by Elena Monroe
As I started to mouth the words that I knew as freedom, he threw up a hand silencing me, even though no sounds left my mouth.
“I don’t care. I make the rules around here.” He hung up his personal phone and dropped it on his desk before looking up at me. “Where do you plan on going?”
“Stomachache. I’m gonna go home early.”
Vic sat back in his chair, looking at me like he could see through my actual bullshit and needed the real reason why I was leaving so early. His gaze felt heavy, while the feeling of wanting to be honest came on strong.
“It’s been a rough day, okay? Dead parents, demons, being alone with Bowen for more than ten minutes is enough to drive anyone over the edge.”
My honesty poured from me without warning.
“Bowen has a way with making friends with your demons before the person they occupy. Go home. I’m leaving soon anyways.”
Watching him stand, he collected his things, and he said my name without looking up, “Don’t think about going to Grimm’s. She’s supposed to be dead. Not taking visitors.”
“Last person I want to see right now,” I lied, biting my lip hard enough to rival the rest of my mundane pain holding me captive.
He moved closer, brushing by me to leave, and his hand pulled me back to his doorway. “You shift from foot to foot when you’re telling uncomfortable truths.” His grip on my arm loosened, and he left me behind, breathless, against his glass door.
Once he was far enough away, the air settled, and I could finally take in a big breath. I hated him more for being able to read me when ex-boyfriends couldn’t even manage to determine the difference between hangry and horny.
Focusing on the hours standing between me and my side hustle, I left the Clave, heading for the bus stop.
While I waited for the bus, I pulled out my phone, choosing a random contact, all labeled ‘Boy’ with numbers after their names. Opening a new text, I quickly typed and hit send, while the urge to make a bad decision soothed down into a sweet kind of calm.
ME: My place in an hour?
BOY #5: RSVP’d
I almost felt guilty I didn’t remember who he was, his name, or if our last encounter was even worth the hassle of round two.
Almost felt guilty.
An equalist at heart, I took pride in doing the same shit men had been doing for years without so much as a stern look. Just because I had a pussy didn’t mean I couldn’t act the same way.
Sorry not sorry.
VIC
Leaving early didn’t mean I was off the hook when it came to letting shit slide until tomorrow. I still had enough shit to do, go over, and sign the bottom of to force my ass back into my office at 11-something at night.
I spent the entire day rubbing elbows with anyone who could help me unravel the mystery of Justice and the two last names.
Being the Clave’s face, I had connections that went beyond my father.
I didn’t need his bullshit excuses.
I needed answers.
Not secrets. I had enough of those.
My headphones blocked out most of the noise, the creaks and janitorial staff that cleans at night, but not every single sound between the melodic sounds of Jonny Craig’s voice.
The rustling outside my office didn’t go unnoticed as I contemplated all the answers I didn’t gain from an afternoon of meetings. No one was willing to betray my father.
He had so much blood on his hands that it scared everyone he knew into blind loyalty.
I should ask my brothers for help, but one blood oath doesn’t change how different we all are—all too unwilling to see eye-to-eye.
Finally, annoyed enough, I made my way to the heavy glass door, expecting to see the young woman who cleans the office on Thursday nights after everyone goes home. To my surprise, I saw Justice… in a maid’s costume. Complete with the tall socks, her beat up boots, and a displaced hoodie zipped up over her chest.
She gets half a point for effort.
“What are you doing here this late? What the fuck are you wearing?” I looked her up and down with a smirk in my eye at the cheap maid’s outfit, clearly visible even with her hoodie covering the fun part.
Watching her jump out of her skin, literally, making the skirt float up and show me a glimpse at her black boy short panties.
Justice wasn’t a frills kind of girl. I’m sure the boy shorts were some injustice she was fighting by eliminating gendered underwear.
“I left my charger here. I just came to get it really quick. Don’t have a heart attack, workaholic.”
She wrapped the cord around her hand when my eyes quickly dropped back down to her exposed legs with her boots throwing off the whole look.
Who would hire this girl as a maid?
“You’re a maid too?” I leaned against the glass wall of my office watching her cross her arms like that would stop me from taking in what I wanted.
“It’s complicated… Abigail is preoccupied, and I need the extra cash to cover her rent. I take odd jobs here and there.”
Grimm was the best example of tunnel vision. He only cared about saving Abigail, not the fall out of her being gone.
I liked to anticipate everything.
“I don’t think they can actually make you wear that anymore. It’s not the 50’s.” I kept my eyes on hers, even though I badly wanted to trail down her exposed legs again.
She shifted, looking down at her boots and tugging her zipper further up than the nun status it was at already.
“It’s complicated.” She was repeating herself instead of going to battle with me. She wasn’t feeling like a winner right now. The conquered smirk and glow to her pale skin wasn’t ignited at all.
Pushing off the wall, I took a big step towards her, staring down at her discomfort like an old friend. “How low are you going for some cash, Peace Corps?”
“I’m not proud of it, okay? So don’t throw your lame ass nickname in my face. I never did the Peace Corps.”
Reaching out the short distance to her, I touched the zipper pull when her hand closed over mine, trying to stop me. I was stronger than her, but the pouting was as powerful as she thought. Justice in a frown hurt for some reason, but it didn’t bring me to my knees.
“Call girl? Voyeurs? Stripping?” I tried to say it for her when I dragged the zipper pull down revealing her milky white skin covered in light blue veins too close to the surface.
The hoodie unzipped, but it fell in this modest way, leaving her covered still. The toplessness underneath peeking through, no straps or hint of fabric, forced me to feel something else.
Jealousy.
Someone, maybe lots of someones, were staring at her milky skin that I hadn’t even seen yet. I had been inside of her without really seeing her; it was some kind of bad Sun Tzu reference.
I know I’m possessive, wildly possessive.
Every girl I had in rotation and every secretary I had were mine, only mine. When I was done with them, I was the one to put them down. No one else shared any piece of that relationship.
Justice was my secretary, possibly a casual fuck, but the jealousy? That had never become part of the equation.
Taking a step back, I fished out my wallet and yanked out all my cash I had stuck between the leather. “You can clean my office from now on. Ditch the maid’s outfit. I may hate being myself, but whatever role that is… is tainted now.”
Tossing the bills on her desk now edging its way between us, I watched her face go from calm to insulted, the exact way I expected. If I pushed the right buttons, Peace Corps became repellent—enough to keep me out of her panties.
“I’m not above taking your money, so if this is some kind of tactical tenet, I’m not into it.” She stood there, folding the money and tucking it into her phone case.
I was still stuck on the war vocabulary she just jabbed my way. If this was death, I would go willingly. A hot girl with an attitude that had a problem with everything who was speaking my language.
<
br /> “Did you just use the words tactical tenet? Do you even know what that means?” I couldn’t even force myself to keep the same sharp tone.
“You aren’t the only expert in warfare, Vicy. Rules are meant to be broken, and ethics can be subjective.”
She wasn’t wrong, and this side of her, the side ready for combat, wasn’t helping to repel me.
“Ethics are subjective, always, so make yourself useful and clean my office.”
Done fighting words with words, I headed back into my office without looking to see if she was behind me. Sitting at my desk, I tried to focus on the documents full of numbers, funding, and transactions I needed to audit for errors, but I couldn’t help looking at Justice shimmying out of her maid’s skirt.
I didn’t need to pollute the air with useless words. I was busy enough looking at every inch of her without saying anything.
“You said get rid of the outfit…” Justice was taunting me with the cheap fabric falling to the floor and her boy shorts on display.
“For future reference...” I smirked around the words, with my eyes still glued to her every move, when she let the hoodie fall too, like a private showing. Her milky white skin practically glowed against the desk light being the only light on right now.
Her long legs forced my eyes to creep up to her perky breasts that were absent of imperfections.
Peace Corps was every desire I ever had in one embodiment. She was every tone, every vindictive urge, every sinful idea I had, wrapped up in fucking pink hair with a smirk that said “fuck you” if you thought winning me would be easy.
“What am I cleaning first?”
I had answers that crossed the line in some vulgar way, but I didn’t want to win. I wanted her to forfeit.
“Don’t maids know their place? Do whatever you need to do, just don’t bother me while I work.” I regretted all the words that I had said as soon as the sentences strung together.
Vic the Dick was a nickname I had earned for a reason.
Pushing her away was the only tactic I had left, besides pushing her down on my desk and fucking the sense into her she clearly didn’t have. I should have screamed, run away from me, stop encouraging me, take the loss and lick your wounds.
Going back to my documents, I crunched the numbers we were spending versus the money we were making to make sure everything looked right before moving on to the payroll I oversaw for us four. Our cut was astronomical, but we did all the leg work, while our dads drank their days away.
Each one of us earned, based on what we brought to the table. I shouldn’t have access or know anything; it was a strategy I was sure my father came up with to keep me competitive.
Always winning.
Always on top.
Always leading by example.
Without much thought, I signed off on their checks and looked out of the corner of my eye to see Justice on her hands and knees doing whatever she classified as cleaning. Her small ass was in the air and the backs of her thighs were stamped with words in cursive that read: Peace and War.
Whoever was responsible for Justice made her for me. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind.
Pushing my chair back, I watched her crawl around on her hands and knees when my dick jerked alive. Every part of me wanted her: mind, body, soul.
“What are you doing?”
“Cleaning, like you told me to. Fair is fair.”
“From that position?” My own hand slid down my crotch, adjusting myself even though the ache wasn’t going to go away.
“That’s normally how they like it. Women on their hands and knees doing slave labor.” She sat back on her heels.
There was a cow tattoo on her upper arm framed in foliage and flowers like a Peta campaign. Her ass, still perfectly round for being tiny, spilling over her heels, and her back freckles looked like stars.
Standing up, I swallowed down whatever was creeping up my throat, and I made my way to her sitting on my hardwood floors, like some obedient sex doll Grimm would be into. Only this one had more bite.
“I’m not everyone. I’m giving you the firepower to take me down, Peace Corps.” Capturing her hair in my hand, I yanked her head back, forcing her to look at me while I spoke.
She was unlike anyone else, powerful in her own right, but I had to give her the map to me first. Without it, I was just another corporate asshole. Now she would know better.
Her jaw clenched, and her hands leaned into the hardwoods floors, “I don’t want to take you down... I want you to destroy me before I destroy myself.”
All of her armor fell off in one piece, when I watched her eyes flood until a perfect singular tear dripped from her lashes. I didn’t think emotions on anyone were attractive until I watched her silently cry for some kind of freedom.
A freedom I could relate to.
Both chained to different causes, trying to be perfect and come out as victors. We just wanted someone to see us as enough. To see us in a way that gave them the power to break us. To conquer us in a way that forces us to rebuild.
Dropping to my knees in front of her, I wanted to pull her into my arms, but my body wouldn’t let me get any closer than this.
“I’ll destroy you if you destroy me,” I said, trying to lighten the mood with peace treaty talks.
“I’m supposed to be a good person, but it’s a lot of work. It’s easier to be like you... tough, impenetrable, selfish.”
Sticks and stones are some bullshit compared to the words Justice liked to launch my way. She didn’t think I was some asshole who needed to be taken down; she thought I was the definition of bad and envied me for it, because she was too good.
Too good for me, not the world.
“I’m not the golden rule for humanity, Justice. I'm not an asshole because I want to be. I’m an asshole because that’s what I need to be in order to be the best.” The word felt sour and tart, like a Warhead on my tongue.
Unbuttoning my white, crisp, dress shirt, I pulled it from my pants with a tug and maneuvered out of it. Leaning into Justice, only the smallest amount, I draped my shirt over her exposed shoulders. It was the best I could do. I was out of practice when it came hugging. Ultimately, I would make it worse with all the messy emotions that crowded her normally soft features.
“There is no perfect way to be. Good and bad are a spectrum; every corner is a choice. You don’t wanna be like me. It’s nothing to envy, Peace Corps.” I watched her snake her arms inside my shirt that was already hanging off of her, several sizes too big on her small frame.
I wanted to tell her that I see her, and it’s bullshit that two people can work equally as hard, but the bad guy always wins.
Nothing I could say was going to fix the world, balance the scales, make being a good person more beneficial.
The only thing I could do was return the favor. A kiss for a kiss.
Maybe I could transfer all the feelings she left me with. All the warmth, all the acceptance and comfort I traded in for winning. The feelings sizzled on my lips long after her lips left mine.
Maybe pressing my lips against hers was selfish, but I wanted to be everything she made me feel—good enough.
Leaning into her my hand cupped her cheek, letting my thumb rub her smooth skin moistened with the tears of being a good person. I was the devil, tangling with the essence of good on my office floor, chasing being good enough when it’s intangible for me.
“Don’t move,” I warned her, like she’d contemplate pulling away. That would be a blow to my ego that I couldn’t take.
“Just kiss me already…” With her hands on my shoulders, she dragged me the few centimeters between our lips. She tasted sweet against me when my mouth opened, surrendering every barrier, letting her inside me.
Our tongues fought, blow for blow, tasting each other, and my hands slid down her back, pushing her against my hard cock. I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. I relished the idea of Justice being the only person who could take me down.
&nb
sp; I didn’t realize how sour Justice could be, until I felt the sizzle take the place of her lips when she pulled away from me, trying to catch her shaky breath.
Justice was a Warhead turned inside out—sweet enough to lure you in and sour enough to bite you in the ass for enjoying her nectar.
Her warm breath hit my face before I had even opened my eyes. “Why do I think that was your second kiss ever?”
“I plead the fifth, Peace Corps.” I smirked against my words, mixing with the tingle on my tongue still. I gave her enough of me already, and now I was just waiting to be destroyed.
JUSTICE
Last night wasn’t my shiniest moment. My timing wasn’t great, but my timing was never great. I was either too late or so early none of me made sense.
Vic was catching me at all my vulnerable moments, and the aftermath resulted in this strange feeling... it left the same taste as a when you feel jilted that you’re giving up more of yourself than the other person is.
It felt like second place.
That was exactly what it was: I was stark naked, showing him all my ugly, and he was soaking it up like a sponge. Except when I gave him a squeeze, nothing oozed out in return.
One of the guys creeping around my past texted me that he had tickets to Parkway Drive’s sold out show, and I couldn’t pass it up, even if that meant letting him feel me up in the crowd. The Australian band rarely made it to the states, and I needed something to distract me.
I always thought getting older, having this shiny adult job, would mean having my shit figured out, but I was just as much of a chaotic mess as when I was fifteen, trying to piss everyone off. It worked for the most part. My grandmother was the only person who would give me the finger right back.
That shit was always priceless.
An 82-year-old, flipping you the bird in a direct response to you refusing to let her love you, because nothing is going to feel like the love you missed out on.
Now I’m an adult, who still tries to get people to write me off, but with a lot less hard limits when it comes to surviving. I never thought I would be the girl who considered selling my dirty panties, being a topless maid, or even some of the other ways that I couldn’t even bring myself to say, even silently in my head.
