Imperfect Love: Unsupervised (Kindle Worlds Novella) Read online

  Text copyright ©2017 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Ryann Kerekes. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Imperfect Love remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Ryann Kerekes, or their affiliates or licensors.

  For more information on Kindle Worlds: http://www.amazon.com/kindleworlds

  UNSUPERVISED

  An Imperfect Love World Novella

  Cora Kenborn

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the author

  Also by Cora Kenborn

  Connect with Cora online

  Other books in the Imperfect Love World

  Dedication

  Never settle for what’s comfortable.

  Go for what’s impossible.

  You just might surprise yourself.

  Chapter One

  Laken

  Think back to your favorite rom com movie. Okay, now think about the turning point where the hero or heroine is broken, dejected, and thinking life couldn’t get any worse. Maybe they look like they’d been thrown down a wood chipper, or maybe they’re pacing and mumbling to themselves, in need of a white jacket that ties in the back.

  Good, now check me out. Yep, that’s me sprawled out on my old, ripped, brown leather couch in the shredded evening gown with mascara running down my face like some circus clown reject. Don’t judge, until you’ve heard the whole story. I promise there’s a reason for all of this, and I’m fully justified in the fucktastrophe you’re currently witnessing.

  My life is no rom com. I’m no heroine. I had it all in the palm of my hand and then my future went to shit, swirling down the proverbial toilet of life.

  Overly dramatic? Stay with me.

  Scooping an oversized spoonful of ice cream from the carton wedged between my knees, I shove it in my mouth and chase it with a few gulps of white wine straight out of the bottle. It has to be at least six a.m. on Sunday morning, and as I flip through the channels on the TV, those annoying rom coms I was just talking about stare me in the face—mocking me. All those movies I used to devour, I now loathe and want to see die a slow death. Real life never wraps up in a pretty red bow at the end as they make you believe. No, it’s messy, brutal, and rips your heart out only to pulverize it.

  Turning the wine bottle up again, I kick off my heels and settle on the movie Titanic.

  Oh, good. A happy ending type of romance.

  And that’s the way Shelby, my roommate, finds me as she swings open the front door to our tiny Bed-Stuy apartment in Brooklyn, staring at me as if I’ve been inhabited by some gluttonous alien. Shelby’s a first-year medical intern with a crazy schedule and she’s used to coming home at odd hours. What she’s not used to is seeing me argue with a television screen.

  “Holy shit!” Her hand flies to her mouth in a veiled attempt to hide her shock. “Were you mugged? Oh God, did they follow you home? Do they know where we live? I have jewelry, you know.”

  Giving her a side-eyed glare, I lick the dripping ice cream off the spoon and choke the life out of the wine bottle. “Nope.”

  Walking farther into the room, she wrinkles her nose at my vices. “Then are you pregnant?”

  “Piss off.”

  “Okay,” she says, drawing the word out slowly as to not spook me. “Do you plan on going to work today, or are you just going to stay drunk until we’re homeless?”

  Let me stop here and remind everyone that I am not, in fact, drunk or homeless. I’ve lost my shitty job, but the fact of the matter is, that it’s everything else I’ve lost that’s caused this. And it’s my own fault. A catastrophe of my own doing, like those contestants on The Price Is Right who bid four hundred and twenty-five dollars for a brand-new dining room just to get on stage. They look so smug until the asshole next to them bids four hundred and twenty-six. Seriously? Didn’t they see that coming? That shit next to them had planned all along to make them feel secure in their win until it was time to turn the knife. Suddenly they’re blocked in. Stuck. Screwed by their own stupidity, because Maude from New Hampshire doesn’t give a shit about their feelings. Maude has an agenda and her agenda is to screw them out of a new life….and a dining room.

  I had everything. It was mine for the taking, and all I had to do was tell the truth. And I would’ve. I mean, I planned to…eventually.

  Shelby stares at the hell hole I’ve turned our apartment into and kicks a discarded Ho-Ho wrapper out of her way with the toe of her white sneaker. “Clean this shit up, Laken, then get a shower. You smell like fermented ass.” Giving me one of her patented eye rolls, she stomps off to her bedroom and slams the door.

  Taking another long swig from the bottle, I swish it around in my mouth before swallowing and calling out over my shoulder. “No, really, I’m fine. Just my life ending, thanks for your concern.”

  And this is where my story begins. As a reluctant nanny to one of the most powerful families in New York City, I’ve waited for a chance like last night. All I needed was my foot in the corporate door—an “in,” if you will. Once it fell into my lap, I latched on like a drowning woman on a life preserver. I met the executives I needed to meet, shook the hands I needed to shake, and integrated myself into a world I’d tried two years to infiltrate. Finally, for once in my life, I almost had everything. Like Leonardo DiCaprio, I was king of my own stupid world.

  Funny about that movie, Titanic, right? Jack thought he had it all. He almost took a nose dive right over the bow of that boat like some lunatic trying to save dumbass Rose when she almost ate it off the railing. Not such a genius move. It should’ve been a clue to anyone watching that ol’ Jack wasn’t firing on all cylinders when it came to that red-haired chick, and shit wouldn’t end well. And you know what? It didn’t. Rose plopped her happy ass on that floating piece of wood while Jack’s balls became little nutcicles and he froze to death.

  You think that shit would’ve happened in real life? Hell no. Jack would’ve told Rose to scoot the fuck over, or he would’ve dumped her never-letting-go ass right in the North Atlantic.

  Only the strong survive. Eat or be eaten. Call of the wild, rule of the jungle.

  You probably think I’m the Jack in this story, right? That I’m at home pining away because I believed the rich girl loved me and didn’t want me to die cold and alone at the bottom of the sea. You’d be partly right. But here’s where you may not feel as sorry for me as you do right now. I’m also the Rose.

  Yep. I duped my Jack into thinking I’d share the piece of wood with him too. I made him care about the fake me—the one that didn’t exist. All to get ahead in life…to get the prize I’d always wanted. Until what I wanted was him.

  I’m Laken Cavanaugh, and this is the story of how one unsupervised moment in Central Park started a chain of events that landed me at rock bottom; drinking six-dollar chardonnay straight from the bottle while stuffing my face full of chocolate ice cream.

  Chocolate.

  Funny. I’ve always been a vanilla girl until him. In so many more ways than one. Now, I’ve lost my job, my career, my future, but most importantly, I’ve lost him. And it’s all because of one little white lie. Well,
a lie and the root of all evil. The bane of my existence. The reason why I’m one more drink away from detox and a padded cell.

  My boss.

  Chapter Two

  Four Weeks Earlier

  Niall

  “I have no idea why the hell I’m even here,” I grumble, snagging a donut from a breakfast tray as I jerk a chair out near the south end of the massive conference table. Taking a seat, I tug on the tie knotted at the base of my throat. With every person who slaps me on the back and takes their seat, it tightens by the second.

  I hate corporate America. I hate meetings. But mostly, I hate the way the woman directly across from me smirks and licks her red painted lips the minute I step foot into the room.

  Slumping into the chair next to me, Vince pops open his briefcase and yawns for the third time since we’ve walked through the door. “Stop being such an ungrateful prick, Niall. Look around, you’re the only photographer in this meeting. This could be big for your career. Besides,” he adds with a smirk as he reaches for the tray and holds up a massive pastry. “Free eats!”

  Taking a bite of my donut, I shake my head and wonder how a guy like Vince, whose idea of getting ahead meant literally getting head—with some chick on her knees going to town on his cock—managed to climb the corporate ladder at Tate & Cane and not get slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit.

  “You know, there’s more to life than food and sex.”

  “Sure there is.” Inhaling half of a pastry, Vince waves a hand, effectively dismissing me. “I like a good nap in between a good fuck and a good meal.”

  I level a stare at him, and against my better judgment, push the issue. “The Ravenhill Gala Planning Committee has been in the works for months.” I cast a quick glance around the table, taking in the faces of Tate & Cane’s middle and upper management executives, along with their dutiful note-taking secretaries and appointed figurehead board members. “Everyone here has been in on this project from the get-go. Even your slack arse has made an appearance when you weren’t hungover or balls deep in some intern.”

  “Damn, that’s harsh, Niall.” Vince manages to look offended for a full five seconds. “True, but harsh nonetheless. Besides, I told you, at the last meeting, Gloria volunteered your Lucky Charms-eatin’ ass to photograph the whole event.”

  “Seriously? Do you hear yourself? That’s so politically incorrect, I don’t even know where to begin.”

  He licks the icing off his lower lip and raises his coffee mug in the air. “Aye, she wants your shamrocks, man. She thinks they’re magically delicious.”

  “Why do I hang out with you?”

  “Because without me, you’d spend your weekends painting nails and playing pin the tail on the donkey…and I don’t mean the naked kind either.”

  I roll my eyes and make the mistake of glancing across the table as Gloria stares hard at me and enthusiastically licks the rim of her coffee mug for the second time in ten minutes. I have no idea what in the hell the woman hopes to accomplish. The move does nothing to entice me. In fact, with every swipe of her tongue, the coffee and donut I just scarfed down threaten to reappear all over the polished mahogany conference table.

  With a low chuckle, Vince lowers his chin and makes the most disgusting sounding kissing sounds I’ve ever had the misfortune of hearing.

  “Shut your feckin’ cakehole before I knock you arse over tit,” I mutter under my breath.

  Lifting his own coffee mug to his mouth, he fights a smile. “I’m just saying, man, she sucks a hell of a dick.”

  “You’ve fucked her?” I blink at him for a moment, while out of the corner of my eye I catch Gloria making another pass of the rim with her tongue.

  Vince takes a sip, setting down his cup, and grins that damn movie star toothy grin that makes women fall helplessly at his feet. “Dude, most men at this table, and probably a few women, have slept with Gloria.” Tilting his chin, he points them out, obviously not giving a fuck who notices. “Bob, Frank, Todd…”

  My mouth drops open and I pin him with a blank stare, because honestly, I have no bleedin’ idea where the hell to go with that. “Christ…Todd? Are you kidding me?”

  Silence rings out across the table as all eyes turn toward Vince and me.

  Feckin’ hell. Okay, I didn’t mean to say it that loud, but seriously, Todd? What’s he thinking? Todd Reynolds is a family man. He has the life every man dreams of…a beautiful wife, two point five kids who get straight As and go to the perfect school, a house in the suburbs with a fence, and all that shite. Why the hell would he risk it all to screw Gloria?

  As if reading my mind, a low laugh rumbles in Vince’s chest and he shakes his head at me. “Niall, don’t be so sanctimonious. How do you think I got promoted to project manager? Hell, half the men in this room are here because Gloria’s polished their knob.” Eyeing me curiously, he fights a smirk. “Besides, you know she’s going to try to collect sooner or later on getting Sophie into Ravenhill. Might as well man up and take one for the team.”

  And there’s the reminder of the day I sold my soul to the devil. Or in this case, the bitch of the Tate & Cane board room. I wrote a contract in my own blood just to secure my daughter’s future. One innocent inquiry about my kid’s schooling ended up with me in debt to the black widow and no amount of financial reimbursement would get me out of it. Nope, that woman wants to take it out in trade on her knees or her back.

  Free tip for clueless parents: make sure to plan for your kid’s future at conception. As a single dad in New York City, no one told me that getting your kid into the right school started at birth.

  Seriously, am I the only person on Earth who had no clue this was a thing?

  Well, apparently, in America it is. Only this shite begins with ensuring a kid is signed up for the right Mommy and Me class, which leads to the right daycare, which progresses to the right preschool, which feeds into the kindergarten that farts rainbows and unicorns. I’m an Irish buck. When I moved to America and had a kid, no one told me that everything I did from day one fecked said kid up for the rest of their life.

  Vince kicks my chair as Mr. Navarro, the marketing director, stands and clears his throat. I struggle to pay attention and act like sitting in a business meeting and listening to a bunch of middle-aged men congratulate themselves on their worth is the best thing I’ve done all week. All I really want is to get outside and shed this damn suit. While I work for Tate & Cane Enterprises as a photographer, and don’t get me wrong, I’m damn good at what I do, immersing myself in the culture of New York City is what I love. Being outside, experiencing life, and capturing nature as it happens, centers me.

  This? This is what my mother used to call an opportunity for growth. I just call it shite that pays the bills.

  “As you all know,” Mr. Navarro says, pacing the room and patting his salt and pepper hair, “we have only weeks left until the Ravenhill Charity Gala Dinner. Tate & Cane is sponsoring this worthy event in a dual show of support for the children in our community as well as Gloria, our esteemed board member.”

  I sneak a glance at Gloria, her bleach blonde hair swept up into some twist and tucked with a clip at the nape of her neck. She catches me staring and attempts a coy smile. Honestly, it creeps me out. Part of me is waiting for her to unhinge her jaw and slither across the table to swallow me whole.

  “Now, while most of you will be participating in the event in a working role, we still expect you to attend in formal attire and socialize with our guests. We always want to put our best face forward here at Tate & Cane, so keep the alcohol at a minimum, and please, no fraternizing with other employees. Are we clear this time, Vincent Tribiotti?”

  Snickers ripple around the table as Vince shoots him a wounded look. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Navarro. I’m a perfect angel at these things.”

  The old man gives Vince a pinched smile as if he’s trying to rein in any further comments. “Yes, well, if there are no more questions, we’ll reconvene l
ater in the week to begin final preparations. The gala is in four weeks, people, and it’s going to be the talk of the town. Don’t let me down on this.” With a rap of his knuckles on the desk, he ends the meeting and heads out the door.

  Vince Tribiotti could dive into a river of shite and come out smelling like a feckin’ rose. That’s just the type of guy he is. Not that either of us are saints. With the trouble that Vince and I have gotten into over the years, no one could ever accuse me of being a choir boy, but I mostly blame Vince for the shite hole I’m currently swimming in. He had the bright idea to initially get me hooked up with Gloria.

  No, not in that way. Remember the donut? I’d prefer not to see it again, thanks.

  Here’s how I became a lost insect in the black widow’s tangled web. Nobody warned me about that whole “plan from their birth” shite. When the time came for my daughter, Sophie, to go to school, I thought I could pick where I wanted her to go to school and make it happen because I’m not a complete dick.

  Vince. My buddy Vince. The one guy I trust in this office set me up to be fucked, and not even in the good way that kept my dick out of my own hand. For some reason, he has the goods on most everyone in the building. If you want to know the dirt on anyone, you go to Vince. He can tell you who’s sleeping with who, in what janitor’s closet, on what day. He’s worse than a woman with new gossip.

  Anyway, he’d found out that Gloria got around in more ways than one. In addition to being a Tate & Cane board member, she also sat on the board of trustees at Ravenhill Private School—the most prestigious primary school in Manhattan. They wouldn’t even return my phone calls when I’d tried to get Sophie an interview. I’m a hard-arse by nature, but I’d do anything for my kid. After bitching to Vince over a few beers one night, the next thing I know, Vince had a long chat with Gloria, and with one phone call from her, Sophie had bypassed the interview and was placed directly in the school.