Mr. Big Ego (Dirty South Book 3) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by Kat Addams

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.kataddams.com

  Cover Designer: Lori Jackson, http://LoriJacksonDesign.com

  Editor and Interior Designer: Jovana Shirley, Unforeseen Editing, www.unforeseenediting.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-7331523-2-7

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Other Books by Kat Addams

  One

  Samantha

  I grabbed my cat-ear headband, did a once-over in the mirror to make sure my tail was still attached—my cat tail, not my real ass—and left for the Halloween party. I had to arrive at the Vampire Ball early enough to handle my business. Being the event planner had its perks; one of the benefits was that I could attend the events. Both Lisa—the event coordinator—and I were required to be at all events that we had designed. Unfortunately for Lisa, she had to do more working than partying, but I was usually able to enjoy the party with minimal work involved.

  I wasn’t working frat-party type festivities or somewhere that would offer beer pong and strippers—though I’d planned my fair share of those events too. These days, my parties were for the elite, the wealthy, the people who had too much money and time, the bored housewives and braggart husbands, and—the most annoying of all—the single alpha males, the forever bachelors. And the man who was throwing this party just so happened to be the biggest alpha asshole in New Orleans.

  Victor Beaumont. Even his name sounded pretentious. I had never met Victor personally, but I worked with his snooty little assistant, Sara, all the time. According to Sara, nothing was ever good enough for Victor. At our previous events, he had wanted me to do this another way, and he had wanted me to do that a different way. And what had I wanted? I’d wanted to punch him in the face half the time I had been working on his events. Everything had to be in perfect order with him. Always.

  He’d made her weasel her way on over to me, that damn clipboard bobbing against her chest, and advise me how to meet his ridiculously high standards. For instance, at the last event I’d planned for him, he had told her that he needed to have an eight-foot ice sculpture of a bottle of rum in two weeks, and it had to be perfection. When Sara had told me that Victor requested the ice sculpture ASAP, I’d wanted to say to him that he could take his bottle of rum and shove it, but instead, I’d poured myself a glass of that rum and carried on. I had to admit; he did make fantastic rum. But it wasn’t just his rum.

  The Beaumonts owned Fleur-De-Lis, the largest rum distillery in New Orleans. They had been in the business for a very long time, so I was sure Victor knew what he was doing—with rum, not with event planning and design.

  “Perfection,” Sara had stressed to me when she called to inform me of yet another one of his wild ideas.

  I hadn’t known what her problem was with me until I saw her treating everyone else just as terrible. Now, I didn’t take it so personally. It was hard to work with an egomaniac such as Victor. I felt sorry for her. Kind of. Not really.

  “Everything will be perfect. I have already done this eight times with you guys. When is Victor going to trust that I can handle his outlandish requests?” I’d replied.

  “Probably never. That’s how Mr. Beaumont operates. That’s why he has been so successful in his endeavors, and I’m here to see that through. Fleur-De-Lis has the highest of standards. It’s expected of us.”

  I’d imagined Sara barking at me on her cell phone, right outside of her favorite coffee shop. Her mint-green ball cap hung low to hide the puffiness in her face from one too many cheap sangrias the night before and the night before that and the night before that even. For Victor to be so damn particular, I had no idea what he saw in her. Maybe it was because she matched his personality—a total douche canoe.

  “Wonderful. Will you please tell Victor that I’ll handle it? His party will be amazing, as always, and if he has concerns, he can speak with Lisa or me directly.” I had hung up the phone and tossed it in my purse.

  I couldn’t let them get to me—not Sara or Victor Beaumont. He was so much of an asshat that he was too cool to even introduce himself to his event team, me included. Though I’d never met him personally, I’d seen pictures of him in the local who’s who magazines. Everyone knew the Beaumont family. And to be honest, as much as I hated to admit it, Victor and all of his brothers were the hottest men I’d seen since … well, since forever.

  If Victor weren’t one of those stupid alpha males that I couldn’t stand, I would have marched right past Sara and given him my sexy Sam sammich a long time ago. To be clear, a Sam sammich was what you thought it was. I didn’t give that to just anyone—yet.

  But alas, Victor was not on my radar. I was done with alpha assholes. After my very young and very dumb marriage to the Douche Who Must Not Be Named, I had learned how to quickly spot an egotistical rat bastard. They were ridiculously sexy, usually had good careers, liked to wear suits, and wanted to be in control of everything. Yep, Victor checked off everything on that list, especially with his well-defined jawline, signature smirk, and micromanagement of my domain.

  All of his recent events had been a success because I made them that way. He’d given me ideas, sure, but I had done the magic. Me. Had I ever gotten credit from the man himself? No. All I had ever gotten from him—Sara—was a bottle of rum and a thank-you note. But to be fair, he paid me well. That was the only reason I stuck with his demanding account in the first place. And also, those bottles of rum were pretty damn amazing.

  I parked my car in the back of his almost-castle-like mansion and headed toward the party room that he had recently built. I shielded my eyes to look up and admire the architecture that Mr. Fancy Pants had chosen. Massive Roman columns gave way to a three-story wall made entirely of glass. The room overlooked his expansive pool and out toward an even fancier guest house.

  I slammed my door shut and scurried inside the back entrance. My heels echoed throughout the cold stone halls. I made my way around the room, checking to make sure my vendors were doing everything correctly. They, too, knew how Victor could be, and they also couldn’t afford to lose his account. Lisa, who always made sure things went smoothly, was a newly single mom. My sound guy, Pete, was struggling to make ends meet after his wife had been diagnosed with breast cancer. The caterer, Anna, was putting three kids through college. With each rare bonus check I had received, I usually slipped it to one of my vendors. They needed extra cash more than I did. I was single and only had to take care of myself.

  These are all real people, I wanted to shout at Victor. They don’t get to piggyback off of their daddy’s money and buy eight-foot-tall ice sculptures or rent eighteen swans and a dozen ducks or plan a ten-course dinner cruise on a yacht.

  The least he could do to show his appreciation was give us all a sincere, heartfelt, perso
nal, in-person thank-you. But instead, we always received rum.

  Still, the money was better than any of the other events we worked. It was the boss’s demeanor that was the trouble. We worked hard under his iron fist so that we could survive. But with his over-the-top attitude and list of crazy demands, we were all honestly terrified that we would be on the chopping block at any moment’s notice if we didn’t meet his expectations. Thankfully, none of my vendors had pissed Victor off—yet.

  Even though I had already planned several of his events, I was still new to working with him. He had scrapped his last planner and her whole team after a fireworks extravaganza hadn’t gone as planned. But who would have guessed that someone drunk on Victor’s rum would sneak over to the fireworks and begin playfully setting them off? The planner should have hired security specifically for the fireworks, not just to guard Mr. Drill Sergeant Beaumont. Rookie mistake.

  “Samantha! You made it. So glad you’re early. Mr. Beaumont wanted to make sure you let the vendors know that they have to be in character. He wants everyone dressed up. No costume, no admittance. The usual. Also, the band is not to deviate from the list. Halloween songs only. Remember, perfection,” Sara sneered with her upturned piggy nose held high under her witch’s hat.

  Fitting costume, I thought.

  She turned on her heels and marched toward catering. The tufts of over-bleached-blonde hair bobbed through the back of her ball cap.

  Lisa came up behind me, nudging her elbow into my side. “Is it just me, or does that lady always look as if her bottom lip smells like someone gave her a Dirty Sanchez?” her voice lisped from behind her vampire fangs.

  “It’s not just you. Although I think if someone were boning that witch, she would probably smile a hell of a lot more.”

  “Poor guy. Can you imagine her in bed? She’s probably into that BDSM stuff, except she would be the denominator. Isn’t that what it’s called?” Lisa cocked her head to the side and stood, watching Sara bark orders out to the crew.

  “I think you’re mixing up sex with your kid’s homework.” I cringed. “I think the correct word is dominatrix, but I’m not sure. I don’t have experience in that area anymore. I think my sex appeal ran away a long time ago.” I let out a fake, long-drawn-out sigh as if I were hopeless.

  But here was the thing. I wasn’t hopeless. I’d decided that tonight would be the night, that I would put myself out there again. I was ready to get back into the dating scene. I had been divorced for five years, and in that time, I’d only had two semi-steady boyfriends. Eventually, I’d given up on both of them and stayed single—and a bit lonely—ever since.

  I didn’t want anyone to know that I was putting myself back out there, partly because of my fear of failure and partly because I was only supposed to be at this party to oversee my work—not to scout out potential life mates or one-night stands. I wasn’t opposed to either, and admittedly, I’d never had either—not including Douche Who Must Not Be Named. He hadn’t been a life mate. He had been the worst, and I’d closed that chapter of my life, thank you very much.

  “Oh, honey. Take it from me. You’ll be just fine without a man. What are they good for? Just a romp in the hay. Other than that, all you have to look forward to is their clothes on the floor, next to the hamper, and their toenail clippings everywhere but the trash can. I could go on and on. My Earl, he was a mess. But I’m happier now with just me and my girl. If I need some loving, I’ll pick up someone at the bar for some fun.”

  “You mean, like a one-night stand?” I stepped in closer to her and lowered my voice. “How do those work? Do you just ask them if they want to fool around? Aren’t you worried about diseases?”

  “Yes, a one-night stand. You find a guy you want to screw and start to flirt. And hell yes, I worry about diseases. That’s why you carry condoms with you. Women have to take care of themselves these days. Don’t rely on a man to have protection. You’ll likely get an excuse. I also do my best not to pick up any weirdos. I know; I know. You can never trust anyone, and even the most clean-cut, kind man could be crawling with some bugs in his pants. But it is what it is. It’s a risk you have to consider,” she lisped, reaching up and thumbing her fangs.

  “A risk,” I whispered, eyeing the men around us. So far, I didn’t see anyone worth even a pinch on the butt.

  “All men are a risk. Women too.” Lisa winked at me.

  “Do what now? Women?” I blinked.

  “That’s a conversation for another day. The guests will be here any moment, and I have to finish up a few things before Dicktor—I mean, that asshole, Victor, fires me on the spot for not making sure the food was warm enough or because the lighting was too calm and not exciting.” She rolled her eyes and walked away, her long cape billowing out behind her.

  I made my final round of inspections, fussing with the napkins, rearranging the skulls at the bar, and checking on the casket. Yes, the casket. Ridiculous. Victor wanted to make a grand entrance, as usual. There was nothing that man didn’t think of, except his employees.

  I picked a tiny table in the back corner and sat down to watch the guests arrive. The sun had set, and the lighting crew flicked on their lights. The whole room was awash in a purple glow with lime-green spotlights around the stage and the windows. Dark corners were lit up with displays of pumpkins, graveyards, skeletons, and anything else I had come across on one of my many shopping trips.

  I leaned into the table, resting my chin on my palm, and smirked. I’d knocked it out of the ballpark again. I’d worked on this project for months, and yesterday, I had been here twelve hours, setting up. But today—tonight—I was reveling in my awesomeness and enjoying the party.

  “Samantha! Mr. Beaumont needs you to call around town and see if you can get some bats, pronto!” Sara waddled over, pointing her clipboard at me like it was a loaded gun.

  “Are you kidding me? I can’t get bats here within the next hour or so. I don’t even think you can rent bats. Is he serious?” I put my palms to my forehead and groaned.

  This man is going to be the death of me.

  “So, I should tell him you can’t?” Sara raised her eyebrows straight up until they disappeared under her hat.

  “You can tell him it might not be real bats, but I’ll have something. I’m guessing it’s for his grand entrance?”

  “Of course. Have it ready at eight sharp. Let me know if Mr. Beaumont needs to do anything different other than wake from the dead.”

  “He won’t. I’ll make his entrance grand. Bats included.” I sprinted over to lighting and sound before Sara gave me another outlandish request. I already knew what I needed to do.

  So much for enjoying the party.

  I silently cursed alpha assholes everywhere. I couldn’t get away from them.

  It took me an hour and a half to get my bat projection ready to roll, thanks to some sweet talk and bribing. Mr. Beaumont would be footing the bill for last-minute changes from both me and my vendors. But when push came to shove, I would get it done. Always. I worked well under pressure even though I hated it. At least, that was what I told myself. Maybe I secretly liked the stress. Maybe I was a masochist in need of a denominator. No math skills required.

  I stood in the back of the room as guests filed in one by one. Their costumes were impressive, but that was easy enough when they’d all hired professional costume designers and makeup artists to be at their beck and call. My outfit wasn’t the cheapest. I had known what was expected of me, and so had all of my vendors. Victor had even given us all a costume stipend. Perfection.

  I swished my tail around as I waited for Victor’s grand entrance, which would be coming any moment now. The entire party committee knew what to expect once the bells rang, and hopefully, after all was said and done, we could relax and enjoy ourselves—as much as we could relax in his presence anyway.

  I sighed as both Sara and Lisa rushed toward me.

  “He’s ready. Let’s start it.” Sara nodded at me.

  “Al
l systems go. Let’s do it.” Lisa gnawed her lip with her fangs.

  “Pete, fire it up.” I gave the command to my sound guy.

  Pete had a mask on, but I could still see his chin quivered. If he—or we—didn’t get this right—kaput!—we would be out.

  The low ringing of a grandfather clock hummed through the room as the guests turned back and forth, searching out this new mystery. Bright lights flashed in tune with the thunder soundtrack—and bats! Glorious bats projected across the ceiling and walls, their screeches echoing throughout every corner of the room. I could barely hear the gasps of the guests over my amazing bats before a crash rang out. A spotlight shone on the casket that now lay shut.

  Silence. Dead silence—until guests started to murmur again. That was the cue to release the evil laughter soundtrack, flash the lights, and spotlight the casket again. Lisa reached over and squeezed my hand as we waited. The sound switched from spooky noises to an organ chiming right as the casket began to open. Victor—or in this case, vampire Victor—emerged from the coffin. His beautiful vampiress models helped him out, of course. I had hired them too.

  The crowd went wild. The guests rushed right to his side to kiss his ass and tell him how wonderful he was.

  “How did you put together such a thing?”

  “Wherever did you learn to do all of this?”

  And he took credit and smiled and nodded like the royal pain in the ass he was.

  Then, in two days, I would receive a bottle of rum and my final paycheck from the event with a scribbled thank you in Sara’s script.

  “Fuck! That was pretty damn amazing. You rocked putting that together, Sam!” Lisa hugged me.

  I picked up the scent of rum on her breath. If she was going to party, I might as well relax and let loose too.

  “I couldn’t have done it without you—all of it. Thanks for your help. We make the best team!” I punched her shoulder. I was awkward and not very good at showing my emotions or being the hugging, touchy-feely type. My personal space was just that—mine.