Cold Hearted Casanova by L.J. Shen / Courtesy
“Does Mary Poppins have a name?”
“Daphne Markham.” Gretchen twisted her mouth in repulsion, as though the very thought of me depressed her. “She’s my assistant.”
Now I was standing there in my flowery Ellie Nap jigsaw dress—I couldn’t leave my flat in the same jammies I’d collected biscuit crumbs on—being roasted by these two cheaters. The amount of rock bottoms I’d hit today had me sinking to a whole different galaxy.
“Assuming your temper out of bed is as ferocious as it is inside it, I’m guessing there’s not a whole lot of motivation on her part to keep her mouth shut,” Demigod said to Gretchen.
“Please. As though if she liked me, it’d have made a difference.” My boss began buttoning her torn blouse. “Money is money, and she’s very fond of it.”
What gave it away? My weakness for designer clothes or the fact I dated BJ Abbott, the heir to a real estate mogul?
Formerly dated, I reminded myself.
“Then how ’bout we grease her palm a little?” Demigod suggested. “Make it worth her while to keep her pretty little mouth shut.”
My eyes ping-ponged between them. For once, I held back my snarky remarks. I wanted to see where this was going.
Gretchen huffed. “Take it seriously, Riggs!”
Riggs. What a peculiar name for a peculiar person.
And a single one too.
“I am serious.” Riggs flashed a perfect set of teeth. “As you said, money is money, and you’ve got a fuck ton of it, babe.”
Riggs had a tattoo of a mountain on his inner bicep, and beneath it, a list of famous mountains: Mount Everest, K2, Kangchenjunga, Lhotse, and so on. The entire list had been crossed off, other than Denali.
He was a mountain climber. How odd that the only major mountain he hadn’t climbed was in Alaska.
How odd that you’d be thinking about his mountain-climbing career while contemplating blackmailing him. Which, by the way, was the direction I was currently leaning toward.
“Fine!” Gretchen swiveled, training her venom-filled gaze on my face. “What’s your price?”
“Take me with you to DC,” I blurted out.
It was the only way I could stay here and wait for BJ, which, for a reason beyond my grasp, was something I was still entertaining, even after he’d screwed me over tonight.
She stared at me for a long moment before tossing her arms in the air and bursting into a tearless sob.
“They won’t let me bring my own staff. Let alone consider a foreigner for a White House job.”
“I need someone to sponsor my visa.” I laced my arms over my chest.
“I can do that!” Gretchen’s eyes lit up. “I can get you interviews with all the networks in Manhattan.”
I shook my head. “I’m not talking interviews. I’m talking about a visa. One I could use to gain employment anywhere. No strings attached.” I was done being metaphorically squeezed by the bollocks by a network that knew I depended on it to stay in the country. Plus, I wanted to make my own hours and negotiate a better salary. And though my inclination was to remain in the news industry—it was fast paced, glamorous, and full of opportunities—I couldn’t help but internally admit to myself that I found the news . . . well, quite boring.
I turned to look Riggs in the eye. “Mary Poppins here isn’t thick.”
“But I am.” Riggs winked mischievously. He was in the process of rolling himself another joint, licking the edge of the paper with expertise. “And no offense, but smart people don’t usually work for tyrants.”
“At least I’m not sleeping with one,” I said pointedly.
He offered me the spliff. I shook my head. He shrugged. “Assholes make great lovers and shitty employers. Source: science.”
“I don’t think you know what science means.” I glared at him.
“Of course I do. It’s that thing with the test tubes and smoke bubbling out of them. Oh, don’t forget the funny goggles.”
He treated the entire thing like it was a joke.
“So you’re okay with this behavior?” I motioned to Gretchen, who was busy crying into her palms theatrically, producing zero tears and loads of drama. “She’s my fuck buddy, not my mother.”
“Back to the topic!” Gretchen interjected, not seeming to be bothered by how she’d been openly labeled as an abuser by both of us. “How am I supposed to secure you a visa? The last thing I need is to meddle with the immigration office while I work for POTUS.”
“There are other ways to secure a visa.” I examined my fingernails, which were squarely trimmed and cream colored. I idly wondered if I’d lost my mind, with what I was about to propose. It was possible. Probable, even. But desperate times called for desperate measures.
“There are?” Gretchen eyed me warily.
“I could marry him.” I pointed at Riggs.
The man was so surprised he actually whipped his head around to see if there was another person behind him. He turned back to me, stubbing his bare chest. “You weren’t talking about me, were you?”
“Indeed I was. You’re American, aren’t you?”
He lit up his spliff, taking a long drag. “I’d like to think of myself as a citizen of the world.”
“Do you travel said world with a blue passport issued in the United States of America?” I arched an eyebrow.
His flat-lined expression said it all. “If you want to get all technical.”
“Good enough for me. So. When’s a good time for us to get married?” I asked, businesslike. I produced my phone from my purse and checked my calendar. “I have a mani-pedi tomorrow after work, and a facial on Saturday, but otherwise I’m free.”
Though I could probably cancel the facial if he needed me to be flexible. Teamwork was one of my fortes.
“Sorry, it might be the accent.” He fished his black tee from between the pillows of the couch, then slid it on. “But it sounded like you just dropped the m-bomb.”
“Marriage is not profanity.”
“No. It’s not.” Riggs slam-dunked his empty bottle into a bin across the room as he sucked on his rollie. “Marriage is worse than profanity. Profanity is fun, creative, humorous; take cum dumpster, for example. Great word, right?”
“You mean two words.” I wrinkled my nose. “Let’s hope you don’t pass your dazzling math skills to our children.” Now I was just being cheeky. Since sperm was mentioned, and all.
Riggs shuddered. “The c-word. You really are a sadistic creature, Poppins.”
Gretchen looked between us, growing desperate. “Riggs, please.”
He sneered. “You’re nuts if you think I’d ever entertain this, sweet cheeks.” “It’s just a piece of paper. She could destroy my career!” Gretchen threw herself at him suddenly, like a damsel in distress. I stood there, having the distinct feeling tonight was stretching over approximately five months. Was Mercury in retrograde?
But Riggs gave no indication he was about to cave in, instead shaking her off his arm. “Find another career then. I’m sure there’s a small repressed country in need of a new authoritarian. I’m not marrying anyone, for any reason, at any time.”
“You owe me!” Her palms collided with his chest, and she seemed more mental than ever. “Please. This can’t be the end of my career. You know there’s no going back from a sex scandal for a woman in politics.”
She slid down his body, begging him on her knees now.
He stared her down, his jaw square, his eyes dead. What was it that revolted him more, I wondered—the fact that she’d begged him to sacrifice his freedom for her, or the prospect of marrying me?
I knew I wasn’t the sort of woman men like Riggs went for. While I was perfectly decent looking, I wasn’t as in-your-face sexy as Gretchen, who, at forty, looked like a Hollywood bombshell, with curves for miles, luscious blonde hair, and a pout that had seen more syringes than a drug addict. I’d taken the Kate Middleton route. With fresh brunette locks, conservative dresses, and a willowy frame without much to grab. Le sigh. If only anxiety and insecurities were grab-able.
Riggs clasped her chin, tilting her face up.
“This is not the kind of begging I’m into, and my mind won’t change.” His voice was soft but final. “Now get up and dust off.”
“Bloody hell!” It was my turn to lose my temper. “I was just joking about the children part. I’d rather remove my own teeth with a pair of tweezers than have you contaminating my DNA pool. Give it up, mate.”
“Sorry, Poppins, I don’t do monogamy.” He finished the last of his spliff.
“I don’t do delusional,” I responded with an eye roll. “It’s going to be completely fake. On paper only.”
“It is not going to happen.”
“I’ll pay you,” I blurted out in a fit of desperation.
His jaw dropped mockingly. “You mean I’ll have access to the unfathomable wealth and splendor accumulated by a lowly cable news assistant?”
“National,” I corrected. “And judging by your clothes, you could use all the help you can get.”
His shirt was faded, his belt halfway torn off. My comment left a sour taste in my mouth—commenting on people’s clothes was bad form, but the adrenaline coursing through me made me say and do unlikely things.
Riggs’s eyes widened, and I had a feeling that his funds, or lack thereof, were a very serious business for him. “You’re the shallowest, bitchiest, meanest woman I’ve ever met—and I’ve met plenty.”
My belly slithered with venomous snakes. I was usually thick skinned, but Riggs’s impression of me hit home, because . . . well, because I rather agreed with him.
“Just go, Riggs.” Gretchen’s voice cracked. Her head lolled between her shoulders, like she was boneless. “You’re not going to help me, and you’re not making things better.”
“Don’t have to ask me twice.” He shoved his feet into dirty army boots and slung an old backpack over his shoulder. “Good luck.”
He stormed away, leaving both of us to stand there, like we were in a duel.
Maybe it was a duel. Maybe it had always been a duel between Gretchen Beatty and me.
Only now, one thing was for certain.
She knew my gun was cocked, loaded, and ready to fire.
Copyright L.J. Shen. Reprinted with Permission
For more information about L.J. Shen and her books, visit her website:
https://www.authorljshen.com
