Bad Influence, page 31
“Accurate,” Emil said with a grin. “And it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”
“Except now it’s out there for the whole world to see and the guys in the office are having a field day.” He shook his head. “They think it’s hilarious.”
He’d come back to his desk after a meeting on Friday afternoon to find some cheap plastic trophy with Reed’s picture affixed to it, along with the words #1 Lady Killer in bright-red letters. This person had also taken the liberty of “enhancing” the little gold man’s appendage with putty.
Classy.
But Reed wasn’t worried. Gossip like that tended to fizzle quickly, in his experience. There was always something more scandalous to worry about than a man having sex.
“What’s wrong with loving women so much you can’t have just one?” Gabriel chuckled when his pregnant wife, Sofia, whacked him in the arm with the scoring clipboard. “What? I’m talking about Reed.”
Reed stuffed his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants. “They know what they’re getting into, but then they cry foul when I don’t want to see them again.”
“Because they all think they could be the one to change you.” Emil dug his elbow into Reed’s rib cage. “They think they can tame the beast.”
“There’s nothing to tame.” He picked up his gym bag and slung it over one shoulder.
The sun hung low in the sky. Central Park was busy as always, full of tourists and locals out soaking up the rays now that the cold weather had finally started to disappear. Everything was green again, and that usually put a smile on his face. But Reed’s frustration settled like a weight on his chest.
“I’m sure it’ll blow over.” Emil slung an arm around Reed’s neck and pulled him away from the field. “I’ll buy you a beer. That should cheer you up.”
They made their way to the edge of the field, heading in the direction of the path that would lead them out to West Ninety-Sixth Street. It was Reed’s Sunday ritual: baseball in Central Park, beers at his favorite sports bar in Brooklyn Heights so they could watch a game—preferably the Mets—and then he’d head over to Red Hook to check on his dad before going home. Nothing messed with his Sunday routine, not even a shitty mood.
“Doesn’t matter anyway,” Sofia said with a cheeky wink. “He’s got enough money for a therapist. Isn’t that how rich people handle their problems?”
Gabriel and Emil, along with a few other guys and girls on the team, were mechanics, and they loved to rib Reed about his white-collar job. Sofia joined in the fun, even though she had a degree and worked in an office just like Reed.
“None of you seem to have an issue with my money when I’m paying for drinks,” he responded dryly.
“Yeah, that’s right. Maybe we won’t buy you a beer after all,” Gabriel quipped. “Although we did get a new client at the shop. Some trust-fund baby with a hard-on for Audis. God knows why he’d spend so much money on them when he could have something better.”
Gabriel and Emil dissolved into their long-running argument about the best luxury car manufacturers and Sofia pretended to stick her fingers in her ears. Reed tuned out the familiar banter. Despite having a salary with enough zeros to make most people’s eyes bulge, he didn’t live in Manhattan or drive a sports car. A huge chunk of his money went to paying for health care and a near full-time caregiver for his father. The leftover cash was funneled into conservative investments.
Beyond keeping up appearances at work—which required a wardrobe fit for dealing with upper-crust Manhattanites—his home life was fuss free. He’d paid off his DUMBO apartment a year ago when he’d made partner and received a generous signing bonus, and had turned that place into his personal sanctuary.
“Reed?” The woman who’d been watching their game waved to catch his attention. She wore a light-gray suit and her eyes squinted behind a pair of black glasses. “Are you Reed McMahon?”
“Who’s asking?” Emil piped up.
“I’m Diana Lay with Scion magazine. I was hoping to grab a few moments of your time, Mr. McMahon.” She looked directly at him but he could see the hesitation in her face.
In his sweats and a red baseball cap, he looked totally different from the photos floating around online, which were mostly corporate headshots and a few professional photos from galas he’d attended for work. But they all showed the same image—a polished, curated, and tailored level of perfection he prided himself on. A fake version of him that didn’t exist at a weekend ball game. Or any other time when he wasn’t at work.
Ugh, he should have guessed she worked for Scion. They’d been trying since the previous Wednesday to get ahold of him. The “society journal,” which could only be referred to as such in the loosest of terms, was now mostly online. But it continued to boast a half-million readership of gossip-hungry people with no lives of their own. Scion wrote about the upper echelons of the “socially prominent” in New York, Greenwich, and the Hamptons. Surrounding the articles was extensive advertising for boat shoes and diving watches.
“You missed him,” Reed said without breaking his stride.
“I don’t think I did.” The woman hurried after him, her sensible, low-heeled shoes no match for his well-loved sneakers. “How do you feel about being rated New York’s Most Notorious Bachelor?”
“You’ll have to ask the man himself.”
“So you’re denying you’re Reed McMahon who works at Bath and Weston?” she asked, out of breath as she tried to keep up with his long strides. “And that you’re the son of Adam McMahon?”
At the sound of his father’s name, Reed stopped dead in his tracks and the woman almost slammed into him. “Leave him out of this.”
She smiled like a cat who’d gotten the cream. “Were you aware of the Bad Bachelors app before today?”
He was tempted to keep walking, but the last thing he needed was for her to think there was a story here. “No comment.”
“Come on, you must have something to say about it.” She used a cajoling tone that made his blood boil.
He knew her type—parasitic gossip columnists who called themselves journalists but were more likely to talk about a sex tape than anything of substance. However, he wasn’t about to let his anger show. That would only make her dig deeper.
He gave her a cool, well-practiced smile and shrugged. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything for you.”
“Does it bother you that all these women are airing your dirty laundry to the world? Or does part of you believe you’re getting what you deserve?”
He kept his gaze steady. “No comment.”
“What does your father think about all this?” She looked at him with a bland expression, although he had no doubt bringing up his father was intended to incite an ugly emotional reaction in him. “Do you think you’ve disappointed him?”
Hell would freeze over before he gave this woman—or anyone—an ounce of satisfaction in seeing him break over this nonstory. “You mentioned you worked for Scion, correct?”
“That’s right.” She held her phone out, the recording app on, ready for a juicy quote he’d never give her.
He’d had dealings with Scion in the past, namely when he’d needed to help a wealthy businessman get his family-friendly image back on track after photos leaked of him and his wife engaging in some more unique BDSM activities. As much as he wasn’t a fan of Scion’s work, he’d never done anything to piss them off.
“So you work for Craig Peterson?” He kept his tone even.
Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “I do.”
“Craig’s a close personal friend of mine.” It was a total lie, but he’d met the guy on a few occasions at work functions. He allowed the awkward silence to stretch long enough to make the woman shift on her heels. “In fact, Bath and Weston does good business with Scion. I’m not sure he’d appreciate you harassing the source of some important advertising money. Money that, if I’m not mistaken, is quite critical to keeping the company afloat, given how your CFO has been suspected of embezzling company funds.”
Thank God he had that little tidbit up his sleeve. Rule number one of working in PR: always keep your ear to the ground.
Her face paled. “I’m just doing my job.”
“I understand. I’m also doing mine.” He paused. “If I find out that you or anyone from your establishment has gone near my father, I will make sure more people know why Scion is in such bad shape.”
“You’d do that to your close personal friend?” Her lip curled.
“To protect my family? Sure.” He leaned in closer to her. “And if I’d do that to Craig, imagine what I’d do to someone I don’t care about.” Reed didn’t wait for a response. Instead, he turned and stalked to where Emil, Gabriel, and Sofia waited for him. “Come on, let’s get out of here.”
A few hours later, Reed parked in the street outside his father’s house. He’d been jittery all evening, unable to sit still and concentrate on watching the game. Eventually, he’d slipped out of the bar while the others were mid-discussion about a fielding error. They didn’t need him bringing down the mood.
And he had this horrible, niggling suspicion it wouldn’t be long before the reporters went after his father.
The temperature had dropped, and Reed shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweats as he walked up the steps leading to the front door. The stairs were effectively his father’s prison guard, because he could no longer walk up or down them unassisted. But Reed’s offers to buy his father a new place—or at the very least have some kind of ramp or elevator installed—had fallen on deaf ears.
The house itself was in serious need of a makeover. The old clapboards were cracked and peeling. At some point they’d been a light blue, but now they looked like flaking reptile skin. Spider webs decorated the corner of the screen door with thin, silvery strands. Reed brushed them away with his hand and wiped his palm down the front of his thigh.
“You know you don’t have to come around every weekend.” Adam McMahon’s raspy voice sounded as he opened the door. Light spilled onto the small landing where a few long-dead potted plants sat.
“I’m hoping one weekend you might let me do some work around his place.” Reed walked into the house and embraced his father, careful not to knock the oxygen tank that was his constant companion.
“I’m hoping one weekend you might come here and not give me a hard time.” His father paused to catch his breath before they made their way slowly to the living room.
“If it were anyone else, I would show up and do it without asking permission.”
“If it were anyone else, you wouldn’t care.”
Reed grunted his agreement. “Did Donna come by today?”
“Yes.” His father frowned. “She gave me a hard time…on your orders apparently.”
“She’s a caregiver, Dad. That’s her job.” Reed sunk down into the old green sofa his father refused to replace, sitting in the exact spot required to avoid having a spring poking into his ass. “That’s what I pay her for.”
“Yeah, yeah.” His father ambled over to the leather recliner Reed had purchased a few months back as a surprise gift. One that hadn’t been well received at the time—earning a muttered “waste of money” comment from his father—but now bore a nicely worn groove from daily use. “You want a drink?”
“Nah, I’m good. I had a beer with the guys before I came over.” His phone vibrated, but he didn’t recognize the number flashing up on the screen. Probably someone else poking their nose into his business. He ignored the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket.
Bracing a bony hand against the recliner’s armrest, his father lowered himself slowly into a sitting position. Even the simplest of actions left him breathless these days, but God forbid anyone try to help him. Adam McMahon might not be in the best of health, but he’d swat a hand in your direction that would still sting like hell if it connected.
“So tell me about this phone dating thing,” his father said. “Bad Bastards something or other.”
Ice ran through Reed’s veins. “How do you know about that?”
“A lovely young lady came by the house today.” His father’s lips lifted into a wry smile. “She had a lot of questions about you.”
“What was her name?” His fingers dug into the couch cushion.
“I don’t know. I didn’t write it down.” His father rubbed a hand along the whiskery, gray stubble that coated his jaw. “But I told her I wasn’t going to talk about my son behind his back no matter how much he needs a clip over the ears.”
Of course the old man would turn it on him. “For what?”
“For being a shortsighted idiot. You’re telling me you date all these women and not one of them is worth more than a single meal?”
It probably wouldn’t help to admit that a good portion of his dates never even made it to dinner—not that the women seemed to mind too much when they were legs up, screaming his name. “I don’t have time for a relationship.”
“Bullshit. You don’t want to end up like me.”
Reed’s chest squeezed and that made him want to punch something. He hated feeling like he couldn’t help his father. And this was the one problem that couldn’t be fixed by whipping out his credit card or arguing the old man into submission.
“That’s not it, Dad.”
“Sure it is.” A rattling cough broke the quiet, the ugly sound echoing in Reed’s ears.
The muscles in his jaw twitched as he tried to think of a response. He was a master talker, always quick with the right thing to say. But his father’s honesty never ceased to render him speechless.
“You should find a nice girl, Reed.” His father grunted as he struggled to shift in the recliner. The chair seemed to swallow the old man’s deteriorating frame. “You should settle down, get married, have a family…before it’s too late.”
No way. Fate had stopped him from getting into a sham marriage once before, and he couldn’t be happier that he’d dodged that bullet. He was perfectly happy being single and playing the field. And no amount of judgment from his father or some pushy reporter would change that.
Chapter 3
The Bad Bachelors’ Club: Nice Guys Need Not Apply!
I know the women of New York are busy being successful and chasing their dreams, so I’ve rounded up the men you should stay away from. These are the bachelors our users have rated as the worst in the city. We’ll start with…
Reed McMahon.
If you’ve checked out our app, you may have stumbled across him. Don’t be fooled by the gorgeous profile picture and endless list of social engagements. He’s bad news, ladies.
Reed is a notorious bachelor, known for his smooth moves, career pedigree, and rubbing elbows with the rich. Mr. Image Fixer has spent years practicing his morning-after escape on the women of New York by luring them into his bed (well, not his bed—rumor has it he only has visitors to his hotel room) with empty promises and a talented mouth.
User BroadwayBelle was kind enough to give us the inside scoop.
He’ll stomp on your heart without thinking twice, she told us. He’s the worst kind of man because he makes you think the world revolves around you…and then he’ll have someone drag you out of his office.
Ouch! If you’re a dating daredevil, then be our guest, but make sure you take your parachute with you.
Stay tuned for tomorrow’s blog post, where we give you tips on how to overcome first-date jitters and make sure he’s thinking about you the next morning for all the right reasons. Have your notebooks ready.
With love,
Your Dating Information Warrior
Helping the single women of New York since 2018
When Reed walked into his office building the following morning, it was to the sound of whispers. Two junior consultants exchanged looks as they held the elevator door for him. As it slid shut, the shiny reflection showed one of the women digging her phone out of her bag and turning the screen toward her colleague.
“Good morning, ladies,” he said, watching them in the reflection.
Their heads snapped up, eyes wide. A chorused “good morning, Mr. McMahon” made him feel way too much like a school principal. But it had the intended effect. The woman put her phone away and the whispering ceased.
The elevator stopped a few ear-popping seconds later on level thirty-six. As Reed exited, he could have sworn one of the women had said, “See, I told you.”
Aaron waved and fell into step with Reed, his laptop tucked under one arm. “Hey, man. How was the weekend?”
Never before had such an obligatory office greeting been accompanied by such genuine interest. “Fine,” Reed replied carefully. “How was yours?”
“Good.” Aaron continued to walk beside him even though his office was in the opposite direction. “Get up to anything interesting?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, come on.” Aaron nudged him with an elbow. “Cat’s out of the bag now. Surely you’ve got something juicy for me.”
Reed stifled the urge to tell the guy to leave him the fuck alone. “What do you want, Aaron?”
“A tidbit. A story to keep me going. I’ve been married for ten years. I need to live vicariously. If I were your age and single, I’d be all over this Bad Bachelors thing.”
“It’s not a thing.”
“Sure it is. You’ve been Tiger Woods-ing all over Manhattan and now everybody knows it.”
“Firstly, I’m not married, so your Tiger Woods comparison doesn’t really work. Secondly…” Reed stopped in front of his assistant’s desk. “If your wife is that much of a noose around your neck, perhaps you should look into getting a marriage counselor.”
“Wow, for a guy who’s getting laid as much as you are, you sure are a cranky fucker,” Aaron grumbled as he turned tail and headed toward his office.
