CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Shane
“No, no, no…” I mutter as I stumble into the bathroom and turn on the shower. I still have half a day to pull myself together. “By noon you’ll be so tired from not sleeping you won’t care about the size of Jake’s hockey stick. All you’ll want is a twelve-hour make-out session with your pillow.”
I pull my nightshirt over my head and step into the warm spray with a sigh, wishing there was a four-footed friend around somewhere. Talking to myself is so much weirder without furry folks around to listen.
I miss my puppy-niece Fang, my friend Cat’s Chihuahua, who I haven’t seen since I delivered her puppies. I miss my cats—Happy, Sleepy, Scary, Snorty, Captain Pickles, Pirate, Persephone, Death Claw, and Mr. Twitchy—and wonder if they miss me.
Probably not. They’re cats.
They move quickly through the Feline Stages of Grief: brief sadness, followed by slightly more lingering resentment, and then a swift return to their natural state of giving absolutely no fucks.
Besides, they have my friend Beatrice’s barn outside Atlanta all to themselves, gourmet cat food I ship down from my favorite NYC pet supply store, and Beatrice’s ancient sheepdog to torment in their spare time. They’re probably happier than addicts in an opium den.
I’m the one who’s lonely. So lonely I’m falling hopelessly in lust with the first semi-attractive man with a brain who has wandered into my path.
He is so much more than semi-attractive, psycho.
He’s every sexy fantasy hero you’ve ever crushed on rolled into one delicious smelling package. And he’s witty, to boot. Did you see how quickly he picked up on the Puff thing last night? It was almost enough to make you come, and you know it.
You’re helpless against a beautiful man with a big, sharp, penetrating mind.
“Stop,” I groan as I scrub my scalp a little too vigorously. Must stop thinking about Jake’s incredible body and big, penetrating brain.
We’re in damage control mode and need both of our brains to get “the Dragon” back to being hockey’s fiery, but beloved, center forward. This is about so much more than getting one mentally ill woman to leave him alone. The pictures on the gossip sites last night fueled speculation about what went down with Jake’s last girlfriend. The images of Keri with bruises on her neck rose to rejoin the scum floating atop the Internet, and Jake’s fans are making their opinions of the Dragon’s behavior known in the forums and chat rooms.
Jake’s image is in trouble, and his career could be next. We need to get the ugly stuff shut down before this fire grows too big to put out.
The simplest way to do that, of course, would be to go to the police, but then we would get into a case of he said/she said that might not play well for Jake in court and certainly wouldn’t do him any favors in the court of public opinion. And, of course, there’s the fact that Jake avoids the cops like ass sores and won’t step foot near a police station.
My gut tells me the best thing I can do for my client is to change the conversation, and what better way to do that than with a glossy four-page profile in GQ? I have the connection in editorial, and Denise has already promised to push her piece on the state representative who sent dick pics of his serpentine cock to half of New York to make room for a Jake article.
Seriously, the head of the sleazy politician’s penis looked like a snake. If he were my boyfriend, I would have had to draw eyes on it in magic marker. When I discussed that with Addie, she thought the eyes would make the snake penis creepier looking, but I insisted that drawing on penises almost always has the opposite effect. She then wanted to know how many times I’ve drawn on a man’s junk, but as I’ve stated before, I don’t kiss—or draw—and tell.
But the GQ article is only on the table for a few days. Opportunity is knocking; Jake and I just have to take advantage of it.
That is, of course, assuming I can get Bash on board.
Considering I woke up to the following email, things are not looking good:
To: ShaneWillYouBe
From: MagnificentBastard1
Re: Profile in GQ
Absolutely not.
Also no. And hell no.
MBC Consulting is all about keeping a LOW profile, Willoughby. We try to avoid having our intervention experts tagged on social media, let alone being profiled in one of the biggest magazines in the country. That profile would take your “relationship” with Jake, thrust it into the spotlight, hand every reader a magnifying glass, and invite them to poke holes in your love story while setting Jake’s chances of ditching his stalker on fire.
You’re very new, and this situation is very delicate.
Our best bet is to stay as far under the radar as we can. I know Jake is a celebrity, but discretion is still possible.
Luckily, the photographers last night were more interested in your backside than your front. There aren’t any clear shots of your face. If we’re lucky, no one will be able to pin down your identity, and you can be more careful from here on out.
Don’t go anywhere without a scarf wrapped around your face, okay? It’s cold enough for scarves, and the world doesn’t need to see your pretty mug to know that Jake’s crazy about you. His inability to keep his hands off your ass should take care of that.
Great job on looking completely in lust! You two are pulling it off big time! Now we just need to convince Keri that you’re both in it for the long haul and hopefully she will soak back into whatever fungus-infected, crazy sponge she came from.
Jake texted that you weren’t down with the fake pregnancy, by the way, so we can take that off the list. I don’t think we’ll need it. I have other ideas and have scored a list of Keri’s social functions for the next few weeks so you and Jake can happen to show up and look adorable together.
Swing by the office tomorrow morning and we can chat next-steps over coffee and giant donuts. I picked up a variety box from Dough on 19th Street last night. It’s not ice cream, but these donuts are coming in a very close second as my favorite food on earth. I ran three extra miles tonight to prepare my digestive system, so come hungry and ready to ride the sugar high.
Oh, and I’m still looking into Jake’s past. So far no juvie record, but I’ll poke into a few more dark corners to make sure.
And Penny says not to worry about the post on Hollywood Clam. She says panty line policing is so 1994…whatever that means. But listen to her because she’s smart, and that site was cooler back when it was Hollywood Taco.
Not that I ever looked at it…
Good hustle, Mess, sorry the profile thing isn’t going to work out, but you’ve got this! I can feel it!
Bash
***
As I finish getting dressed, I dwell on the email instead of the man who haunted my XXX-rated dreams, and by the time I’m ready to leave I’m well on my way to being pissed off.
I don’t enjoy being told what to do, especially by Bash.
Bash is kind, clever, and an all-around good guy, but he’s also cocky as hell. He thinks he has everything under control, right up until the moment he realizes he’s screwed himself and everyone else. True, he rarely screws up, and when he does he’s man enough to take responsibility for his lapse in judgment, but it doesn’t matter. He still reminds me entirely too much of another charming, arrogant, insufferable yet irresistible man who assumed he knew what was best for me.
I used to call Wesley “farm boy,” after the hero in The Princess Bride. He called me Buttercup and would whisper “as you wish” whenever I asked for anything—from the remote control, to yet another cat, to province over his heart for the next fifty to sixty years.
But it was never really as I wished.
It was always as Wesley wished, right up until the moment he was gone.
I will never let another man—friend or lover—decide what’s best for me ever again. I know for a fact that ignorance isn’t bliss, and that even people with the best intentions can’t always be trusted.
The GQ profile could be a huge asset to Jake’s case, and I intend to convince Bash to see things my way. Or at the very least engage him in such vigorous debate that he’ll think twice the next time he’s in the mood to ask me to be his Miraculous Mess.
I’m so busy composing arguments in my head and buttoning up the four thousand buttons on my new pea coat—it got chillier overnight and the nose-tingling scent of impending winter is in the air—that I don’t notice the woman lurking at the base of my building’s steps until I almost run her over.
“Oh my God, excuse me,” I say, dancing back just in time to avoid stepping on her clearly expensive heels.
I’m not a clothes whore like so many of my trust fund friends, but I recognize a pair of Christian Louboutins when I see them.
“I can’t excuse you.” The woman’s raspy voice reminds me of my high school choir teacher, the one who blew out her vocal chords from overuse. “Even though you seem nice enough.”
My gaze travels to her face, and the area at the base of my skull tingles as my lizard brain insists that something is wrong here.
Very, very wrong…
Even before I connect the delicate features, olive skin, and melted-chocolate brown eyes to the pictures I’ve seen, bad vibes are zapping across the surface of my skin, alerting me to the fact that this person is dangerous.
It looks like someone figured out who I was from those blurry shots after all. And her name is Keri Warner.