Page 10 of Lucas

He lifts an eyebrow. “Didn’t seem that way to me last night.”

I refrain from admitting that the skirt and blouse combination I pulled off yesterday was a result of pairing the two most expensive items in my limited wardrobe. The Rubberneckers dress code is generally more lax, but we’d just met with our lawyer and I needed to feel professional. In control. Even if my insides were—are—a twisted tangle of fear.

“You caught me on a good day,” I say. My gaze falls to the window, where outside the sun has begun to rise above the distant Manhattan skyscrapers. It’s an hour trek to work from here, and every second counts. Still, I’m reluctant to leave the warmth of Lucas’ bed. I curl under the thick duvet, twirling my legs around the satin sheets. “Actually, my friends and I co-publish a tech and finance magazine. It’s called Rubberneckers, kind of a mix between Gawker and Wired.”

“I’ve heard of it,” Lucas says, stiffly.

No mistaking it this time, the vibe between us takes another abrupt shift. The veins in his neck tighten into thick cords, making the scorpion tattoo on his neck appear almost three-dimensional, alive and somehow irritated.

Lucas’s clear annoyance—disappointment?—now hovers like a dark cloud, and whatever pride I’ve felt in Rubberneckers, my company, even myself, begins to shrivel under the near claustrophobic tension that ripples through the room. True, the magazine began as a joke, a satirical insider gossip blog we started in college for an assignment. But we’ve made something out of it. Turned it into a real business that earns us, if not respect, a decent living.

An income that is now threatened by a lawsuit we simply don’t have the resources to fight. My reality starts to spin out of control in my mind.

Marnie always said we’d piss off the wrong “suit” someday, but none of us imagined these kinds of consequences, which is probably clear indication of our youth. We’re amateurs. More savvy entrepreneurs would have thought it through better, would have employed a Plan B.

This is the kind of preaching I expect any second from Lucas, which is why I clam up, knowing better than to further discuss business with him. Talk about anything at all, actually. It’s obvious whatever connection I thought Lucas and I might have has vanished like a puff of smoke.

He shuffles a little so that we’re no longer touching. My skin cools so fast I’m almost worried about catching a chill. Without a word, he swings his legs over the side of the mattress, and presses his palms down on the bed. “You’re welcome to use the shower.” There’s an awkward beat of silence, and then, “I’ll have my driver pick you up and take you to your apartment.”

The cool dismissal stings.

Grateful his back is turned to me, I blink back a tear and gather my composure. We were heading this way all along, I recognize now. It was Lucas’ intensity—his seasick-making sexiness and smooth lines—that steered me off course at first. But now it’s all coming into sharp focus and I blush at my naïve fantasies of a Happily Ever After that can never, will never, be.

No matter how hard I’ve worked to make Rubberneckers a true business, it’s probably a joke to someone like Lucas. A man, who by my keen observation, has expensive tastes and the means to satisfy his needs, no matter how frivolous. How did I miss all of this last night?

My chest squeezes with unexpected pain. Because it was all a façade. Lucas saw what he wanted to see—a damsel he could save, an easy mark, a puppet for him to manipulate. I pretended to be those things too, but in the bright light of morning, it’s clear the charade must end. Has ended. There’s no point in denying it, because Lucas doesn’t even bother to say goodbye as he walks from the bedroom to the oversized en-suite and closes the door, effectively shutting me out.

The bathroom locks with a click, and seconds later, the shower turns on.

I wait a beat, watching as steam rises out from under the door, until it’s obvious that I’ve been dismissed, cast aside like a cheap whore.

Well fuck that.

And fuck him.

Suddenly, I am desperate to leave.

Chapter 5

Lucas might have vaulted to the top of the dick-o-meter, but, I admit, his taste in clothing is impeccable. I’m oddly proportioned—muscular calves and thin thighs, a generously rounded ass and curvy hips—which means I often spend more time in dressing rooms than cashier lines, usually leaving the store with nothing more than the overwhelming sense of defeat.

The skirt and blouse Lucas suspiciously had delivered to his apartment are a perfect fit, as though customized for my build. The cream-colored and elegant top drapes across my chest, and tapers at my waist, accenting rather than drawing negative attention to my less-than-perfect physique.

I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored window outside the Rubberneckers office and grin. Who cares how I got it—I’m pulling it off well. A slit runs up the side of my short skirt, landing about mid thigh, as though pointing like an arrow to how snugly the material cups my ass.

Fiction doesn’t pay, my father always said, but my parents accepted—begrudgingly—my decision to attend NYU, with a focus on magazine writing, and a minor in business. Prepare to be poor, he’d warned.

And it’s true I haven’t hit pay dirt, but today, in these clothes, I feel like a million bucks.

And although I debated wearing the outfit he got for me after the way things abruptly ended between us, I somehow felt like I deserved something for his piss poor treatment of me.

Perhaps I wanted to hurt him too, and his wallet may have been the only way to sting him the way he stung me with his casual dismissal.

I briefly recall the Oscar de la Renta tags, how they dangled before my eyes like gold-plated carrots before I found the courage to rip them off. I can still see them now, as though mocking me for succumbing to their power instead of rejecting them for what they represent. Entitlement. Luxury. Ridiculous and unnecessary wealth.

The very things that provided the foundational editorial for Rubberneckers, an e-mag that rose to popularity thanks to its satirical commentary on the lifestyles of Wall Street’s most rich and infamous.

And look at us now.