Chapter 3: Taming Mr. Walker: Chapter 3

Charlie

“Thanks for being my date, Cat.”

We examine our handiwork in the mirror.

I’m wearing a black top with a killer low back that doesn’t allow for a bra. It’s paired with tight black jeans that hug my ass. My face is painted with red lips and smokey eyes, and my dark brown hair cascades down my back in layers.

I look good, and I know it.

This is the most effort I’ve put in since Ben and I started dating, and he’s not even here to see it. I couldn’t ask him to be my date after the milkmaid saga. We needed some time to cool off.

“Like a femme fatale.” From behind us, Stevie blows a slow dirty wolf whistle. “You polish up well, Miss Kane.”

“Thanks,” I grudgingly reply. Stevie isn’t one for compliments, so I’ll take it.

“I feel sorry for the poor bugger that’ll chat you up tonight, though,” he continues, “once he finds out you give terrible hand jobs.”

There he is.

I whip my head around to glare at him. “I do not give bad hand jobs! And will you stop talking to Ben? You’re not even friends. You’re supposed to be my friend, not his.”

“Stevie!” Cat gasps. “Don’t be hard on Charlie. Ben should guide her better rather than go mouthing to you. How will she improve otherwise?”

“Can we stop!” I hiss. “That is not the reason we are having problems.”

They nod at me, smiling.

“My hand jobs are so good I could be a professional prostitute!” I yell in their faces. How dare they.

I rummage in my bag for my phone. Tristan texted the address of the party. No doubt it’ll be one of London’s most pretentious bars.

It’s Saturday night and my big brother Tristan’s fortieth birthday. Sometimes I wondered if he was switched at birth, snatched from his real parents who are politicians, royalty, or Nobel Prize winners, and given to the Kane clan.

This would explain how he became not only one of the most powerful lawyers in London, but the managing partner of a prestigious law firm in the city. By the time he hit my age, he was absolutely loaded. High-profile international cases have elevated him to minor celebrity status and pin-up guy.

He’s got a townhouse in exclusive W8, one of Britain’s most expensive postcodes, holiday homes in four other countries, and if the rumours are true, a new woman every night of the week. Apparently, representing clients in the International Criminal Court is quite the turn-on.

A fact I didn’t need to know.

The reason I’ve put so much effort into tonight isn’t Tristan turning forty.

Or why my stomach is doing somersaults.

No, that is because of Tristan’s best friend.

Danny Walker, financial tech tycoon, self-made multimillionaire, and my arch nemesis.

Tristan’s right-hand man. They met at university, both penniless and hungry for success, and carved out their fortunes together.

Both were from new wealth, which is one of the reasons why they had so much in common. It made them all the more exciting to women. They had the roughness of men from the council estates done well. Julie said they looked like dirty sex.

The Nexus Group, the fastest growing I.T. company in Europe with a dominant presence in Asia and the States.

Enterprise resource planning, accounting, sales, supply chain, content management—it wasn’t the sexiest of software, but with Danny Walker owning the majority shares, it made him a very rich, powerful man and that was sexy.

His aggression in business won him consistent headlines and cringe-worthy nicknames like ‘Dirty Danny’ and ‘Danny the Destroyer.’ My favourite circling social media is ‘Wanker Walker.’

Social gatherings with Danny Walker fill me with dread. It stems back to when I was twenty and drunk out of my mind at one of Tristan’s house parties. Tristan had naively allowed Cat and me to attend, so we started drinking cider on the train there to get us in the mood.

That night I made a critical judgment in error. I misread Danny Walker’s attempt at conversation as flirting.

When he asked me what I planned to do after university, my natural instinct was to climb onto his knee, wrap my legs around his waist, and dry hump the hell out of him.

My memory of that night is sketchy, but I do recall that he outright rejected me. That part has been imprinted in my brain ever since.

I remember him snapping at me to get off him like he thought I was a stupid, irrelevant college student. He wasn’t far off the mark.

The next morning, I woke up hanging off the sofa in Tristan’s apartment, with Tristan yelling at me. Danny was nowhere in sight.

Thinking that Danny Walker would ever be interested in me was the most naïve mistake I’ve ever made.

I can only blame the booze and that it was my first time tasting oysters. I rammed those suckers into me, not realising they were making me as horny as a bonobo in the jungle.

It’s Tristan’s fault, really, for providing oysters.

The guy has barely smiled at me since, but that’s fine because eight years later, I still can’t look at him without going scarlet.

To this day, I can hardly keep up with what he’s saying. As he discusses IPOs and other acronyms and jargon with Tristan, I have to pretend I’m not looking them up online. It means Initial Public Offering, for reference.

My contribution to the conversation is nodding repeatedly like a pigeon.

“So, where is it?” Cat peers over my shoulder. “Kensington? This is definitely a free bar, right?”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes. “Tristan always puts his hands in his pockets.”

“Let’s have one for the road so I have the guts to mingle with all these city suits.”

“OK, just one,” I warn. “You know you’re a lightweight. I’m not propping you up all night.”

One wine each transitions into finishing the bottle.

I become more sophisticated after a bottle of wine, slimmer too, I think as I pass the mirror on the way out.

Ten minutes later, we’re in the taxi and I realise that polishing a bottle of wine off was a big mistake.

Big.

Huge.

Cat is a bad passenger sober, never mind after guzzling a litre of cheap corner shop wine.

The taxi driver has met people like Cat before. An intimidating ‘spew and I’ll sue’ sign glares at us from the back of his seat.

In a matter of minutes, she turns to me, eyes bulging. I see quick swallow movements in her throat. Then a silent spray of vomit splatters on my feet.

I stare dismayed between my feet and the sign. Having already gotten some on her seat, we can’t ask the driver to stop, or he might see it and sue us. I would be guilty by association. Luckily, he hasn’t noticed yet.

“Do it quietly,” I whisper.

To her credit, she is a quiet vomiter, despite the violent heaving of her shoulders. A pool of yellow liquid builds up on the floor around our shoes, and I pray that the driver doesn’t turn around.

I babble on, having a monologue with myself that doesn’t require answers from Cat, to distract him from the retching sounds.

As we drive around Hyde Park, the vomiting thankfully subsides.

We come to a halt outside a very lavish bar. I spot some of Tristan’s friends mingling outside.

“Are you done?” I grit out, facing her.

Her lips wriggle but she doesn’t respond. She swings the taxi door open aggressively, narrowly missing a passing car.

“Bloody hell, Cat!” I hiss, clambering out of the taxi.

“I’m so sorry, sir!” I say to the driver, chucking a few twenty-pound notes through the window to cover the cleaning.

Cat runs around to meet me on the pavement, then opens her mouth and ejects the dirtiest, loudest and most offensive burp I’ve ever heard.

I put my hands to my mouth in shock.

Friends of Tristan stop talking abruptly and spin their heads around.

“Jesus, Cat,” I snarl at her. “Talk about making an entrance.”

“I’m sorry,” she wails, eyes wide. “It wouldn’t stay in.”

“Are you done now?” I bark.

She nods her head meekly. “That’s the last of it.”

“Never again,” I mutter, regretting my date selection.

She looks up at the bar, ignoring Tristan’s friends still eyeballing us, and lets out a slow whistle. “Champagne it is then.”

The bar is as prestigious as they come. Two beautiful hostesses stand at the door with clipboards, their sole purpose in life to make me feel inadequate and unworthy of entry. Four burly bouncers surround them, looking suspiciously at us.

It looks like one of Tristan’s private member clubs. He must have rented out the entire bar for the evening.

The largest bouncer puts his hand out to block us as we ascend the steps. “Sorry, we have a certain type of clientele here. Ones that do not belch at the door.”

“This is my brother’s party,” I retort, trying to look dignified. “My name’s Charlie, and my brother has paid a small fortune for this venue, so let us in.”

One of the clipboard chicks flicks through the list then looks up at us in disappointment.

“Fine,” she snaps. “But keep her under control.” She wiggles a finger in disgust at Cat.

Cat pouts. “I’m actually a teacher in a very prestigious school in Highgate.”

“Lady, I don’t care if you’re a teacher in Buckingham Palace.” The bouncer shakes his head. “I’ve met builders with better manners than you.”

I couldn’t argue with that.

“Just come on.” I hoist her up the last step, and clipboard chick #2 reluctantly leads us through the velvet curtains into a haven of London’s richest and finest.

***

Tristan’s parties are sex immortalized. This one is no exception. It’s a menagerie of beautiful people dripping in designer labels, sipping decadent cocktails while discussing how rich and successful they are.

It’s true what they say, money attracts beauty. It is difficult to tell who is naturally pretty and who has plastic. I mean, what are the chances that out of one hundred women, every single one has big breasts and full plump lips?

With their tailored suits and extravagant accessories, the men are equally lavish creatures, trying to prove they have the biggest dick through their watches, cufflinks, and anything else that will inform their fellow partygoers of their net worth.

It’s bottomless free drinks on tap. We are handed a Bellini at the door. Every table is stocked with bottles of Moët champagne and Belvedere Vodka. I better keep an eye on Cat.

These parties would be so fun except for two invitees—one, Danny Walker, and two, my Irish mother. Being the model son, Tristan invites my mother to every birthday party. It’s equally sweet and cringeworthy. He doesn’t want her to feel left out.

It’s been a hang-up of his ever since Dad disgraced us to go running back to the Republic of Ireland into the arms of another woman, leaving us with a load of debt. For the first time in Mum’s life, she had to work out how to pay the mortgage and bills. She was a woman scorned; still, to this day, we cannot talk about the adulterer in her presence.

We’ve had sporadic contact with him, the occasional birthday card or drunken Christmas call or, in Tristan’s case, a plea for a loan of cash that will never be returned.

I glance over to the corner of the bar and see the perfect storm for humiliation. Tristan, Danny, their friend Jack Knight, and a waif-like blonde bombshell are talking to Mum.

Mum is dressed like she’s at a 90’s wedding. Big hair, big shoulder pads, and talking at a hundred miles an hour.

Danny listens, oblivious to the women circling, falling over themselves to be noticed.

Asshole.

Hot as hell, drop-your-pants gorgeous asshole but still an asshole.

At 6’4, he’s taller and broader than anyone else in the room, even Tristan, who’s a close second. His thick biceps are folded over his wide-set chest, the white shirt straining under the pressure of muscles, and his chunky legs are spread in a manly pose. He is a massive Adonis of a man, the opposite of what a tech tycoon should look like. Thick black hair, sharp square jawline, the roman nose that I want to punch, and full luscious lips.

What chance did I have?

All that beauty wasted on such a moody obnoxious prick.

Cat visibly wilts beside me. “The level of testosterone in that corner should be illegal. How are we supposed to function as women with that sausage fest? I’d definitely be the stuffing in a Tristan-Danny-Jack sandwich.”

“Can you not include my brother in your sick fantasies, please?” I narrow my eyes at her.

“You have to admit it, they are so damn masculine,” she gushes. “Men’s men. Not just pretty faces either, all dripping in cash. How come we aren’t that lucky?”

I roll my eyes. “It’s hardly luck, Cat.”

“I suppose I’ve chosen a vocation over cash,” she muses like she’s a martyr. She looks down at her phone and starts typing. “Danny Walker, CEO, and founder of tech giant The Nexus Group, estimated net worth £700 million. In recent years, Danny has become known for his aggressive acquisitions in an attempt to monopolise the UK tech industry.”

I dig her in the ribs. “Can you stop stalking him online? Tristan’s friends are milling around us!”

“It gets more interesting.” She ignores me. “The court case between Danny Walker and a previous employee, Sam Lynden, has finally concluded. It was confirmed that Sam Lynden received a significant financial pay-out after accusing Mr. Walker of physical assault.”

“He has a temper,” she swoons. “Dangerous.” She clicks on the images. “Wow. He has been with a lot of hot women.”

I snap the phone from her hands.

“Charlie! Over here!” I suck in through my teeth at the voice. Mum has spotted us and is frantically waving us over.

Tristan beams at me, beckoning us over, and I give a little wave.

I lock eyes with Danny. He stops abruptly in his conversation with Jack.

Oh, God, those eyes.

My stomach does a somersault. The brown penetrating eyes bore into me, cruising my figure before landing back on my face.

His eyebrows join in a deep frown as if even the sight of me displeases him. Where did he acquire this inane ability to make me feel inadequate?

“Charlie!” Mum yells, waving her arms wildly. Several people turn to look at her strangely.

“Yes!” I mouth back. What’s the woman doing? I can clearly see her, yet she’s causing a massive commotion.

“Let’s do this,” I mutter to Cat, who needs no invitation to go over.

“Hi, all.” I flash a forced smile at the group as I lean in to kiss Tristan. “Happy birthday, old boy.”

He sweeps me up for a hug.

“Hi Mum,” I greet her.

She leans in for an air kiss on each cheek; that’s her thing at these parties.

Jack, the most charismatic of Tristan’s friends, pulls me in for a hug. “The stunning Charlie, always a pleasure to see you.”

Tristan jolts him as Jack shoots me a grin that could melt my pants off. “Behave, Jack. Sister. Off-limits.”

I flick a sideways glance at Danny to find he’s observing me warily. Like I might be mildly contagious. The flashbacks hit me.

I climb onto his knee and wrap my legs around him.

“Danny,” I choke out.

“Charlie,” he responds in his low Scottish drawl. He stiffens as he calculates whether he has to hug me.

That voice. Why does it make me think of sex? My name rolling off his tongue makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

I hate how he affects me. I must have a disorder. Asshole Arousal Disorder where I’m only interested in men who ignore me.

I grind my body against his thighs.

Stop it!

I snap out of it.

“You’ve all met Cat before.” When I turn around, I see her smiling like a simpleton and doing the little jig she does when she’s nervous.

“Hiya,” she says in a high pitch.

Tristan clears his throat and looks at Danny pointedly, who is ruffling his hands through his hair like he’s agitated.

“Charlie, Cat, this is Jen.” Tristan places his arm on the blonde stunner’s back.

She has poker-straight long blond hair and is super skinny with beach balls stuck to her chest. Just the type my brother likes.

“Hi, Jen.” I smile.

“Hi, Charlie, Cat.” Jen leans in for a kiss. “It’s great to meet the little sister!”

I stiffen. I’m not her little sister. She looks five years older than me, max, not qualified to be talking like my new stepmom.

“Jen is a human-rights lawyer,” Mum announces, clearly a fan.

“I don’t like talking about it too much, but yes, I’m the youngest human rights lawyer in London.” Jen flutters her eyes around the group. Satisfied with the murmurs of approval, she moves on. “What do you do, Charlie?”

“I.T. Support.” My lips curl in a permanent fake smile, knowing she’s only asking because it’s never going to be as good as the youngest bloody human rights lawyer in London.

“That’s wonderful.” She clasps her hand to her chest as if I’ve just revealed I’m a heart surgeon. “Turn it off and turn it on again!”

“At your service.”

Pathetic.

“The I.T. Support people in our company are rubbish,” she adds unnecessarily. “I’m sure you’re much better, though.” She stares at me like she doesn’t believe that for a second.

“Right.” I give her a death stare.

“Oh.” She places a well-manicured hand on Danny’s bicep. “Danny could get you a job at Nexus! I’m sure he could find you a job doing something.”

“No, that’s fine, I’m not looking,” I fire back quickly as Danny stiffens. Not a hope in hell would I beg that cut-throat, ruthless, all-round bastard for a job.

Aside from the obvious shame of trying to maul him, the other glaring issue is that he will never hire me. I’m not the ‘Nexus calibre.’

I need to move off this topic. “Cat’s a drama teacher in Highgate. Since we’re going through our CVs.”

“That’s right,” Cat cuts in, looking at Tristan intently. “Mine’s a vocation rather than a career.”

“How lovely. I live in Highgate,” Jen says. “Got a little maisonette there. Bought it a few years ago. The garden is small, but it has a little summer house I can use as an office, and the view of the heath is nice from the balcony.”

I watch her as she talks about what is definitely a multi-million-pound house like it’s a cute cottage. “It sounds very … quaint.”

“Charlie and Cat live the bachelorette life in Kentish Town.” Tristan’s eyes wrinkle in amusement. “Party girls. Although you rarely come to my parties anymore unless I force you.”

That’s because I tried to dry hump your hot best mate.

“Kentish Town?” Jen looks at me as if I’ve just been released from a maximum-security prison. “I guess property prices are lower there, since it’s up and coming!”

“We’re renting,” I mutter.

She has a mortgage, and what do I have? Mice.

“Charlie knows I’ll help her out when she wants to buy,” Tristan jumps in, overcompensating in case they thought he was a tight git, with his poor penniless sister living in squalor.

“No,” I fire back in dismay at my charity case persona. “When I buy, I’ll do it myself.”

We are not broaching this topic here. Tristan is forever trying to give me free money.

“How long have you been dating Tristan?” I ask Jen politely. I don’t like this girl so I’m hoping it won’t last. It never does with Tristan. I reckon I’ll have to play niceties for three months, at most.

“Oh, no!” She laughs. “This gorgeous one is mine.” She pokes a finger into Danny’s ribs.

He shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, with his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets. He has remained silent throughout the conversation.

My stomach clenches and I force my happy face.

“No, Charlie, I’m not doing this. I’m not interested,” he says as he pushes me off his knee.

So this is Danny’s type.

The opposite of me. Blonde, highly successful, waif-like, feminine.

“Where’s Ben?” Tristan prompts.

“Charlie and Ben are on the rocks. She might be single soon,” Mum announces. “Again.”

“Mum!” I glare at her in horror, as the men mumble their apologies.

“Oh, poor thing,” Jen purrs as she rubs Danny’s arm. “Boys, do you have any nice friends for Charlie?”

“No,” Danny replies with unnecessary force.

I shoot him a look and meet a dark gaze. So I’m not good enough for any of his friends now, either?

“Before Ben, Charlie had loads of men,” Cat cuts in unhelpfully. “She has no problem on the pull.” You’re welcome, she smiles at me.

Tristan splutters on his whiskey.

A deep blush soaks into my cheeks spreading outwards until my ears are red.

“Over my dead body is Charlie going out with any of our sleazy friends.” Tristan laughs, but we all hear the steeliness in his voice. “Not happening. They’ll keep their bloody hands to themselves. I’ve already noticed a few eyeing you already this evening.”

“Well, I like Ben,” Mum interjects sorrowfully. “It’s time you stopped flitting from boyfriend to boyfriend.”

I roll my eyes. “Then you go out with him.”

They all laugh. Yippee. Charlie’s love life is hilarious.

“How’s work, sis?” Tristan nudges me. “You get that pay rise you were after?”

As they lean in to hear, I’m tempted to lie.

“No,” I reply with a heavy sigh. “My boss is a prick.”

“You’ve been working really hard in this job,” Cat nods in a second attempt of support. “Remember in your last one you used to take naps in the toilets and call in sick all the time? You don’t do that in this job.”

“That was years ago,” I growl. After tonight I’m submitting an application to the Guinness World Records for Cat as the worst date ever. “And I was bored at that job.”

“Don’t worry, Charlie.” Jen places a hand over mine. “If you ever need any career advice, I’d be happy to help.”

“Thanks, Jen,” I simmer. “Sounds like I can turn to you for any type of life advice.”

My eyes snap up to see Danny staring at me, frowning.

“There’s the girl who belches like a builder,” I hear behind me loudly.

For fuck’s sake.

Jen’s mouth drops open.

“Excuse us,” I grab the arm of Cat, the belching builder, and flash them my most dazzling smile. “We’re going to the bar.”