Fugly Page 2

  “You’re not qualified.” He threw the sheet of paper on the table and shot me a harsh look before abruptly standing.

  “But I—”

  “Thank you for coming,” he said in a tone that told me he wasn’t thankful at all. More like put out, annoyed, maybe pissed off.

  My mouth hung open as he walked out of the tiny conference room, not bothering to shake my hand or look at me or hear anything I had to say.

  My emotions fell somewhere between epic rage and heartbreak. He’d treated me like a leper or some mangy dog with rabies. And as my mind quickly digested everything that happened in the last sixty seconds, I could only come up with one reason for his behavior: my looks. And, hell no, I wasn’t crazy or making it up. That expression on his face when he’d walked in the door? The way he’d shaken my hand?

  I covered my face and let out a shaky breath. This can’t be happening. I expected this sort of behavior from a shallow, pompous asshole that only valued women for their beauty, but from Maxwell Cole?

  My mind went into a tailspin of anger, despite my conscience urging me to take the high road—a road I knew like the back of my hand. After all, I was a nice, caring person. I didn’t yell at people—or hadn’t in years. But that had been back in school, and only when some jerk decided to mess with one of my painfully shy friends or my disabled brother.

  But you can’t let Maxwell Cole do this, Lily. I’d worked my ass off to have the right experience for a job like this. Okay, yes, I had other options besides C.C.—I wasn’t stupid or naïve enough to put all my eggs in one basket—but those other companies weren’t Cole Cosmetics. They weren’t companies I related to and believed in. Those other companies didn’t tell the world you were beautiful for who you were on the inside and to buy their products simply because you enjoyed pampering yourself. Cole Cosmetics didn’t believe in making women feel ugly to sell makeup. And that’s exactly what inspired me to work in this industry. We all deserved to feel beautiful and have nice things regardless of what others thought about our looks.

  Only that prick has been lying to the world.

  I grabbed my résumé from the table and stormed after Mr. Cole, quickly spotting him disappearing into a room in the opposite corner. Probably his private office.

  So what? Let them drag me out. First, he was going to hear what I had to say.

  When I stormed through the doorway, Maxwell Cole already sat at his fancy-shmancy, black-cherry desk, talking on the phone in all his handsome asshole glory, looking perfectly unruffled, acting like that hadn’t just happened.

  His eyes locked on mine, and he seemed unfazed as I approached his glorious fucking desk, where a glorious fucking built-in display case behind him exhibited his multitude of shiny plaques and awards like a shrine to himself. A giant whiteboard on the wall to his side had the words “I’m a Take What’s Mine Kind of Woman” written on it, and the floor-to-ceiling glass on the other side of the room gave him an amazing view of the city. One he probably didn’t appreciate.

  Oh. I’m takin’ what’s mine, buddy. And I was after my pride.

  “You’re a f-fucking asshole.” I threw my résumé in front of him, my hands shaking half with fear, half with anger, and half with adrenaline. That’s right. Three halves! I’m a dangerous woman!

  His hazel eyes shot up at me with extreme irritation. “I’ll call you right back, Chuck.” He hung up the phone, not taking his eyes away.

  “You didn’t even read my résumé,” I spat, my heart pounding. I couldn’t believe I was doing this, yet I couldn’t help myself. Maxwell Cole suddenly represented every person who’d ever done me wrong, and I was tired of taking that stupid high road. I was tired of shrugging it off. I deserved a fair fucking shake, goddammit!

  “I read your résumé,” he said with a deep smug voice, lacing his fingers together over his stomach and leaning back in his shitty, black-leather exec chair like the huge dick that he was. “You’re not a fit. Now get the hell out of my office.”

  “No. You didn’t,” I argued, “because if you had, you’d see that I have an MBA from Stanford, just like you, and I have two years of sales experience, which includes one year at B&H Cosmetics. You’d also note that I graduated top of my class, and that I have a letter of recommendation from Mark Douglas, who I believe is not only CEO of Wow-Wow Clothing and my college mentor, but a personal friend of yours, which is how I learned about the job. Not that I’d expect favoritism, but you know the man; he doesn’t lie, and his standards are ridiculously high. So when he says I’m a good person and extremely capable, he fucking means it.”

  “You. Are not. Qualified,” Maxwell Cole growled, his beautiful horrible face a blistering shade of red.

  “The job only requires a bachelor’s and one year of sales experience. So please explain where I’m lacking.” I folded my arms across my chest.

  Mr. Cole stood from his desk, scowling, and forcing me to look up, up, up. Even in my three-inch heels, I suddenly felt tiny, like he was a huge dragon preparing to unleash his fiery breath and smoke my ass until I was nothing but a pile of ashes.

  “What you lack, Miss Snow, can’t be captured on a piece of paper.”

  Just then Keri, his assistant, entered with an armful of files.

  Guess she forgot about my water.

  “Oh. Mr. Cole. Uhh…” Her eyes darted between her prick of a boss and me. “Is everything okay?”

  “Get the hell out of my office and shut the door behind you,” he said.

  I thought he’d directed the comment toward me, but when I glanced back at him to say that I wouldn’t leave until I got an answer—the real answer—I realized he’d spoken to Keri.

  She tiptoed backwards out of the room and shut the door.

  “You want an answer, Miss Snow?” Mr. Cole snarled with those beautiful sexy lips he didn’t deserve. “I’ll give you an answer. My salespeople need to step into a room and deliver an image that makes the customer want to buy our products. Not make them search for the nearest hill.”

  That had been a polite way of saying I wasn’t good-looking enough, but the rage inside me wanted to hear him say the blunt, fugly truth to my face. I deserved to hear it. I wanted him to admit what a disgusting excuse of a human being he really was.

  “Just say it,” I fumed. “I’m fucking ugly, and you’re a fake superficial asshole.”

  He stared coldly, and there was this moment where my body felt like it was falling through the air without a parachute, just him and me surrounded by nothing, seeing each other for who we were: Him a complete bastard—only beautiful on the outside—and me, the exact opposite.

  “Yes,” he replied, snapping me out of a surreally vivid moment.

  I took a deep breath and felt this strange knot in my chest. Despite already knowing the truth, hearing the words come from his gorgeous mouth cut me deep. Right down to the bone. And for the first time ever, I felt ugly. Truly ugly and unworthy of anything good in this world.

  I pressed my lips together and stared down at my black heels. My heartbeat galloped at a million miles an hour, and my brain spun with a thousand ugly thoughts. I’d walked into a dream that ended up my worst nightmare.

  When I looked up at his face, that strikingly handsome fucking face with the strong jaw and perfect goddamned chin, I wanted to rip it from his skull. I hated that this man wasn’t who I thought. I hated myself for being so naïve and believing I could get anyone in the world to see past my looks.

  And then the thought occurred to me; maybe the world had been politely lying to my face and this asshole was the only person who’d ever been honest. Maybe no one had ever really seen me, the real me, except for my family.

  Had I been living a lie? Just like good ol’ Mr. Cole here?

  Fuck. I hated myself for even entertaining the thought, for allowing him to undermine who I was.

  I lifted my chin and stared into his cold, beautiful hazel eyes, only they weren’t so cold anymore. They were tormented.

  I can�
��t imagine why, you dick. Maybe because you’re a mess of a human being, and you’ve just admitted it. Ironically, he’d admitted it to a stranger he considered unworthy of sharing the glorious air he breathed.

  “Well, Mr. Cole, at least my problem can be fixed with scalpels. But you’ll always be an asshole. A fake, unlovable, shallow prick. Good luck with that.”

  I turned to leave.

  “So why haven’t you?” he asked sharply.

  “Excuse me?” Halfway to the door, I turned to face him again. “Why haven’t I what?”

  The condescending look in his eyes knocked me down a peg. “Fixed your problem. If it’s so damned easy, why haven’t you done it?”

  How fucking dare he. “Because there’s nothing wrong with me. But you should know that since you’ve made billions telling women that ‘beauty is soul deep.’” It was a slogan they’d used for years.

  He crossed his arms over his broad chest, flashing his shiny silver cufflinks. “Don’t tell me you don’t know the difference between marketing and reality.”

  “Yes, I do. And the reality is you’re a fake.”

  He nodded with a chilling gaze. “Takes one to know one, Miss Snow. Now if you’ll excuse me, real life is calling and there’s no room for self-righteous, delusional little girls. Big boys only.”

  Motherfucker.

  I straightened my spine, pasted on a smile, and gave him a cordial nod. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Cole.” Because now I won’t feel any guilt when I start my own company and take you down.

  Someday.

  I turned and left his office, hearing him telling me to wait. Wait for what? More insults? I left without looking back.

  The entire drive to my apartment was a blur. I don’t remember getting in my red Mini and putting the top down. I don’t remember hitting the freeway north, and I don’t remember driving for an hour in the stifling August heat like a madwoman. I simply opened my eyes and found myself standing over my stainless steel kitchen sink with the cold water running, my face dripping wet and my blouse drenched in water.

  I was in shock.

  I shut off the faucet and patted my face with a dishtowel, my hand shaking with rage. Thank God my roommate, Daniella, was still at work so she wouldn’t see me like this. If I was lucky, she’d head over to her boyfriend’s place tonight. This was not how I wanted to be in front of anyone: falling the hell apart.

  I grabbed a bottle of white wine from the fridge, poured myself a giant glass¸ went into the living room, and sat on the couch. My entire body felt numb and on fire at the same time. All I could see was that hateful man’s face and the disgust in his eyes when he’d looked at me.

  I’d never felt like this.

  Ashamed.

  Humiliated.

  Angry.

  I even felt pissed at myself because I’d let him get to me. He’d made me feel like a monster.

  Not even growing up in the beautiful beach town of Santa Barbara, California, where some of the kids made fun of me on a daily basis, had I experienced this feeling. And trust me, kids can be cruel little bastards. Pug face, pig face, puke face…you name it, I’d been called it. But my mother and father always made sure I knew I was loved, and they never sugarcoated. They never told me I was pretty on the outside or tried to make me feel better about my looks. Instead, they fed it to me straight: “No one gets to have everything in life. They just don’t.” All I had to do was look at my older brother, a pretty intelligent guy with a boyishly handsome face—big brown eyes and blond hair, just like me—to understand what they meant. He was in a wheelchair. Born that way due to a rare deformation of the spine.

  So that was my perception growing up. I got to have everything I wanted, except good looks. I didn’t like it, but at the same time I wouldn’t have traded my smarts for beauty.

  I threw back my wine and lay down on the couch, thinking I’d be able to pull myself out of what just happened, but this wasn’t the sort of thing a girl simply shook off.

  ~~~

  When I opened my eyes again, the haze of sleep shielded me for a few precious moments from the realities of yesterday, but sadly, it didn’t last.

  Then I started to cry and almost called my mother. A big mistake because she’d probably hunt down Mr. Cole and castrate him. That honor should belong to me.

  I’m not doing this. Sulking was for suckers.

  I threw on my white sports tank, shorts, and running shoes and then headed outside for a morning jog in a nearby park with a nice long running trail and lots of shady trees.

  By the time I got back to my apartment building, I didn’t know the time because I never wore a watch, but the Illinois summer air was too hot to breathe for outdoor exercise once the sun came up unless you had a death wish or were crazy, which I must’ve been. My body dripped with sweat and shook from heat exhaustion. But running had always been the one thing that helped clear my head.

  Still panting, coming off of my exercise high, I made my way down the sidewalk that ran alongside my small six-unit complex. It was a red brick building with three stories and white shutters. Nothing fancy, but it was driving distance to Chicago, ten minutes to the train, and affordable.

  When I turned the corner, heading for the front entrance, I didn’t think much about the black car with tinted windows parked out front. In these parts, a lot of people used town cars to get to the airport, especially business people.

  Muscles burning, I lethargically climbed the stairwell that wound through the middle of the building, stopping on the second floor to check Mrs. Jackson’s door. She always left a Post-it outside when she needed help taking out her trash. Everyone in the building kept an eye on the eighty-year-old since she didn’t do stairs well.

  No Post-it. Someone else had probably helped her already. I’d stop by later, after my shower, and check on her anyway.

  When I got to the third floor, my heavy pants caught in my throat with a gag. Maxwell Cole stood right outside my door, wearing a red tie and sleek black pin-striped power suit tailored to fit that athletic body. His full lips were pursed, and his slightly bloodshot hazel eyes held an emotion in them I couldn’t decipher. Nor did I try. I was too angry and shocked to see him.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I stopped with my hands on my waist and felt the beads of sweat running like a little river down my spine.

  His eyes moved over my body, almost reaching the top before they made another sweep, lingering an extra moment on my breasts. He still hadn’t uttered a word.

  “What did you expect? Scales on my legs and a uni-breast?” I couldn’t believe I’d said that, but pretending to be civil to this horrible man felt like a lie.

  His eyes reluctantly settled on my face, his revulsion immediate. “Not the uni-breast.” He cracked a dimpled smile. Totally forced.

  I hissed out an unappreciative breath and marched straight to my door, pushing past him. I dug my key from the little pocket of my waistband while he just stood there staring at the view down the front of my panties.

  Asshole. I shot him a look and released the elastic waistband with a snap. As I turned the key in the lock, I decided I’d be slamming the door in his face before he had the chance to say a single word. My guess was he feared I’d tell his little secret or sue him or something.

  Let the man stew.

  But the moment I pushed open the door, he said something that made me think twice. “Invite me in.”

  Okay, it wasn’t so much what he said, but the way he’d said it: a demand. It gave me the urge to do far worse than shut a door and leave him on the other side.

  I turned and looked up at him, shooting my own breed of disgust his way. I hated the gorgeous bastard. I hated every perfect hair on his perfect head, and I wanted him to know it. “Why the fuck would I do that, asshole?”

  “You have a dirty mouth.” A subtle smile, laced with a hint of sadistic delight, twitched across his lips. That time his smile was real.

  “You bring out the ugly bit
ch in me. Why are you here?”

  “I want to talk. Invite me in,” he demanded again with that deep authoritative voice.

  I laughed at his attempt to boss me around. “If you’re worried I’m going to tell anyone the truth about you, don’t. I’d actually have to give a crap about you.” The only thing I cared about was getting on the road to starting my own company as quickly as possible so I could build a company where women like me were genuinely valued.

  “Miss Snow, stop being such a hostile bitch and invite me in.”

  My knee twitched with the urge to salute his balls.

  “I’ve got a job proposal for you,” he added, “the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  This sonofabitch wanted to offer me a job? After everything he’d said? Hell yeah, I’ll invite him in. Just to tell him to go fuck himself.

  I stepped aside and replied with a noxious sweetness, “Why…won’t you come in, Mr. Cole?”

  He dipped his head of thick dark-brown hair. “Why, thank you, Miss Snow.”

  “Oh, please. Call me Lily. I insist.”

  I showed him in, past the doorway leading to the all-beige tube kitchen, and into our small living room. We didn’t have much beside a secondhand floral sofa, a green armchair, and a small glass coffee table. No television. We were never home enough to watch TV (though I occasionally liked to catch The Fashion Police or Masters of Sex on my laptop). On the wall hung a painting of a lily I’d found at a yard sale. A white lily. The symbol of chastity and virtue. My mother said she’d named me after the flower because she thought they were elegant, beautiful, and timeless.

  Maxwell Cole, whose shiny silver cufflinks, expensive suit, and supreme good looks made him look like a duck out of water in my fugly apartment, paused for a moment to take in the room. He subtly lifted a perfect dark brow, indicating he wasn’t impressed.

  “Can I offer you some water?” With spit? Or some sweat wrung from my underwear? I asked while he took a seat in the green armchair, still surveying our humble abode with disgust.

  “No. Thank you,” he replied stiffly.