Fugly Page 3

  Smart choice.

  I traipsed back to the kitchen and found the tallest glass we owned—a Chicago Cubs pint glass—and filled it with tap water. I was sweaty and hot and dehydrated as hell. And now I got to add pissed because this bastard had come to my home.

  I walked back into the living room, holding the glass in my hand. “You have until I chug this to tell me what you want, and then I’m kicking your ass out.”

  He shook his head. “Must you be so garish and hostile?”

  “You dismissed me from that interview in three seconds because I didn’t make your dick hard.”

  He blinked with a forced calm, and I smelled blood. He was about to lose his cool, and it made me feel damned good, because I wanted to ruffle this man’s pretty feathers. Then I wanted to pluck them out and make a fancy headband.

  “Yes. I did. And no, you didn’t,” he replied.

  “Wow.” I decided now might be a good time to finish my water. I gulped so fast that half the contents spilled down my white sports tank. Hey, what the heck. I was already wet, and it felt damned good on my hot body.

  I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand and then looked down at Mr. Cole, noticing him staring at my breasts again.

  Pig! “Okay. Time for you to go.” I tipped over my empty glass.

  He didn’t flinch that exquisite body. Not even a dark brow twitched. “I spoke to Mark yesterday after you left. He says he offered you a job, and you turned him down.”

  Mark Douglas, a fellow Stanford alumni and Maxwell Cole’s old fraternity brother, was CEO of a large clothing chain called Wow-Wow (a name Mark’s daughter—who was two at the time—came up with). He became my mentor during my graduate studies after I worked on a project related to price elasticity for his company. We kind of clicked. Or maybe he felt sorry for me? Now, I don’t know. But he and his wife, who I’d met later on, were hands down two of the kindest people I’d ever known—devoted parents, philanthropists, and just plain cool. Mark invited me into his life, his home, and even had me babysit his two beautiful spunky little girls—Elle and Sarah, now nine and ten. College wasn’t cheap, so I was always grateful for extra money, but I felt eternally indebted for the respect and encouragement he’d given so freely. It was how I hoped to give back when I got a shot at running my own company. I wanted to inspire and mentor young women.

  Then, after I graduated, Mark graciously offered me a great full-time, permanent position on his marketing team. That was when I reluctantly confessed I had my sights set on the C.C. sales team. Mark told me the door would always be open, but if my dream was C.C., then he’d call Mr. Cole, a close personal friend, and make it happen. I’d given it some thought, because I wanted a job at C.C. pretty badly, but in the end, I needed to know that anything I had was due to merits and sweat. Not as a favor to Mark.

  I did take that reference letter, though. That seemed like fair game.

  “That is correct. I turned the job down,” I replied, wondering where he was going with this.

  “Why?” Mr. Cole asked with a hint of criticism.

  At this point, I didn’t want to tell him the truth. He didn’t deserve to know what I’d done for the chance to be in his presence. Dammit. How stupid had I been?

  “I have my reasons—what do you want, Mr. Cole?”

  “Mark says you’re the sort of person I can trust with things of a more personal nature. That means a lot coming from him, but is it true?”

  The answer depended on what sorts of “personal” things he had in mind. If it was playing Lady Gaga dress up for five hours with Mark’s sweet and wild little girls while he and his wife had to quietly deal with his drunk father getting arrested, then sure. If it was kicking Maxwell Cole in his ass on the way out of my apartment, I could be trusted with that, too.

  “I repeat: what do you want, Mr. Cole?”

  He ran his hand over the top of his silky head of hair and leaned forward in my armchair. I couldn’t help notice how fucking perfect he looked—masculine, elegant, handsome as hell, and freshly shaved, yet still with a black shadow across his square jaw—and I wanted to punch him in the nose for it. Then punch myself for noticing how damned hot he was.

  “I…uh…” The striking expression in his hazel eyes startled me. I suddenly felt like he was looking at me again, past my face. “My proposal is this: you come work for me.”

  This was my moment to tell him to shove it, but before I got the chance, he held up his hand and added, “But not the job you applied for; as a senior manager—the role you are actually qualified for.”

  My mouth fell open. Senior manager was two levels above the junior sales manager job.

  “And you’d be reporting directly to me, instead of to a director,” he said.

  My mouth fell open a little more. I really didn’t know it could open that wide.

  I blinked at him, speechless. Just yesterday, he’d said I was too ugly to work for his company, and now he wanted me on his direct staff? He must’ve been quaking in his designer boxer briefs that I’d tell everyone how he’d treated me.

  Whatever. I didn’t want the job. I didn’t want to work for a man like this. A fake. A heartless asshole. Nevertheless, I had to ask…

  “Why?”

  He leaned back in the chair, all smooth and cool, like he was delivering a sales pitch and knew he couldn’t lose. “To use your own words: I am a superficial asshole. I did not necessarily get a choice in the matter; however, we are all dealt a hand in life and must play with the cards we’re given.”

  I scratched the back of my sweaty head. “That reply didn’t come close to answering my question.”

  “We can help each other.”

  “Oh, really?” I spat. “Mind telling me how someone like you, who finds it offensive to be in the same room, believes I can help?” Or that I’d ever want to?

  His large hand glided up to the knot on his red tie, his eyes digging into me. “You are the most unattractive woman I’ve ever met. And you are exactly what I need.”

  He did not just say that to my face. I didn’t know whether to run to the kitchen and grab a knife to stab him with or drop on the floor laughing.

  He continued, “Which is why I will also pay for your plastic surgery—top notch, no expense spared—if you agree to work for me.”

  He’s fucking serious. “You’re fucking serious.”

  He nodded with a calm stare and blinked those big hazel eyes at me. There was a hint of something behind them.

  Oh my God. Is it fear? Fear I might turn him down? I knew my brown eyes were probably bulging from my head like two chocolate orbs.

  “I am dead serious,” he replied. “And you’re a smart woman—prickly as hell with a surprisingly crude vocabulary, but smart—so there’s no need to point out that the role pays extremely well and will allow you to take your pick of positions at any company when the time comes. With a new face and that very beautiful body of yours, there will be nothing in your way. Nothing. You’ll have superficial assholes like me at your mercy, licking your shoes, eating out of your beautiful hand the rest of your beautiful life. All you must do is come work for me.”

  I was speechless. Literally speechless. Except that it was time to say those magic words. “Go fuck yourself.”

  He stood, shaking his head. “I fucking love that you fucking speak your fucking mind, but you’ll need to tone down that filthy little mouth of yours when we aren’t alone.” He glided past me as if he hadn’t heard a word I said.

  “I didn’t say I’d work for you.”

  He flashed an arrogant grin. “Then I’ll expect your yes in the morning.”

  He left, and I remained standing in the living room, wondering if what just happened wasn’t some bizarre hallucination after hours of running in the heat. But it wasn’t. The delicious scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the room was proof.

  Finally, I willed my feet to carry me to the sofa and sank down. A senior manager role at C.C.

  Setting Maxwell
Cole aside, it was a job that could act as a springboard for my entire career. However, what he wanted from me was…was…Well, what did he want from me? He’d said I was “the most unattractive woman he’d ever seen” and exactly what he needed.

  So what the hell did that last part mean?

  I covered my face and groaned.

  Twenty-four hours ago, I’d felt like a stable, well-grounded person with a bright future.

  Now I am a bitter, foulmouthed cynic. I don’t know who I am anymore.

  And I certainly didn’t know what I would do next.

  No doubt about it, I had had a long, turbulent day filled with fruitless inner debate. After Mr. Cole left, I spent an hour—or three—looking at open positions online and postings from a recruiter I knew. I still had the option of going to work for Mark Douglas at Wow-Wow Clothing, but it felt wrong taking a role knowing I wouldn’t bring my A-game passion.

  Are you saying you would bring it to C.C.?

  I didn’t know. Yesterday, I would’ve said yes, but then Maxwell Cole entered the picture, the biggest asshole in the world, and offered me…the world. (Insert visual of me knocking head against the wall.) I could either accept the terms, him being the boat anchor, or I couldn’t. It was an all-or-nothing situation where I wanted nothing to do with him; meanwhile a part of me felt like this could change my life. And I wasn’t talking just about the job.

  Surgery. I sighed. It was something I hadn’t thought of in years.

  To be clear, I learned the importance of loving myself at the ripe old age of eight when Tania Reilly, my best friend at the time, who had a severe overbite, was verbally accosted by the too perfect, too pretty Lisa Walters. Lisa came up to her in the lunchroom for no reason at all and said, “Joel thinks you look like a dog. And so do I, so we voted you our class pet.” Joel was the official cute boy and every third-grade girl crushed hard on him. But the look on poor Tania’s face when she heard those words wasn’t child’s play. She would probably carry that moment around with her forever. I know I did. But that could also be because I stood up from the lunch table, took my fruit cup and threw it into Lisa’s face. “You’re mean, and mean people burn in hell,” I’d said. Okay. Don’t judge me for that. I was eight, and I’d overheard two other girls talking about something they’d heard at church. The point is that Tania would remember that moment, too. At least, I think she would. The smile on her face told me how good it felt to have someone stick up for her. It made her feel loved. And that’s when I realized how love could insulate a person from just about anything. Especially self-love. It could also help them—me, in particular—make friends for life.

  Sadly, though, it had never been enough to win me the other kind of love. I’d never had a date, a flirty smile, or a kiss. No, I won’t bother walking through the parade of tragic stories filled with painful memories—guys laughing at me, making the standard dog jokes—but trust me, they’re there. Ironically, I remember that not even the pretty girls were exempt from this sick breed of torment. And if they couldn’t escape it, what about me?

  Which is why I always told myself there were more important things, like family, friends, your journey in life, and the mark you leave on this world. But I think deep down inside I always knew that being genuinely ugly (not just “unattractive” as Asshole had called it) would slow me down.

  The uglies of the world simply don’t have it as easy as the beautiful people.

  And there was no denying that having men look at me, and want to look again because they liked what they saw, had an appeal.

  But the price of surgery, Lily. The price.

  There were no words. I would have to endure the worst emotional pain, suffering, and humiliation on a daily basis. I would have to drink buckets of it. Because—no way—would I have surgery on work day one.

  Oh no, Mr. Cole will have strings attached. Probably time and performance; I do well for him, be a good little C.C. employee, and he’d buy me a new face. Until then, every time I’d be in the room with that beautiful, hateful, smug piece of garbage, I’d know what he was thinking: She’s disgusting. I can’t stand the sight of her. Please, God, don’t let her touch me.

  Who could possibly endure that? From a man they’d once idolized? And why the hell would he want me to? What did Mr. Cole get out of this? He could hire anyone he liked from the top schools, his competition, and any Fortune 500 in the world.

  Fuck, the man’s probably a sadist and wants to watch me suffer. So then why was I even considering this?

  But as I sat there, staring at my laptop displaying page after page of jobs I could probably get my hands on and blow out of the water, none of them were what I really wanted. Call it something to prove to the world, call it ambition. I didn’t know. But wanting big and bold was who I was. I also hadn’t racked up one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in student loans so I could live like a college student for eternity.

  “Lily, you home?” my roommate’s voice called out moments after the front door opened. Daniella and I met through a friend after I graduated and moved to Chicago last year. On the outside, she was a prim and proper associate finance manager for an investment bank, while on the inside, hilariously vulgar. She also looked a little like Katy Perry but with brown eyes, like mine.

  “In here, Danny,” I replied from my bedroom, sitting at my vanity, which was an old whitewashed thing I’d found at a yard sale.

  She entered my room, which was decorated in classic “Fashion Junky” with stacks of magazines piled in the corner and a huge collage of my favorite outfits pinned onto my oversized corkboard. She plunked down on my bed with a loud sigh, beginning to shed her standard summer work ensemble: black skirt, heels, and a solid color blouse. Today it was green.

  She kicked off her shoes and unzipped the back of her skirt, her eyes freezing on my face the moment she looked up. “Oh shit. They didn’t offer you the job.”

  “Not the job I wanted.”

  She pulled her brown hair from her ponytail and then began rubbing her feet, “Fucking heels. The only reason I wear them is so the guys don’t think they can step on me. So what happened?” She was on the short side, so I got the whole “must wear heels” ridiculousness.

  “They offered me…” I debated whether to tell her everything. On the other hand, I could really use an external perspective, and I did consider her among my best of friends.

  I decided to go with a partial truth until I knew what I’d do. “They offered me a senior manager role, reporting directly to Maxwell Cole.”

  Her eyes bugged from her head. “Seriously? Mr. Pleasefuckmenow Cole would be your direct boss?”

  Like me, she had Mr. Cole on her top ten list of men to masturbate to. And yes, before you ask, I had already removed him and replaced him with Boris Kodjoe. A girl’s gotta have a nice even ten on the roster, especially someone like me who only had her imagination to keep her warm at night.

  I nodded.

  “And you are debating…why?” she asked snidely.

  I shrugged pathetically, lacking a proper answer.

  “If you don’t want the job, then I’ll take it. What’s it involve? Bringing him coffee? Morning blowjobs? I’ll so do it.”

  “Gah! Danny,” I scolded.

  She smiled. “What? Don’t judge me for wanting to be his right hand—he is right-handed, yes? Because whatever hand he jerks off with, I want to be it.” She sighed contentedly and stared at the ceiling.

  “I don’t think you understand.”

  “No? What am I missing? He’s a hot-as-fucking-hell CEO—and we know he’s hot because he posed naked for us ladies in his quest to sell lip gloss,” she shook her head, savoring the memory, “so, so generous. And he’s a successful businessman and all-around awesome guy, and he’s asked you to work for him. In your dream job. What’s the problem?”

  How could I put this in a way that would net me the advice I needed, without spilling the extremely uncomfortable and confusing beans?

  “He doesn’t
really like me,” I said.

  “Oh, sweetie.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on my knee. “I know it must be disappointing, but don’t take it personally. He’d be your boss, and he can’t flirt with you or anyone on his staff. That would be inappropriate. Can’t you just be happy knowing he sees value in you and that you could learn from him?”

  Okay. My plan for extracting advice from Danny blew. She had drunk the Maxwell Cole stud-spiked party-punch, but I couldn’t fault her for that. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been sipping from the same fountain of delusions.

  I looked at Danny, thinking aloud. “He and I have different views on the world, so I’m not sure we’ll get along.”

  “Really, Lily. You only need to work for the guy for a year. Maybe two max. Then someone else will steal you away.”

  What? One to two years. Uh-uh. I wouldn’t survive that long.

  “Either that,” she added, “or Cole Cosmetics will go public, and you’ll be a millionaire before you’re thirty if you can score some stock options.”

  I blinked at her.

  “Didn’t you hear?” she asked.

  I shook my head dumbly.

  “According to the rumor mill, his company is getting ready for the big IPO.”

  Wow. Going public. That was big. And no, I didn’t know.

  She went on, “But I heard from my coworker Terri, whose boyfriend works with G.S.—”

  “Goldman Sachs?” I asked.

  “No. Gary and Smitty—a day-trader outfit they run out of Gary’s parents’ basement.”

  “Oh.” How terribly reliable.

  “But she said that he said that Cole’s competitor, B&H, is trying to do everything it can to derail the stock offering. They know if that capital infusion happens, they’ll be wiped out. C.C. will eat up their market share.”

  I sat back in my vanity chair and let that sink in. I was suddenly in a position to destroy C.C., because if the truth about him got out, it would trigger some serious outrage from his adoring, everyday-woman customer base. He did not respect them or care about anything other than making money.