Bryce: Ex-Business: An Ex-Club Romance Read online

  “Yes, yes,” Smith says as he continues to inspect each photo. “At least there’s something to be said for a cheap date.”

  “So what do you think, maestro?” I ask Smith, curious about his opinion on the spread.

  I’m sure the venerable Anna Wintour of Vogue magazine would have something to say about how much I delegate to my underlings, but this magazine has never played by the rules.

  Smith rises up from the backlit table a little too quickly and instantly regrets it. He closes his eyes and a worrisome gurgle seems to form in the back of his throat.

  “Ugh, remind me to take it easy with the Jägerbombs next time.”

  Lucien chuckles behind him.

  After a deep breath, Smith proceeds. “Top notch as always, Lucien. I would be jealous if I wasn’t making a living off this magazine.”

  “I’ll take that as the compliment it’s intended to be,” Lucien says, pushing away from the wall. “And, my work here is done, folks.”

  “Whereas mine is just beginning,” Smith says with a sigh. “So much for my weekend.”

  “All the better to recover from last night,” I tease. “I’ll be here for a while if you need a bourbon break.”

  He looks at me as though I just suggested he swallow bleach mixed with dog shit. I’m pretty sure he’s about to expel all those Jägerbomb shots from last night. And here I thought the Brits were so much better than us at holding their booze.

  “Just…go. Both of you.” He waves us off as though we’re two troublesome teenagers up to no good while he works.

  “I’ll take you up on one of those bourbons before I head out,” Lucien says, following me.

  We head to my office that has a decent bird's-eye view of Madison Avenue from the floor on which the Ideal Gentlemen offices are situated.

  I pour us both a drink and hand one to him as he takes a seat in a chair on the other side of my desk.

  “So what party is it you’ll be photographing this weekend?” I ask.

  Lucien dismissively waves a hand in the air. “I’m trying to give up that scene. Tonight, I’m snapping a few shots for a local protest in Brooklyn for the New York Times. Actually, heads-up, Condé Nast Traveler asked me to do a shoot in Vietnam in a couple of weeks. So I’ll be out of commission for a while.”

  “That’s what I call the life,” I say, lifting my glass toward him. “I should have passed on college and business school like you. Of course, dear pa-pah would have never let me live to see the end of it, let alone the beginning.”

  Lucien’s only visible reaction is a slight hardening in his blue gaze as he stares past me out the window, a subtle tic in his jaw. I should have known using any synonym of the word “father” (quotes intended) would lead to such a reaction from him. He smoothes his expression over with a sip of his bourbon. After swallowing, he’s back to his easy-go-lucky self again.

  “Speaking of beginnings and endings, you never would have had that amazing night with the lovely Edie Hartman if you hadn’t gone to college then business school.”

  Touché.

  “I actually managed to get a giggle out of her this morning,” I say with an amused grin.

  “A giggle? Next thing you know she’ll be throwing her panties at you,” he teases.

  “It’s more fun this way. There’s something to be said for savoring the hunt,” I muse, leaning back in my chair to consider that.

  Obviously, I’d love a repeat of that night over seven years ago. But slowly melting her defenses is a part of my day that I enjoy too much to give up so soon. When she finally caves—and make no bones about it, she will—I want her crawling back for more this time rather than running away like a scared rabbit.

  I still have no idea what happened the first time. As I recall, we both enjoyed it. I’m pretty sure I still have the faint scratch marks on my back to prove it.

  It isn’t as though I haven’t generously filled the time in between with plenty of flings, one-night stands, and even a sprinkling of bona fide relationships.

  But there’s just something about Edie….

  “Wow, you really do have it bad, don’t you?” I turn to find Lucien studying me with a growing smile. “And all when you have such a way with the ladies. I’m pretty sure that bartender last night would have given you her drink pouring arm if you’d asked.”

  “Never underestimate the desirability of the one that got away, my friend,” I reply.

  “Well, she did move in right across the hall from you, so perhaps it’s not as one-sided as you think.”

  I laugh. “She moved in for the same reason I did. Kitty Edelman lives there. Everyone knows she has Daddy wrapped around her little finger. I’ve run into her only a few times but made sure to turn on the charm. Hopefully enough to ensure the longevity of Ideal Gentlemen for years to come.”

  Ideal Gentlemen being bought out by Conniver Media seemed like a godsend at the time. I sure as hell couldn’t have relied on the Wilmington family fortune, as vast as it is, to get the magazine to the place where it is now. Dad made it perfectly clear how he felt about my “little lark into the absurd.”

  Lucien’s face gets serious for a moment. “So with this new owner, is all that talk from Ruben Bakker about letting go of holdings like our magazine no longer a concern?”

  Ruben Bakker was the former majority owner of Conniver Media. He conveniently sold it prior to his extremely scandalous fall from grace and subsequent incarceration a while back after a suspicious murder during a hunting trip in Africa. Before then, he had made noise about getting rid of any Conniver holdings that weren’t related to finance or news. The new owner, David Edelman, made it clear that none of the publications had to worry about that nonsense anymore.

  “As far as I know,” I turn to him with a scrutinizing gaze. “Why? What have you heard?”

  His career allows him to get around in various circles, both low and high, all while being something akin to a fly on the wall. Which means he’s far more tuned into industry gossip.

  He sips his bourbon and shrugs. “Just some hush-hush mutterings about shareholders and the bottom line. Nothing specific. But Edelman has always been shrewd about what he lets slip and what he doesn’t.”

  Mutterings are where it all begins. Anyone in the media world knows that where there’s smoke, there’s fire.

  And my ass is about to be lit up.

  “Don’t listen to me,” Lucien quickly says with a laugh.

  Easy enough for him to say. His passion project of photography, nurtured from an adolescent dream into reality, isn’t the one that’s on the line.

  “Seriously, Bryce,” Lucien says, leaning forward to give me a piercing stare. “Even if it’s true, the magazine is profitable. It’ll be rocky at first, but you’ll be able to stand on your own if the shit hits the fan.”

  “Rocky is the understatement of the year. We were only able to expand because of the Conniver coffers supporting us. Once that goes it means finding a financial bridge to tide us over until we can recover.”

  “Like I said, it’s just mutterings. At least wait for the hammer to fall before you panic.”

  “I’d rather panic before it falls,” I say, already thinking of my options if it should come to that.

  Just in case.

  “You’ll be fine,” Lucien says.

  “Hmm,” I say in a distracted way.

  “I guess I’ll leave you to it?” He says, placing his empty glass on my desk. “Looks like I’ve already fucked up your weekend.”

  I snap out of my thoughts and give him a mild smile. “Sorry. I just—”

  “No, I get it.” He laughs. “Come Monday, when you’ve had the weekend to stop worrying over nonsense, feel free to hand me my ass.”

  “If I end up having to hand you your ass, I’ll happily kiss it first.”

  “There’s an image I didn’t need,” he says with a grin as he exits.

  I watch him go, then quickly return to my troubled thoughts after he closes the door beh
ind him.

  The writing on the wall is already there. The only question is, when will the hammer follow it?

  Turns, out, I only had to wait until the end of the workday.

  That’s when it comes crashing down.

  Chapter Five

  Edie

  Private and Confidential:

  In the coming weeks, Conniver Media will be evaluating its holdings as part of a standard fiscal audit. A review will be made into the revenues, operating costs, and brand value of each Conniver publication. Consider this nothing more than a practical procedural action. Conniver would like to stress that this is a routine audit.

  Every publication should continue normal operations as usual. In the coming weeks, more information will be provided with regard to any decisions Conniver Media has come to.

  If bad things come in threes, I suspect that the third and final bit of bad news that hits me today will be of apocalyptic proportions.

  Because this day isn’t quite shitty enough.

  First, Reggie’s happy news this morning, and now this.

  I re-read the message again. By now, the inside of my bottom lip has been nibbled raw.

  Standard fiscal audit, my ass.

  Of course the Conniver corporate offices sent this email—to editors-in-chief only—on a Friday after the closing bell of the stock market. Give the shareholders of Conniver media a chance to cool their heads before a sell-off happens.

  Despite the legalese after the message threatening everything up to and including one’s firstborn child if any part of the message should get out, they are definitely expecting at least one of the editors to leak this to the press or public. That’s if the head office hasn’t “accidentally” done so already.

  I fall back into my chair with a heavy sigh.

  At least this has me pushing that business with Reggie firmly out of my head. I want to laugh, if not cry, at the fact that this morning his news seemed like the end of the world.

  Now my world has officially come tumbling down.

  It was the same pendulum of death that hung over our magazine when that asshole Reuben Bakker was in charge and threatened to get rid of all the “fluff.” Contempo Woman was definitely on the chopping block back then. Despite my best efforts, we are the very definition of fluff. We definitely sell more magazines when the headlines on the cover are particularly suggestive.

  “Rickle his dickle,” I mutter to myself, then laugh long enough to somehow make myself feel even worse.

  When David Edelman took over Conniver, he promised an end to any threat of dissolution. By his very own statement, all magazines would remain for the foreseeable future.

  As it turns out that future was foreseeable only up to a couple of months.

  The only good thing about it being Friday is that I instituted a policy that unless a project was truly urgent, all non-managerial staff gets to leave by three o’clock. Having worked in the trenches back in college was good for something. That, plenty of free food, decent pay, and impromptu office parties have been enough to keep everyone motivated. So far, it seems to have worked.

  And now this.

  It doesn’t take long for the first of the editor team to come storming into my office.

  “What is this news from Conniver?” Nicole asks, looking like she has already lost her job. “Isabel over at Obsessed says Conniver is cutting out nonprofitable magazines. How profitable are we?”

  So much for confidentiality.

  “We’re fine,” I say in as reassuring a tone as possible. I wave her to the seat across from me since she seems to be threatening to faint any moment now.

  “Are we?” she asks, studying me hard.

  “We are.”

  Sort of.

  Not really.

  I see Veronica through the glass walls of my office speed walking toward my door. When she enters, the questions are written all over her face.

  Good grief. I knew this industry had a supersonic rumor mill but this is ridiculous.

  “Okay, before you ask,” I say, holding up a hand. “Obviously, we need to have a meeting. I want you both to gather anyone in a managerial position who is still here and meet me in the boardroom. Not via email or phone message! This is still supposed to be confidential.”

  They stare at me a moment longer, then quickly nod and leave.

  Time to rally the troops.

  It’s well after nine o’clock by the time I’ve finished calming fears, holding hands, and rah-rah’ing my way through one of the worst meetings of my life.

  By the time everyone made it to the boardroom, they all knew. The game of telephone they had played while getting there had them imagining the worst.

  Unfortunately, the truth, at least with regard to Contempo Woman, wasn’t too far off the worst rumors.

  We’re bleeding money.

  Magazine’s like ours, which used to cater to the most prurient and shallow interests of the average woman, have been replaced by everyone with an iPhone branding themselves on Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, TikTok, or whatever the latest app is. When anyone with a pulse and a pretty face can be an “authority” simply by virtue of having a following, why pay for a magazine?

  The dust has been somewhat settled and Ben & Jerry are calling to me as I ride the elevator up to my apartment. I need to drown myself in some Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.

  I exit the elevator and drag myself toward my door, like some desperate cartoon character heading toward a mirage in the desert.

  I’ve just fit the key into the lock when I hear Bryce’s door open behind me.

  Dammit!

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn around with a perfunctory smile.

  He’s leaning in his doorway dressed in a semi-fitted t-shirt and pajama bottoms. How the hell does he look so sexy in literally everything?

  “No need to sugarcoat it for my sake,” he says, noting how tight my smile is. “We both got the bad news today.”

  “Contempo will be fine,” I say a little too quickly.

  A sympathetic smile hitches up the right side of his mouth. “Yeah, so will all the other magazines left to sink or swim on their own in this shark-infested industry.”

  I exhale and fall back against my door. “If you’re just going to gloat, then—”

  “No gloating,” he says, the smile disappearing.

  “Then what?” I ask suspiciously.

  “A drink?”

  Something that sounds even more appealing than cookie dough and vanilla ice cream right now.

  “I picked up a bottle of your favorite on the way home, just in case. Hennessy VSOP?” His grin comes back, definitely tinged with wickedness.

  I twist my lips and roll my eyes off to the side. But I don’t immediately say no.

  “Come on, Edie. Let’s go down with the ship together in style.”

  I consider that for exactly half a second in my head. It takes me longer to actually say anything out loud.

  He has a point after all. We’re both screwed if that enigmatic email is as foreboding as it seems. Why not drown our sorrows together?

  “Okay, but only one drink,” I warn.

  As I cross the threshold into his apartment, I note the gleam in his eye.

  That’s when it hits me.

  One drink is exactly how it started the first time.

  Chapter Six

  Bryce

  I can’t help the devilish grin that comes to my face as I watch Edie enter my apartment. Last time I offered her a drink, it took almost twenty minutes to get her to say yes.

  After that worrisome email from Conniver, I spent a few hours in the gym I had installed at Ideal Gentlemen for my staff. I doubt those hours sweating it out on the treadmill and rowing machine, followed by a long shower, will be nearly as therapeutic as a drink with Edie.

  She walks into my apartment, looking around since she hasn’t seen it before. I see that she’s in the same pantsuit she had on this morning. Perhaps I should have waited for
her to change into something more comfortable. Maybe that silk blue robe she had on this morning. That was definitely something that could get any man’s juices flowing.

  “This is much nicer than I expected,” she says with something akin to surprise as she takes in the decor.

  I have to admit it is nice. 1960’s retro meets modern-day James Bond. Masculine, yet tasteful enough to lure in the unsuspecting conquest.

  “The hard work of a decorator friend who took issue with the bachelor pad she woke up to after the beer goggles from the night before wore off,” I say with a grin.

  Edie spins around to face me and narrows her gaze. “If you think anything is happening tonight beyond a drink, prepare to be disappointed.”

  “Disappointed? With you, Edie? Never.”

  Her lips purse into a sardonic twist.

  “Have a seat,” I say, nodding toward the couch.

  She stares at it like it’s the guillotine.

  I laugh and shake my head as I walk toward the bar. “It doesn’t bite, Edie. Neither do I,” I turn to give her one more devilish grin. “Unless you want me to?”

  She exhales with exasperation but walks over to settle down on the couch, removing her heels as she does. She shrugs out of her jacket and drapes it over the arm of the couch.

  There’s one article of clothing off already.

  So far my batting average tonight puts the one from business school to shame.

  Being a man of simple tastes, I pour a Jim Beam for myself to join her Hennessy. I walk both over to the couch and make sure to sit a safe distance away from Edie as I hand her glass to her. There will be plenty of time to close the gap as the night continues.

  “Here’s to the band playing on,” I say, lifting my glass toward her.

  “Could we toast to something a bit less pessimistic?”

  “Here’s to hopefully having enough lifeboats? Or perhaps just a floating door with enough room for the both of us,” I smile and lean in just a bit, “even if it means we have to snuggle in closer and use our own body heat to survive.”