by Snow, Nicole
If he buried himself in me, what would that be like?
It’s probably for the best I didn’t find out.
Because if I had...I’m not sure I’d ever have a sane thought again after basking in all his smarmy, infuriating, and yes, addictive glory.
16
Rich Prick (Magnus)
A soft dark glow oozes through my window, pushing through the blinds.
I glance over at Sabrina, sprawled out on the bed, her head on my arm, cinnamon hair splayed on my pillow.
She’s fully dressed, except for her bare feet.
Not ideal.
I choke down a lump of frustration in my throat. A crash course in executive management isn’t how last night was supposed to end. There are better reasons for her to wind up in my bed, preferably naked, and I need to rectify that soon.
Since I’m up, though...
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, I disentangle myself from her and grab my phone. Maybe there’s an update on Marissa, some miraculous recovery. Good news to give Jordan would go a long way toward smoothing things over, even if I’m not a believer in miracles.
I know better.
His mom was mugged and beaten to a pulp on her way to the bus stop yesterday. Street hooligans looking for easy cash and an easier target. When I showed up to bring him home, the poor kid thought I was some mob boss sent to kill them.
He doesn’t know me.
Marissa never wanted him to, and she was right to be leery.
I can’t blame the kid for being petrified of going home with a stranger the same day someone put his mom in a coma. I was shocked, too.
She doesn’t want me in their lives. I’ve begged to know if they ever needed my help. Money, resources, contacts, anything.
But she’s never let me do more than send a few cheesy gifts each year and pay for his tuition.
Now, I find out I’m her emergency contact.
I glance at my phone, waking the screen, and hold my breath.
Aside from a dozen early morning company notifications, it’s blank.
No missed calls. No news.
Damn.
Given the shit my old man caused, sticking his dick in employees, I should be relieved Marissa’s assault kept me from making a mistake of my own.
Surprise—I’m not.
This thing with Brina isn’t a casual fling.
I want to take it further. I want her so bad I could split myself open and let her see the real me, not the snarling savage of a boss she already knows.
She intrigues me in a way no woman ever has. I knew it the second she baptized my shoes in cinnamon latte.
That call came at the worst time. I could’ve handled this crisis better with Sabrina Bristol out of my system.
But a voice in the back of my head asks, would she really be out of your system after one night?
I scoff at the thought, already knowing the answer. She’s no ordinary woman, and I’m not my old man with his endless hunt for warm, disposable flesh.
Frankly, the answer fucking scares me.
I smile down at her sleeping figure and pull the blanket up around her shoulders. As much as I’d love to linger here all morning, it’s time to face the one-kid teenage firing squad.
I still haven’t told Jordan we’re related, and heavy steps on my wood floor tell me he’s already pacing around in the living room. The steps become more distant and the pacing ends.
What’s he doing now?
I exit my bedroom and head into the living room.
“Jordan?”
He’s not there, and if he hears me, he doesn’t answer.
Frowning, I walk around the common rooms looking for him, and finally find him in the heated sunroom attached to the balcony, staring out at the frosty Chicago skyline still bathed in darkness.
He sits on the floor, hugging himself and staring up at the first pinpricks of sun over the horizon.
Hell.
How do I do this? Just waltz in and tell the poor torn-up kid I’m the missing big brother he never knew he had?
I should get him ready for school and drop him off.
Only, it’s Saturday, for fuck’s sake.
There’s no school today.
One less thing to deal with, I guess...and a lot more to deal with face-to-face with my broken little brother.
“Hey. How’re you holding up, Jordan?” I ask in my most non-CEO voice, approaching slowly. I don’t want to scare him. I save that for underachieving employees.
He turns his head and our eyes connect.
Then he shifts around so he’s facing me and stands.
“I’m...I’m fine, I guess. Where’s my mom?” he asks, fidgeting in his seat.
“Still at the hospital,” I say, digging my hands into the pockets of my slacks. “Do you want to get something to eat? I’ll take you anywhere. Well, anywhere that’s open at this hour.”
“I’m not hungry. When will I see my mom?” he asks, a sharpness in his tone.
Who can blame him? He’s only been here overnight and he’s already had it.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
I plan on giving him more, eventually. Being in the loop with what’s going on might help him feel less upset, but I can’t answer questions I don’t have answers to.
“You can’t just keep me here. Take me to my mom!” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, his blue eyes seething, just a shade paler than mine.
The boy has the Heron stubbornness, that’s for sure.
“Let’s get some food in you, first, and then we’ll talk about it. It’s easier on a full stomach,” I tell him.
“Dude, I don’t want your food. Your fucking money doesn’t give you the right to hold me captive, you know. I don’t even get why I’m here. Who are you? Take me to my mom!” Jordan snarls, circling me without taking his eyes off me.
Damn.
I’ve tried to be nice, but this isn’t working.
“Visiting hours don’t start before nine. The hospital’s rules, not mine,” I tell him, my voice getting stern. “Your mother needs her rest. I’ve flown in the best surgeon in the country to take care of her. She’s got a first-class medical team with consultants from Johns Hopkins. She’ll be—”
“Oh my God.” Jordan puts his hands on his head and turns away from me. “I can’t believe this shit. You’re him, aren’t you?”
Him.
One word like a shotgun blast to the face.
Who does he mean? I have one good sickening guess.
“Young man, who do you think I am?” I ask softly.
He spins around so he’s facing me again. His eyes are like the bottom of two Bean Bar cups, but wide and full of hot fury.
“My mom told me all about you. The stalker weirdo who shows up a couple of times every year and always with stupid gifts. Mom freaks out whenever you do it. You should just stop, jackass.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think you—”
“You’re my fucking dad, aren’t you?” he growls, shaking his head “You have a kid and never see him. Mom gets all weird about it...but because you feel guilty, you throw me these crumbs in secret instead of manning up and talking to me face-to-face. You’re a loser.”
My jaw tightens.
Note to self: he’s scared, he’s not thinking, and he’s truly clueless about his real father.
Goddamn. I’m trying to be patient, but comparing me to Baxter Heron makes me lose my shit.
“You’re wrong.” I slap my head into my hand, trying not to snap and just breathe. “Listen to me, Jordan. I promise you, I’m not your father. I’m...I’m your brother.”
My hand slides down my face.
For a second, we just stare at each other.
The hatred boiling in his eyes fades, replaced with confusion.
“B-brother?” he whispers, like a foreign word he doesn’t grasp.
Christ, I need to sit down. Saying it out loud makes me dizzy.
“Your half br
other, to be precise. Can we get breakfast, now? You might not need food, but I do.”
He crosses his arms. “I’m not taking a bus if I don’t have to today. It’s cold as balls out there.”
I smile. Can’t blame the kid for that.
“Lucky for you, I don’t take buses.”
“Yeah, no reason to deal with the riffraff if you don’t have to, huh?” he snipes.
Dear God. He makes me sound like my dad.
“The stops take too long and time is—”
“Money,” he finishes. “Gotta love rich pricks.”
“What do you like for breakfast?” I ask, ignoring his sledgehammer sarcasm.
“To see my mom.” He meets my glare with a hard one of his own, folding his arms.
I get it.
He’s upset about his mom, his life, and secrets he was never meant to know.
I felt the same way once, but I’ve already told him visiting hours start at nine.
“We’ve got four hours before we can see Marissa. If you want to go at nine, I’ll take you.”
He stares at me, his face hard.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Fair enough.
“Well, what do you like to eat? There’s food here, probably, even if I can’t remember the last time Armstrong made a grocery run...” I rack my brain, trying to figure out what I can make, but I’m no cook unless it involves eggs.
Jordan shrugs and lets out a heavy sigh.
“If you’re my brother...why did she never tell me?”
I wish I could say, but the full truth would destroy him on the spot.
“I wasn’t sure what you knew about me, if your mother told you anything,” I say slowly.
There. It isn’t exactly a lie, but it’s enough. I’ve always assumed Marissa kept her mouth shut and he didn’t even know I existed.
“But Mom had to know about you, right?” he asks. “She’s always been weird about you snooping around, sending me presents.”
“Yes. She listed me as her emergency contact, but—”
“So why are you so quick to defend her? What’s with your weird guilt trip?” Again, those blazing young eyes land on me, too much like my own for comfort.
My hand tightens into a fist. “Look, who the hell do you think you are, asking all these questions, kid? The district attorney? I’m trying to help you.”
“Apparently, I’m some rich prick’s kid brother,” he mutters, a cruel smile curling his lips.
Touché.
“Your mom’s a saint,” I bite off, my own hot frustration seeping through.
His eyes narrow. “What do you know about Mom, anyway?”
“How old are you?” I narrow my eyes.
He’s quiet for a few seconds, like he isn’t sure what that has to do with anything. I’ve stumped the brat like I wanted to since I already have a good guess at his age.
“Fourteen,” he whispers.
Just like I thought.
“Yeah, your mom’s an angel. You’ve made it to fourteen and she hasn’t killed you yet,” I say, flashing him a comical asshole smile.
He rolls his eyes. “Ha ha ha. So you’re a funny rich prick, too.”
I try to find my patience again, staring out at the winter smoke coiling through the cityscape.
Be nice, I remind myself. Everyone he loves is probably dead, he’s never had a dad, and his mom’s in a coma.
“How would you feel about eggs Benedict this morning?” I ask, only half sure I remember how to make it.
“I don’t even know what that is, but it sounds gross.”
Think, Mag. What do kids with attitudes bigger than their heads eat?
Hell if I know.
I’m racking my brain for more suggestions and clear my throat. Oatmeal, then, with apples and cinnamon. Fuck, do I have all those things?
Jordan shakes his head, his mind clearly not on breakfast from the way he drops the bomb. “So where’s our dear dad, anyway? I’d kind of like to give him a piece of my mind.”
I groan.
Good fucking luck, kid. Go ahead and he’ll toss it away like everything else in his life.
This is why I wanted to go out for breakfast.
If I could just get Jordan shoveling food in his face, he might shut up and stop bombarding me with questions that’ll only make this worse. And I wouldn’t have to cough up a brutal lie.
“He’s dead,” I say coldly.
Again, not a total lie, even if it’s bending the truth.
He’s been dead to me for years, and everyone else at HeronComm.
To Marissa, he’s Satan incarnate.
From what Jordan says, he doesn’t even know his name.
“Mag, are you okay?” Brina’s voice flutters toward us, sweet as honey, but it’s bad timing.
“Go to work, Miss Bristol,” I mutter without looking back at her. “We’re talking.”
Jordan moves his eyes to the doorway where Sabrina stands, and he glares. “If my dad’s dead, why didn’t Mom just tell me years ago? Why this big secret?”
“How the hell should I know?” I whisper, a frantic scowl stinging my face. “Look, some of these questions are best saved for your mom when she wakes up.”
“How convenient, since she can’t talk. And you don’t know when she’ll wake up, do you?”
Damnation.
What does this boy want from me? Grump is my state of being, even if this voice gnaws at the back of my brain, wishing I could do so much better for him.
For everyone.
Brina, undeterred, walks in and stands beside me then.
“Are you guys okay?” she asks again, her voice so soft, her eyes so haunting.
It breaks me as I look at her, this venom in my heart rupturing like a boil.
“I told you once, we don’t need your help. Get your ass moving and do your job like we discussed! You’re my EA. I need you at the office. Not here at home.”
It’s like an out-of-body experience, watching my grief, my pain, twist me into this distorted monster barking shit at her.
She blinks several times, stunned, her sunny face losing its color.
For a second, I think I see tears.
I don’t know what I’m going to do if she cries, knowing it’s my fault.
I’ll find some way to kick my own ass.
But this is Brina Bristol, and she doesn’t cry. Not after the many, many times I’ve unloaded on her like a brute.
She just puts her hand on her hip, leveling an ice-cold glare.
“You summoned me here after dark. You made me work until after one on a Saturday morning. And then you have the nerve to attack me for asking if you’re okay? I’m going to the office with one request, Mr. Heron...since you’re so sure you don’t need my help at home, make sure you don’t ever bring me here again.” She starts for the door.
I’m about to follow, to chase her, to throw myself down on my knees and maybe even grovel, but I don’t get that far. My angry little shit of a brother speaks first.
“Damn, she told you,” Jordan says, smirking, amusement in his voice.
Lovely. They’re double-teaming me.
I side-eye the kid and look at Sabrina again.
“Where are you going?” I yell after her.
“Outside to wait on Armstrong,” she says. “Where else?”
“Brina, wait, don’t—” I start.
“Miss Bristol,” she says, sharp as a knife.
“Doghouse!” Jordan quips behind me.
I glower.
Marissa Quail deserves a peace prize.
I sigh. “Miss Bristol, don’t wait outside. It’s cold and a woman was just mugged last night.”
She retraces her steps and stops in front of me again, this time with a finger pointed in my face. “I’m your assistant, remember? You don’t need my ‘help at home.’ Which, by the way, most days you wouldn’t eat if I didn’t order your meals—and I don’t need a damn bodyguard. So don’t worry about wher
e I wait for the driver.”
“Stay near the door,” I warn her, fury lashing through me like a current.
“Magnus Heron, you do not need to worry one iota about what I do unless it’s business-related. Bye.”
As she walks away, I realize she’s still in the messy bun and rumpled sweats from last night. “At least have Armstrong stop at your place so you can change!”
She spins around and daggers me with those sinful brown eyes. “Wrong words. I’m not stupid, and I don’t need you monitoring my wardrobe, too.”
Brina storms out.
It’s just Jordan and me in the sunroom again, sharing a quiet winter hell.
“Wow, you’re a real prick, bro. You shouldn’t have talked to her like that,” he says, wincing as he shakes his head.
I’m momentarily caught off guard by two things: the fact that he just called me “bro,” and that he’s right.
Marissa Quail may be a saint, but that scene with Sabrina wasn’t Jordan’s fault.
It was mine.
“Do whatever you want for breakfast. Can I just go back to sleep?” Jordan asks, yawning into his hand.
“Yeah, sure. Do you want the couch or a guest room?”
“Can I just, like, stay on the couch and fall asleep to the TV?” he asks. “You have Netflix?”
At first, I’m about to tell him no, he needs a bed. Then I remember all the times I fell asleep to cartoons when I was his age.
I lead the way to the living room.
“Tell me—how horrible was I to Brina?” I ask. “Scale of one to ten?”
“Dude. My buddy talked to a cheerleader like that once,” he says.
“Yeah? What happened?”
“She poured a chocolate shake on his head after the game.” He snickers at the memory.
Great. More to look forward to.
Jordan passes out on the couch in under thirty minutes. I head for the kitchen, open the pantry, and then the fridge. Everything is in its place, sleek and untouched.
I rarely eat at home. There’s not much food in the kitchen, mostly snacks in the cupboards, keto butter and heavy cream for coffee, and some eggs.
When I got to the hospital last night, he’d already been there for several hours. I don’t think the kid ate since lunch yesterday. I’ve got to get some food in him today.
