Pay Me, I'm Yours

Chapter 4 - Pretension Is Better Than Cure

Chapter 4 - Pretension Is Better Than Cure

There was a console telephone on Art's desk with its six buttons lit up, which goes to show how busy she really was at the moment. Knocking on the glass door of her office, I watched her head snapped up and motioned for me to come in.

As I took a seat across from her, I looked around me and was once again struck by the beauty that was her office. The room was mostly made of glass and tastefully decorated with chic furniture that was better suited in expensive club rooms rather than a two story building. One would never have thought that this office was indeed a publishing house if one would base it on its appearance. I know I did.

Turning my attention to Art who was sitting regally on her plush red high back chair, I silently envy her sense of grace, style, and beauty. I'm not trying to sound like a jealous bitch (though I am) but whenever I hear the term Perfect Woman, she was the first person that always came to mind and I'm sure that most men would agree with my observation. I mean, she's sophisticated, independent, and has a quirky sense of humor. Add the fact that she looked like a young Grace Kelly and has a serene aura about her and you have got yourself a knockout.

But then again, that so called face and aura of hers completely hid the fact that she had a shrewd mind and a manipulative tendency that was handy in dealing with pesky, stubborn writers like me.

Not by any stretch of imagination could Art and I be called equal when it came to looks. I don’t hate my overall appearance per sé. In fact, I looked nice enough with dark hair, violet eyes which were slanted a bit, giving me a mysterious look, and was luckily graced with a trim body. Art, on the other hand was blessed with a strawberry blond hair, gray eyes, slender build, and a very gorgeous mouth that could rival Angelina Jolie.

Up until this day, I still wonder about how Art and I complimented each other so well when we have clashing personalities. You see, she had grown up with rich, adoring parents whose main goal in life was to give their daughter everything she wanted, while I on the other hand, was going to school on government loans and satisfying my brother's insatiable need to bully someone. Our backgrounds did not gave us a great deal of common things to talk about but in a funny twist of fate, our incompatibility was what brought us closer.

"Did you cut your hair?" Art asked on the get go, hanging up the phone.

"Just a trim," I said nervously, taking a seat. "You don't like it?"

"It's nice. Makes you look a little younger."

I chuckled. "Thanks. Since Aubrey and Connor didn't notice the change, it's a relief to find someone who does."

"At the risk of sounding like a witch," she teased, her gray eyes flickering with amusement. "The guys you call your best friends are absolutely clueless when it comes to real women."

"I can hardly call them that," I muttered dryly, shaking my head in mock despair. "I was with Connor last night and I believe he's roaming the dating field again."

"How long has it been since his last blond bimbo?" Art inquired, and I detected a note of smarminess in her tone.

"Two days."

She whistled softly. “Where does he find these women, anyway? BimbosRUs.com?"

"It's easy enough," I quipped. "New York's filled with them."

She chortled, rolling her eyes at me. "I really don't understand how you two get along. You're different as night and day."

"He's a good guy," I said simply. “Despite his manwhore ways.”