My eyes were stinging, and I was forced to angrily blink back my tears. It was funny, I had been dry-eyed the entire time I was throwing out five years of memories with Mick, and the moment I got a call from the man I only spent one night with, I was falling to pieces.
The realization made me angry. I'd just gotten my independence, and here I was handing over my heart to another callous asshole and letting him determine my happiness. No more. I'd been in a relationship since I was 16 and let a man tell me what to do, where to go, and how to live my life.
Now that I was finally free of that, there was no way I was going to let Ethan Colson think that he could just snap his fingers and I would come running to any company function that he wanted just so he could show me off when it suited him, and he could toss me aside like a wet rag when it didn't.
I dialed the number for his private cell, but instantly turned it off before it started to ring. I didn't just want to tell him off privately so he could put any spin on it that he wanted to. I wanted to march into his office and make it clear to everyone at Speed Motorcycles that this was one model who wasn't going to be taken advantage of. If he wanted me to show up at another press event like this launch party, I was willing to talk business, but if he thought he could just use and abuse me, he was in for a nasty surprise. Just the kind that Mick got this morning when I kicked him in the balls.
Fired up and ready to go, I grabbed my purse and my keys and headed for the door. Only my reflection in the mirror on the living room wall made me pause. Covered in dust and sweat, with my bun half-undone and pit stains on my tank top, this was not the scene I wanted to make. A look at my watch told me I had time for a shower and change of clothes. Glancing at my closet, I knew just what I'd wear. This was going to be a meeting to remember.
Chapter Fourteen
Ethan
I checked my cell phone and set it back down on the conference room table. Still no call back from Kayla. It had been hours since I left that message on her cell about the launch party. Why hadn't she returned my call?
"I see you've got important business to get back to. Just a few more questions, please," the reporter said, mistaking my actions to mean I wanted to get out of the interview and back to work.
He was only half right. I did want to stop answering his lame questions, but Chet Charleston hosted one of the top-rated shows on television and this would make great free advertising for the new bike.
He had come to my executive headquarters and we were filming in my brightest conference room with the All-American propped on a kick-stand in the corner. Chet decided to seat me by the window where it was sunniest, insisting that it made me look friendlier and less intimidating. He looked like a clown with his blond hair dyed nearly white and his skin tanned to an unnatural shade of orange. His bright blue suit was hard to look at, but easier on the eyes than his red, striped tie. I was glad I'd settled for a simple, gray Giorgio Armani with a black tie. The colors were dark, but so was my mood, so I thought it was fitting.
"Sorry," I said. "I'm just expecting an important call and I don't want to miss it. Please go on."
I tried to smooth the tension between us over with a grin. I didn't have Keith's natural charisma with the press, but it seemed to do the trick.
Chet returned to his list of pre-written questions provided by the head-writer for
his show. He leaned right into the camera that was positioned behind my left shoulder and said, "The first bike you created, The Rebel, became an overnight success. Why did you call it that?"
"Well, I was a young man then. Fresh out of college and working my first real job for a huge corporation. Although I was stuck in a boring, bean-counter job keeping track of warehouses, I had a lot of creative vision inside me. I had always loved to ride, and I invented a motorcycle bikers would love. I just hadn't realized all the red-tape and corporate politics I would have to wade through to get it made and out in stores where customers could buy it.
“So, I quit that corporation and built it on my own. I felt like I was rebelling against the establishment when I did it and providing a means of freedom for others like me who loved to ride, but couldn't find the bike that fit their needs. The Rebel was popular because it was that bike."
"That's a great story, but there's a dark side to it, too. The hearings were closed on the lawsuit waged against you by a corporate owner claiming you invented The Rebel while under his employ, making it his intellectual property. He claimed the bike was never yours to sell and that all the profits you made from it belong to him."
"I've heard all the rumors floating around on the subject and none of them are true. I have all the company memos documenting that rejection of The Rebel's design as a viable motorcycle up for production and sale by the owner of that company. The judge agreed that he had legally given up his right to claim my design as his property with that memo and I was free to take the bike with me to develop, produce, and sell it as my own after that — which was what I did. If anybody doesn’t like it, they can see me personally and I'll be happy to explain it again."
My eyes burned like coal as I glared angrily into the camera behind Chet, making the timid television host squirm in his seat.
"Spoken like a true rebel. It explains the name of the bike, but how did you come up with the name for your company, Speed Motorcycles? It seems rather generic for a rebel of your creative spirit. Why focus on the high miles-per-hour your bikes can achieve, instead of coming up with a name that speaks more to your creative spirit?"
"Well, I'm afraid I'm out of time. I really do have a lot of business I need to get back to today," I said suddenly, hoping Chet couldn't see the racing of my pulse through the veins in my neck.
"Certainly, Mr. Colson. Just tell me really quick, it will be a perfect way to wrap up the interview. How did you come up with the name Speed Motorcycles? Is there some significance to the name? Does it mean something special to you?"
"I really am out of time. Thanks for coming in. My assistant Angela will show you to the elevator." I stood up, making it clear the interview was over. I was no good at lying, and there was no way I could tell the truth on television. My image as a CEO and owner of the country's biggest motorcycle company would be heavily tarnished, and some of my more fragile business sights wouldn't survive the scandal. I'd lose a lot of investors, especially in the Midwest, where a lot of my factories and distribution centers were held. It had the potential to ruin me, and I just wasn't ready for the media frenzy. It was better to keep it brushed under the run, like it had been all these years.
"Did you call me, Mr. Colson?" Angela stuck her head in through the doorway. She was looking as stunning as ever in a bright green dress that brought out the color of her eyes. It hugged her curves like she'd been dipped in a liquid vat of shiny silk, leaving nothing to the imagination. I knew she'd put it on for me, even though I'd lost interest in her lately. The only woman on my mind anymore was the one who still hadn't called me back.
"Yes, Angela. Mr. Charleston and his crew are ready to leave. The interview is over. Can you show them to the elevator?"
"I can do anything you want me to." She draped her arms around me and kissed me sensuously, making Chet's eyes pop out of his spray-tanned skull.
"Not now," I whispered harshly in her ear and removed her arms from around my neck quite pointedly. "Any messages for me while I was interviewing?"
"No calls I couldn't handle, but Miss Kayla Brandt is waiting in your office."
"Kayla is here?" I couldn't believe Angela was being so nonchalant about keeping this from me. I wanted to slap her, but I had to keep my voice cool and even — especially in front of a reporter and his camera crew.