Page 4 of Troy
“Hell yeah, with this new line coming out, and then the women’s clothing line too, we want to have autonomy on who gets the photographs, and I’ve got another, new model coming in to see us, too. I think he will be good for us, an ex-motorcycle racer who has been through a shit storm lately, but that’s all over now. You know who I’m talking it about but it’s under wraps for now, so there’s no announcements for him yet.”
“Really?” Ryan’s eyebrows shoot right up; he knows exactly who I’m taking about. I never would have thought of him as a model, but shit, he’s a good-looking bastard. “Isn’t he straight?”
“There’s been too much press distortion on him lately that it’s not sure. I don’t give a shit either way, as long as we have him here. Anyway, I’ll see if I can get Raff out today or tomorrow. The redeye may still have spaces.”
“That sounds good to me. Anyway, I’m off to kick my husband’s ass.” Ryan smiles.
“Did you say kick or kiss his ass?” I reply dryly, raising an eyebrow at him.
“Either works for me, as long as he comes to apologize to you.” Ryan winks and moves back to the door, “Sorry you’re hurting, Troy, it will all work out. Trust me, I’m a great believer in happy endings.”
Searching flight times for Rafferty ‘Raff’ McMahon, I contemplate the wild card. Although a genius at his work, his temper has lost him jobs and gained him a reputation, but he has the perfect image for our branding. One of Nico’s friends married a fashion designer who oversees our entire clothing range. We have built a young, fresh team and let’s hope Raff keeps his temper in check and play nice with us. Nico’s temper has been known to flare up if things aren’t to his liking.
When I see the available flights, I call his cell; let’s see how keen he is. The phone only rings once.
“McMahon.” The gruff and fucking sexy voice barks his greeting.
“Hi, Raff, it’s Troy Ballantyne from De’ath of You again. I’ve been checking out the flights to us. Are you available to talk now?” I can feel my face heating up, why the hell am I blushing?
“Yeah, I’ve got a few minutes I can spare. But there’s no point in booking a flight, I’ll be driving.” Again, the deep timbre of his voice sends shivers down my spine.
“That’s one hell of a long drive; we would be picking up the cost of the ticket, if that makes it easier. I’ve just been discussing you with Mr. Connelly, Nico’s manager, and he is looking forward to speaking with you.”
“I carry a load of equipment I’m not prepared to put in the hold of an airplane. It shouldn’t take me more than a few days to reach you.” His words are clipped, his voice curt.
“Fine, keep me informed of your arrival and I will arrange accommodation for you.” I don’t know what it is about this guy but, after our earlier conversation, I thought he’d be jumping on the first plane out here. His response rubs me the wrong way; his lack of enthusiasm has me doubting whether he will fit in with us after all. Without saying anything else, I end the call and, sitting back in my chair, stare through the glass wall into the gym. Nico spots for one of the members, still scowling. It pisses me off; I am the one whose boyfriend ended it, not Nico. Logan was wrong to simply walk out and, if I’m honest with myself, I’m disappointed with his lack of loyalty to the company.
I ponder Raff McMahon and his distinct lack of enthusiasm, almost like he is doing us the favor by meeting with us. But why, after one conversation—and not even a good one—do I want to search the web for any pictures and information on him? The slightly scruffy haired but well-groomed, bearded man has me intrigued. The photographs of him, his long, reddish hair tied back by what resembles a piece of leather, show off his square jaw and chiseled features, making him look hard and rugged. But the photograph that has me captivated, catching him unawares, unveils a big, cheesy, oh-so-happy smile—bright green eyes sparkling with mischief and humor. This image makes my stomach clench as a grin appears on my face.
The rest of the day is wasted on Google, Instagram and Tumblr. No one has made me feel like this since… well, shit! Since Franco. The realization freezes my heart as the pictures in my mind cloud over: Franco. Fuck! I miss that part of me every fucking day. I still want to tell him the news of my day, the trials and tribulations.
At the wedding of his dearest friend, a day filled with so much love and laughter, I felt so alone. Even in the throng I was alone, the one person I wanted to share this with having left me behind. The man who was supposed to be my husband, the man who still had a hold of my soul, regardless of how far away he was from me.
I return to look at, and read about, Rafferty McMahon: he is not my type. Tattoos and man-buns and cigarettes have never been my thing. He has a reputation of being a stubborn, fractious man, with drunken antics and has several fights under his belt but his pictures are a dream. Plus, it’s hardly professional. I’m not going to crush over a guy I haven’t even met yet. Hell, he sounds like a complete dick; I’ll probably hate him, as I do his attitude. But I’m surprised when I am unable to find any information on his earlier years, no family and no photographs from before he started college. This I do find intriguing.
Fuck! I glance around the waiting area to see if anyone is observing me but there’s only a young couple sitting in the corner, appearing terrified, and a guy with a bright blue Mohawk who is decidedly embarrassed. The waiting area of an STD clinic is so not the place I want to talk to one of my potential new bosses. Most certainly not one with the sexiest voice I’ve heard in a long time. Especially not now I’ve seen photographs of Troy Ballantyne and know how fucking hot he is! Too old to be called a twink but with his tall, lithe, muscular body, topped with almost platinum blond hair, mixed together with a voice that makes my dick twitch and swell; hell yeah, I would love to get my hands on him.
Seems like that’s never going to happen after the way I behaved earlier on. Maybe I should call him back and apologize? As I reach for my cell phone, my name is called and a matronly woman stands behind the reception desk, grasping an envelope.
Taking the stiff paper, I mumble my thanks then get the fuck out of there. Folding the envelope in half, I shove it in my back pocket and make my way to the parking lot for my car. My cell phone buzzes in my other back pocket and, dragging it out, I find a text message from Mr. Sex-on-legs Ballantyne.
Meeting arranged for Friday 9am
@ De’ath of You HQ,
Map and list of hotels attached.
Ballantyne
Okay, I really did blow it! Starting the engine, I pull the results out of my pocket and rip the envelope open. Still all clear!
Troy’s image fills my mind again along with how I fucked up that conversation. He’s going to think I’m a complete asshat, never mind like me. What am I even thinking? Why on earth would he be interested in me: a scruffy, long-haired, tatted smoker. Not really his type—part owner of the hottest gym chain, and now clothing line, and so damn good-looking—he won’t look twice at someone like me. Twirling my phone, I try to muster the courage to message Troy to find out.
Fuck it, no! I’ll pack for a week that includes traveling, making sure I pack a suit for the meeting; I need to look respectable, employable, and confident. Shit, I’m starting to freak out. Taking a deep breath, I gather my shit together and calm down. This is make or break time for me: I won’t get many opportunities like this again, if ever.
My bags are packed, the equipment already loaded into my truck, and I’m about to set off. With one more glance around the apartment, I whistle for Boss, my loyal companion and another reason not to fly. I hear the clatter of his toes as he moseys down the hallway to me, tail wagging and eyes bright with excitement.
“Ready for a road trip, Boss-man?” I attach his leash and we head out of the apartment and down to the truck.