Filthy Gorgeous (17 page)

He turns around and tilts his visor. “See you at the eighteenth, Slade.” I watch as he struts back over to the cart with his bimbocandy.

Not if I see you first, shitdick.

***

“Quit being a pussy and use the goddamn wedge!”

I’m in the bunker at the twelfth. Did I mention I hate sand? Whoever invented bunkers should be hacked to death with a nine-iron.

Focus, Slade, focus.

I swing, chipping the ball back onto the fairway. It’s a beautiful sight … until the wind carries it through the air and into a canopy of trees.

Parker covers his face between his hands. “What the hell happened to your game? Your swing is like watching an octopus putting up a deckchair.”

“What’s my score?”

“How the hell should I know? I stopped counting after the pigeon fiasco at the fifth.”

That was not my fault, by the way. It was the wind. I hope we buried that goddamn bird deep enough—one more club fine for misadventure and I’m staring a ban in the face. I hack the wedge against the ground before hurling it back into the bunker. “Stupid motherfucking piece of shit!”

Parker walks away. “Come on, let’s go find the ball. You can’t afford another penalty.”

I follow him and urge him to search the nearby scrub while I plough on ahead toward a wooded copse.

“Mmmm.”

What the …?

It sounds like an animal in distress. I tread carefully, keeping my eyes to the floor—I don’t want to step on any traps. The moaning becomes louder and louder. My head snaps up, and I’m speechless.

It’s Brittany and Lucy. They’re buck naked, and they’re pleasuring each other.

WITH. THEIR. TONGUES.

I sink to a crouch behind the nearest bush. It’s a great show, at least until Jockass joins them for the encore. With his dick in his hands, and his pants around his ankles, he lies down next to a broken stump and is immediately straddled by the two sylvan beauties.

Busted.

I ball my fists by my sides. I’m angry. Raging like Mike Tyson in a ten-mile tailback. Who the hell does he think he is? Some kind of PGA Champion? This douchebag has a kilo of hot juicy Kobe beef at home and he’s indulging in a greasy alfresco double assburger.

I’m a positive guy, so let’s look on the bright side—this is the smoking gun I’ve been waiting for. It’s always great to have evidence to back you up, don’t you think? I grab my cell from my pocket and hit the record button.

Click.

I smirk all the way back to the cart. Parker beat me to it. “I found your ball.”

“I found Jockass performing tongue gymnastics on his caddies. I win.”

We climb in the cart. Five minutes later, Dipshit emerges from the trees. He’s still tucking his shirt in his pants.
Classy
.

Told you he was a one-stroke wonder, didn’t I?

I stretch my neck. You know what, I feel the need to release some tension.

How?

By breaking every single bone in his goddamn body. I grind my foot against the accelerator. The cart jolts forward and we hit a maximum speed on nine miles per hour. I know it’s not exactly Indy 500 level, but it’s fast enough to teach that douchebag a lesson.

I mutter under my breath like a maniac, ‘I typed scumbag into my GPS and it lead me straight to you.
Vroom, vroom, motherfucker.’

I see my target.

I lock on.

Jockstap is going down.

We turn around and Parker grabs the roof of the cart. “Whoa, slow down!”

I lower my shades over my eyes. “Cool your jets, Parker. I’m not going to kill him.”

It’s true. I’m not going to kill him. I’m just going to end his career. A broken ankle. A shattered kneecap. The kind of injury that can leave a guy permanently bedridden and ball-less.

You think that’s too much?

“What the hell are you doing?” Parker yells. And now we’re wrestling for the wheel, like two seals fighting over a grape. “Slade, watch out!”

We swerve straight past Jockass and ricochet down the embankment, toward the water hazard.

Holy shit.

I commando roll from the cart, but Parker is too slow. He’s going down faster than the USS Triton.

Serves him right for trying to derail my campaign of terror, don’t you think?

The smirking figure of Jockass appears at the top of the embankment. “Looks like I win by default, Slade. Catch you in the clubhouse.”

The score for today: Slade 1-1 Strickland.

I take another look at my cell phone and smile to myself.

He may have won the battle, but I’ll sure as hell win the war.

Chapter Twelve

All advertising agencies like to party and Slade Group is no exception. When we finish a shoot, we party. When we wrap up a project, we party. The whole company attends. Our clients attend. Friends of friends rock up. Grandparents have been known to put in an appearance, though this has been discouraged since Parker’s grandma ever came to our Christmas bash, when Joyce Harrison did a line of tequila shots and hit the limbo bar. The memory of her ripped pantyhose as she took on the pole will haunt my dreams forever.

As a special treat, I’ve arranged private hire of the boathouse in Central Park for this evening’s end-of-project party.  There’s great food, a DJ, a dance floor, and alcohol on tap.

Limbo poles are strictly off-limits.

I’m at the bar and ordering a round of drinks when Ella walks in. I stand here slack-jawed like the rubber-faced guy from
The Mask
. She’s jaw-dropping; eye-popping; tongue-rolling. The black dress is short. Just look
at those heels. They’re the kind of heels I like to wear on either shoulder.

Think about it.

I scan the room. There’s still no sign of Jockass.  My dick wastes no time in leading me across the room, and I greet her with a smile. “Well if it isn’t Ella Bryant, harbinger of erections.”

She tilts her head to one side. “Alex, I’d like you to meet my roommate, Carrie Larson.”

I turn to her companion. A petit brunette, she’s wearing tight leather pants. Her wicked smile suggests she’s inclined toward deviance.

She stands back and appraises me. “You’re God? Funny, I don’t see it myself.”

Ouch.

Stand back, we’ve got a firecracker here. Before I get a chance to fire back a witty retort, Parker barges into our circle like he owns it.

“Hi, I’m Parker.”

She shrugs. “Is that supposed to impress me?” Ella’s eyes meet mine as she breaks the awkward silence. “This is Carrie. She’s a comedian.”

Parker clocks her short stature. He can’t resist a wisecrack. “Stand-up?”

Carrie swaggers forward and jabs him in the chest. “You’re a funny guy, Parker. You know, I may be short, but even short girls can break the biggest of men with just three words.”

Parker looks confused. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He steps forward. “And what would those be?”

She smiles benevolently. “Is. It. In.”

Undeterred, Parker pats Carrie on the head. “Isn’t she cute? Just the right height for a blow job.”

Ella eyeballs me, like she’s urging me to intervene, but we’re saved from what will surely turn into World Ward Three when my father bursts through the door. And look what the cat dragged in.

“Sorry we’re late, son, but business is business.”

Tyler gives my father a conspiratorial wink. You’ll find out why very soon.

Swampass slides a protective arm around Ella’s waist and pulls her in closer. He’s wearing the biggest shit-eating grin I’ve even seen, like he’s just won the jackpot on
Who Wants to be a Millionaire?
Not like that would ever happen, it requires brain cells.

And friends.

This cocksucker has neither.

My father heads to the bar and I waste no time pulling the verbal punches.

To hell with the guy code. “Enlighten us, Tyler, what kind of business have you been doing? Caddy pimping?”

Parker pummels a fist against his chest to stop himself from choking on an ice cube. Jockass just rolls up his sleeves and gives me a Clint Eastwood stare.

Don’t think I didn’t notice his jaw clench. It was brief, but it was there. He smiles again, like he’s just decided he isn’t going to kill me, after all.

His reply is calm. “Whatever.”

My father returns with a tray full of shots. “Grab these, son. It’s time for my speech.” We watch him climb onto a makeshift stage and take a microphone. My father begins by thanking everybody for attending the party. He thanks our team for their hard work during the campaign, blah blah blah.

“I’d like you all to raise your glass for a toast. Coug—”

He coughs into a clenched fist. “Excuse me, I got a frog in my throat. Juliana and I met earlier this afternoon, and I’m very happy to announce that House of Aubrey and Slade Group have signed a new five-year contract.”

There’s a round of applause.

More money. More business. More clients.

All thanks to the charm of yours truly. But, I’ m not sure my dick could handle another five years of Cougar stalking my ass.

Note to self: hire a bodyguard.

The room buzzes with excitement as my father continues his speech. “But that’s not all. I met with our very own NFL star Tyler Strickland this afternoon. I’m pleased to announce that he’s going to be the face of our campaign for the foreseeable future.”

Say what?

I shake my head. This is not happening. There’s more cheering and whooping from our employees, including my own goddamn team. Where’s the loyalty these days? My father signals for everybody to keep quiet. “Tyler would like to say a few words.”

Jockass straightens his jacket and joins my father under the spotlight. Ella and I exchange a confused glance, and I shrug.

“Good evening, everybody. I hope you’re all enjoying the party.”

More clapping.

“This won’t take long. At least, I hope not, anyway,” he jokes. Dickwad pushes his hands through his air and searches for Ella.

“Baby, can you come up here, please?”

Though shocked, Ella obeys, and what happens next is nothing short of a disaster of Chernobyl proportions. Jockass is down on one knee, he’s holding an object so sparkly it’s blinding, and it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure out what he’s about to say.

“Ella, will you …?”

She puts her palm over her mouth.

I need a drink—stat.

Say no.

No, no, no, no, no.

I look to the ceiling and say a silent prayer. When I eventually find the courage to look down, I find Ella swarmed by well-wishers. The big guy isn’t on my side today because she just agreed to marry Jockstrap.

Double fuck Tyler Strickland back to the slutty womb from whence he spawned.

That’s it—I quit life.

If this is karmic payback for every girl I’ve ever wronged, then I’m in for one hell of a rollercoaster of a ride. I pinch the bridge of my nose between two fingers. Does she look happy to you? I don’t think so, either. I’m going with stunned, but happy?

It’s questionable.

Dad punches me on the arm. “How great is that! You see son, if a guy like Tyler can settle down, so can you.” He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes his brow. “Phew, I’m heading home. I’ve had too much excitement for one night.”

We say goodbye and I immediately decamp to the terrace bar. Fuck scotch—I order five Pink Sladies. And they’re all for me.

I’m stunned, like I’ve just been hit with a ten ton truck. Ella Bryant now has a fiancé. A fucking fiancé. The chances of me banging her sweet ass are now less than a hundred gazillion to one. At this rate, I’ll be able to clone her before I get the chance to fuck her.

Anyway, she’ll hate marriage.

Uncle Vito pulled me aside at his ruby wedding anniversary to tell me that marriage is like a deck of cards. At first you have two hearts and a diamond. A few years later all you want is a club and a spade. If that’s true then I could just dig a hole now, bury Jockass alive and save her the trouble. I’m sure she’ll thank me once my prison term is over.

I stand in silence, fantasizing about the dozens of different ways I could dispose of Tyler’s corpse when I feel a hand on shoulder.

It’s Ella.

I gaze into her beautiful eyes. I know I’m buzzed, but she deserves to know the truth, don’t you think? I’ve waited far too long.

“Ella, I gotta tell you something.”

“Alex, what’s wrong?

I lead her by the arm to the semi-privacy of the terrace outside. As if on cue, a string quartet strikes up in the corner. Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony is the perfect background music for the drama that’s surely about to unfold.

“Ella, you can’t marry Tyler.”