Can't Buy My Love: Billionaire and Virgin Romance Collection

by Jamie Knight

  Chapter Thirteen - Tommy

  At this point, I can hear the bathroom door creaking open. I hear the telltale sign of Ms. Vanacore’s fashionable walking cane clicking along the floor toward us. Briefly, I turn to confirm this.

  She is, in fact, coming toward the table, and she’s spotted Melissa milling around.

  Immediately, I watch her shoulders go up. Her posture straightens, like an alpha lion walking back into her territory, coming to claim her mate or her kill. I’m not sure which one I am at the moment, or which one I feel like.

  “Order whatever you want, and tell the waitress I’m paying for you,” I say to Melissa, watching Ms. Vanacore get closer. I can smell her perfume from here. “Got it?”

  Melissa looks reluctant for a moment. Then she sees Ms. Vanacore and decides to acquiesce.

  “If you insist,” she says. “But if my boss is going to pay for my meal now that he’s promoted, he should expect to be repaid.”

  With that, Melissa strolls off. The way she moves, it’s like she knows Ms. Vanacore is watching her but she doesn’t feel the need to watch her ass around her. She is confident, and a little prissy or snappy, the way she moves.

  What the fuck?

  “Boss”?

  Did she really just call me “boss”?

  My eyes are fixated on her the entire way from our booth to a table she chooses not more than a few feet away. I’m watching her shapely ass and then legs the whole time. Even when Ms. Vanacore sits down next to me and says something, I don’t hear it clearly.

  My eyes are still eating the sight of Melissa’s candy ass, and my mind is still lit up with her calling me “boss.” Though I didn’t see myself as one of those types — one of those men like the rest of the alpha males around here who gets a kick out of being called “boss” by their subordinates — I have to admit that it sends a thrill through me.

  It’s a shot of electricity, that goes straight to my crotch, straight to my dick.

  I guess she did. I guess I am. I am! After getting the job today, I… Technically, became her boss. Sure, I’m not an official executive, but I’m not in the legal aids’ pool anymore. I have an actual position with the head of legal, and that makes me Melissa’s boss.

  Just as the fiery ice of this realization strengthens, it fills my cock with more energy, to the point where it is no longer sleeping under the table.

  Ms. Vanacore whacks my leg with the body of her cane. The movement is swift and harsh. Much like a dungeon master might do if I were playing her sub.

  “Tommy,” she snaps.

  Shocked, I immediately sit at attention. I turn my eyes to Ms. Vanacore and away from Melissa’s table, though Melissa hasn’t stopped looking at me.

  She’s crossed her legs and settled in quite nicely to her perch. Where she can watch and study me to her heart’s content. At least, until the waiter comes by and begins to talk with her.

  “Ma’am?”

  It takes a Herculean effort to keep my attention on my boss, not on the fact that I’ve become Melissa’s.

  Ms. Vanacore smiles, but it’s a little lonely and frayed, like she’s caught me cheating on her, but she’s choosing to ignore it.

  “Melissa? Kane’s secretary?” she asks me, venomously. “What could she possibly have to talk with you about? I doubt she came here to nag you about phone calls. Or that she even knew where to come to nag you about them.”

  Immediately I feel Vanacore’s dislike. I see it in the next second, as her eyes find Melissa’s table, and look at her like she’s a bug or an irritant.

  “It was a pure coincidence,” I say, trying to pull those ugly eyes away from Melissa.

  Melissa doesn’t seem disturbed in the least. She turns away from Vanacore with a flourish, in a gesture that is like “talk to the hand” and “fuck off, bitch, you aren’t my boss here or anywhere,” at the same time.

  She locks eyes with me. Points me out to the waitress, who follows her finger to me. As this happens, I see her writing something down sloppily on an order form. I smile, knowing she is taking me up on my order for her to get lunch on me.

  “Coincidence,” says Ms. Vanacore, wiping the smile off my face, and forcing my eyes back to her. “The two of you seem pretty chummy, pretty friendly with each other for this to be a coincidence.”

  The emphasis she puts on “friendly” is as deadly as a nine-millimeter bullet, but I don’t show it.

  “Just a coincidence, ma’am, I assure you,” I say.

  I’m not really sure what her deal is with this. Why she is making such a big fuss out of it. Why she seems to be so nosy.

  But then it hits me.

  Oh, no. Oh God! Does she think I’m dating her? Is she trying to see if I am?

  I study Ms. Vanacore and her stern expression. The way she moves her hair behind her shoulders and ties it back with a small leather band. She rests her cane in the booth on the seat next to her. As she does, her old-fashioned, motherly aura slams into me.

  Is she against that kind of work culture? Is she afraid I’m not serious enough for her? Is she afraid I’m messing around with people from the office?

  “I was just telling her that lunch was on me.” I pause, seeing something else I don’t like in Ms. Vanacore’s eyes: disappointment and disgust. “She did a favor for me, and, well, it was the best I can think of to do.”

  Oh, my God! I need to shut up! Shut up! What did I just say? “Favor”? Are you kidding me! That sounds worse than anything else you just said! No way in hell that doesn’t suggest something unprofessional!

  My worst fears are confirmed in the next minute, when, after placing the order with the waitress (Vanacore orders for me and her, some kind of family platter deal with all their top favorites), she clears her throat.

  She narrows her eyes and says very sternly to me, “I’ll have no assistant or associate of mine talking unnecessarily with the receptionists. Male or female. It’s unsavory, Tommy.”

  It doesn’t matter that my body size is at least twice, maybe three times that of Ms. Vanacore; I feel small and helpless in front of her. I feel young. Powerless. Like I’m her son caught in some illicit affair, and I’m just now catching hell for it.

  “I know about the culture around here at Mckenzie Tech, son.” She clears her throat and gives me a cold stare. “I know it’s not uncommon for men in powerful positions to get involved with their secretaries, aids, or whatever, but if you’re going to work for me, I’m not going to have any of that. I’m not going to have you have a questionable relationship or association with one of the receptionists.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, my head still hung, I take a glance at Melissa’s table. She’s not looking in my direction anymore. Instead, she’s on her smartphone.

  I can’t tell what she’s doing, but whatever it is, it’s clearly not enjoyable. Her brow is too furrowed, and her mouth is too sour, for it to be anything pleasant. On top of that, her fingers are typing madly on the screen, dancing and stabbing at the glass like some demonic ballet dancer.

  “It gives off the wrong impression, Tommy,” Vanacore says, oblivious to my wandering eye, or at least pretending to be, but I’m sure she doesn’t miss much. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned by being in this business for over thirty years, it’s that an image can cost you more to lose than it did to make. If you want to get anywhere, if you want to advance in any way, you have to carefully craft your image and your persona, and that means carefully choosing with whom you spend or don’t spend your time.”

  She pauses, murmuring thanks for some drinks that are brought to us. For me, it’s a straight glass of rum. For my boss, it’s a legal moonshine.

  Yes, legal, label-produced moonshine. It’s from some small distillery down south somewhere, but apparently, they’ve taken a literal back-woods tradition and turned it into a legitimate business.

  Raising my head, I take a sip of my rum. I swill it around in the glass out of nerves, a
nd for the cool, adult aura gives me. I take another sip.

  “I understand, Ms. Vanacore, ma’am,” I say.

  Ms. Vanacore takes a sip of her clear liquid moonshine, sucks it through her teeth, swallows it, and sighs contentedly — like she’s been “dry” for most of her life, and she’s just broken her personal prohibition on this brand of alcohol.

  “I’m glad you understand, Tommy. It’s not that I’m trying to be unfair or judgmental, son.” She gives me that motherly look. That sober, “I’m sorry, but I have to do this for your own good” kind of look, that’s full of warmth and harshness. “I’m just looking out for your best interest. Someone as driven as you can’t afford to have rumors and wrong ideas floating around about you or your work ethic, standards, and morals.”

  What she says next, I’ve already predicted in advance.

  “You're not one of these big CEOs, son. You can’t just deflect these kinds of things, and have any and all reputation trouble suddenly fixed. If you’re going to be working with me, people are going to be watching you, and you’d better hope they like what they see.”

  She pauses, taking another sip of her moonshine. I take another sip of my rum, allowing the liquid to burn through me.

  “And people might not take kindly or correctly to what you may or may not be doing or saying with a secretary. Especially when you’re coming across that chummy.”

  I feel Melissa react to this. I don’t need to see it. I feel her hackles go up, as well as mine. While I can hear that Ms. Vanacore is trying to be prim and proper in her words, the perfect guide, I hear an undercurrent of jealousy.

  It’s underneath what I had previously identified as disgust, but even so, I can’t do much with that observation. I can’t do anything about her words, either. Out of jealousy or not, goodwill or not, she’s right.

  Seeing my sober, thoughtful posture, Ms. Vanacore says, “I’m glad to see you’re taking this seriously, Tommy. I’m glad to see how much thought you’ve given to my words.”

  The waitress returns to our table, and baskets and platters of spicy, breaded, meaty, and fried food float in. Everything from spicy fried pickles, to gumbo, to crawfish fried and grilled, along with corn potatoes, carrots, all of that and more gets set down between our words.

  “I was right to choose you for this position,” Vanacore continues after the waitress is gone. “Only a mature young man such as yourself would be able to take such criticism and advice from me, without running to HR and complaining that I’ve violated your ‘safe space’ or some bullshit like that.”

  She laughs heartily at her own observation, but to me, it’s no laughing matter.

  “This generation has gone way too soft, if you ask me. Most of you need to go back in the oven for a little while, if you know what I mean.”

  I do, but I don’t want to think about it. So, I just reach forward and start grabbing up bits of food to put on a plate.

  I don’t pay attention to what I’m grabbing or putting in my big, shaking hands. I just grab and move from one container to another, from basket to plate, and then from plate to my mouth.

  I don’t bother to say anything for the rest of our lunch. I let Ms. Vanacore do the talking, since she seems content to do so anyway. As I’m eating food, I’m not feeling hungry, just confused, and stressed out.

  I got the job I didn’t think I would get.

  I got the kind of job I’ve been fighting to get for the past year, but why don’t I feel happy?

  Why do I feel stressed?

  Why do I feel chained? Like I’ve got a leash on me, and a collar around my neck?

  And then I see it. Vanacore’s eyes on me. They are drilling into me again, making me feel lightheaded and weightless.

  It doesn’t matter that Melissa is a few tables away; the way Vanacore’s eyes are, it’s like she’s a demon, and she’s trapped me.

  She’s found her way into my head and started to whisper.

  Chapter Fourteen - Melissa

  He really did it. He really paid for my lunch, that Tommy. And after just getting promoted. I can’t let him be that generous to me again.

  I have come back to the office from lunch now. I’ve been back for a few hours, actually, and so has Tommy. What I was able to see of him on his way back up to the office with Ms. Vanacore, anyway.

  But he doesn’t look “here.” He still looks out to lunch, as the expression goes, and so aptly fits in this instance. He has this far away, almost vacant look to his eye like he’s in some sort of trance or shock.

  I hope it’s not from having to pay that extra sixty dollars for my meal, I think guiltily, now hating that I got one of my favorite dishes there — whole roast duck, andouille sausage with rice on the side, and an alcoholic drink called Pink Voodoo.

  Guilty as I feel about having someone like Tommy — my boss as of nine or ten o’clock this morning when he was officially offered the job with a new partner of the firm — I can’t help smiling. As guilty as I feel, I’m also happy and touched by the gesture.

  When Dennis got his job at the modeling agency in Paris all those months ago, before he left, he didn’t ask me to pay for his meal. He didn’t ask me to make the decision or the reservations to take him out to dinner. He simply demanded that I do it. He is simply assumed that I could and should pay for him on such a special occasion.

  I did. But it wasn’t the same. He stole my agency around it. He stole my ability to be a good girlfriend from me that night. He acted like he was owed the fancy dinner, owed my footing of the bill.

  And when it came to be my turn?

  For a special occasion for me, that deserved a dinner?

  Dennis complained about it. He huffed and puffed about how much extra money that was, and how we really didn’t have the budget for it, and how I needed to be more reasonable about where I asked to go out for dinner, and what I ordered; never mind that he got to order exactly what he wanted.

  “I’ll get him back for this,” I growl.

  I correct myself directly after that, remembering that I mean that toward Tommy — repaying him for his kindness and getting him back for the lunch he so graciously paid for. Not getting my boyfriend back for his stupid, selfish behavior, even if that is at the forefront of my mind.

  For the rest of the workday, the four or five hours left to it, I manage to answer phones. I forward calls, take messages, and manage the calendar for Kane’s new incoming appointments, meetings, and whatnot.

  I say “manage” because half of my brain is still taken up with some not-so-nice memories of my boyfriend. Of how he acted around taking me out to dinner for my birthday or other special occasions. Not just during our long-distance relationship, which is often just a bit of money sent to cover my own dinner, but when he was still living in New York and still living with me.

  Under all these thoughts, it’s a wonder I manage to do any part of my job correctly, but I suppose I have ten years of doing the job to thank for my lack of errors.

  Finally, though, the end of the day arrives. I say goodbye to a lot of the coworkers that come through. I make additions and subtractions to Kane’s calendars as he asks me to do on his way out.

  When I’m not doing that, I’m downstairs, making security has everything they need for the night and watching the separate “pools” of workers bubble out from the elevators to the ground floor and head out for the day.

  Just yesterday, Tommy used to be counted among them. He used to be clocking in and out with the rest of them. But not today. Today he will come down from the top floors, along with the rest of the big shots.

  I sigh, remembering part of the conversation I overheard from Tommy and Ms. Vanacore’s table at the restaurant. The conversation about image, and making it as a fully-fledged employee here.

  I just hope that Ms. Vanacore doesn’t treat him like a chess piece or like a little office slave.

  I’m particularly sour at this point since I heard her jabbing at m
e, about how “chummy” Tommy and I seem to be and how unprofessional she thought that was.

  The types to criticize things like that are usually the type to indulge in them more than the rest of us, I think bitterly. Dennis was the king of doing that. The King of criticizing me for doing something, and then turning around and being the biggest abuser or partaker of said thing, and acting like he had every right to do so.

  I let out a sighing growl, realizing I’m feeling shitty again.

  Isabella turns to me. She is on her way out of the office for the day.

  “Easy, girl. My goodness. The boyfriend must’ve really done you wrong for you to be growling like that, Melissa.”

  I murmur an apology.

  “Long day. That’s all,” I say. “The boyfriend and I are fine.”

  I don’t know that for sure. I’m not feeling that way now, but I did send Dennis a string of texts when I was out to lunch. Texts asking if we could connect before he goes off to work today or tomorrow, to make up for the rushed visit we had this morning.

  Isabella shuffles out behind me.

  “Okay. Whatever you say, darling,” she says and bustles away. “Don’t hang around here too late, chewing over old bones.”

  With that oddly apt expression, Isabella is gone.

  But I quickly see someone else I hate to admit I’ve been looking forward to having pass by me on his way out: Tommy. He looks exhausted and pale, like Ms. Vanacore has been doing more than just inundating him with paperwork or new responsibilities.

  It’s almost like she sucked the life out of him. He’s so pale, I’m almost tempted to look for a bite on his neck.

  “Hey.”

  At first, Tommy doesn’t act like he’s heard me, and then he suddenly stops, walks back toward me.

  “Hey,” he says, sounding just as exhausted as he looks.

  “Rough first day?”

  He leans against a planter in the foyer, pushing the fronds of the fern a bit with his big arm. It’s not on purpose, and I’m glad he stopped. After the thoughts I’ve been having for the last four or five hours, Dennis can stand to be put on the back burner just a bit.