Charlotte
He’s such an ass! I throw my purse down on the couch and stare at it before raking my fingers through my hair. An attempt to be nice backfired right into my face. And all people talk about is how nice Jack is, how much he cares about the facilities and his tenants.
Well, fuck him.
Although, I do want to fuck him even though I hate him. He’s so cocky and full of himself, it drives me insane. He would have been so much easier to hate if he were ugly or looked like a snake. Mom always said the devil knows just how to tempt.
I shake my head, trying to get him out of it. There are more important things in the world than Jack liking me or tolerating me, or even being nice to me. Or fucking me over the counter I complain about and purring compliments in my ear in that husky voice of his.
Maybe I should have thrown my drink at him. Tell him it’s for all the stress he’s causing me. But I haven’t done anything like that, ever. And nobody has ever made me feel the need to either! Maybe I just need a swim, some sun, and relaxation. I can take photos and post them before I need to go to my meeting—the meeting I’ve been agonizing over by completely ignoring it.
It’s fine to ignore it for another hour or two. I have everything ready; I just need to remove some stress. I focus on the pool and feel my shoulders drop a little.
I change into a white swimsuit, double-check that nothing will show when I’m wet, and wrap up in a peach sarong. Cute and easy. Waterproof makeup and sunglasses finish the look. The pool is more crowded than when I stormed off, but I’m able to find a place to lounge alone.
I sit at one of the chairs and watch some kids play in the water. They’re doing some kind of tag that involves diving, swimming, and blatantly ignoring the “no running” sign. My lips turn up without my permission. Their innocent fun soothes my nerves.
I remember being that young and playing around with other kids without a care in the world. Not once did I think about bills. It was all about the games and what we could fill the day with—swimming, games that didn’t make any sense, and make-believe. Life was easier then. Not caring what people thought or how silly we looked.
Now it’s all anxiety and technology. Speaking of, I do need to work, as much as I wish I could take a few days off my platforms. My sponsors have their expectations, and I have my bills. I know it’s supposed to rain today, so I’ll have to hurry, get good photos, then get ready fast.
I shimmy my sarong to my hips and take a few pictures with the dark-blue umbrella behind me. The lighting is good, the sun is warm, and I finally feel comfortable. I post a few of them, encouraging self-care and self-love, then bask in a moment of luxurious sunshine.
This is exactly what I need before my big meeting.
I slide into the water and sink to the bottom, holding my breath until I can only hear my thoughts and the muffled sounds of the surface. Things make sense here. It would be nice to be able to stay down here. But work calls.
I force myself out of the pool, then pick up my things and go back upstairs to get dressed. I look like a professional in gray slacks and a black silk button-up with matching black heels. I meet with my agent outside the four-story office building, all of ten minutes away from my condo. She takes my hand, reminds me to calm myself, that I have this, and walks me inside.
I sit down with my agent and three older boardroom guys.
Two are in their midfifties while the other can’t be older than thirty. The younger one on the right looks me over with a gaze I recognize from others who follow my more erotic accounts, the ones that stay locked without payment. I arch an eyebrow just before his coworker nudges him.
The silent look they share instantly makes me nervous. I’m afraid to open my mouth but smile anyway and lay out the idea that I’d sent them. I cross my ankles to stop my shoe from bouncing and resist the urge to chew on the pen that’s in front of me.
I need to focus on the meeting. I need this partnership, and I think it would be great for a local brand to get more exposure. They only have two shops, but they’re always packed. It’s a win-win situation.
“We like what you’ve laid out.” The guy in the center says, looking at one of my more recent photos with its caption. He sighs slowly and glances up at my manager and me.
“But?” my manager jumps in.
She is a no-nonsense, direct woman, which is part of the reason I hired her. She wears a pantsuit, heels, and a pink silk blouse. Full business mode. But we’ve also gone out drinking together, and I know how wild Nancy can get.
“We just don’t think you’re the best fit for us, Charlotte,” the man in the middle says, dragging my brain back to the meeting at hand. It’s too easy to let my mind drift when I’m nervous.
“We encourage body positivity and genuine self-love.”
“That’s my goal in the online world. Being real and honest and encouraging others to do the same. That’s my image,” I insist, determined not to panic or show my discomfort.
“That’s your early work. Lately, it doesn’t seem to be the same,” another man says quietly.
Only the one in the middle meets my gaze. He exhales. “Lately, a lot of your pictures have been more provocative, and even if your comments are all positive and upbeat and full of self-love, your online image seems pretty… What’s the word we said?”
The one on the right answers, facing me. “Manicured. Edited. Whatever word you prefer. Everything is very carefully crafted and so it doesn’t feel real anymore.”
I can’t argue on that point. I clean and stage scenes, put everything into consideration when I take photos. I don’t doctor them at all, but at the same time, they don’t represent how I live or my life. Just the positive side.
Social media doesn’t get to see the low points anymore. They don’t get to see how much I miss my mom or the empty pizza box tower that I have on my desk next to where I edit my posts and go over various trends to try.
As far as any of my fans know, I only eat healthy food, only go to the swankiest of places, and am a positive ray of sunshine. Hell, I haven’t posted about my mom in over three years and getting through my grief was the whole reason I started a non-personal online presence.
“We loved your original image. You were fun, relatable, imperfect,” the one on the left says.
“We just feel that you’ve lost your path and followed others into the stereotypical social media role. It’s not a reflection on you as a person, but on the posts we’ve seen.” The man in the middle reaches over to pat my hand but stops at whatever my face says.
“I think we can end the meeting there.” My manager stands.
The man in the middle agrees. “It’s a no. I’m sorry, but we felt you deserved this conversation in person rather than over the phone.”
“I appreciate your tact and professionalism. Thank you for the opportunity.” I force a smile and head out with Nancy.
“Don’t take it to heart. There are other brands and sponsors. People love you online.” She keeps talking, but I don’t hear her.
I’m too busy digesting the comments from the men in the office. Have I lost touch with myself and become a numb plastic figure? Is that all I can be on social media? I wave goodbye to Nancy as she continues talking and planning.
Gripping my steering wheel tightly, I groan. I should be more used to rejection, but the sting lingers, even as I start my car.
As I drive away, I see that storm rolling in. Of course, because all it takes is a bad meeting to turn gorgeous sunshine into angry clouds. I sigh and park at the condos. Not looking forward to moving. Getting out of the car means getting almost immediately drenched. The rain is unforgiving.
A crack of lightning echoes and I hear a soft meow as I close the car door. Something pitiful and afraid. I blink a few times and stand still. I heard it again. It sounds as if it is in distress. I kick off my heels and crouch down to find the cat.
“Here, kitty, kitty,” I call. “Let’s get out of the rain.”
Another meow and I think I see some movement in the bushes. I crouch forward trying to see under the bushes more closely. The rain splatters my face, making it hard to see. I groan and reach my hand under as if I can just grab a cat.
Then I pull back and laugh. “Come on, kitty.”
I finally see two eyes blink at me, then another upset meow. Reaching in with two hands, I manage to pull the cat out of the bushes. I adjust it in my arms, trying to cover it with my purse.
“I know, it’s wet and scary outside, isn’t it?” I croon as we dip into an alcove.
The poor thing is dripping wet. It’s shivering too. But it doesn’t complain about being held, unlike every cat I’ve met before does.
“You’re so gorgeous,” I try to say with a straight face.
The cat’s expression says it doesn’t believe me. It’s a long-haired black cat with the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen. Honestly, right now the cat looks like a drowned rat. I laugh and scratch under its chin anyway. Maybe there’s a collar? Turns out all I get is loud purring. No ID or contact info.
It’s shaking gets worse. I pull an expensive cardigan out of my purse and wrap it around the cat. The purring continues, and it blinks at me sleepily. “Long day, huh? I hear that. We still have to get you home.”
It meows and rubs against my shirt. I sigh. “I know you have an owner. This would be a whole lot easier if you could talk. I hope you know that.”
But I can’t be mad, even though I know my shoes are ruined and I’ll have to pay to have my clothes dry cleaned. Honestly, holding this purring, soaking cat is the happiest I’ve felt in the last few months.
I smile at the little creature, then realize that if I can’t get a place for him, he’ll be in my apartment for the night. I like animals, but I’ve never necessarily wanted one. It’s another responsibility, and I have enough to handle. Yet, holding this dirty, wet cat makes me feel warm and peaceful.
“Well, how are we going to do this?” I ask the cat. “You don’t have anything that lets me contact your owner and I don’t want to steal you.”
No answer, of course. Because it’s a cat.
“Someone’s missing you.”
I catch movement in my peripheral and look up to see Jack. He’s no dryer than I am, but I haven’t ever seen his clothing cling to him like this. I clutch the cat tighter so I don’t drop it. He’s mouthwateringly attractive and doesn’t look half the asshole he usually does.
He looks gorgeous, in fact. Like some old Victorian love interest. His hair is matted to his head, his eyes are heartbroken, soaking wet and a little sad, but his muscles aren’t hidden behind folds of fabric, and his jeans are matted to his thick legs.
I swallow. “Jack?” My voice is hopeful, even if wavery.
“Hamlet?”
He runs under the alcove with us, and the cat in my arm squirms and meows. I hand him my cardigan and his pet. He sighs heavily and treats me to a staggering smile. The forced one he gave me when we met was mildly terrifying, but this is warm and inviting. Jesus, he’s attractive.
“You found him!” he said.
“Yeah.” I brush off my knees quickly. “He’s a handsome cat.”
“She’s lying to you, Ham. You look like something I’ve pulled from a shower drain.” He chuckles and looks at me again. “You don’t look much better.”
“Thanks.” I roll my eyes. There’s the Jack I know—asshole under a deceptive skin.