“Where should we hang it?” I ask.
“Forget the game. The stripper is here. And he’s gorgeous. Not like a Jersey Shore beef cake, fake tan kind of stripper, but a sexy businessman stripper. Where did you find him? WallStreetStrippers.com?”
Ooh la la. A stripper sounds fun. Even better than pin the dick on the prick or whatever this game is called. But I gather the game up and bring it anyways because I did put a lot of effort into it.
As I start to follow Claire back into the living room, her words finally penetrate the vodka-induced fog clouding my brain. I really should have been keeping track of how many shots I’ve taken.
“Wait.” I stop short, nearly dropping the paper dicks on the floor. “I didn’t hire a stripper.”
There’s only one man that would have access to JoAnna’s apartment without needing to be buzzed in. My stomach clenches with anxiety. Oh God.
“Really?” Claire’s eyes turn to saucers. “So, who’s the stud in the suit?”
My eyes scan the sea of scantily-clad women until I find him. There, across the room, looking like sex on a stick in a navy suit, with his thick, dark hair, perfect nose and chiseled jaw, being hounded by all the bachelorette party attendees is Barrett.
My heart stops. This is a scenario that I never in a million years considered. And why would I? Why would Barrett stop by JoAnna’s on a Friday night? When she’s out of town? Doesn’t he have better things to do? Like take candy from babies and suck people’s souls from their bodies dementor-style?
He sees me then, and when our eyes connect, everything stops. It’s what I imagine a deer feels when its body is lit up by the high beams of an oncoming vehicle. Frozen, stunned, unable to do anything but wait for impact.
His hazel gaze holds mine, intense and challenging, before his full lips slide into a devilish smirk.
“Chloe Anderson,” he shakes his head, “you’ve been a bad girl.”
CHAPTER 5
Chloe
I’m having an out-of-body experience. When I made the decision to host Lauren’s bachelorette party in JoAnna’s living room, never in a million years did I imagine this scenario. If I thought I was stressed out before, no amount of vodka is going to fix this. Barrett’s cold, assessing eyes skim the length of me. His gaze is a chilly fifty-five degrees, and I visibly shiver. I’m stunned speechless, unable to say or do anything but watch this nightmare unfold.
One of Lauren’s co-workers, Molly, a tall blonde in a red strapless dress, moves toward Barrett. “Oh, Chloe isn’t the bride.” She grabs Lauren by the hand and pulls her out of the group of women. “Lauren is.”
I’m dead. Dead and fired. There is likely nothing Barrett would like more than to see me fired. I don’t know why, but it seems like something that would give him satisfaction. That and making babies cry.
My mind flashes to the image of the plethora of editorial assistant candidates that JoAnna had to choose from two years ago. There may be even more of them now. Just last week the news reported a population increase due to young professionals moving to the city. I’ll be replaced instantly. JoAnna is Beyonce and I’m her cheating boyfriend, she can have another me by tomorrow. I’m not irreplaceable.
Worse than losing my job with St. Clair Press, with one word, JoAnna could banish me from the entire publishing industry in New York if she wanted to. That’s the power that she has. I’ve rarely seen it wielded for anything other than the benefit of her clients, but I wouldn’t want to find out.
There would be no associate editor job in my future. No job at all. I’d have to move home and work at The Book Nook—the local bookstore I worked at for five years before I left for college—for the rest of my life.
Or I might be able to find some corner of the world where JoAnna St. Clair’s influence in the publishing industry can’t reach. Like Antarctica.
“It’s Lauren. Lauren has been a very bad girl,” Molly says, winking at Barrett.
Lauren, in her white sparkly romper and bride-to-be sash, bounces in her heels.
While I’m watching my life and career in New York City flash before my eyes, Lauren laughs and covers her mouth with both hands. “Oh my God, this is so fun!” She turns to find me across the room. “Chloe, I can’t believe you got a stripper. And he’s so hot!”
After three drinks, her tiara is crooked and her cheeks are rosy. She’s also oblivious to the stress Barrett’s arrival has caused me.
I think I’m having a heart attack. Finally, my feet get the message to move my body and I close the ten feet between me and Barrett. Around me, the conversation about Barrett’s performance kicks into high gear.