’t lick it, I’ll give you a ticket.”

Too much?

Possibly.

She doesn’t look impressed. “The girl in your apartment this morning, she was with you, right?”

Christ.
I can’t lie … can I?

The guys would kill me.

I can be the hero. I can tell Ella the truth and be the first at the scene when shit hits the fan. She’ll be angry, so obviously I’ll be horny. Best wait until we’re safely inside my apartment. My mind races with all the ways I’d soothe her troubled soul. We’ll start with a slow, hard fuck on my couch as she succumbs to her inevitable ruin.

So, what do I say?

“She was with me.”

Idiot, Slade.

I’m going straight to hell, aren’t I?

Her face softens. But now she’s relaxed. Dare I say—
happy?