Cocky Jerk Read online

  “We met last week,” I remind her, forcing a smile. “I’m Antonia DeLuca, Soraya Vendetta’s new intern—” she cuts me off.

  “You’re over an hour late.”

  “Well, yes, about that—”

  “Penelope, I’m starting to get worried about my new intern. She was due into the office over an hour ago, can you give her a call to make sure—oh, there you are!”

  Noticing me, Soraya steps out of her office. Her brows pinch together, and a look of concern washes over her features as she takes me in. When her eyes finally meet mine, she tucks a strand of her long straight hair behind her ear and I marvel over the royal blue ends. Not many people can pull off such a bold look, but Soraya nails it.

  “You’re late,” she comments, crossing her arms over her chest. “I was beginning to think you decided not to take the position,” she adds, clucking her tongue against the roof of her mouth. A flash of silver peeks out, and my eyes narrow curiously.

  “Is that a tongue ring?” I blurt, instantly regretting the question when I hear Penelope gasp.

  Alright, so maybe that’s a little weird.

  Feeling like a complete fool, I push a closed fist toward Soraya and try to make amends for the awkward question with a pound. “Kudos, girl. I pierced my tongue once as a big fuck you to my father. After twelve hours of drooling and not being able to talk, I ripped the thing out.”

  Shit.

  Realizing I just dropped the f-bomb, I drop my fist to my side and raise my other hand, smacking my open palm to my forehead.

  “I’m sorry,” I mumble. “This has been the worst day ever,” I continue, peeling my hand away from my face. “My alarm clock didn’t go off as planned and then there was traffic, and this annoying cop who decided to make his monthly quota of tickets with me.” I reach into my leather jacket and pull out the ball of tickets as proof. “I sent you an edible fruit arrangement, did it arrive?”

  “You sent me an edible arrangement?”

  I nod.

  “Strawberries, pineapple…all that jazz.” She stares at me blankly, and I swear Penelope mutters something that sounds oddly like kiss ass. Ignoring the receptionist, I continue, “Look, I really need this job. I swear if you give me a shot, you won’t regret it.”

  It’s true, while I have no experience in this field or any field really, I’m prepared to work my ass off. Waiting for her to respond, I nervously close my hand around the ball of crumpled tickets.

  Please don’t fire me.

  Can you fire someone who hasn’t actually worked yet?

  “Traffic is ridiculous at this time,” she finally says. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  A small smile ticks the corners of her bright red lips.

  “That’s where I’m from. Well, originally…” Her smile widens as she subconsciously thumbs the impressive rock on her left ring finger. “Now I live on the Upper West Side with my husband, Graham, and our two kids, Chloe and Lorenzo.”

  “So, there’s hope,” I say.

  She laughs.

  “There’s always hope, girl,” she replies, pushing off the doorjamb. Her eyes move to Penelope. “Penelope, I’m going to show Antonia to her desk. Can you bring her the new hire forms and make sure she’s properly set up with an email account to field column questions?”

  “Wait, so, I’m not fired?”

  “Not today,” she says cheekily. “Come, I’ll show you to your desk.”

  For the first time since I opened my eyes this morning, I breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe Soraya is right, maybe there’s hope to be found in every situation, even the ones that seem hopeless. She turns and starts for the row of cubicles, bypassing the office she appeared from. Penelope gives me a dirty look, but I don’t acknowledge it or her for that matter as I shove the ball of tickets back in my pocket and grab my helmet from the reception desk. This day just turned around and nothing is going to bring me down.

  I follow Soraya, watching as her pin-straight hair sways with every step she takes. I’m curious to know if there is a specific reason as to why she dyes the ends blue and why just the ends, why not the whole head—I mean if anyone can pull it off, I’m sure it’s her. However, I don’t ask.

  Soraya sets me up in the cubicle closest to her office, which used to be hers, and reveals the reason I was hired. Apparently, the famed advice columnist, Ida, has decided to semi-retire. In the wake of the announcement, Soraya was promoted, and they needed someone to filter through the submissions for the column.

  Enter me, the new filterer.

  However, I can’t start reading through the cries for help until I fill out the necessary new hire paperwork and Penelope sets me up with email access. Until then, I’m to organize the mess Soraya has left behind…and by mess, I mean there is shit everywhere. I can barely see the desk through the stacks of paper and the tower of paperclips that oddly resembles a miniature replica of the Empire State Building. Then there’s the Post-its that wallpaper the cubicle. Some have little quotes, others have doodles, but the majority of them are responses to submissions and full of expletives.

  I think I’m going to fit in just fine here.

  “Any questions?” Soraya asks, drawing my attention back to her.

  “What should I do with all these papers and Post-its?”

  “Papers can be filed in the cabinet next to the window. As for the Post-its—well, there’s some great material there…” her voice trails as a sense of nostalgia washes over her features. “Keep them,” she decides, tearing her eyes from the colorful squares. “I have an appointment at noon, and my inbox is overflowing with emails I need to get through, but if you have any questions just holler.”

  “Will do.”

  She winks at me before turning and heading for her office, but before she goes, I feel compelled to thank her again for not firing me on the spot.

  “Soraya?” I call. She stops midstride and glances over her shoulder at me. “Thanks for giving me a shot. I promise I won’t be late tomorrow.”

  A warm smile spreads across her lips.

  “It’s all good. I’m a firm believer in second chances.

  Yeah, I’m totally a fan of my new boss.

  * * *

  I spent the first hour organizing the paperclips and rearranging the Post-its. My cell phone pinged the entire time with calls and texts—all from my father, and all of which I ignored. By this time, I figured the guys had filled him in on my new job and he was likely freaking out. God forbid the princess of the Corrupt Hellraisers does anything without an entourage of bikers following her. I felt guilty for hiding my job from my dad, but I knew that’s exactly what would have happened if I had clued him in. Ruger or Ritmo would be planted outside the office, trying to get a blow job from Penelope, and I’d be toast.

  Silencing my phone, I shove it in the top drawer of my desk and glance at the stack of papers still waiting to be filed. I probably should’ve tackled that mess before the paperclips. My attention is drawn away from the dreaded task as Penelope clears her throat. I lift my head as she shoves a folder and an iPad in my direction.

  “I see you’re hard at work,” she sneers, sarcastically.

  This one is going to be a problem—I can just feel it.

  “If you wouldn’t mind putting down the paperclips, we can get you into the system,” she continues, dropping the folder and iPad on top of my desk. “You’ll need to fill out these forms for payroll and I’m going to need to make a copy of your driver’s license.”

  The ringing phone interrupts her tirade and she turns to answer it, leaving me with the paperwork. I briefly thumb through the pages before reaching into my jacket for my I.D. My hand closes around the ball of tickets and I throw them on the table. Instead of reaching back into my pocket for my license, I let my gaze linger on the tickets for a moment.

  Being a glutton for punishment, my treacherous mind wanders back to the hunky cop with the killer arms. It’s a real shame he was such an asshole.
I mean, a clean-cut guy with arms like his. His ass was nothing to sneeze at either and let me not forget those expressive eyes and slicked back hair. He had so much going for him. I could probably even get over his beliefs in ridiculous Italian superstitions, but his profession was a big red flag. Cops and I don’t jive, mainly because of my father and while I’m ready to break ties from the Corrupt Hellraisers, I’m not looking to stick it to my old man for a quick roll in the hay with a man who carries a badge.

  That’s a hard pass.

  Pushing all thoughts of Officer Pirelli to the back of my head, I pull out my I.D. case, only to discover my driver’s license is missing. Figuring I must’ve shoved it into one of my pockets in a haste to get to work, I pat them down. Penelope reemerges and rolls her eyes dramatically.

  “Are you kidding me? You didn’t even touch the forms.”

  “I can’t find my license,” I hiss, slightly panicking. I dump the contents of my pockets onto the desk and filter through everything. “Maybe it’s in one of my saddlebags,” I say, more to myself than to Penelope.

  “Is that a designer? Like Gucci or Dior.”

  I lift my head and my jaw goes slack as I stare at her in disbelief.

  She can’t be serious.

  Before I can explain what the fuck a saddlebag is or even decide if I want to entertain her with a response at all, the phone rings again at the reception desk and the handbag connoisseur rushes to answer it. I take off toward the elevators. Reaching them, I punch the button and glance over my shoulder at Penelope.

  “If Soraya asks, I went to the parking garage to see about my license,” I tell her, but she dismisses me with a wave and continues with her phone conversation. I stare at her for a beat, still trying to process the fact she thought a saddlebag was a designer handbag.

  The elevator dings behind me, signaling the doors are about to open and I tear my eyes away from the clueless receptionist. Spinning around, I collide with something hard. Strong hands grip my waist, steadying me, and I lift my chin to apologize to whoever I’ve just barreled into. However, the words die on my tongue as I stare up at Mr. Tall, Dark, & Handsome, also known as the hunky cop. That hard thing I bumped into—that would be his chest.

  “You’ve got to be shitting me,” I hiss in disbelief.

  What the fuck are the odds?

  Chapter Three

  Marco

  “You!” the sexy as fuck brunette shrieks as she pokes a finger against my chest. For a split second her eyes flit to where she touches me and a look of shock wears on her pretty features. It’s fleeting though, because in a flash those brown eyes come back to mine and a scowl finds her face.

  Antonia DeLuca.

  I don’t usually make a habit of remembering the names of every bad driver I pull over, but this one left an impression. I don’t know if it’s the eyes that drew me in or her full lips that seem to always be frowning. Maybe it’s the mane of wild curls that I’ve spent the better part of my morning wondering what they’d feel like wrapped around my fist as I bend her over her bike—which, by the way, is a work of art. It’s a goddamn shame she doesn’t know how the fuck to drive it.

  It isn’t until she shoves my hands away hastily that I realize I’m still firmly gripping her hips. She lifts her chin and glares at me with fury.

  Fuck that’s hot too.

  “What are you doing here? Are you following me?” she snaps, narrowing her chocolate-colored eyes into tiny, narrow slits.

  “Following you?” I scoff, unable to hide the smirk. Curly Sue may be nice to look at, and I’m guessing by the steam rolling off her, she’s probably a real good time in the sack too. The high-strung ones usually are. It’s all that anger and bad energy, it makes for fantastic sex. But the day I follow any woman around is the day my dick falls off.

  “I know your kind,” she sneers, pointing a finger at me again. This time she’s careful to avoid touching me. “You think that badge makes you high and mighty, but I have no problem filing harassment charges against you.”

  Being a cop wasn’t my first pick when it came to choosing a career—hell, it wasn’t even my second. I used to bitch about my mother to anyone who would listen. See, growing up, she was strict, and her favorite pastime seemed to be busting my balls. At fourteen she made me get a paper route and sick and all, she made sure I delivered those newspapers every Sunday. Carmella Pirelli wasn’t raising no bum. She was an old school Italian American woman, and if it wasn’t for her insisting I take every city test, I’d likely be sleeping until four in the afternoon on her couch that she still keeps covered in plastic.

  I paid the registration fees and took the tests for the police department, the fire department—even sanitation—all just to shut her up. It wasn’t until I lost my job in construction that I finally had an appreciation for my ma’s efforts. The academy called me five days after I cashed my last unemployment check, and I learned a valuable lesson.

  Life doesn’t always go according to plan. Take the fucking insurance policy.

  The NYPD was my insurance policy and so, yeah, being a cop wasn’t a lifelong dream of mine, but it’s still very much a part of who I am. I bleed blue and I take offense to Curly Sue insinuating I use my badge for any reason other than to protect the citizens of New York. Alright, so I may have picked up a girl or two by telling them I had a pair of handcuffs in my back pocket, but for the most part, I’m all about catching the bad guys and of course, the occasional reckless driver.

  “Is that what you cops do? Pull women over, get their credentials and stalk them at their place of employment after handing them a stack of tickets? There’s gotta be a better way for you to get laid. Another method, perhaps. You know, one a little less creepy and that doesn’t make you come off as a giant asshole.”

  Hot with a dash crazy—just how I like ‘em.

  “Wait a minute, let me get this straight. You think I pulled you over to get you in my bed?” I ask, mildly amused.

  “I saw you checking out my ass,” she accuses.

  Ok, so maybe I was checking her out. I mean, her ass is spectacular, but there’s no way in hell I’m fucking admitting that to her. Her head is already the size of Mount Rushmore.

  “I was checking to see if your taillight was busted. In case you were wondering, it is, and I could’ve given you another ticket, but you seemed like you were having a bad morning, so I spared you. A thank you would be nice,” I say pointedly as I cross my arms against my chest.

  Her eyes go as wide as saucers, and she starts cursing in Italian. There’s a vaffanculo in there and a pezzo di merda too. Basically, she tells me to fuck off and calls me a piece of shit and somehow, I find that hot as fuck— go figure.

  “Let’s get something straight. My morning was going just fine until you pulled me over. Not only did you make me late for work, you gave me three tickets, three, and because of you, I lost my license!”

  I roll my eyes. Great, so Curley Sue likes to exaggerate.

  “You won’t lose your license if you take one of those defensive driving courses, which is probably a fantastic idea considering you can’t drive for shit.”

  “My physical license!” she shouts, gritting her teeth. “You know the little card with my picture, address, and date of birth that proves I’m a fucking resident of New York!”

  Frustrated, she lifts her hand and threads her fingers through her hair just as she did when I pulled over. I was jealous of her fingers then and just as jealous now.

  I uncross my arms and scratch my temple. I specifically remember handing her back her license, then she dropped it and I don’t recall either of us bending to pick it up. I’d remember that ass perched high in the air for sure. However, before I can reveal any of that to her, the reason I’m here clears her throat. I tear my eyes away from the fiery woman in front of me and stare at the one standing behind her.

  Her big brown eyes bounce from Antonia to me as my gaze zooms in on the ends of her hair, noting they’re blue—a sign that all is well
in the land of Soraya. If they were red or even purple, I would’ve turned the fuck around and got the hell out of dodge. One crazy Italian broad is enough for today, no need to be an overachiever.

  “What’s going on here?” Soraya questions.

  “I’ll tell you what’s going on,” Antonia hisses. “This asshole is the reason I was late this morning and now he’s stalking me.”

  Suppressing a smirk, Soraya looks at me.

  “On top of that, he stole my license!”

  And there’s the giant red flag. A total no-fly zone.

  “For fuck’s sake,” I growl. “I didn’t steal your goddamn license and quit accusing me of stalking you. I’m not here for you, something you’d know if you let me get a word in edgewise.”

  She crosses her arms and rolls her eyes, keeping them pinned on Soraya.

  “Right, and I’m an astronaut.”

  “God, I hope not,” I mumble. “You can’t drive a motorcycle; I’d hate to imagine you manning the controls of a rocket ship.”

  “Marco, stop,” Soraya chastises, but there’s a hint of humor in her tone.

  “Wait. Marco? You know this clown?”

  Soraya chuckles.

  “I do,” she confirms. “He’s my twelve o’clock.” She glances back at me. “Did you really pull her over and give her three tickets?”

  “I could’ve given her four.”

  She cocks her head and tosses me an exasperated look before focusing back on Antonia. With a sigh, she says, “Listen, today hasn’t been the best and we can’t put you in the system without your license, so why don’t you go home, and we’ll try this again tomorrow.”

  The anger fades from Antonia’s face as she stares at Soraya apprehensively. It’s a different look for the wild woman and dare I say, a little endearing.