The Perfect Con (A Bad Boy Romance Novel) (Bad Boy Confessions Book 1) (19 page)

The same guy I thought I loved. The one who dumped me, unable to commit to the ‘us’ of a relationship because
“I’m sorry, April, I’m just not ready to settle down. I really don’t see that in my future right now.”

Whoa, right there. I hadn’t been talking about settling down. We were comfortable together, but I hadn’t been pushing for anything more permanent than what we had. I tried to reason, made an attempt to stop this whirl of emotions that were suddenly pouring out of him. He was prepared for this conversation and I’d been pole-axed. I scrambled to gather my thoughts, asked for reasons, before I saw it in his face. This wasn’t something he wanted to fix. That’s not why we were having this talk. In his mind, our relationship was already done.

“I feel trapped. We’re young. I need to…”

The only bit of dignity I pulled from that horror scene was managing to walk out of the apartment and slam the door before the man I thought was one half of my future could finish that sentence. I had a good idea about what was coming, but I didn’t have to stick around and hear it. Jeff would tell me that he needed to play the field. Sow his oats. Add some names to his fucked-it list.

To be honest, I’d been suspicious for a while. I had these nagging thoughts when he worked late, or stayed longer than he used to on his Wednesday meet-ups with
the guys.

Well, fuck that.

Now, it seemed, Jeff had grown himself some balls. Except, I wasn’t sure where they hung because for some reason he thought it would make my day if he called me to share his fantastic news about his wedding. That’s what he said: “April, I have fantastic news.”

I would have blocked the call but I’d deleted Jeff’s details from my phone pretty soon after I walked out on him back in January, before the breakup speech became too humiliating.

That breakup speech didn’t come close to the thick frosting of humiliation that arrives with the “Guess what, we’re engaged!” speech.

For some reason Jeff thought we were still in the friendzone, and by some mysterious insight which was totally off the mark, he
knew
I’d want to hear the news of his engagement, right from the horse’s mouth.

More like the ass’s mouth.

The other thing he
knew,
was that I’d be happy for him. The man was deluded. Why he imagined I would want to know anything about his upcoming nuptials was beyond me.

The end of my nose goes red when I blow it too hard. In sympathy, my eyes develop a matching geriatric scarlet rim when I cry. I’m allergic to sad stuff and it shows all over my face.

Soft facial tissues were not provided in the bathroom I got to use at Bridge Literacy, the non-profit where I worked. This wasn’t the executive suite. The scratchy paper hand towels I used to try and clean myself up were like 40-grit sandpaper. So when Monique, the executive director’s PA, burst through the door, I was looking a total mess.

“What the hell, April, have you seen what time it is? Your meeting with Driscoll was scheduled to take place ten minutes ago. He’s fuming. Are you…oh, shit, April, what’s wrong. Has something happened? Your mom? Your cat?”

“I don’t have a cat,” I told her. “I have allergies.” Sort of true; I seemed to be allergic to phone calls from my ex. Or maybe it was an allergy to being reminded about something that hurt deep inside. I hadn’t picked at the band aid I plastered over my damaged feelings for Jeff, but hearing from him had ripped that thing right off. Sharp sting, flash burn, then the hurt fades, doesn’t it?

We lie to ourselves to ease the pain. Shrug, and say it’s not so bad, we weren’t really going anywhere, finishing the relationship probably saved me from years of mediocrity and eventual divorce. Even if that’s true, even if the relationship was doomed, it still hurt.

Monique took a step back, screwing up her face, as if my sorrow might be contagious. “Sounds nasty. Do you need a pill, or one of those pen things people inject themselves with when they get a bee sting?”

I flicked my hand, trying to shoo her out the door. There was nothing she could do for me, and I didn’t need an audience to witness my meltdown.

I needed cocktails chased by tequila shots. I needed a brainless hunk of eye candy to rub scented oil all over my lush body while I lay on a tropical beach. Someone totally dedicated to me. Someone who would only stop the massage to hand-feed me delicate slices of exotic fruits, and pay me compliments. I needed my rent money, and seven pairs of Louboutin heels, plus a week of lessons in how to walk in them.

I needed to save a puppy.

I needed anything, but to be reminded of how completely useless I was at relationships.

Monique took a deep breath. “Okay. Well, if you’re not dying, you’d better get into Driscoll’s office because he’s…you know, annoyed that you’re not there already.”

I nodded and waved my hand again. This time she left me alone in the bathroom. I splashed cold water over my face, trying to get the image of Jeff and his bride in some gorgeous romantic wedding setting, out of my head.

The reel wouldn’t stop playing, though. The outdoor location in the magnificent garden, rows of chairs dressed in white silk, adorned with flowers. The arbor covered in climbing roses, and Jeff in his tuxedo, standing, waiting, doing that nervous thing with his hands while mystery fiancé bitch walks to him along a path strewn with rose petals, wearing an amazing clinging white dress over the body of a goddess.

Wait.

She can’t wear white. That slut isn’t pure and virginal. I adjusted the scene and made the dress ill-fitting and a hideous drab mustard color, just as the bathroom door flew open again.

This time, Monique didn’t look quite so sympathetic.

“April, Driscoll’s office, now. Before we both lose our jobs.”

I hoped that was simply a poor choice of words, and that nobody’s job was on the line. I blew my nose one last time and followed Monique along the corridor to meet with the executive director.

Alan Driscoll was not as handsome as his office space, nor was his personality as welcoming. Not even close. I did my best to ignore his curt manner because I was rarely summoned by him, and I couldn’t help but hope, just a little, that I was in line for a promotion.

The head of the communications department where I worked as a publicist said how pleased the board was with the reach of our last fund-raising campaign. I’d managed to snag a prime time television spot for a heartwarming story about a family who’d been through our literacy program, highlighting the way their lives had changed as a result. The family were fantastic, made for television with the right amount of character and vulnerability, their struggle obvious, their triumph something to be admired. Our public awareness rating had shot up right at the time we were pushing our annual fundraiser.

That success had to be working in my favor. Promotion, or at least acknowledgment of my worth, was surely in the cards.

Seating myself on the opposite side of the large walnut desk from Driscoll, all thoughts of Jeff’s wedding vanished beneath my rising curiosity as to why I’d been summoned, along with the desperate hope that I hadn’t ruined any chances of promotion by being late for the meeting.

I started with an apology and a matching smile, neither of which were acknowledged by Driscoll.

Minutes later, I was back at my desk in a state of shock. Words like ‘changing tactics’ and ‘evolving in this modern world’ collided in my head. There had been emphasis on something about expert analysis by consultants. My position hadn’t so much been merged with others, as it had been entirely consumed by some monstrous creature otherwise known as restructuring.

I’d been restructured out of a job.

Fired.

I found myself with a white-knuckled grip on the edge of my desk, willing myself to breathe quietly lest someone in our open plan office ask me if everything was okay. If I had to speak or explain myself, I’d totally lose it.

Gradually my heart came back to a jogging pace and, still gripping the desk with my head low, I sneaked a glance around the room. Nobody made eye contact. They must have known. With that idea, betrayal swept through me for the second time that morning.

Anger surged with nausea so that I didn’t know what to tackle first. I pulled out my chair, sliding half onto the seat before my legs gave out. I dug around for some self-worth. I wanted to walk out of the office with a semblance of dignity, but there was nothing there. I felt defeated. My ears rang and I looked at the few personal items on my desk I was to pack up and take with me. Immediately.

My eyes drifted to my retro art sticky notes block, and I tore off the top sheet of paper because of the frighteningly prophetic message printed beside a vintage woman in one corner that read:
Today is in dire need of Ctrl Alt Del.
With the sticky note scrunched up in my fist I’d revealed the next message:
I dreamed my entire desk was clean.

A clean desk for me normally was a dream, but right now the idea was part of my nightmare.

Clean desk.

No job.

My best friend and roommate, Kylie, had bought me the novelty sticky notes block when I got this job, and whenever it ran out, she bought me a new one. That and a zombie desk accessory—a flattened creeper I got to impale through the chest with my pen whenever I’d finished signing important papers. There was also a photo frame that originally held my favorite picture of Jeff and me. That photo had been replaced with a picture of a demonic kitten. I dropped it into the trash bin, grabbed my spare lipstick and a packet of mints from the top desk drawer, and noticed there wasn’t much more of
me
here.

I came here to work, and didn’t believe in turning the small allocated space into an extension of the way I lived at home.

With my few things packed I stood and cleared my throat. One by one, the rest of the team looked up, focusing on places on the wall behind me. It seemed as if nobody wanted to engage in case redundancy was some contagious disease they might catch.

“Have a nice life, everyone,” I said in an eerily light voice. This was surreal.

Mutterings drifted across the room. Things like, sorry, see you later, good luck—all painfully awkward. It was plain to see that now I’d been given the flick. They couldn’t wait for me to go. The team felt uncomfortable in their retained jobs.

But I wouldn’t slink away. I went around and shook the hands of each of my colleagues, and the mood shifted a little to something genuine. Words lightened by sheepish smiles.

I couldn’t let this get me down. I hadn’t done anything wrong beyond taking on a position doomed to extinction.

The job of Publicist was on its collision course with the death star before I’d even started. That’s what my colleague Tom told me right after he said he’d miss me. Then he asked if he could call if he got stuck on any of my work that he’d inherited in the reshuffle.

I said of course, and hoped he’d never call. Ideally, I’d walk into a new job by next week. Reality, though, felt shaky.

Monique met me at the elevator.

“I’m really sorry, April. What a sucky thing to happen, especially with your allergies and stuff.”

Maybe I was best out of there after all. I thanked her and said I’d be okay, more for my benefit than hers. Her relief was clear on her face.

“Of course you will.” She patted my arm and turned away as the elevator pinged.

One interior wall of the elevator car was mirrored. As a design idea it was unnerving because when you crammed it full of people, the reflection made it feel overloaded and perilous.

At this time of the morning I had the elevator to myself. The sight in the mirror was frightful. I’d done a lousy job of trying to clean myself up from bawling over Jeff. Although I’d dabbed at my eyes in the bathroom, at some stage, probably on my way to Driscoll’s office, I’d rubbed them, turning myself into a raccoon with a red nose.

When I got to the street I started to walk. Not a dawdle—there was purpose in my stride. I might not have anywhere to go, or anything meaningful to do, but I’d damn well look as though I did.

I came to the coffee shop where I usually bought my mid-morning latte, but marched right on by. I’d need a new coffee shop now. Well, soon. Once I got a new job. Half an hour ago my budget had moved from controlled to strict, turning into the sort of budget that didn’t involve fancy coffees with foreign names and lots of ingredients.

I carried on walking until I came to the small park where I liked to come to eat lunch on a warm day. I noticed my favorite bench was free, just as my anxiety reached peak levels. I hurried over and sat, trying to breathe, trying to beat down the flood of panic. I was okay. I had to believe that. I had enough money to make rent due in ten days. So long as I didn’t eat.

Kylie ran a catering business. Perhaps she could bring home a trash bag from one of her functions and I could pick through it for viable food.

I would still need money. Maybe I could sell something. I made an inventory of the stuff I owned as I watched a mother push her infant on a swing. The mother looked at me a couple of times, and I don’t know what it was about my demeanor, but after a couple of minutes, she gathered up her child, strapped her into the stroller and walked quickly out of the park through the gate opposite to the one where I sat.

I was sure I hadn’t looked like a kidnapper in the elevator mirror. That transition must have taken place on the street. I rummaged in my bag for the peppermints, shoving three into my mouth to see if I could actually feel something.

The intense menthol burned and cooled as the mints dissolved. My panic had gone, leaving me feeling washed out, hungover. I checked the time on my phone, relieved to see I could safely go home without disturbing Kylie. She’d worked a function last night and hadn’t gotten in until sometime after three, and I wanted to be sure she’d had plenty of sleep before I soured her day with my drama.

Maybe I could keep it to myself. Be one of those people who pretended to go to work each day, but instead sat on a park bench drinking vodka from a bottle in a paper bag.

I snorted. Self-pity made you a whiner, not a winner.