Page 34 of Never Dance with the Devils
Sweet dreams, pretty girl. And good luck tomorrow (not that you need it).Riggs is back on his poetic shit, apparently.
You don’t need luck. You’ve got skills. Give him hell, Harrington.I’ve got more of a locker room pep-talk vibe.
Goodnight.
I’m glad her message isn’t goodbye, but it still takes the air out of the room. Riggs and I meet eyes again and I grin. “See, chasing is fun,” I say, reminding him of our previous chat.
“Fucking asshole,” he grits out. “I’m going to bed too.”
He’s not. He’s running to his room to stare at the message thread, think about this weekend, and probably jack off again. How do I know that? Because it’s what I’m going to do too, after I eat a breadstick or two.
KAYLA
Greg and I stand as the conference room door opens, revealing David Jessup and his surprisingly small entourage. It’s only him and one other person—a tall, blond man in a charcoal gray suit and red tie, that’d I estimate to be close to thirty-five, maybe thirty if he’s spent some time in the sun. Lounging on a boat, because nothing about him says outside labor.
“David,” I say by way of greeting, extending a hand.
We shake and then he half turns, gesturing to the other man. “Kayla, I’d like to introduce you to Brent, my legal representative, but more importantly, my son. I thought the two of you mightget along.” He smiles brightly, putting a dash of extra emphasis on his last words.
I barely stop the flare of my eyes. He’s got to be fucking kidding me. Is he trying to play matchmaker? Or does he think his law-school-polished son, who’s probably done all of a dozen contracts in his professional life, is going to help him get favor on a deal our legalteam of experts has gone over with a fine-tooth comb? Newsflash, neither is going to work.
My guard up, I extend my hand to Brent next. “Nice to meet you.”
My dad taught me that you can tell a lot about a person by their handshake—their intentions, how they perceive you, how they want to represent themselves—and when Brent barely grasps my fingers, giving me one of those weak, don’t want to hurt the little woman, type of shakes, I instantly hate him.
That conclusion is only solidified when, with a smile slicker than a lying politician’s, he takes a moment to let his eyes lick over my face, down my body to my toes, and then back up before saying, “It’s so nice to meet a girl with the full package—beauty, brains, and personality.”
Is he serious? As Grace likes to say… in the year 2025 of our queen, Taylor Swift, is he seriously talking to me that way?
Because I haven’t been a girl in well over a decade. As for the rest, I have my mother’s beauty, my father’s brains, and more personalities than Brent could probably count. Which one he gets today will be determined by the words coming out of his mouth, and Brent is definitely not starting off well. He’s his father’s son, distilled down to a particularly concentrated form of country-club, frat-boy, big-shot misogyny.
I don’t say anything—yet. Nor do I smile to let him off the hook. No, I simply look him solidly in the eye, blinking calmly and letting his words fall to the floor at his feet, graciously giving him a chance to replay them in his head, discover that they were in grossly poor taste,and apologize in a way that will allow us to proceed with the work we’re here to do today.
Instead, he laughs uncomfortably, glancing toward his dad for guidance, a sign I take as a show of weakness.Need Daddy to save you from the Italian leather-loafered foot you stuck in your own mouth?He manages to stammer out, “Uh, I meant that as a compliment.”
Does he think explaining it makes it any better?
“No, you didn’t,” I state plainly.
He recoils and his brows knit in confusion, like he fully expected me to apologize for misunderstanding his intention and thank him once he explained his comment to me. “Excuse me?” he scoffs.
He glances to his dad again, and then to Greg, expecting to find support from the other men in the room, and while his father may be fine with what he’s saying and how he’s representing not only himself, but Jessup Enterprises, I trust that Greg is on the verge of calling security to escort the two Jessups out.
I consider that myself as well, but hopefully, it won’t be needed. If I threw out every potential deal because I didn’t like one of the company representatives, I wouldn’t be where I am, nor would Blue Lake’s asset portfolio be what it is. Still, I will not let Brent’s inappropriateness pass without consequence.
“You thought the charm you’ve always been told you possess would let you walk in here and say whatever you want. I assure you it does not. Or that I, as a woman, would allow your posturing to go without comment. I will not. In fact, it would serve you well to remember that this ismyconference room, and you are askingmefor money that Jessup Enterprises desperately needs.”
“We’re not desperate,” David interjects, not offended on his son’s behalf but on his company’s.
I slowly cut my eyes to him, skewering him in a glance. “I’m sure you’ve heard the expression don’t put all your eggs in one basket?” I pause for a single heartbeat before continuing, “My division of Blue Lake alone has twenty to fifty baskets at any given time and virtually infinite eggs. You, on the other hand, have one basket and limited eggs. To be able to grow beyond your current financial restrictions, you need me. I want your company. Different things entirely, don’t you agree?”
I’m right. I know I am. More importantly, David Jessup knows I am.
He clears his throat, shifting his tie uneasily, before trying to walk it all back. “We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot here today. Maybe we should just go over the contract?”
He steps toward the table, pulling out a chair and glaring at his son to do the same. And like the spoiled man-child he is, Brent falls into a seat at the table with an annoyed huff.
I wouldn’t expect a verbal apology to be forthcoming from either man, so this is the most acquiescence I’ll get. Is it enough to proceed? Yes, but being me is exhausting sometimes. Most days, I wish I could simply do my work to the best of my abilities and not have any asterisks placed on my skills. I’m not good… for a woman. I’m good. I’m not smart… for a woman. I’m smart. And what is or isn’t between my legs has nothing to do with my ability to negotiate a killer contract and make a fuckton of money. Still, the interaction with Brent and David Jessup has set me off my game and working from a position of anger isn’t in any of our best interests, so withthem at my back, I close my eyes for the briefest moment, resetting my internal dials to address the business at hand.