Page 12 of Savage Suit

A thot?

What the fuck was a thot?

Googling the definition would wait. I was curious about the answer, as this scenario hit close to my situation.

She may not have your free spirit. Appreciate the person she is. Mistakes are learning experiences, and she may hand you your ass for hiding the truth from her. Woman up, sister. She needs to know. When you two kiss and make up, encourage her to join a dating app. Make sure she stays away from the bottle before her dates to stay clear-headed. She just may find the man of her dreams.

I read the exchange several times, searching for clues linking this column to the woman I’d had. Yet, there was nothing. Unfortunately, in 21st-century America, one-night stands were a common part of life, so it was an almost non-existent chance that the subject of the question and the woman I’d fucked were the same. The words didn’t magically shift and offer a defining hint when I reread the question. She’d wanted children, or so my foggy memory told me. If it made her happy…

Fuck. After another drink, I realized my imagination bestowed perfection on her. Reality wouldn’t be so kind. I was also grasping at straws to discover her identity. It would never happen. My mysterious beauty would forever remain unknown.

Chapter Two

One month later

I glanced at my image in the full-length mirror behind my bedroom door. A maverick strand of my jet-black curls broke loose and flopped into my eye, ruining my perfectly coiffed hair, slicked back into a low bun.

“Shit,” I muttered as I glanced around my small bedroom, hoping to spot a bobby pin to repair my hairdo. Even after applying a fuckton of gel and other styling products to my thick tresses, I still couldn’t get my hair to cooperate with me.

My gaze landed on a black pin resting on my dresser. Strutting to it, I made sure not to go too fast in my four-inch heels. Today of all days, I dared not trip and land flat on my perfectly made-up face. My stilettos might be too high for professionalism, but I found the height perfect for my tastes. I didn’t need to wear heels at five feet six, but I loved how they elongated my legs.

Stopping at my dresser, I grabbed the pin and focused on the little heart-shaped mirror above it, my hand freezing as I contemplated my meticulously styled hair. It looked good. Though the escaping curl ruined the sleekness I went for, I liked how the renegade tendril framed the right side of my face. Deciding the lock could stay free, I threw the pin back onto the dresser and returned to my bigger mirror.

Appraising my overall appearance, I swore my attire screamedbusinesswoman. Yet, my confidence dwindled as the clock crept closer to when I’d leave. Technically, I wore a suit. A suit by any other name was still a suit. Right?

Yep.

Who was I kidding?

My stunning, scarlet-red suit hugged my curvy figure and contrasted against my sun-kissed skin. Unfortunately, I didn’t achieve the professionalism I wanted. While I couldn’t magically lose the hips and ass my mother blessed me with, I could’ve downplayed them. The suit caught my attention on the department store rack and seemed perfect to wear to the office. It looked even better when I tried it on in the dressing room.

Red was my favorite color. The suit had my name written all over it from the moment I spotted it. Then, in my estimation, it had been perfect for a day at the office. Or, in this case, my interview.

Today, when the time arrived to put the plan into action, I wasn’t sure I’d made a sound decision.

My interview to be an account manager at KMG, the well-known advertising division of a larger conglomerate dabbling in several industries, was the opportunity of a lifetime. The best impression meant the difference between my goal of a seven-figure bank account within ten years or halting that plan for the time being.

Noah Keegan, the majority stockholder in the company his grandfather had founded, was a rumored chauvinistic pig bastard and a hard-nosed, no-nonsense, impatient tyrant.

I wagged a disapproving finger at myself. “Remember your life goals, girl,” I warned my reflection. Though allergic to bullshit, I was utterly over financially struggling.

If the rumors held even a bit of truth, the attire highlighting my femininity wouldn’t go over well with Noah Keegan. Besides, deep down, my short skirt, stiletto heels, and form fit served as afuck youto a fuckhead.

Those thoughts did nothing for my confidence, and I glared at myself.

However, his intolerance of women in the workplace must’ve been a lie, specifically in his office. The EEOC would’ve served him his ass on a platter. Perhaps, though, dressing more masculine than typical for me would go over better with him.

Ten days ago, I took a leap of faith by applying for the position after Dakota, my older brother, tipped me off on the opening at Keegan Enterprises. For days, I’d stressed over my submission package, arranging my portfolio of the marketing campaigns I’d headed, refining myrésumé, requesting the required three letters of reference to forward with my online application,and perfecting my cover letter. The process had been as time-consuming, nerve-racking, and comprehensive as an Ivy League school application. I’d even had to sign a non-disclosure!

While I had a business degree from NYU, with a concentration on marketing and management & organization, and had proven my worth at another advertising agency, a position at Keegan Enterprises was very coveted. According to Dakota, candidates much more qualified vied for the spot, so I hadn’t stood much chance because. Against all odds and my brother’s naysaying, I received the email inviting me to an interview. I couldn’t let this opportunity go to waste, even if Noah Keegan’s rumored power intimidated me.

My mom used to tell us no one was better, only different. He was in the top 1 percent of wealth distribution; I was in the bottom 20 percent. He mentioned his love of scuba diving in several interviews. I preferred tamer activities that kept me on solid ground, like yoga. He had a cock. I had a pussy. So, yeah, my mom was right. He was different. He’d made his money or inherited it, or whatever. Iwouldmake mine. He needed me for a marketing campaign. I needed him to hire me and pay my salary.

I’d carve a niche for myself in the rat race world of marketing and advertising, and no one, including him, would stop me from climbing the corporate ladder. But, if he was fair-minded, my potential boss would recognize my talent.

I gasped when I glanced at the black Coach watch I had gifted myself on my twenty-fifth birthday. I should’ve left five minutes ago. Hurrying into my living room, I collected my purse and briefcase from my messy couch before dashing out of my second-floor apartment and rushing down the staircase.

Outside, I paused on the stoop, allowing the morning sunshine to hit my face. A guy who lived two doors down scooted over to give me room to walk down the five steps.