by Elena Monroe
Well, Ethan was going to be sending me some GIFs later, outlining a beautiful story of anger and resentment.
I looked right at Ethan with an apologetic face, and he mouthed the words: Thanks, bitch. He didn’t even need to say it out loud; his voice was shouting in my head.
“Abigail. She’s missing, and no one is acting like it.” Folding my arms, I popped an eyebrow at Khaos, waiting for the excuses to pour in.
Khaos tapped Ethan’s shoulder, and his legs shifted from under the desk as his body turned and Khaos sat right down on his lap. Khaos was firmly planted on Ethan’s lap, and I couldn’t find one wrinkle on his face that minded.
“Did you talk to Grimm?”
“He’s avoiding me and pretending like he didn’t already replace my best friend.”
“Look, I don’t know what I’m allowed and not allowed to say here. I’m sure she’s fine, nothing to freak out over.” There was a small smirk exploding over his lips that you couldn’t miss.
“Nothing to freak out over? Are you kidding? She’s my best friend.”
Ethan interrupted, forcing Khaos to snake around him to make eye contact from the precarious position he was in, stapled to the chair by his boss. “Jus here has a personal experience with loss. Let’s take it easy.”
Khaos’s eyes shot back to me, making me feel pinned down in a feeling I didn’t want to remember. When the Clave hired me, the process was more than violating. They rummaged through my entire personal life, like it was theirs to go through, so how did the four bosses not get the memo?
Dead parents.
Activist.
Not someone who gives up easily.
I could be summarized into a few sentences without much trouble, if you just got to know me.
Maybe Khaos wasn’t as human as I thought.
Khaos sat up straight before looking at me more closely. “I love secrets! Quick, pick a hand.” He held up both fists, closed tightly, and smirked like he just hit the jackpot on Halloween for candy.
I wasn’t afraid of him or his tricks. “Left.”
“Shit. Right was telling me what happened to you. Guess I’ll settle for you giving Vic a message for me.” He paused, thinking dramatically, the only way someone with his name could. “Just tell him I’m sending out a company wide email with his tenth birthday photos. He’ll know what that means, but don’t forget to address him as Vic the Dick. Very important.”
This guy had got to be kidding.
Tenth birthday photos?
Vic the Dick?
If I wasn’t laughing so hard, I don’t know if I would have been able to react normally. In that exact moment, I gave Ethan so much more credit than I had before for just dealing with this guy. Surprisingly, I was pretty sure he enjoyed the chaos—both kinds.
VIC
I hated myself enough to want someone to tell me who to be.
Justice told me exactly what she wanted, what she didn’t, and the rest was for me to figure out. She never gave me all of the answers… just enough of them with a kind of smile I found motivating.
It would be hard to replicate. I have hard limits when it comes to imposters. It probably stems from the childhood trauma that is always living on my shoulder. On the right, we have every golden standard I live up to for daddy’s approval; and on the left, we have every resentment I house, knowing I can’t be anything but reliable. I hold up the Clave and pride myself on winning. There’s no room for a personality.
I hated Khaos and Grimm for feeling the kind of freedom I should have won as a victory a long time ago for my better than good behavior.
Leaving work was always a highlight for me. It’s when everything else fades into the background, and I can forget the two devils on my shoulder.
The angel yet to be found.
Instead, I worked in evils—one was bound to be less paralyzing than the other.
I had a rotation of girls I blessed with my attention. It was easier than teaching new ones what I liked, what I didn’t, and playing hot and cold just to make sure they weren’t developing feelings. These girls knew how much I hated being myself, and they didn’t ask me to be anything outside of my fantasy.
Billionaire and the maid.
Wounded soldier and nurse.
Professor and student.
Repairman and lonely housewife.
Devil and the virgin.
And my personal favorite… winner and loser.
Watching anyone lose to me was the source of my sexuality. With or without the customs and dedication most actors don’t have, all I needed was to win in a dominating way.
Working with Justice was a kind of torture that resulted in blue balls from the whiplash of both of us trying to maintain the upper hand. I wanted to throw her over my desk and make sure the entire office turned scarlet knowing I had conquered her.
The ultimate prize wasn’t love; it was defeating your greatest enemy.
Sliding into my off-white Porsche, I paused to text Lindsey: Be at my house. Pink wig. Defiant attitude.
She didn't need to know the entire reason why I was making specific requests.
My mind was one track, still stuck to the fact that I would have my own personal Justice waiting in my bed—only this one would have less to say. That was the only downside to Justice, her mouth.
I was the only one out of us four who lived in the heart of LA, in a penthouse where you could see the skyline twinkle at night. I was forty floors off the ground, exactly where I liked to be: on top. Everything in my open layout space was black, dark, almost baleful if you overstayed your welcome. I liked that my space held the same amount of darkness my life did—no angels, even here.
The stark white paint on the wall even read: Abandon all hope here.
That’s exactly what this was: my playground, where hope was abandoned and I was free to be the kind of person I wasn’t molded into.
Walking over the threshold, I could smell the perfume Lindsey always wore, like a signature she left behind for people to remember her by. It was too sweet to be anything Justice would wear, but roleplaying just makes you a better actor. I can pretend to smell the sandalwood and bergamot wafting me in the face instead.
Dropping my briefcase that really held no purpose except to play the role of the Vic they wanted—Clave Poster Child and Golden Boy. I glided over to my couch that hung from four thick ropes from the ceiling. The place came with it already installed, and it wasn't outlandish enough for me to get rid of it. Honestly, I would have probably put it there myself after experiencing what it can do to elevate blowjobs.
Yeah, ponder all the ways actually swinging can heighten that feeling.
Lindsey was sitting there on her phone, wearing a pink wig that wasn’t even close to the real thing, with a trench coat tied tightly around her small waist. “Came prepared?”
She didn’t look up from her phone or answer me, which was the right move. Justice didn’t acknowledge stupid questions and wasn’t going to humor you by proving how smart she was.
No wonder she was running circles in my mind;- she was extinct when it came to this kind of life.
We were all used to dormant girls, who were all too willing to slap pretty smiles on their faces and be silently kept women, with no care in the world that we did bad things. For the money, the power, or whatever fucked up hole they were trying to fill, they’d turn a blind eye to anything.
Justice was different.
She wouldn’t be quiet long enough to turn a blind eye to anything. Too much integrity.
Laying my suit jacket on the other couch I had, a real one that didn’t swing, I undid my tie before I continued to my shirt. Unbuttoning each button with patience, I stood in front of my fake Justice and watched my dick react like it was the real thing.
I could pick apart every little thing screaming in my mind that she wasn’t real, being the perfectionist I am, but that wasn’t the point of this. I left perfection at the office, and right now, all I wanted was to fuck the shit out
of Justice.
I wanted to pull her hair until her neck stretched and her back arched so much that I gained a few more inches of space inside her.
I wanted to wrap my hand around her throat so tightly she didn’t know the difference between dying and coming undone.
I wanted Justice to fight up until the very moment she felt me conquer her.
All those desires were burning a hole on my already stained soul, so Lindsey, my own personal fraudulent Justice, would have to do.
Unzipping my fitted, perfectly tailored, dress pants I pushed everything only far enough down to watch myself spring out in front of her face. She was still glued to her damn phone when I demanded, “Put it in your mouth.”
She smirked, the way Justice would have without any instructions to. Now I understood where it came from: It was a universal smirk that would silently let an opponent know who was winning.
“No, thanks.”
Taking two steps closer to her, I wrapped my hand around myself practically feeding her my dick and obstructing the view of her damn phone.
“It wasn’t an option. Put. It. In. Your. Mouth.” I made each word clear as day, in case that was her problem. I knew I was the one who told her I wanted defiant, but I wanted Lindsey to break easier than the real deal, not work just as hard.
Finally dropping her phone in her lap, she looked up at me, only pausing for a moment to stare at my hand around myself impatiently waiting. Still two feet in playing this character, she turned her stare hard and her glare cold.
“Is that what you want?”
Her pretty mouth moved slowly taunting me with her warmth, while my hand dragged along myself. Done waiting, I slapped my tip to her pillowy lips and expected her to swallow down my length. I whispered over the sound of her choking and the saliva mixing, “I want you to let me win.”
Lindsey was a good sport who appreciated when our fantasies got less tame and when I bit hard enough to leave marks.
Once I was satisfied with the amount of quiet my fraud managed, I let myself relax in her mouth, letting my core tighten in a way I knew meant I was close. Holding the back of her head, I swayed my hips to her mouth, forcing her to take another inch each time, until she opened wide enough to take all of me.
My eyebrows collapsed between my eyes, and I let my head roll back, while she sucked me dry, like she knew I liked. Her tongue slid against my now sensitive tip, making my hips jerk. My hand kept her head still, until my cock was done jerking against the inside of her warm mouth.
Even getting off wasn’t washing Justice from the walls of my mind. All I could think about was what I wanted in place of the satisfied feeling I was used to. Standing up, disappointed, I tucked myself back into my pants and looked past her trying to seduce me into more.
“Out. I have work to do.” I bit out my words, angry for not being able to control myself when it came to her.
Work, funny.
I didn’t let work, the Clave, or my fucked up rendition of a family touch my playground. The only work I would be doing would be finding a way to beat Justice and dethrone her, as my greatest competitor, in my head.
Showering, making tortellini with Parkway Drive blaring over the surround sound, and even jerking off again to the tension I could still feel clenching my every muscle, I was still stuck on her. Nothing was wearing her down. Nothing was washing her off. Everything was pale in comparison now that I had a war to win.
I am conquest, but I haven't had a proper battle in years.
While lying in bed with something random on the flatscreen, I almost debated texting Grimm and asking him to define the difference between love and this kind of competition. I was never comfortable with being less than perfect, losing, or even feeling inferior. The idea of losing to someone like Justice cranked all my adversities up to one hundred.
In some way, was Grimm on the losing end of their own battle? How glorious can the spoils be when it comes from damaged goods like us?
If it’s not about losing, then how am I supposed to want to win, when the prize is someone to put up with us that didn’t come from this world of sitting pretty and smiling?
JUSTICE
I always found an excuse that had me trotting into his office when he ran on his treadmill—coffee order, notes, calls, dumb questions I knew the answers to—just to take another look at Vic without seeming obsessed.
I wasn’t obsessed, but I was certainly infatuated with the wrapper that his awful personality was wrapped in. It made me look like the most attentive assistant he’s probably ever had.
Well, second, compared to Samantha, who was attentive in other ways.
Sitting on the company wide email message from Khaos, I knew I had to use it as an advantage. It had been this long and no email as of yet, so I was in the clear.
All week I had been searching and plotting ways to get information from anyone about Abigail, and then I saw a folder with her name on it when placing his avocado toast down on his desk this morning. That was when the real plotting came into play.
That folder was my in.
When you actually have to try to put a stack of papers, folders, and mess of office supplies in an order that looks believable, it becomes really apparent how little work you actually do. It took me the entire morning to print off bullshit resume templates and menus to use as props, for when I was going to walk in there to distract him.
I even crumpled some, so they actually looked used.
With no more excuses left, I held the stack of papers to my chest, covering up the fact that my dark gray tank top was giving everyone a front row seat to the lack of a bra underneath. I wasn’t at the front of the Clave anymore representing the professionalism inside. Now I could wear what I wanted. Today was the red light special of no bra, no panties, a chiffon green skirt with a generous slit, and Converse.
I stood in the doorway longer than I wanted to without him noticing me. He was typing away, and a temper glossed over his soft features, making it an angelic mix.
The only thing sharp was his tongue.
After he realized I wasn’t leaving anytime soon, he finally looked up at me. “Do you need something?”
All it took was for our eyes to lock, and suddenly the air changed into something more dangerous that erupted into a kind of heat that made my knees push together in his presence.
We were always staring at each other for longer than professionalism or friendship allowed, but not so long it felt like he was burying feelings in my heart. No, this was something in between that got my blood pumping.
Without speaking just yet, I walked closer, forcing him back to maintain any kind of space, when I pushed myself between him and his desk. Leaning back into his chair, I examined his button-down white shirt stretching across his muscles and his obvious annoyance that didn’t make me want him any less than I did.
Abigail was right… I have a weakness for assholes with commitment issues. Boys you didn’t bring home or even introduce your friends to.
“I have a message for you…” Dropping my stack of papers onto his desk, I let my arms hang, and my fingertips toyed with the slit of my skirt.
“Was it about personal space?”
The more he was mean to me, the more the tension built.
Pulling up my skirt, I closed my fists around the material, making sure I yanked it up to my mid thighs before I sat down on his desk, right on top of all the papers with my legs closed. The tension between us was too much to bear without acting on it anymore. I even lost focus of why I was there for a moment.
“What are we going to do about this?” Waving a finger between us, my ear dropped to my shoulder, and I watched him in utter shock try to collect all that poise he seemed to love so much.
“What the fuck are you talking about? This is nothing I can’t handle.”
Letting my knees fall open in front of his eye level, I knew I wasn’t wearing any panties, but that was the thrill of it. I was getting him drunk off the idea of pussy, while we
aring a shirt that read in bold black letters: PUSSY POWER.
I don’t think he meant for his hand to land on my knee when he inched closer. “Are you not wearing a bra? You can’t come to work however you fucking want. There’s rules, professionalism, traditions to uphold…”
Now I knew he at least read my shirt before I used that exact strategy against him.
And he recovered quickly when caught off guard.
Leaning into him, I balanced myself with my hand on his shoulder, and I lifted my beat up Converse onto the arms of his chair, just before I whispered, “I’m not wearing any panties either. Does that ruin your traditions?”
I felt his hand slip up my leg and fingertips disappear under where my skirt was bunched on my upper thighs. His fingers dug into my legs, when I suddenly realized his other hand was mimicking the other, grabbing me and pulling me down the desk closer to him.
“Everything about you ruins traditions.” His tongue swept over his bottom lip, and I was holding my breath, when the pads of his fingers found my nub between my legs, making my hips roll forward.
Loosening his tie, I reached up, taking the black skinny tie in my hands. Toying with it, I wrapped it around my wrists, waiting for him to take over. His teeth nipped at my very hard nipple under the thin fabric of my shirt.
“People like you piss all over centuries of tradition… for what? The power to wear the word pussy on a shirt like this?”
I laughed, pushing my hands into his abs, hoping he got the idea to finish tying the tie and restraining me the way I wanted him to.
“I piss all over traditions, because no one is telling me what to do or believe.”
Tying his tie around my wrists tightly, I knew I was making him angry, but I didn’t care. He was drunk on pussy power, and I was buzzed on antiquated ideas of him putting me in my place.
We both wanted someone to make us feel small. It was the only way to chase the feeling of growing.
“What about now, sweetheart? Am I telling you what to do?” His hand jerked the tie as he stood up, and I felt it tighten around my wrists in a way that made me wince as my body fell against his chest.
