HATING THE PLAYER (Hating Him #3)

Best Served Cold

Best Served Cold

In revenge and in love woman is more barbaric than man is.

Friedrich Nietzche

ANA

MIAMI BEACH, FLORIDA

EIGHTEEN MONTHS LATER

I used to hate Miami. Hated it.

The houses were too big and the people too skinny. Nothing was real. Not the boobs or even the beards—as I had recently found out, and in a land where a million dollars meant nothing, I remember feeling cheap the second I got off the flight.

I missed my Memphis summers, my Tampa Bay blue skies. I missed the summer humid heat and the sound of “ma’am” in the mornings, that southern drawl from handsome coffeehouse patrons that made your panties twist on the spot.

But even more than that… I missed not feeling like fresh meat for the pseudo-celebrities looking for their next big break, vultures from the halfway-Hollywood scene who treated the women they encountered as delights to be devoured.

But the one aspect of Miami I hated most? The man eyeing me in the opposite seat, his gaze traveling the length of my body, stopping somewhere around the middle of my blouse-covered black bra.

Up here, buddy. Yessss. Yes, that’s right. Last time I checked my eyes didn’t have n*****s, so you can quit staring at my chest.

I smile, my face nearly cracking, at Mr. No-Eye-Contact in front of me. He doesn’t smile back.

One of the most successful editors in the business Jordan Chalmers, to my great luck, was also one of the worst womanizers. A man with the emotional intelligence of mush, he was renowned to all who knew him as arrogant, haughty and condescending. His only saving grace? His ability to whip a publication into a bestseller without blinking twice.

Fun fact? I need the man sitting in front of me, ogling my breasts in one of the best restaurants in Little Cuba if I want to actually be able to walk into my own apartment this month. Rent’s due and my commission is slim, made so by the fact that I haven’t had a client worth closing in half a year.

But my boss Lukas managed to get me a meeting with the biggest prick in publishing, so here I sit, swallowing what’s left of my pride… and a gallon of wine. Never mind that it took me two days of prayer and a Vicodin to work up the nerve to walk in here, knowing what I was facing after Lukas’s warning.

But it’s my only chance. To make a name for myself in this new city. To move on from a job I never thought I’d see myself saying goodbye to…

I call over the waiter for another glass of wine. It’s my fourth. Fortunately, I don’t give a f**k. I sip it while Jordan starts on a long-winded spiel, using my cell to type a quick e-mail to my newest friend Katia, a bartender at my new night job… with the biggest mouth in Miami.

I tap on my phone screen with tentative fingers.

To: katiadiaz@imail.com

Going to f*****g kill this guy. If alcohol poisoning doesn’t kill me first. Inhaling wine so fast I don’t think I swallowed.

Not a minute later, Katia types back.

To: anastasia@trippingout.com

Sounds like my Friday night.

Don’t sweat it. This guy isn’t worth it. You don’t want to work at the Alibi Bar with me forever, do you?

Now… Deep breaths. Smile. Nod. Keep the knives out of reach.

A little Latina advice to keep you from doing five to nine: Got a girlfriend upstate doing that for stabbing her boyfriend with a heel. I forgot to mention the other pointy objects when I gave her the same tip.

I place my phone on the table, exhaling. Hard.

Luckily, my heels aren’t that pointy.

Legs crossed, head high, I listen intently to the man in front of me chew loudly at the table, his heavy hands thumping across the cloth-covered top as he talks. I pray that he chokes. He sprays food as he speaks and I pretend not to notice.

He shovels another heap of food down his throat, and my stomach lurches.

“The publishing industry’s in trouble, Missy,” he says for the fourth time. Chew chew chew. “If you want better, you need to find better. Not running after these ‘kids’ and their stupid selfie books.”

I blink, my eyes fluttering fast. “With all due respect…” I keep my voice steady. “That ‘selfie book’ sold two million copies, Mr. Chalmers.”

“Two million-shoe million,” he barks. “Writing is a lost art.” No argument there. “And what ever happened to the Emily Brontes or Jane Austens? Polite, respectable authors and women?”

I try to keep my eyebrows from rising. I clear my throat.

“It’s a new age, Mr. Chalmers. Our readership is a new age, and if we want to reach them, to make an impact at all, we need to speak their language.” I pause. “However we might feel about that. I think it’s perfectly fine as long as we communicate the right messages. Ones of artistic integrity, ingenuity... innovation.”

“Lots of big words for such a pretty mouth.”

I try to shut my pretty mouth. Doesn’t work. “Chelsea Darling’s brand is huge amongst Tripping Out! readers, but you know as much as I do now… Her writing could benefit from a makeover.”

“You mean, a miracle.”

I grit my teeth. “So, what can you do for her?”

Jordan wipes at his mouth. As if it will remove the mountains of food caked around his face. I purse my lips and wait. He swallows his food roughly. “I’ll give her the basics. Clean up her mess. Make it look good for you… literary agents.” He motions towards me with a sneer. “We all know what I’m capable of, Miss Lexington.” He smiles. “The question is: What are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I think I’m being pretty clear. You want me to make your author a beacon, a star. That, I can do. But you, Miss Lexington. This conversation seems to be mostly about you—correction: you asking me what I can do for you. What about what you can do for me?”

I set my wine glass on the tabletop and sit forward. I lean towards him. “In a word… Everything. I will give you access to our best clients. You’ll set your prices—within reason, of course, and you’ll pick your projects. Total creative freedom.” I smirk slyly. “Everything.”

He leans forward much like I did. But instead of stopping, the grey-haired gremlin inches even closer than that, his crooked smile bordering on slick as he licks his bottom lip, sliding his hand on the top of my knee. I flinch, my stomach no longer twisting but churning.

“And by everything, Miss Lexington…” He can’t stop saying my name. “You do mean… ‘everything,’ right?”

I grip my seat.

My career flashes before my eyes. A sinking feeling drops slowly within my gut and I know, without a doubt, that my next move will make or break my career as a publishing agent for the next few years... or forever.

I try to deflect. “Yes,” I slide my chair away from his touch. “Everything that a respectable,” I stress the word, “editor could want from a publishing team.”

“And what about my team, Miss Lexington?” He stretches towards me once more. “I’ve got a team, too. Me and my friend.” He looks down at his decrepit crotch. “My friend really likes you, and who knows? If you treat him well, maybe I could learn to really like you, too.” His eyes grow hungry. “What do you think?”

My breath catches in my throat, my heart racing. I’m frozen in my seat as Jordan Chalmers fondles my knee with his fingertips and the edge of my high heels dig a hole into the carpet beneath. I suddenly don’t know how to move or make a sound.

In a room full of people, I feel like every part of my body is screaming out… but nobody even looks up. I am alone.

Mr. Chalmer’s hands edge even higher, and fear slams into my stomach. My teeth tighten.

“What do you say, Miss Lexington? Care to meet my friend?” His fingers slide higher. Toward the hem of my skirt. “Do you?” He stares. “Will you?”

He reaches the line of my skirt, and suddenly, without warning, something within me snaps. I lean forward. My nails digging into the burgundy aged wood of my chair, I find myself sinking forward into Jordan Chalmer’s touch… just enough to reach out and grab him by the nuts. I give them a small twist, tugging hard. It is all the old man can do not to yelp. His penetrating, perverted eyes go wide.

A smile spreads its way across my face. My voice sinks low.

“Mr. Chalmers,” I practically whisper. “You have a choice. You can work with us… or choose to join someone else. Our company is relatively newer—younger. If our tastes aren’t up to your palate, then I can only advise you to do what you would do in prison… when I send you there for s****l battery.” I harden my stare. “Don’t swallow.” I stand to my feet. “Is that polite and respectable enough for you?”

I release my grip. Strolling out of the restaurant in my creamy white skirt suit, I don’t break stride. I’m mostly happy I didn’t break Jordan Chalmer’s face with my heel. But I’m not stupid enough not to realize that I did indeed ruin something in that restaurant.

My big break.

One of my last few chances to make a splash on the Miami Beach scene.

This was only the second. The first one was under the guidance of a man I won’t even let myself think about. And just as I had with my first chance, I had epically f*****g blown it…