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I spent a large portion of my time out of the office, meeting with clients and doing a lot of it after hours. The time clock never really stopped, but no matter how much I took on, it never turned into a group activity. When these people came to me, they paid a very large premium to get financial advice or planning from me—not someone working for me.
She smirked. “I would have done it with or without your permission.”
I laughed outright. “See, Mad, that’s why we work well together. You don’t take any of my shit.”
“I’m also an organizational genius.”
“That too.”
“Have fun in L.A.,” she said in dismissal, and I laughed.
“Okay, I get it. I’m going now.”
She just raised her brows.
I jumped toward the exit and laughed while raising my hands in the air. “Okay, okay. Geez. And in my own office.”
L.A. looked pretty much the same as the last time I’d seen it. Bright and bustling and filled with traffic.
Big palms lined the streets, and the sun beat down on the exposed skin of my forearms. The intensity of the rays seemed stronger here, but at least it didn’t feel like you were being choked by the humidity.
The overwhelming odor of piss also wasn’t as strong as in New York. It existed, kind of lingering in the background, but it wasn’t nearly as pungent.
Pulling my arm back through the window and into the cab, I grabbed my phone from my pocket and opened up the text messages. I hadn’t heard from Cassie since yesterday.
Me: Rule #40: Take at least one recreational trip to L.A. a year.
Cassie: Recreational? Are you talking about drugs, Thatcher?
Me: I’m here on business. I’d rather be here for fun.
With you.
Cassie: How did I not know you were going to L.A.?
Me: I just found out I was coming yesterday. After we talked.
Technically, I’d found out before we talked. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t said anything, but it was probably more because she’d cut the conversation short than anything nefarious.
Cassie: Oh.
My eyebrows pulled together at her uncharacteristically normal—simple—response.
Me: Everything okay?
Cassie: Yeah. It’s nothing.
Me: What’s nothing?
Cassie: Just my assistant. It’s not really worth going into it. We had a little disagreement earlier today, but I think it’s resolved. Honestly, it’s nothing.
It seemed like she was trying awfully hard to convince someone. I didn’t know if it was her or me.
Me: Call me. We can talk about it.
Cassie: Thanks, but I can’t right now. About to start shooting.
Desperate to make her laugh, I typed out a message.
Me: With your camera, right? I know how much you’re dying to shoot some kids.
Cassie: Ha fucking ha. The FBI is probably monitoring both of our phones now.
Me: You better send a tit shot, then. That’ll save us.
Cassie: Put your boner away, Thatcher.
I smiled then and started to type a message when her text bubbles stopped me.
Cassie: Would I ever be able to manage your ego if I told you I missed you?
I smiled and typed the least funny thing I’d ever been excited to say.
Me: I miss you too, honey.
I needed a new assistant. That much was clear to me.
Over the past two days, Olivia had started to show her true colors. Her motives for turning the tables were unclear, but whatever the reason, her professional attitude was sorely lacking and she seemed to enjoy doing the exact opposite of everything I asked. When I’d needed the lights dimmed, she had blinded everyone on set by making them fluorescent. When I’d asked her to let two of the male models know we’d changed their shoot time, she had made sure their arrival was two hours later than I needed.
If she could break it, she would, and she did.
And I was beyond tired of her shit.
Normally, I wouldn’t sweat something like this; I’d just fire her and be done with it.
But this was a girl I had generously taken under my wing and shown the ropes. She’d been with me for more than a blip in time, and I had given her an all-access pass into my career in hopes that it would help her once she started to establish herself.
Obviously, that had been a big fat fucking mistake.
Olivia was a user. Rather than utilizing what I’d offered respectfully, she had chosen to try to screw me over. I’d found out from one of my close friends at Men’s Health that she had already started reaching out to my contacts and worming her way into their good graces. The girl appeared hell-bent on destroying me and then taking my career.
I hated that this was bothering me as much as it was. I hated that I was letting this cunt get the best of me. And I hated that I’d even tried to make nice with her yesterday. I should’ve kicked her lying ass to the curb and been done with it.
I plodded through my hotel suite at the Wynn and grabbed my phone off the nightstand. As I stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Vegas Strip, I wasn’t real sure what to do with myself.
I felt pathetic. I mean, fuck, I was in Vegas, and I was holed up inside my suite. I should have been out on the Strip, grabbing a drink, playing a little blackjack. Basically, anything but moping around like a sad sack.
The desert sun shone down across the concrete utopia, glittering rays bouncing from one ornate building to the next, and instead of thinking of something fun to do, all I could think was, I wish Thatch were here.
Maybe that line of thinking should have surprised me, but it didn’t. He had barged his way into my life—or maybe I’d barged my way into his?—and I wasn’t sure if I ever wanted him to leave.
Thatch just made everything better.
Which was crazy. He should have made things worse. He was loud and obnoxious and couldn’t stay serious for more than a minute. He made a career out of bugging the hell out of me and spent most of his day sending me texts requesting tit pics.
But damn, that man.
That crazy fucking lunatic.
I liked him.
I tapped the last number in my call log, and it rang two times before his husky voice filled my ear.
“What are you doing, Crazy?” Thatch was smiling. I could hear it in his voice.
“Just finished having lunch with a few strippers from Spearmint Rhino, and now I’m about to head into a brothel. You know, the usual Vegas shit.”
“Just fitting in a little sightseeing, then?”
“Yeah, you know that saying, ‘What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.’”
“Unless you get chlamydia,” he pointed out. “That won’t stay in Vegas. That comes home with you.”
“I’ll make sure my hooker wears a dental dam, then.”
He chuckled. “You’re a smart woman. Putting your sexual health above all things.”
I wanted to laugh, but my mood just wasn’t feeling it. “You know me, safe sex and all that jazz,” I muttered halfheartedly.
“You okay, honey?” His tone had changed from teasing to concerned in the span of a heartbeat.
“No,” I answered as I rested my head against the window. “It’s been a shit trip.”
“What happened?”
“My assistant, who also happens to be the cunt I was kind enough to mentor, is doing her best to ruin everything. She can choke on a big fat dick while sitting on a parking cone.”
“Did you fire her?”
“No,” I mumbled. “Which is ridiculous. I mean, I found out that she had commandeered half of my professional contacts list and reached out to them for work. For herself. Which, obviously, makes me look really bad. Talk about an asshole move, right?” I sighed, long and deep. “I’ve done nothing but bend over backward for that chick. I’ve taught her everything I know. Normally, I wouldn’t tolerate one second of the bullshit she’s been pulling. Normally, I would have given her the boot.”
“Why isn’t this ‘normally’?”
“I’m not sure,” I answered honestly. “It’s all so unlike me. What’s wrong with me, T?”
“It sounds like she hurt your feelings, honey. You two were obviously close.”
“That’s what these are? Feelings?” I questioned in feigned shock. “I don’t like these fuckers. They’re killing my Vegas buzz.”
He chuckled softly into the phone. “You want some advice?”
“Please,” I responded and sat down on the chaise beside the window.
“Even though I think this chick deserves the whole fat-dick-and-parking-cone scenario, I think you need to approach this professionally.”
God, could he have suggested anything more unnatural? “And how do I go about that?”
“Find out who she reached out to, and contact them. Let them know the situation, without the use of f-bombs or cunt sentiments. I’d also probably leave out the parking cone and dick sucking, too. Then, tell her to pack her tube tops and glittery eye shadow and take a fucking hike.”
A small laugh escaped my lips. “Glittery eye shadow and tube tops?”
“Only one type of woman would pull a dick move like that, and she ain’t doing it while wearing Louboutins.”
“What about a guy who would pull that kind of shit? What’s he wearing?”
“Tommy Hilfiger.”
“Thatchastasia is a bit of a fashionista. I had no idea.”
