Addicted for Now (47 page)

I came to her side and tossed the sodden towels in the nearby
trash. And then I began to shrug off my red blazer.

“What are you doing?”

“This is what help looks like.”

She shook her head. “I don’t want to be indebted to you.”
She pointed her finger at me and stepped back. “I know how you work. I
get
it. You do things for students and
they have to pay you back in some sick way.” Opportunity cost. Benefits. Deals.
They were the foundation of my life.

“I’m not prostituting people.” I hold out the blazer to her.
“There’s not a string attached to this. I’m not expecting anything in return.
Take it.”

She just kept shaking her head at me.

My hand fell. “What?”

“Why do you act like that around her?”

I feigned confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Like that!” She growled in annoyance, which almost made me
smile. “Caroline irritates you too, and yet, you stand there and talk with her
like she’s a long lost friend.”

“I don’t,” I denied.

She set her hands on her hips and mimicked me. “
You ride well, Caroline. I saw you at the
equestrian event last week. How’s your mother?
What the hell is that?”

“I was being kind. If you’re not familiar with the
sentiment, I’d be glad to show you.”

She growled again.

I smiled.

“You’re different around certain people,” she told me. “I’ve
known you long enough from academic conferences to see it. You act one way with
them and another with me. How do I know who the real Connor Cobalt is?”

You never will.
“I’m
as real with you as I can be.”

“That’s complete
bullshit
,”
she cursed.

“I can’t be you,” I told her. “You leave a trail of bodies
with your glares. People are afraid to approach you, Rose. That’s a problem.”

“At least I know who I am.”

We had somehow drawn towards each other. I towered over her,
taller than most men and built like an athlete. I never hunched. Never shied. I
wore my height with pride.

She raised her chin to combat me. I pushed her to be the
best that she could be.

“I know exactly who I am,” I said with every ounce of
confidence I possessed. “What unsettles you, Rose, is that you have no idea
what kind of guy that is.”

Her eyes pierced me. “Sure I do. You’re fake.”

“I’m real when I need to be,” I reminded her. “If people stare
at me and see my problems, then I’m useless to them. So I give them exactly
what they want. I am whomever or whatever they need.” I held out my blazer.
“And you need a fucking jacket.”

She reluctantly took the blazer but hesitated again. “I
can’t be you,” she said. “I can’t internalize all of my feelings. I don’t
understand how you can do that.”

“Practice,” I said.

She slipped her arms through the blazer, the fabric dwarfing
her slender body, but it covered the stain. And that was what mattered. She opened
her purse and pulled out a sewing kit. “Help me with the sleeves.” She held out
one arm.

I rolled the fabric up to her wrist while she pinned the
body to fit her frame. She started her own fashion line at fifteen, so I wasn’t
surprised she carried around a needle and thread. She never talked much about
Calloway Couture with anyone. But I figured the company meant the world to her
since she worked to keep it afloat for years.

“I need your other arm,” I told her.

She gave it to me, but she finally stiffened at my
closeness. Our eyes met for an extended moment. There was so much between us
that I wasn’t ready to uncover right then. I wasn’t prepared for the deep
conversations that she would force me to have.

Rose Calloway couldn’t stand me because of what I was—a guy
who wanted to reach the top. The irony was that she wanted the same thing. She
just wasn’t willing to do what I was to get there.

She took a deep breath. “Why do I always feel like I’m
fighting a brick wall when I talk to you?” And then she stepped back and
finished sewing.

I didn’t have anything real to say. I couldn’t form the
words. I spent years building barriers and defenses. I could take care of a
woman better than any other guy could. But my mother never taught me how to
love. She taught me about stocks and history and different languages. She made
me intelligent.

She made me logical and factual.

I knew sex. I knew affection. But love? That was an
illogical concept, something as fictional as the Bible, Katarina Cobalt would
say. When I was a child, I thought love belonged in fantasy with witches and
monsters. It couldn’t exist in real life, and if it did, it was just like
religion—only there to make people feel good.
 

Love.

That was fake to me.

And I nearly rolled my eyes.
There you go, Connor. That’s something fucking real. That’s something
from the heart.

“Rose,” I began. And she turned to look at me. And her gaze
was like the depths of hell. Ice cold. Bitter. Tumultuous and pained. I wanted
to bear it all. But I couldn’t show her all the cards I held to do so. I
couldn’t let her in. I’d lose the game first. And it had only just begun.
“You’re going to do great.”

And that was it.

She was gone.

Through a friend of a friend, I learned that Rose Calloway
was accepted to the Honor’s Program. I learned that she denied the request to
attend Penn. For whatever reason, she chose Princeton, our rival college.

Six months later, I started to date Caroline Haverford. Not
long after that, she became my girlfriend.

It was a life that I saw coming.

It was one that I was prepared for.

There was nothing spontaneous or alluring about it.

At nineteen, everything was just practical.

5 Years Later

[ 1 ]

ROSE CALLOWAY

You know the stories where the strong, brawny man
struts into a room with his head high, his chest puffed, and his stocky
shoulders pulled back—he’s the king of the jungle, the big man on campus, the
one who quivers girls’ knees. He carries an air of unwarranted superiority for
the pure fact that he has a dick, and he knows it. He expects the girl to go
tongue-tied and agree to his every demand.

Well, I am living that story right now.

The man settles into a seat at the head of the conference
table (instead of the chair nearest me) and just stares in my direction.

Maybe he thinks I’m going to be that stupefied girl. That I
will cower beneath his deep grey eyes and his combed dishwater blond hair. He’s
twenty-eight, stained with Hollywood elitism and self-righteousness. When I
first talked to him, he name dropped actors and producers and directors,
waiting for me to go slack-jawed and dopey. “I know so-and-so. I did a project
with what’s-his-face.”

My boyfriend had to grab the phone out of my hand before I
cursed at the Hollywood exec for irritating the shit out of me. There are certain
people that just crawl underneath my skin, and I have a nasty habit of speaking
my mind, even if my thoughts aren’t the kindest ones.

He finally speaks. “Do you have the contracts?” His chair
screeches as he leans back.

I pull out the stack of papers from my handbag.

“Bring them here.” He motions to me with two fingers.

“You could have sat beside me,” I retort, standing on two
chunky heels with brass buttons, military-inspired and part of the new Calloway
Couture collection.

“But I didn’t,” he says easily. “Come here.”

My heels clink across the hardwood, and I make the perilous
catwalk up to Scott Van Wright.

He props one ankle on his thigh, his finger to his cheek as
he unabashedly peruses my body. From my slender legs, to the hem of my black pleated
dress with sheer quarter-sleeves, and to the high collar that frames my stiff
neck. He traces my dark-glossed lips, my rose-blushed cheeks, and bypasses
right over my pissed-off eyes, spending an extra moment fixated on my chest.

I stop by his legs and throw the contracts on the table in
front of him. They slide off the polished surface and land on his lap. One
stapled stack even slips to the floor. I smile wide since he has to bend down
awkwardly to reach them.

“Pick that up,” he tells me.

My smile fades. “It’s underneath the desk.”

He cocks his head, giving me
another
long once-over. “And
you
dropped it.”

He cannot be serious. I cross my arms, not responding to his
request. He just sits there, waiting for me to comply.

This is a test.

I’m used to them. Sometimes I even dole them out myself, but
this one is going to lead me nowhere good.

If I bend down, he’ll establish this strange power over me.
He’ll be able to command me in the same way that Connor Cobalt can force people
to do his bidding with simple words.

It’s a manipulator’s gift.

I’m not even close to possessing it. I think I wear my
emotions too much to have that type of influence over other people.

“Grab it,” he says, his gaze halting on my breasts again.

I remind myself why I need Scott and why I want the swarm of
cameras to document my every move. I inhale. Okay.
You have to do it, Rose. Whatever it takes.
I cringe and drop to my
knees. In a dress. This is a job for a personal assistant, not a client.
 

I hear him click his pen as I scoop up the papers. I’m not
wearing a low-cut top where I’ll flash him. I don’t have huge breasts to really
ogle either. The most he can do is slap my ass and try to peek up my dress, the
hem perilously rising on my thighs.

When I stand back up and smack the papers to the table, his
lips curve upward.

Scott Van Wright (asshole) 1 – Rose Calloway (pathetic) 0.

I sit in the nearest chair while Scott stuffs the contracts
in his briefcase.

My boyfriend urged me to bring his lawyer to the meeting,
but I didn’t want Scott to think that I couldn’t handle the situation myself. I
won’t have a lawyer while the cameras follow me, and I’d rather take command
now.

Not that I’m doing a terrific job.

If I ordered Scott to do anything, he’d laugh at me. But I
attended a few law courses before I graduated from Princeton. I know my rights.

“Just so we have this clear, you work for me,” I remind him.
“I hired you to produce the show.”

“That’s cute. But after you signed that contract, you’ve
officially become
my
employee. You’re
the equivalent of an actress, Rose.”

No
. “I can fire
you. You can’t fire me. That doesn’t make me your employee, Scott. That makes
me your boss.”

I expect him to withdraw from this losing battle, but he
shakes his head like I’m wrong. I know I’m right… Right? “My production company
has sole ownership over
anything
the
Calloway sisters film on network television. If you fire me, you need just
cause and you can’t jump to another producer. I’m your only shot at having a
reality show, Rose.”

I remember that clause, but I never thought it would be an
issue. I figured I’d be around Scott maybe twice during the whole filming
process. But these were his first words when he walked into the conference
room: “We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.” Lovely.

My eyes grow hot. I have to concede on this one. He won.
Somehow. I hate it.

“So, now that we have that clear,” he says, sitting up and
edging closer to me. His knees almost knock into mine. I go utterly rigid.
“There are a few details we need to go over in case you misread them in the
contract.”

“I don’t misread things.”

“Well
evidently
you
weren’t using a portion of your brain or else you would have realized that you
work for me now. And we wouldn’t have wasted…” He checks his watch. “…five
minutes of my time.” He flashes me a sardonic smile like I’m a little girl.

“I’m not an idiot,” I retort. “I graduated at the top of my
class with honors—”

“I don’t care about your fucking degree,” he says sharply.
“You’re in the real world now, Rose Calloway. No university is going to teach
you how to navigate this industry.”

Doubt surfaces. I don’t know much about reality television,
but I’ve been immersed in the media long enough to know it can help someone as
much as it can destroy them.

And I need that help.

I understand exactly why the network would take an interest
in the daughters of Fizzle. My father’s brand has beat Pepsi for the past two
years in sales, and he’s working to make Fizzle the soda of choice among
southern states. We should be as anonymous as the face behind Coca-Cola, but
ever since my family was thrust into the public eye, we’ve been under intense
scrutiny, and it’s all because of my younger sister’s scandal.

My brand should have exploded from all the media and press,
but the name Calloway Couture has been linked with Lily’s dirty secrets. And
what once was a thriving fashion line in H&M has been destitute in boxes
and boxes, piled in my New York office.

I need
good
exposure,
the kind that will have women desiring a one-of-a-kind coat, a unique pair of a
boots, an affordable but chic handbag. And Scott Van Wright is offering me a
primetime reality show that will tempt viewers to purchase my pieces.

So that’s why I’m agreeing to this.

I want to save my dream.

Scott says, “There will be cameras in your living room and
kitchen at all times, even after the three-person crew leaves. You’ll only have
privacy in your bedrooms and bathrooms.”

“I remember this.”

“Good.” Scott clicks his pen. “Then maybe you’ll remember
that each week, I expect to have interviews with the cast, which includes you,
your three sisters—”

“Not three,” I say. “Only Lily and Daisy agreed to the
show.” My eldest sister, Poppy, wouldn’t sign the contract because she didn’t
want her daughter to be filmed. My little niece has already endured enough
paparazzi since Lily’s scandal.

“Fine, she would have been a boring addition anyway.”

I glower.

“I’m just being honest.”

“I’m used to blunt honesty,” I tell him. “I just find yours
crass.”

He eyes me in a new way, as though my words carried a plume
of toxic pheromones. I don’t understand. I am so mean. I am
glaring
like I want to rip off his
penis, and yet, he’s
attracted
. There
is something seriously wrong with him.

And maybe my boyfriend.

And really, any guy who’d like to be with me. I’m not even
sure
I
want to be with me.

“As I was saying…” His knee brushes mine.

I roll backwards, and he only grins more. This is not a cat
and mouse game like he believes. I am not a mouse. And he’s not a cat. Or vice
versa. I am the fucking shark, and he’s a lame human in my ocean.

And my boyfriend, he’s the same species as me.

“Continue,” I snap.

“I’ll be interviewing you, your two sisters, Lily’s
boyfriend and his brother.”
6 people + 6
months + 3 cameramen + 1 reality show = infinite drama
. I’ve done the math.

Scott will be conducting the interviews though… I internally
gag. “You’re forgetting my boyfriend,” I say. “He’s a part of the show too.”

“Oh right.”

“Don’t act like you forgot, Scott. You just said you were
practicing honesty, and now, well, you’re a bit of a liar.”

He ignores my slight with an amused smile. “Every episode
will be aired one week after we’ve filmed. Like I mentioned over the phone,
we’re trying to make this show as real-time as possible. It’s been six months
since it was publicized that your sister is a sex addict. We need to capitalize
off that buzz as quickly as we can.”

“You and every other paparazzo,” I say. There’s always at
least two chubby males stationed outside my gated house with cameras in hand.
Lily jokes that they’re probably hanging around waiting for her to give them
blow jobs. I would be more amused if I didn’t see the mail that perverts send
her, most accompanied with pictures of their hairy genitals—it’s a sick fan
club. I sift through her letters before I hand them to her now.

“And lastly,” Scott says, “you have no control over how
you’re edited. That’s my call.”

I have about as much power over the reality show as I do
paparazzi’s snap-quick photos.

I can try to act like a non-bitchy, non-argumentative angel
on film, and Lily can try to be a virginal saint. But at the end of the day,
the cameras will catch
us
. Flaws and
all. And there’s no forcing something different. That was the stipulation that
all my friends and sisters agreed to.

To do the show, we’re
not pretending to be someone else.
 

And I would never ask that of them.

We’re rolling the dice on this one. People may hate us. They
already call Lily a whore on gossip blogs. But in the small chance that people
grow to love us—my company may be saved. I just need good publicity so that a
retailer has a reason to stock my clothing line again.

And maybe Fizzle won’t be so bruised by Lily’s impropriety
too. Maybe my father’s soda company will rise in stocks rather than fall.

That’s the hope.

“Are you okay with this?” Scott questions.

“I don’t know why you ask. I signed the contract. I have to
be okay with it or else you’ll take me to court.”

He lets out a short laugh and scans my body for the third
time. “I can’t imagine your boyfriend knows what to do with you.”

“Because you’ve never met him.”

“I’ve spoken to him. He sounds malleable.” He taps his pen.
“If I told him to drop on his knees and suck my cock, I think he would.”

My nostrils flare. I am fuming. “You think that.” I stand.
“And when he stabs you in the fucking front, I’ll be the one smiling by his
side.”

Scott
grins
at
this. “Challenge accepted.”

Stupid intellectual pricks.

Funny thing is, I’m dating one.

So while I’m stuck in this moronic cock fight, I know I’m
partially to blame.

I knew I should have lowered my standards—dated a guy who
rides around on his skateboard with his shirt inside-out. I grimace. Just
kidding. I’ll take my suit-and-tie boyfriend. I’ll take the high IQ and the
rapid-fire banter. I just hope Scott’s eagerness to unsettle him won’t disrupt
the reality show.

But if I know anything, it’s this:

My boyfriend loves winning.

And he hates to lose even more.
   

***

I juggle a box of old invoices and a bag of salads
and chicken primavera that’s hooked on my arm, searching for my keys in my
clutch. My phone occupies one palm, and I struggle to maintain perfect balance
on my wrap-around porch, teetering in a pair of four-inch booties.

I live in a college town: Princeton, New Jersey. And my
gated colonial house has acres of sprawling green lands, black shutters, and
winter flowers. But right now, I can’t take pleasure in the serene atmosphere.

A lens gleams to my left, filming. The camera guy is roughly
around my age, wiry and lanky, his arms and legs lean and long. In two days,
Ben has talked as much as his other two cohorts, which is not much at all. They
just shoot.

His sole presence distracts my juggling act.

And red sauce leaks from the white plastic bag, missing my
pea coat and dribbling on my romper. I flail in distress, trying to maintain a
morsel of grace, but my box of invoices starts to tilt off me.
 

And then, all of a sudden, the cardboard is plucked right
from my arms, and I am left in an awkward, hunched over position, avoiding the
trickling plastic bag like it’s the source of the bubonic plague.