Dirty Rogue: A Bad Boy Billionaire Romance(14)
Melody followed.
For the most part, the throbbing music drowned her out, but I could hardly interject over her hissed accusations. “What the f*ck, Chris?” I heard as I passed between two tables on the way to the back exit. “Who the hell was that—?”
“I’m headed home, Melody,” I said loudly, my own voice ringing in my ears. “Do you want me to call a car for you?”
Her face turned an even darker shade of red at the suggestion that we wouldn’t be riding home together. “Fuck you,” she spat, her eyes narrowed, then whirled around and stalked off toward the restrooms.
I thought I was home free then, but Melody changed her mind. I was nearly to the curb when she burst out of the back exit of the Swan.
“You’re a f*cking man slut,” she shouted, the slur in her words more obvious in the crystal silence of the side street. “Why the f*ck did you bring me here?”
Too late, I noticed the paparazzi lurking ten feet away down the sidewalk. They make the rounds by the Swan in case anything sensational happens. Friday was their lucky night.
Melody was still trailing after me, stomping comically in a pair of stiletto heels that didn’t deserve the punishment. “You’re such a sick bastard!” she screamed.
I held both hands up, shaking my head. “Mel, you’re drunk.”
“I’m not drunk,” she shouted, and the paparazzi came toward us then, cameras flashing, shutters clicking.
Louis pulled the Town Car up to the curve and I dove in to the back seat, quickly shutting the door behind me, but not before they got a nice shot of Melody swinging her purse at me, her face contorted in rage.
I’m forcing myself not to roll my eyes at the memory when I breeze past my father’s secretary and pull open the doors to his office, striding in with my back straight and my chin up. He’s not a man who bestows pity points, so it’s best to act as though I’ve done nothing wrong.
He looks up from his leather-bound business diary, an artifact from the ancient days of his youth, I assume, and cocks one eyebrow at me. “Interesting night you had on Friday, son.”
“Can’t argue with that.”
The corners of his mouth turn up just slightly, and he lets out a half-hearted sigh. “I can’t say I haven’t been in that position once or twice.” He closes the diary and looks back up at me. “I’m not going to tell you how to spend your free time, Christian, but we need to make some changes when it comes to Pierce Industries.”
“What kinds of changes?” I drop into a seat across from him, doing my best to look comfortable, doing my best to look like my heart isn’t hammering against my rib cage.
“You have earned quite the reputation around the city as a man who enjoys the finer things in life. Food. Women. Drinks.” Now he’s openly smiling at me, and I smile back, even though it feels f*cking unnatural. I’m still waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ll always be waiting for that shoe to drop. “When it comes to your responsibilities here, we need to project an aura of…” His voice trails off as he searches for the appropriate word. “Respectability.”
“I see.”
“So I’ve hired a new PR firm to help you brush up on your image. It doesn’t mean you have to stop frequenting your club. Just work with them on creating some other opportunities to be photographed under other circumstances.”
“Not a problem,” I say with a smile, and my father nods.
I get up from my seat, torn in two. On the one hand, I’m relieved—my father actually approves of my choices and realizes that the thing with the paparazzi wasn’t entirely my fault. On the other hand, I’m sick at heart. Because if I had been anyone else…
“I’ve scheduled their first meeting with you just before lunch, at their offices,” my father says as I turn to leave. “Have your driver take you over.”
I give him a jaunty salute, then keep going.
“They’ve promised me they will assign you to the best reputation management expert they have on staff. Don’t give them too much trouble, son.”
Chapter 11
Quinn
I’m so amped up, my veins coursing with pure adrenaline, that it takes me a good five minutes to process what Walker is telling me about the company. Multibillion-dollar corporation. Privately owned by the father, who has the majority vote for any decision. Grooming his son to one day take the reins of leadership. Playboy. Partier. Womanizer. I’m listening so closely to every word that comes out of his mouth that they divide themselves up into unintelligible chunks that take a few moments to resolve in my mind.
Wait.
Playboy?
Womanizer?
This sounds awfully f*cking familiar.
“Wait,” I say, cutting Walker off mid-sentence. We’re halfway down the hall leading to my brand new office. Normally, I would take a lot of delight in relishing this moment—the first walk to the space representing how far I’ve climbed since graduating college—but my mind roils with all the various pressures competing for my attention. The need to excel at this job, no matter what. The way my house is still hanging around my neck, a weight I need to cast off before it drowns me. And Christian Pierce’s eyes. “Did you tell me the name of the client? My mind is racing a little here.”