Park Avenue Player by Vi Keeland
Chapter 5
Elodie
Soren was screwing the new secretary. He sat in his high-back leather executive chair, hands clasped behind his head with his feet propped up on his massive dark wood desk. And Bambi (yes, she claimed that was the name given to her at birth) was straddling him and giggling.
They hadn’t heard me come in, too busy feeling each other up.
I plopped my butt down on the visitor chair. “Classy. Can I watch?”
Soren chuckled at the way Bambi jumped out of his lap. She apologized as she scurried back to her desk.
I dug a file from my oversized purse and attempted to save a nail that had chipped on the drive over to the office. “You know, that could have been a client instead of me.”
“It’s not like we run a tea shop. Women are coming in here because their husbands are fucking around. Bet some of them would like to watch me stick it to Bambi.”
“You’re a pig. I have no idea why I even work for you.”
“Because I overpay you.” He took his boots off the desk, and they clanked meeting the floor. “And I put up with you being a bitch. Now that I think about it, I’m not sure how I work with you.”
I smiled. “You’re going to miss me when I’m gone, aren’t you?”
“You got the job? The one watching the kid for the big shot?”
I sighed. “No.”
“Why not?”
“There was a small incident.”
Soren lifted his coffee mug to his mouth. “What’d you do? Spill something on him or tell him off?”
“Neither. Well, not really.”
“So then why are you sitting across from me and not in some hurdy-turdy, fancy penthouse?”
“I got into a little accident.”
“Another one? What is that now? The third one in the last eighteen months? Your insurance must be a damn fortune.”
“Parallel parking is impossible. Though, this time I wasn’t even backing in. I just don’t get why they can’t make the spots bigger on the street so people can easily pull in.”
“Because real estate is almost two grand a square foot here, sweetheart.”
“I might have to start taking public transportation.”
“Been telling you that since the day you started here. No one drives. Learn the subway system already.”
I sighed.
Soren set his empty coffee mug on the desk and clasped his hands behind his head again, leaning back in his chair. “What the hell does your accident have to do with you not getting the job you wanted? Were you late or missed the appointment or something?”
“Oh. I had an accident parking down the block from where my interview was. Turns out the driver, who wouldn’t admit the accident was his fault, was actually the guy I was supposed to interview with.”
Soren threw his head back in a fit of laughter. He actually snorted from laughing so hard.
“I’m glad you find my disaster of a life so amusing.”
“You’re one hot mess who’s lucky she’s hot. You’re either hitting something, spilling something, or tearing apart some schlep’s life. Your brother would kick your ass for the shit you do. Hell, he’d kick both our asses for the shit I let you do. In fact, the only thing he’d approve of is that I overpay you.”
Soren was an ex-marine, ex-cop, and all around badass. He’d been my older brother’s sergeant in the corps. He also let me pick and choose the jobs I wanted, make my own schedule, and he actually did overpay me—three of my favorite qualities in a man.
After my last job with Larry the lawyer, I had hoped to be done working for Soren. Not that I didn’t appreciate him giving me a job when I’d quit the last one without a dime to my name and showed up at his office—because I did. But I needed to get a job on my own. Someone else had been helping me for the better part of twenty-five years. It was time, although apparently not today after all.
“So what’s on the agenda for this week?” I asked.
Soren put on a pair of reading glasses that sat at the tip of his nose. They detracted from his coolness negligibly. “Got another cheater job for you, if you’re up for it. Wife will be here at five, so I need you to stick around.”
“Me? Stick around?”
It was rare that I spoke to the wives. Women weren’t generally fond of me to begin with. And Soren felt that a woman already scorned didn’t need the woman about to seduce her husband shoved in her face.
“This one asked specifically for you. Said she was referred by a friend of a friend. Of course, she wouldn’t tell me who. Not that it matters as long as her check clears.”
***
I should have worn a less lacy bra today. Or skipped lunch.
My meatball parm hero had dripped sauce onto my white blouse. Soren had bellowed unexpectedly as I attempted to remove the stain by pouring a bit of seltzer on the spot, causing me to startle and spill the full bottle all over myself. Now I had a giant red stain, a soaked blouse, and one pert nipple visible through the sheer, damp fabric of my bra and shirt.
“Your five o’clock appointment is here,” Bambi announced through the intercom.
I sat in one of the guest chairs on the other side of Soren’s desk as he gave me the once-over. He shook his head and looked like he was about to tsk.
“What? It’s your fault I look like this.”
“My fault? In the two years you’ve worked here, you’ve never left this office after a meal without wearing it. It’s a good thing you have great tits. Most men will overlook a stain or two for a rack like yours.”
“So stop looking at me like that. Overlook the stain like all the other assholes will.”
Soren grumbled and pushed the intercom button. “Show Ms. Brady in, please.”
Soren’s divorce-assistance private investigation services, where we gathered evidence that serial cheaters were just that—cheaters, was one of the more popular services he offered. But the client seldom wanted to meet the woman seducing her husband, so I was curious to see what set this one apart from the others.
They all came to tell us about their lying, cheating, asshole husbands—yet they were always all done up for the occasion. The women with reasons to come here had bruised egos, cracked hearts, and fissures in their faith in the male gender, but they stood tall as they told their stories. Getting all dolled up was part of the untold story they wanted to tell us.
It isn’t my fault.
My husband didn’t cheat because I gained an extra forty pounds, greeted him wearing stained sweatpants every day when he came home from work, and hadn’t given him a blow job in ten years.
He cheated because he’s an asshole with a character flaw.
The thing is…most of the wives probably did let themselves go a little—got comfortable, stopped spending time on themselves because they were taking care of others. But none of that should matter. These women didn’t need to prove anything. Just being here, I already knew it didn’t matter if they met their man at the door decked out in a lacy negligee and dropped to their knees. Because it wasn’t the faithful partner’s fault. No matter what. It was the cheater’s.
I should fucking know.
Caroline Brady was petite. Dressed in a conservative pantsuit that covered most of her thin frame, she looked more like a banker than a scorned woman. Her mousy brown hair was thick and straight, cut in a blunt bob with heavy bangs. Oversized dark sunglasses covered half her face. She looked like she was trying to hide eyes that were more than likely swollen from countless hours of crying over her piece-of-shit husband.
Soren stood and introduced himself, then looked to me.
I softened my normally bitchy attitude and extended my hand. “I’m Elodie. It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Brady.”
After she shook my hand, she stared down her nose at me for a solid thirty seconds. I stood my ground and stared right back. I could see her judging me, even hidden behind her glasses.
Soren finally intervened in our stare off. “Why don’t you have a seat?”
With her eyes shielded, she continued to gape at me for a few heartbeats, and then finally sat.
“What brings you here today, Ms. Brady?”
Her voice was cold. “I want her to sleep with my asshole husband.”
Soren held up his hands. “Whoa. Hang on a minute. That’s not what we do here. I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed.”
I glared at her. “I’m not a whore.”
She pursed her lips, but she didn’t have to say a word. Her face said it all.
I stood. “You know what, Soren? I’m actually not going to be able to do Ms. Brady’s job anyway.”
The one thing I knew about Soren was that he cared about me more than any retainer.
He nodded. “No problem, babe. Why don’t you head out, and we’ll talk tomorrow. Got plenty of other work for you to do.”
“Thanks.” I smiled and didn’t give Caroline Brady the satisfaction of a last glance on my way out.
I was deep in thought as I drove toward the Whitestone Bridge. There was a time when I’d actually gotten off on the work I did for Soren. My own messed-up relationship had taken such a toll on me that I needed a few years of screwing asshole men over. Every time Leo snapped the camera, I envisioned it was me getting the proof and screwing over my ex, Tobias. Oddly, setting up cheaters for their wives was cathartic for me—and a hell of a lot cheaper than a therapist.
At the last second, right before turning onto the bridge to go home, I made a rash decision. The horns blaring as I cut across two lanes of traffic to evade the entrance ramp showed just how last minute my decision had been.
I was done working for Soren, at least in the capacity that I was currently employed. When I’d first started working for him, he had wanted me to do computer work, anyway. I was certain there were enough other things that needed to be done to keep me busy. But before I took that path, before I sat down and talked to Soren, I needed to give what I really wanted one last try.
Pulling an illegal U-turn, I headed back uptown—back toward Hollis LaCroix’s office. It was late; he might not be there anymore. But I also had a picture of his driver’s license in my cell phone, and I wasn’t above using it.
