Page 64 of Tainted Love

“We’ve booked you on a last-minute flight to Colorado for later this afternoon.” The thought of dropping everything and rushing to another state makes my blood boil, mostly because Taz is responsible. This is not a game. This is my life.

He’s always had a way of bulldozing straight through my peace, and honestly, I shouldn’t be surprised. I’m curious about the campaign, but what upsets me is how this entire situation has been orchestrated without consulting me.

I hadn’t been in the same room with him for years before my friend Sarah’s wedding a few months ago. It went how it always goes with him, tit for tat, push and pull, arguments laced with innuendo, and I vowed to kick him out of my life for good. Seems life has other plans. Seems it always does where Taz is concerned.

I step out of the cab at 4:45 in the afternoon, my face set in a mask of professionalism, but my anger is simmering below the surface. The vodka tonic I had at the airport did little to quell the turmoil swirling inside my chest like a tornado, so I need to lock it down. I can do this, I think to myself, squeezing my hand around the handle of the small bag full of personal essentials I’m carrying.

The bustling energy of the arena hits me immediately, charging through my body like electricity. Fans are dressed in team gear and eagerly waiting outside to be let in for tonight’s game and despite my frustration, I can’t help but feel a sense of excitement and nostalgia as I make my way toward the doors.

I check in with security and am led down a corridor to a set of elevators. On the way, I take in the sights and sounds around me. The familiar smell of fresh ice mingles with the scent of various foods from the concession stands. The sound of the Zamboni leveling the ice sings its baritone melody in the background.

After being escorted upstairs to the administrative offices, I’m greeted by Jerry Shaeffer—a middle-aged man with a round belly and a friendly smile. He introduces himself as the team owner’s right-hand man, responsible for all advertising and public relations.

“Thank you for coming, Ms. Bell,” he says, shaking my hand. “I understand you have a close personal connection to Michael Tazman.” Really? Close personal connection? What bullshit has Michael been spewing all over these rocky mountains?

“Well, I wouldn’t word it quite that way, but we are friendly,” I comment in the most neutral tone I can muster. Just then, as if the devil himself heard the mention of his name, Michael strides through the door, looking impossibly handsome in a gray, tight-fitting suit with his light brown, slightly mussed hair. It’s just messy enough to wonder if someone had their hands in it five minutes ago. I wouldn’t doubt it. He has always carried off the sexy bedhead look well, and that hasn’t changed. My eyes narrow at him out of habit.

“Sash,” he says with a smooth glide toward me, taking my hands in his own and giving me a friendly kiss. “It’s so lovely to see you.” It may seem like a simple greeting to an outsider, but there is a mischievous glint behind his eyes that hints at something more. My body tingles at his touch. His proximity has my nerves feeling like a downed power line arcing dangerously.

A secretary flutters into the room and whispers something into Jerry’s ear, prompting him to remove himself for an urgent call. “Excuse me, you two. I’ll be right back. I’m sure you’d like some time to catch up anyway,” he says before exiting the room.

Taz takes a few steps back and leans casually against the desk, crossing his legs at the ankles and folding his arms across his chest as he stares at me with a cocky smirk.

“What am I doing here, Michael?” I ask him, unable to hide the confusion in my tone.

“You’re here because you’re damn good at what you do,” he replies. “Your name happened to come up when we discussed potential advertising agencies over dinner recently.”

“Why are you having dinner with Jerry?” I inquire further.

“I can be...difficult to manage at times, from a public relations standpoint,” he chuckles slyly. “Jerry keeps a close eye on me. It’s become a monthly tradition for us to have dinner together.”

“Why does it not surprise me that you need a babysitter?” I quip before adding, “You don’t know anything about my work, Michael.”

“What’s with the incessant use of ‘Michael’?” he asks, his voice laced with amusement. “At Sarah’s wedding, you had no problem moaning my nickname repeatedly. ‘Taz, that feels so good. Don’t stop. Taz, you’re going to make me come.’” I knew that was going to come back and bite me in the ass at some point.

I glare at him, my eyes narrowing in annoyance, even as his words and the corresponding memories flood my body with warmth and excitement. “Shut up!” I whisper-shout. “That was a joyous, lovely, stressful, and alcohol-filled occasion. The champagne got to my head, but it won’t happen again. I can promise you that.”

“You say that,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “We’ve been doing this song and dance since we were kids. You try to avoid me, but somehow, we always end up in each other’s orbit.”

“I didn’t end up in your orbit by choice, idiot!” I retort, my voice dripping with frustration. “You requested that I be here. You summoned me like a John orders a hooker. But I’m not your hooker, Michael. I don’t answer to you, and I certainly don’t work for you.”

He raises his hands defensively. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. I never said you were a hooker. And you wouldn’t work for me. You would be working with the team. Look, Sascha, someone asked if anyone had any recommendations in advertising, and I brought up your name. I hardly think it’s anything for you to be hostile about. If anything, I think you should be grateful for the opportunity.”

“Grateful for the opportunity?” I repeat incredulously. “Grateful because I know you? Grateful because I know Corey? Are those the things I should be grateful for? Not the hard work I have put into my career? I don’t need someone else’s help to get a job. I haven’t even had a real conversation with you since we were eighteen.”

“That’s not exactly true,” he says.

“You finger-banging me in the bathroom during our friend’s wedding reception doesn’t count as having a conversation. It counts as a drunken mistake. And seriously, you kicked me out of your life. I couldn’t be what you needed, remember?”

He releases a heavy sigh. I’ve always been one of the few people able to exasperate him, much to my delight. It’s only fair since he has the same effect on me.

“First of all,” he says calmly, “you don’t have this job yet. Plenty of other people are interested, so if you get it, it would be on your merit. I helped you get a meeting, which is simply business, Sascha. It happens all the time, and I would think you would know that. Secondly, if you can’t handle working around me, say so now and walk out.”

His cockiness knows no bounds. I’m surprised the three of us can fit in this room—me, him, and his ego. “Do you believe I am incapable of being around you?” I ask, my voice laced with disbelief. “I can be a professional.”

A mischievous sparkle dances in his eyes as he smirks and replies, “Well, you’re doing a stellar job of it right now.”

I can feel the heat rising to my cheeks. “Are you insinuating that I can’t control myself around you?” I’m two seconds away from stomping my feet and throwing myself on the floor in a full-blown tantrum.