The Kennedy Project

By A. R. Senault

Kennedy Carter is the best at what she does. Unfortunately, she also has a brazen and more than slightly quirky personality that keeps people at a distance.
Mateo Bellini never knew what hit him when the new actuary for his company shattered his walls, infiltrated his company, and stole his heart.
Life seems perfect until Kennedy’s past catches up to her and leaves her heart fractured.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A. R. Senault
• Release date: Jun 14, 2021

A. R. Senault

I live in Southern California with my husband and two sons. For nearly a decade I worked as a general manager for Barnes and Noble Booksellers. After my second son was born, I got this wild idea to become a stay-at-home-mom, or the dreaded term, housewife. After all, non-working moms wake early, sip coffee, read novels, and enjoy yoga outdoors, while listening to nature. Sign me up!One word to describe my last decade of existence is, delusional. When I began making seasoned breadcrumbs from the crust I cut off my kids’ PB&J’s, I knew it was time for a change. I did what anyone with unrealistic expectations would do. I went back to school for my Master’s degree.I got the degree with my husband and sons hanging on my back and grasping for dear life onto my limbs. To survive it all, I began writing. Creating a flawed, yet perfectly endearing man was my escape. Realizing I could create more than one, was my salvation.I enjoy traveling, reading, listening to music, and hiking. I’d rather go to Yosemite or the Sequoias for a family vacation than stand in line at an amusement park. I don’t mind getting dirty and I’ll often chose beer over wine, but I harbor an unhealthy appreciation for the smell of Nordstrom department stores, pricey sunglasses, a perfect martini, and designer shoes.I now stand on the edge of the cliff with all the normal, non-delusional folks. I have reality firmly embedded in my foundation, and the whisper of insanity at my back to keep my writing germane.I appreciate feedback and encourage readers to enter a library every so often to smell the books, while still embracing the wonderful Exploratorium of ebooks. Times-r-a-changing and we need to remain current, but there is no harm in remembering where we came from.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Chapter Separator

LET’S HEAR IT FOR for New York!

I sang at the top of my lungs in my friend’s GTI. I haven’t driven a vehicle in so long, I may as well be driving on narrow streets in London with the steering wheel on the opposite side of the car while screaming my way past cars on the wrong side of the road. My current situation could not be considered driving because I’m parked on some highway in Los Angeles I can’t even remember the number of since I’ve tapped no less than four highways to get to this point.

Give me the concrete jungle any day. This Pacific breeze, legal marijuana, and jarring sunsets have nothing on the Big Apple.

Nothing.

What civilized society drives cars anymore? I’d be on a train or footing it to work down 5th Avenue right now. Granted, it’s trash day so the streets would smell like old ass, but that’s better than exhaust. And why am I the only person parked?

News flash, people, we aren’t moving! Turn your fucking cars off!

The exhaust was burning a hole through my brain. These fools can eat all the kale they want, nothing can cure their lungs after five minutes on the highway. Worse than a raging headache and black lung disease is the painful fact that I need to pee. Badly.

Let’s hear it for New York!

One glaring positive aspect about Los Angeles is that you can act certifiably crazy and nobody would give a shit. They won’t even bring your crazy up in conversation around the water cooler later. In New York, as long as you keep moving at an appropriate pace, nobody will care what you do—unless you harm a firefighter, then all gloves are off. But later New Yorkers will say things like, ‘there was a crazy fool crossing at 7th today,’ or ‘some fucker used an ATM card for their bagel this morning instead of Apple Pay.’

The phone rang, making me yelp. I didn’t realize the music was on at a decibel loud enough for my old, nearly deaf grandmother to hear. God rest her soul.

Jesus, woman, you scared the life out of me. I don’t know why I’m yelling as though our phone call is occurring through an old flip phone. Cars really have come a long way in the last decade.

Just checking to see how your drive into your interview is going. Anna’s voice boomed through the speakers. My dear friend, who abandoned me when we were in high school to move to the land of the sun. She’s rightfully concerned because I’m borrowing her car. Since I’ve moved to the City of Angels, I’ve been more volatile than my usual need-to-be-tranquilized self. I pushed those thoughts away.

This interview is twenty-three miles from our apartment, and I’ve already been in this metal box you call a car for one hour. I noticed a limo parked next to me in the lane on my left. The passenger lowered his or her window about four inches, and I tried to crane my neck to see if it’s a celebrity. And the worst part is I have to pee. I never should have finished that weird protein shake you made me buy. Honestly, it made me throw up a little bit in my mouth and now I am going to pee green in my dress.

Anna burst out in a loud, obnoxious laugh. She finds my hatred for Los Angeles hilarious.

Are you going to make your interview?

You won’t believe it. I called the rat-bastard’s PA and she told me it’s my responsibility to check the traffic. Just then a Hog flew between the lanes to my left and I jumped—and fucking peed myself a little. Shit, Jax Teller just zoomed by on his bike. Do you think I can get some hottie on a bike to give me a ride to a Starbucks so I can use the bathroom? It’s not like we are going anywhere, I exasperated, and I was serious about the ride.

Through her laughter, Anna asked, If the interview is nixed, why didn’t you exit on the next off-ramp and head home?

Oh, honey, you know me better than that. I will make it to that rat-bastard’s office and give his PA a piece of my mind. She needs to learn some matters.

No, Ken, she yelled, this isn’t New York. You can’t run around teaching people manners. You’ll end up in jail and anger management classes . . . again. She’s been around too long and knew most of my secrets.

I chose to ignore her warning. I have another interview tomorrow. Today was the interview with the rat-bastard and his team has a reputation for being rich, chauvinistic, small-dick, ass-kissers. I was really just going to rub it in the CEO’s face, the very thing he cannot have, me. I am the best at what I do. I didn’t even have to apply for jobs. Companies came to me.

You had me at rich, Anna whined. She had a knack for dating some real losers.

I’m done with rich, banker, hedge-fund, Wall Street, pricks who polish their dicks for money and status, I huffed and desperately tried to avoid flipping off the fools walking around on the highway. They went from killing each other with car fumes to parking and walking around like they were out in Central Park for the afternoon. My next dozen fucks will be with surfers who smoke a fat joint in the evening to chill. Maybe I’ll join a drum circle or begin meditating or something overrated and ridiculous like that. But moneymen? No way, not ever again. I have my own money. I don’t need money from a man.

When the traffic moves, come home and we will hit the beach and get started on number one of twelve. She tried to coax me from driving to that canceled interview.

There are three things I want after I shove some Emily Post down Miss PA’s throat. One, a burger, and not one of those fake meat burgers. Shit, I’ll go kill a cow myself if I have to. Two, a beer. A real beer, nothing that tastes like potpourri you Californian’s drink. Three, an orgasm. And not necessarily in that order. But then we can hit the beach.

You are going to be the death of me, Ken. Bail you out in about two hours. She laughed and hung up.

"God, I have to pee," I yelled to no one in particular, hoping the universe would have some mercy on my annoyed, boob sweat self.

To my excitement, the passenger door to the limo opened. Oh, I wanted the passenger to be Chris Hemsworth. Please. Please. Please? A more than acceptable alternative exited. He was the cliché of tall, dark, and handsome with broad shoulders, a narrow waist, long and strong legs, wearing a Brioni suit. Whoop-de-dee, moneyman.

He passed in front of my car over to the lane at my right. He walked up about two cars to an RV parked with the rest of us. I watched as he had a conversation with the driver of the RV and then he took out a money clip and removed three bills.

And they say New Yorkers are strange. Nothing tops this town.

He turned on his John Lobb oxfords to head back to his limo. Except, his focus was solely on me, and suddenly, I wished Anna’s little GTI was a Hummer so I could run over the moneyman.

Don’t look at him, I told myself, thinking crazy should never look crazy directly in the eye. Shocking me, he stopped at my window.

I locked the door.

He smiled. Come on, they are letting you use their bathroom.

He held his hand out as if I was going to climb down from a glass, horse-drawn carriage. I contemplated ignoring him, but I really had to pee. A woman stood at the back of the RV waiting for me.

What the hell? I stepped out onto the hot asphalt and nearly jumped into the moneyman’s arms. Before I knew it, I jumped back into the car to slip my dangerously high heels on over my nearly scorched soles. Another plus for New York? I always wore sneakers to my building and then switched into heels. Nobody’s thighs are strong enough to elevate their feet at just the right angle to drive in heels.

Rushing back out of Anna’s car, I sped toward the woman waiting by the RV. She showed me the tiny bathroom and I went about my business. Knowing the moneyman was waiting, I wanted to pee and get out of there quickly but my bladder had other plans. It felt like I streamed into these people’s RV toilet for three solid minutes. When done, I pulled the lever to flush, and in a swoosh without water, all evidence disappeared. There wasn’t any water on at the sink, so I had to opt for hand sanitizer when I got back to the car.

While thanking the RV lady profusely, I noticed the traffic had started to move. Dashing back to the car, moneyman was already getting into his limo and had the door shut. I hollered a genuine thank you at him through his opened window.

I heard him laugh when the car behind me honked, and I turned around to flip the driver off before I seated myself in to take off. Honestly, thoughts of the moneyman or traffic were long gone after I went pee. Relieving myself felt better than the bliss after a great orgasm.

From my parking space on the highway, I was only another eight minutes from the Bellini Corporation, a hedge-fund and investment company. Exasperated and looking a little more worn out than my usual chipper self, I parked in the underground structure and took an elevator to the lobby. Unsure if I’d get past the lobby guard, I plastered on my best hardass New York look and marched to the guard like I was his new boss.

I dug my heels in with every step on the polished marble floor. The guard had his eyes on me and I stared him down. I’m here to see Mateo Bellini’s personal assistant.

He looked amused. Your name?

I held my chin high and looked at him down my nose. Kennedy Carter.

Yes, Ms. Carter, tenth floor. He handed me a card key for the elevator over the glass desk.

Admittedly, I was taken back by the lack of necessary war of words I geared myself up for. Instead of wondering how I easily acquired a card key to the executive offices, I used my time during the climb to prepare for my first human sacrifice since I landed in the City of Angels.

I pulled my soggy hair into a messy, loose bun while I was still in the car. It was the only salvageable hair fix I could think of. Despite my hair, I knew I looked good. I wore a pale pink BCBG mini dress with three-quarter sleeves and a V-neck to accentuate my well-endowed ladies without looking slutty. Sexy, but still professional. Since arriving in California and taking a month off, I spent time hiking and enjoying the beach. More time in the sun gave my usual pale pallor a tan glow that made my blue eyes and blonde hair pop. I guess one could argue I have classic California looks—my big boobs, blonde hair, and blue eyes were always too shy of the exotic look popular in New York. Maybe California will be a fresh start?

Giving my best runway impression, I headed to the large PA desk outside what had to be Mr. Bellini’s office. I took a deep breath, ready to tear into the rude PA when she looked up and with a sugary smile said, Ah, Ms. Carter. So glad you could make it. Mr. Bellini is expecting you.

Well heck, way to deflate my murderous balloon.

In New York, if you are a bitch, you pretty much remain a bitch all the time. Maybe the fumes from car exhaust and the poison from the sun shining on the plastic and silicone from all the enhanced features made people bi-polar? And Mrs. PA’s change in demeanor was one Fruit-Loop shy of a sugary bowl of diabetes.

Maybe I died from the fumes on the highway today and I’m living in some strange purgatory? Funny, I really thought I’d go straight to hell . . ..

I followed Mr. Bellini’s PA and she knocked on his door twice before she opened for me to enter. The man himself was standing with his back to me, removing the jacket to a seven-thousand-dollar suit, gazing out the window. Straight down the center of his dress shirt was a small line of moisture and suddenly, I worried a little less about my boob sweat.

Not wanting this job as much as the position I’m interviewing for tomorrow, I decided to play with my food, so to speak. That was until Mr. Bellini turned around and knocked the breath out of me.

You are—

The rat-bastard? He smirked. Yes.

Well shit on a cracker.

How much of my conversation did you eavesdrop on? I stared him down, not letting him think for a moment he had me.

He took two steps and rounded his desk, then leaned his tight rear at the edge and crossed his arms. First of all, your conversation could be heard at the Staples Center from where we were parked. Second, you are the one who yelled for all the stupid people in Los Angeles to turn off their engines. Did you think we would allow ourselves to suffocate with the windows up?

I shrugged. LA is pretty crazy, I bet a lot of people are into getting off on the lack of oxygen. I wouldn’t put it past anyone in this town.

He smiled and the way he stared through me set my nerves into high gear.

Moving for the door handle, I didn’t see any reason to waste our time. Since you listened to my private conversation, you know I’m not all too interested in working for your company.

He crossed his two-thousand-dollar shoe over his ankle. Oh yes, you are only here to teach my PA some manners. I think I’d like to see that.

Yes, well, it seems moot now. Thank you for your time. Before I moved, the PA’s voice came over his phone.

It’s here, Mr. Bellini.

Thank you, Clarice. Send it in. The door opened and he added directly to me, I got something for you. Have a seat for a moment, please?

Wrinkling my brows over the sheer weirdness presented in a well-groomed package, I actually became curious what this moneyman was up to. I had to see this out. If for nothing else, I’d have a great story to tell Anna when I get home. So, I sat at his desk.

He put a plate on the hard wood surface of his workspace and pulled something wrapped in greasy white paper out of a brown paper bag. With long, manly fingers, he unwrapped the largest, most delicious hamburger imaginable to carnivores everywhere.

The works, Ms. Carter. Medium-well. I hope it’s to your liking. He moved on strong, yet graceful legs to sit in his chair directly across from me.

He is a cheeky rat-bastard.

Two could play the game. I lifted the burger with two hands and took a large bite. Juices dripped down my chin and I grabbed for the linen napkin Bellini placed neatly next to the plate. My eyes rolled to the back of my head and I groaned. Immediately, I took another bite with my attention solely on the burger. I had to ask him where he got it. Maybe they deliver? After my fourth bite, I wiped my lips with the napkin and looked over to a gaping-mouthed Mr. Mateo Bellini.

I lifted the burger. Want a bite? Or are you a vegan and crying because I’m eating your pet cow Bessie?

Another laugh. I’m Italian. It’s a crime in my family to be vegan. Are you thirsty, Ms. Carter?

Yes, I’d appreciate something to drink, Mr. Bellini. And may I finish my burger?

Impeccable manners, Ms. Carter. Please, the burger is all yours.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as he sauntered to the bar in his office. He opened a small fridge, but I didn’t see what he took out. I heard the sizzle of two bottles being opened. I wasn’t a soda drinker, but I’d drink whatever he gave me to be polite.

Well into one of my last bites of burger, he placed an ice-cold Bohemia Dark at exactly one o’clock from my plate. He sat back in his chair with his own beer in hand. My grin pleased him.

A burger. A beer. I can tell Clarice to hold my calls for an hour and I can also provide the orgasm. Determination in his eyes gave away the fact that he was not kidding around.

Making him wait to finish off my burger and taking a long pull from my beer, I finally responded, It takes you an hour to bring a woman to orgasm?

My question surprised him. Pleasantly, I may add. After all, I’m a rat bastard, hedge-fund prick with a small-dick I haven’t had time to polish yet today, so I may be off my game. But I promise you, I kiss no one’s ass unless it’s attached to a sexy actuary I want to work for me.

I think I just heard one of my ovaries pop.

This time I sipped my beer, lady-like. Is your human resource manager male? I waited and his eyes told me the answer. Your company has a bad reputation. It’s the Fox News of the investment world in Los Angeles. If that is what you are going for, kudos to you. I’m too valuable and outspoken to be your token woman.

I sat back. Eat that, Mr. Bellini.

He observed me carefully. I’m not admitting to anything. How would you know the culture of my company? I keep everything well-hidden.

I rolled my eyes like an indolent teenager. I don’t only crunch numbers. I research every aspect of a company to determine risk and trends. I’ve been known to sidle up to a bar and listen to company gossip with the executives and minions. I’m good. I know the exact culture of your company. I can tell you how many times a day a toilet flushes in this building.

Smug? Conceited? I knew it. But Mr. Bellini, like the three other interviews I have lined up, came to me because I have an astounding reputation.

What do I need to do to have you?

Load your questions much, Mr. Bellini?

A staring contest ensued. I worked rapidly to gauge how much I could bleed from Mr. Bellini—although my mind strayed off-track because I could watch the five o’clock shadow appear on his face and it was only one-thirty in the afternoon. His eyes were the finest of dark chocolate and his lashes were most definitely those magnetic falsies. I wanted to get up and pull on the whispers as he blinked.

I cleared my throat and told my mind to get back in the game. To start, I would need sixty-thousand more a year on top of my asking price. I gave my best school-girl impression. I need to buy a car and I want to live closer to the beach.

He squinted and I decided the lashes were God’s gift to women but as a cruel joke, they ended up on a man. I’ve heard you are difficult to work with.

Pfft. I actually made the sound. You say difficult; I say passionate, tenacious, committed. He started to respond but I cut him off, And I need my own office.

Shaking his head, he was adamant. No. Can. Do. You aren’t the boss in that department. You would get a cubicle, just like all the other worker bees.

Pfft. Again the noise. Give it two weeks and everyone will be begging for me to have my own space.

"Did you say will?"

I eyed him intently. No. I need thirty-six hours.

He shook his head. No. Twenty-four. I know you are interviewing with more companies. I’ll give you the one tomorrow, but that’s it.

I looked at him wondering if he knew all the companies I’m interviewing with.

I do my homework too, Ms. Carter.

He’s a snide son of a bitch.

I stood and took a notebook and pen out of my purse. I wrote in my notebook the seven non-negotiable pieces of equipment I need to work efficiently. I ripped the paper out of my notebook and placed it on his desk. This is what I need if I accept.

Finally ready to leave, I turned to walk away, but remembered my manners. Thank you for the bathroom break, the burger, and the beer. I’ll take care of the orgasm when I get home.

Turning to leave, I felt his hand over mine on the door handle. Accept and I will have one of those burgers for you every Monday, as long as you agree I can watch you eat it.

He opened the door and I smiled the whole way to the elevator, not looking nearly like the badass New Yorker I prided myself to be.

Chapter 2

Chapter Separator

THE CAR DOOR NEARLY flew off the car.

What is this crazy shit again? Hannah Montana air? I grabbed the door before it became a weapon of mass destruction.

Through her laugh, Anna answered, Santa Ana Winds, you moron.

She was dropping me off at work. Yes, I took the job. My interview with the other company went well, and the reason for taking the job with the rat-bastard that I’m sticking to is the other company wasn’t paying as well. Any fool could see the holes in my story. Seriously, Bellini had me with the RV toilet.

Anna popped her little hatch-back open and it nearly flew off her tiny car. We looked at each other and laughed our asses off. As punchy-dumb friends, we found everything funny. I stepped out of the car, thankful that I was wearing a skintight skirt, which was windproof. Throwing my Louis Vuitton satchel over my shoulder, I had to use plenty of muscle to shut the door against the ridiculous wind.

A car honked behind us. Trying to assemble my hair to see through the throngs of blond waving all over my face, I stood proud and yelled, Hold your dick, asshole. And I flipped off the jerk laying on his horn.

Get your shit out of my trunk. I’m double parked and we are about to cause a mutiny.

Shit. I scrunched my face. Something blew in my eye. I tried bending over and opening my eye, but I couldn’t. I think a fucking seagull flew into my eye, I cried, blinded.

Anna was in hysterics.

Somehow, I made my way to the back of her car and the bastard behind us had the balls to honk again. I turned to scowl at him. Well, actually, I looked like a deranged one-eyed pirate with my hair blowing in my face. I doubt my scowl was a threat in the least.

With great effort, I pulled my baseball bat and large shadow box out of the car, but no way was I going to be able to shut the hatch.

I stopped the first person I saw on the sidewalk. Hey, handsome, would you mind closing this for me? I wanted to give him a cute wink; instead, I was trying to spit my hair out of my mouth.

Luckily, he obliged, and I hollered my thank you over my shoulder as I headed to the large glass doors of the Bellini Corporation. Once inside, I immediately felt like I reached a mirage of safe ground, away from the hot, blowing Hannah Montana air outside. I huffed and did my best to right myself.

The security guard came rushing to my aid.

Ms. Carter, let me help you. He took the shadow box and didn’t flinch when he got a closer look at the large, framed possession. I followed him to the elevator. You are on the ninth floor, Ms. Carter. He pushed the call button and we waited. Can you make it up there on your own? I’m not supposed to leave the desk.

Yes, Mr. . . .?

George, Ms. Carter. Just call me George. I’m a fellow New Yorker. He winked. Obviously, a seagull didn’t fly into his eye this morning.

Nice to meet a friendly Yankee. I have to tell you, I think all the sun and frozen yogurt makes these people crazy.

He laughed and the elevator arrived. After I got situated inside, he passed over my shadow box. It was big—three-foot by three-foot—so as others joined me in the elevator, I had to be careful not to take anyone’s eye out or leave bruises on their asses. The elevator emptied quickly and only I was left to exit on the ninth floor.

A sweet receptionist greeted me, You must be Ms. Carter. She was too happy for my tolerance levels, especially this early in the morning.

Yes, um . . . I’m a little early.

You are, and Mr. Neals isn’t in yet, but I can show you to your desk. She practically skipped away with me on her tail.

Like Vanna White turning letters, she gestured to a cubicle. This is your area.

I grimaced and secretly started a betting pool with myself over how long it would be before everyone begged the boss to give me my own office. I’m going with seven workdays.

I placed my satchel, bat, and shadowbox down. Thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.

I’m Brittany. She looked down at my shadow box and horror struck her naïve face. Is that what I think it is . . .?

I turned and inspected my requested equipment. Yep. They don’t call me certifiable for nothing. I realized to a sweet, unworldly girl like Brittany, I looked meek and maybe even demure. Today, I wore a black pencil skirt and pink blouse with mini black polka dots embroidered on the silk. I had on high pumps in black patent leather. My shoes alone cost more than a rent payment in Los Angeles. I looked sweet, even kind. I didn’t want to scare poor Brittany and cause a lifetime of therapy. Don’t worry, Brittany, I only go ballistic on jerks and you seem like a really nice young lady. I think we may even end up as friends.

Oh God, stick a bubble gum lollipop in my mouth, I’m so sweet.

My speech worked and my shadow box was forgotten. Brittany reached through my cubicle—I even hated thinking the word cubicle—and gave me a hug. I stiffened because we weren’t friends yet, and I watched her skip out of sight.

I spent the next half-hour unpacking a few essentials from my satchel and propping my shadow box up on one side of my desk. There wasn’t anywhere to hang it since I didn’t have walls. I was, however, pleased that Bellini followed through with my list of necessities—a specific brand of office chair, an ergonomic keyboard, three monitors, speakers, and a tablet.

Before everyone started to arrive, I decided to take my favorite mug and find the breakroom. I wandered a bit and was rather impressed with the layout and décor of the office spaces. Passing Tiffany, or was her name Brittany . . .? Anyways, passing the receptionist, I asked her if she could show me where I could score some coffee.

She bounced at the chance. No really, I almost went to catch her in the air thinking she was a brightly colored beach ball. I love your outfit. She turned and started walking backward as I followed.

Thanks. I tried to amp the chipper in my voice. Naturally, I failed.

When we hit a stairwell, I froze. I don’t do stairwells. Sweat threatened to soil my adorable blouse and my heart started beating faster than an abusive husband, but Tiffany—that still doesn’t seem right—didn’t stop. I took one large breath of air, bit down on my upper lip, and walked through my poison.

"The breakroom is on the eighth floor. The Bellini Corporation owns eight through ten. Well, Mr. Bellini owns the whole building, but he rents out the other floors." She opened the door numbered with a large red eight and waited for me to walk through. I took in a breath of air, thankful I survived without embarrassing myself.

The breakroom was in the back corner of the office space. I wasn’t about to run a ten-k every time I needed a fix. However, the coffee machine didn’t disappoint. It was one of those deals filled with a whole bag of fresh beans and the happy little lights that provide prompts for several different styles of brew. I pressed the eight-ounce brew option and waited. Brittany—yeah, that sounds about right—stared shyly at my coffee cup. As I pressed the eight-ounce brew one more time and waited, she chewed on her lip, dying to ask questions.

I put her out of her misery. Eight-ounce brews are stronger. I need at least two to fill this large cup. I held up my cup and with the statement, I Am A Ray of Fucking Sunshine, in her view. She