Executive Engagement

I sigh. Fuck.

“Yep,” I say. She smiles a sad smile, but there’s determination behind it.

“We’ll get him,” she says. “Don’t worry.”

“How do you know?” I ask. Not even I’m so confident as she is right now.

“Because,” she says with a dirty, nasty, wicked smile that makes my cock twitch harder and gets me hard again. “I’m Julianna fucking Heaton.”

Holy shit. This woman is amazing.

Ethan

"We should think of this as brand development." Larry Summers waves his hands excitedly. "And your brand is worth millions." He is a short, petite man, but has the energy of an angry hive of bees. I hired him to help me quiet the negative media buzz. He has a history of helping celebrities turn their lives around, and he has a 100% success rate. I'd say he’s worth the money. How can I go wrong with him? It's an understatement to say that I can use the help. I can't believe how crazy things have gotten with my life. One minute I'm buying a woman 100 long-stemmed roses, and the next, I'm broadcasted as one of the biggest sex scandals of the year.

"There are three general areas that we must focus on—communication, behavior, and physical appearance," he continues. "I'd say you're fine in the appearance department." He eyes me up and down and then continues, "Your Armani suits are sharp and tailored—perfect because that shows you are serious. But perhaps consider wearing a tie that will bring out your eyes, like a nice blue one, or even yellow—yellow is a power color you know."

"Good point. I'll make a quick note of that." I have a note pad out and reach for my pen.

"But we need to make adjustments to your communication. When you find yourself in a conflict zone—like you are so often finding yourself with reporters and other members of the media—listen first! When it's your turn to say something, speak in a calm, level tone. Punching people on National television will never do. That should go without saying."

I laugh. He is right, of course. But that seems like a million years ago now. I no longer feel like punching Colt Stackford in the face. And I am still trying to come to grips with what exactly I am feeling for him.

"I mean it," he continues. "Use your nonverbal cues to your benefit. Instead of throwing a fist or giving off some other negative cue like crossing your arms—which you are doing now, by the way—keep eye contact at all times and give off positive cues, even when you are screaming inside like you are about to burst, or like you are an angry elephant about to stampede a village."

"That feels dishonest, like shaking my head yes but internally saying no," I say.

"You are Ethan Blake, one of the greatest defensive ends in the NFL. Stop falling into unhealthy knee-jerk patterns of behavior. If you want to continue living as the darling of the league, you need to pull it together. And quick. Quite frankly, you are running out of time."

"Speaking of time, I'm having a hard time staying focused," I admit. I involuntarily slump my shoulders at this realization. Remaining focused and working hard is one of my strengths, but now it seems just out of my grasp. It is a frustrating feeling.

"That'll never do. You have to pull your head from the clouds, Ethan. Focus is key here."

If only I can describe these clouds for Larry. My head is currently locked in clouds shaped as two humans.

"You seem overwhelmed, and when you compound that with a lack of focus, the results are disastrous. 911 disastrous."

"No kidding," I say sarcastically. Is this man dramatic or what? It is not as simple as he makes it out to sound.

"And your behavior has been, well, how should I put it—"

But before he finishes his thought, I hear a sharp knock at my door and excuse myself to answer it. Standing in the doorway, I see a man in his late 30s with one of the toothiest smiles and flashiest suits I have ever seen. He greets me with a bear hug and a masculine pat on the back. His large hands make thumping sounds just below my shoulder blades. "It's good to see you," he says. "How you feeling champ?" There is something in his smile that makes him look dishonest, and I’m about to kick him about, but I hesitate, thinking how I’m supposed to be rehabilitating my image.

“Who the hell are you?” I ask instead, through gritted teeth.

“Oh, pardon me, Ethan,” Larry says as he waddles over to where I’m standing. “This is my assistant, Dave.”

I’m still a bit weirded out that Dave is so physical when he greets other men. But who am I to say anything? I let my team mate jerk me off in the locker room, right?

Dave looks at me and asks again, “How you feeling, champ?”

I wince at his usage of the word champ, but reply. "Just trying to put this shit storm behind me, man, but I'm hanging in there."

"The hell you are! You’re Ethan fucking Blake!"

"So I've heard," I say, leading him into my apartment. "Why does everyone keep saying that today?"

Dave ignores my question because Larry turns to both of us.