Survival of the Fiercest Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Loose Id Titles by Chloe Blaque

  Chloe Blaque

  SURVIVAL OF THE FIERCEST

  Chloe Blaque

  www.loose-id.com

  Survival of the Fiercest

  Copyright © May 2014 by Chloe Blaque

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author's rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Image/art disclaimer: Licensed material is being used for illustrative purposes only. Any person depicted in the licensed material is a model.

  eISBN 9781623007850

  Editor: Kathleen Calhoun

  Cover Artist: April Martinez

  Published in the United States of America

  Loose Id LLC

  PO Box 806

  San Francisco CA 94104-0806

  www.loose-id.com

  This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Warning

  This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id LLC’s e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  * * * *

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not try any new sexual practice, especially those that might be found in our BDSM/fetish titles without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. Neither Loose Id LLC nor its authors will be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in any of its titles.

  Dedication

  For Naomi and Sandy.

  Acknowledgment

  Thanks to Ami, Anna, and Nadia for keeping me afloat. Thanks to Kimmi for showing me the way.

  Chapter One

  Funny how two years ago, at this same dive bar, I spotted Pete’s wifebeater and tattoos and fell instantly in lust. Seriously, my vajay started sending out smoke signals. And trust when I say that the old girl is picky. But he was fine. Now, as my gaze slides over his powerful shoulders and tan skin, all I want to do is kill him.

  Pete’s engaged in an animated conversation in Spanish with some guys when I come up behind him. I notice that his jet-black hair has been cut, and the hairline on the back of his neck has been perfectly lined up. If there is one thing Pete never forgets, it’s to hit the barber once a week. Too bad he can’t remember his girlfriend’s celebratory dinner.

  After eight years of building my website for multicultural women, thefiercest.com finally earned a spot on the Forbes’s top 100 websites for women. I purse my lips. Pete should date his barber. Oooh, that might be a good post: The guys your guy sees more than you! I make a quick note on my phone and throw it in my bag.

  With an annoyed sigh, I run my hand over Pete’s arm, the one with the full sleeve of Maori tattoos, hoping that he has a good, no, a great excuse for still being here since happy hour.

  “Lex?” His slick smile lingers, then dies on his face. In seconds his gaze shifts to my silk blouse, sequin skirt, and black patent-leather heels. Then he glances at his watch. “Aww shit,” he says in his Bronx accent. His buddies glue themselves to the TV.

  “Yeah.” I nod. “I’ve been at the sushi restaurant for thirty minutes. Alone.” I slap my tote on the bar stool.

  “Fuck. I lost track,” he says. His beer sloshes in the glass as he opens his arms in supplication. Never does he say sorry—his Puerto Rican machismo won’t allow it.

  “You lost track?” I nod toward his wifebeater and utility jumpsuit. “When were you on track?” He’s stood me up before. The last time it was an emergency electrical outage uptown, which might have been legit. Maybe. Then it was a subway delay. Then he lost his phone…

  “I was,” he stammers. “I… How did you know I was here?”

  “Where else would you be?” Creature of habit doesn’t even scratch the surface; he’s here all the time. The bartender even has my number in case he gets too drunk, and she’s used it.

  “Mirada, work was crazy today.”

  “Work was crazy?” The bite of my voice makes an older couple glance over at us. I check my tone. “You work union hours, Pete. Five to two. And since you are wearing your orange electrical jumpsuit, this is a city job. No overtime. So?” I cock my hip. “What the fuck?”

  The bartender, a young newbie I don’t recognize, interrupts us and says something to me in fast Spanish. I’m not Latin, but my French mother and African American father produced a light brown baby, so I get mistaken for any nationality with a caramel complexion.

  I recognize the word cerveza and assume he is asking if I want a drink. “No gracias,” I say, embarrassed to sound like a gringo. He winks at me before he leaves, and I see Pete scowl. His possessiveness used to turn me on. I try not to roll my eyes.

  “You look nice,” Pete says, close to my face. He reaches for the sequins on my hip, but I shove his hand away and smooth my long, dark curls. He can’t fuck his way out of this one. For a second, I’m reminded of the insensitivity of my ex-husband.

  “I’m sick of this shit, Pete. You are forty-two years old. If you don’t want to go to dinner, just say so. I’ll find someone who does.” I glance at the bartender. Pete’s gaze hardens. He slams his beer down and grabs my arm, pulling me in for a kiss. I turn my face away, and his lips brush my ear.

  “I promised you a date. I fucked up, but I’m gonna fix it.” He leans back just enough to flash that slick smile and whispers, “Come on, Alexandra, don’t be mad.” He palms my ass, and my full name rolls off his tongue in his bedroom voice. I’m sick of hearing that voice. “We can eat here,” he says. I glance at the two male statues at the bar; one snickers. They’re listening. I frown, and I envision that my amber eyes are now black.

  “I’ve been texting you. Why did you stand me up? Again.” His phone is on the bar, and I wonder if he read and ignored my texts.

  “Again?” He looks at me like I’m crazy.

  “Two months ago at the little French place.”

  “Oh, the train shut down.”

  “I thought it was an emergency electrical outage…”

  “Oh yeah, it was,” he murmurs.

  “Why don’t you ever want to take me to dinner?”

  “Why do you only pick bourgie spots?” He shrugs with an attitude.

  And there it is. I am thirty-seven,
career driven, and I make more than double his salary. He says it doesn’t bother him, but it does. I always thought we had enough in common to balance our lifestyle contrasts. We both grew up in New York, both love ’90s hip-hop, and both love to dance. Lately he’s been throwing our differences in my face. “The coffee you buy is too expensive,” he says. “The cheap coffee from the bodega on the corner is just as good.” “Your designer jeans are a waste of money,” he says. “Levi’s are where it’s at.”

  He’s wrong on both counts, but I let it go.

  “This place is better than those expensive spots you pick,” he says. Behind the bar is a neon-pink cardboard sign handwritten in Spanish with black marker. DINERO EFECTIVO SOLO—CASH ONLY! It’s not the dinner I had in mind; the dinner I deserve. The spicy smells from the kitchen, however, are mouthwatering, and I wonder if they deliver.

  My gaze shifts to Pete’s broad shoulders, expansive chest, and strong hands. He’s sexy, and lately, it’s the only thing that keeps us together. I need to break up with him.

  “We should talk,” I say low, glancing in the direction of his buds. “But not here.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means what you think it means. We’re done,” I say, looping my bag around my arm.

  Pete mumbles something, but I don’t know what, and I don’t care. I’m turning when he grabs my arm, his hand tightening around my wrist.

  “Ow!” Cursing, I break from his grasp.

  I’m already at the door when he shouts, “Where the fuck are you going?”

  I see a neon-pink paper menu stuffed in a holder on the doorjamb. I snag one and eye the front cover. Delivery till midnight is in small black letters at the bottom. Sweet!

  * * * *

  I’m on my couch in my Tribeca apartment, watching a movie and eating my recently delivered ropa vieja, when my phone buzzes. I don’t recognize the number, but something tells me to pick up. It’s Lou, Curve Media’s president & CEO, inviting me to San Francisco, the company’s hub, at the end of the week. He’s being friendly, and I have a feeling something is off. I ask him if everything is okay. He says yes, but I don’t believe him, and my head is pounding with curiosity when we hang up.

  I take a few more bites from my meal and dial Tina, my friend and Curve’s general manager. Three rings come and go with no answer. I am about to end the call when I hear some fumbling and a mariachi band in the background.

  “Hello? Hello?” I barely catch Tina’s gravelly Long Island drawl. It sounds like she’s at a party, and I wince recalling that she’s on vacation in Cabo for the week. At fifty-two years old, five feet tall, and with more plastic surgery than a Real Housewife of Orange County, Tina is a force to be reckoned with. She knows everything that’s going on in the company.

  “Lex, dolly, how are you?” I’m about to answer when I hear Tina order a piña colada and flirt with the bartender. I shake my head. I have no doubt that Tina will score tonight, and decide to keep this convo short.

  “T! I’m sorry, I forgot you are on vacation, but I just got a call from Lou,” I yell into the phone.

  “Lou? That bastard. What did he want?” From the loud slurp, I can tell Tina now has a drink in her hand. The fading music suggests she is moving away from the bar.

  “He wants me in San Francisco at the end of the week for some company meeting—very vague. What do you know?”

  “I’ve heard something, but I don’t want you to get crazy about it yet. Everything is still up in the air.”

  “Tell me.” My heart is doing double time.

  Tina slurps again and gives a heavy sigh. “Curve is going bankrupt. All of the websites are up for sale, including yours.”

  My heart stops.

  “Don’t freak out,” she says. “They are reaching out to all the big companies and making deals.”

  “What does that mean?” I yell into the phone.

  “Dolly, calm down. There is no way your site won’t get bought. You will just keep doing what you are doing, except for a different company. A better company,” Tina soothes.

  I had birthed Fierce in my dorm room at Columbia, and it grew because of the readers who loved our concept of diversity—multicultural women like me who weren’t black enough or white enough to have our faces on magazines. The Latin and Asian communities barely had representation at all. With the help of the girls in my dorm, I collected beauty tips from all over the world. When Curve Media bought Fierce, my blog grew into a hub for everything from news, relationships, fashion, beauty, tech, and sex.

  “What if we don’t get bought?” I ask, knowing the answer. My staff would be jobless. I would have to get another chief editor job, or, God forbid, another magazine editor job. Trying to keep my website alive while running someone else’s would be next to impossible. Fuck! I want to scream.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Positive thoughts!” says Tina. “Curve bought Fierce when it was just a blog. Someone is going to buy the amazing webzine it is today. Don’t worry about it.”

  I curl into the fetal position on the coach.

  “How do you know this is happening?” My voice is small.

  “I just hear stuff,” Tina says. I hear faint murmurs as she flirts with another guy.

  “Who are you with?”

  “Oh, uh, myself.” Tina giggles. I crush my ear to the phone, trying to catch the man’s voice. Back in the day, Tina had written a weekly movie review column for the New York Times. During one Curve Xmas office party, after too much weed and tequila, Tina insinuated that she had fucked a young Pacino, twice. I had a feeling that whoever Tina was fucking now was a board member.

  All I can hear is Tina’s tipsy cackle.

  “Okay, T, I’ll let you go. Are you coming to the meeting in San Fran?”

  “And cut off my vacation? Hell no. I’ll get an update.”

  Yeah, she’s definitely fucking a board member.

  Three hours later, my phone goes off on the nightstand next to me, and I am ripped from sleep. I can barely function, having drunk an entire bottle of wine to calm my nerves.

  “Can I come over?” Jesus Christ, it’s Pete.

  “What…no,” comes out with a yawn. I feel dead.

  “I’m sorry. Congratulations about your website. That’s real good,” he says. “I want to take you out next weekend—wherever you want.”

  I debate pointing out all the reasons why dinner plans with him are unappealing. But the news about Fierce pushes into my thoughts. “Next weekend?” I ask. “I have a work thing in San Francisco next weekend.”

  “Oh, when were you going to tell me?” I hear the pettiness creep back into his tone and decide I am through with this conversation.

  “I just found out. Look, I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.” Hanging up, I roll onto my back and stare into the dark.

  Chapter Two

  Friday morning in downtown San Francisco, I walk through the glass doors of Curve Media headquarters. The state of the company is evident as I walk down the aisle toward Lou’s office. The normally buzzing cubicles are now half-empty as several website teams have disappeared entirely. TechHeadz.com used to take up the whole back half of the office. Now computer wires trail over the empty desks and the floor. Even their Star Wars posters and life-size Gandalf the Grey are gone. Lou’s assistant is also gone, and her desk is devoid of a computer. Layoffs? Holy shit. When did all this happen?

  Although Lou’s office seems intact, he is nowhere to be found. Skirting the small office kitchen, I turn into the conference room area and see Lou, several Curve board members, and a small group of people I don’t recognize in the glass room we call the fishbowl. I stand in the hall and wave to let him know I have arrived. Lou jumps up and opens the glass doors.

  “Alexandra! Just the person we need to see,” he says with an unnatural light in his gray eyes. Lou’s hair looks bright white against the crisp navy of his designer suit, and I wonder if he has ever been mistaken for a nice, older businessman. He has quite the
reputation for being shrewd and calculating—a real shit.

  “Oh? I thought the meeting wasn’t until later,” I say to Lou. “Good morning, everyone.” I smile at the onlookers as Lou ushers me into a chair at the head of the large cherrywood table. Jeanie, an office assistant, automatically sets a coffee in front of me. I catch her eye and mouth TechHeadz?

  Dumped, she mouths back. My grip on the warm mug tightens, and I inhale a steadying breath. I’m so fucked.

  “Mr. Khan, this is Alexandra Martine, the founder and chief editor of thefiercest.com,” Lou starts. “With five million unique visitors and a spot on Forbes’s list of top 100 websites for women, the site is poised to be the most profitable of our portfolio this year.”

  I nod and beam at Mr. Khan, a very severe-looking fiftysomething man in a black suit and obviously dyed black hair.

  “Lex, this is Reginald Khan, the president of Viper Media, and his board members.” Oh shit, Viper Media. They own a slew of gossip websites, including Highflash, Flossbulb, and Heypretty.

  “Miss Martin—” Khan says with an accent I can’t place.

  “Mar-teen. It’s French.”

  Khan frowns, clearly not big on being corrected. “So sorry, Miss Martine,” he says with a dismissive wave. “What do you think makes your website different from all the other women’s websites out there?”

  “We are an authentic voice for the twenty-five-to-forty-five-year-old multicultural woman, Mr. Khan. Our demographic runs around forty percent African American, thirty percent Latina, twenty percent Asian, and ten percent Caucasian women. We don’t endorse anything we haven’t tried ourselves, and we tell it like it is. Our readers are provided with short- and long-form pieces about news, beauty, sex, relationships, wellness, fashion, and nightlife. We are a big sister, 24-7.” My monologue is freshly pulled from my ass, but it gets a nod from Khan.

  “Are you familiar with our company, Miss Martine?”

  I rattle off a few of their websites, which gets another nod from Khan.

  “We have made an offer to your board for your website, which we feel is very impressive and carries a readership we have yet to break into.”