Depraved (The Devil's Duet Book 1)

by Eva Charles

  I pause for a moment. Talking about my grandfather this way, here, inside this building, in the midst of everything he cultivated, makes me more emotional than I expected.

  “Julian Sayle ran his company on three guiding principles: Keep your hand out of other people’s pockets, don’t manufacture any product you wouldn’t want your own family to use, and treat everyone fairly. While I’m in charge, those will be my guiding principles, too.”

  There are lots of nods and murmurs, many coming from upfront, where the old-timers who knew my grandfather are gathered. I’m sure they loathed working for DW, who has no character or integrity.

  “My door is always open,” I continue. “But don’t look for me up in the penthouse offices with the rest of the suits.” That earns me more than a few chuckles. “Beginning next week, I’ll be occupying my grandfather’s old office just down the hall. You pass it every morning on your way into the building, and every evening on your way out. If there’s a problem you can’t work out with your supervisor, come see me.”

  Now for the part where I remind them that the kid’s in charge, and he’s not a pushover. Those with allegiance to my father should take note.

  “I have only one rule, only one thing I will not tolerate, and that’s insubordination of any kind. You share Sayle secrets, you steal funds or ideas—you go behind my back, for any reason—there will be no second chances. I’ll show you the door myself, and after I personally escort you out, I will ruin your life.”

  I scan the room. It’s deathly quiet. Some are nodding, some are staring at their colleagues, and other are examining their hands or the linoleum floor.

  “Any questions?”

  No one says a word.

  “Okay then. Let’s all get back to work.” I hop off the chair, hand the microphone back to Deidre and walk out of the room while a sea of eyeballs bore into my back.

  After grabbing a coffee, I head into my last meeting of the afternoon. It’s with an elite group of scientists, PhDs and MD-PhDs. Their lab is called SOLO—Sayle Only Logistical Operations. From what little I’ve been able to garner, their work involves treatments that don’t currently exist in the market. But everything about the lab is highly classified. No one seems to know a damn thing about what goes on there. No one except my father. SOLO is his brainchild.

  Don’t get me wrong, secrecy is imperative in this industry. Pharmaceutical companies and the scientists who work for them are notorious for stealing ideas and techniques from each other. Like other companies, Sayle takes espionage seriously.

  But still, I’m beginning to think SOLO’s work is more covert than anything happening at the fucking CIA.

  Scientists and doctors get their little feelings hurt easily, so I try not to let my suspicions spill all over the room.

  “Tell me more about what’s happening at SOLO.” It’s an open-ended question. A softball to start, but even that doesn’t spur any discussion among the eight-person group. Three women and five men. I glance from one to another. If their sphincters were any tighter, they wouldn’t be able to shit. “Anyone have anything to say for themselves?” I prod.

  “Our work is classified. We don’t discuss it,” Rofler, who’s in charge of the lab, finally says. “We’re forbidden, by contract, to talk about anything we work on. Past or present.”

  I smile—it’s not a happy smile—and make small circles over my temples. “I’m not a spy, Rofler. I own the damn company. And I want to hear what you do, otherwise I’m going to think you collect a paycheck for doing nothing.”

  Patience is not always my strength, and my voice might have been edged with a bit of hostility. Because Rofler’s sweating. And everyone else is looking down at their tablets so I don’t call on them for answers. It’s like middle school again. Only this time I’m the teacher, and not easily dissuaded by cowardly behavior.

  “Alright,” I say, startling the sheep. “Why don’t we begin with this: What’s the most important thing you’re working on right now? Gentry, you have the ball.” Fiona Gentry looks at me like a deer in the headlights. Her eyes dart to Rofler before she speaks. “Antiviral initiatives.”

  I glare at her until she looks away.

  Rofler pulls out a handkerchief from a pocket, and mops his forehead while I wait for Dr. Gentry, or anyone else, to giving me some meaningful information. But no one says a fucking word.

  “What kind of antivirals?” I ask, looking pointedly at Gentry.

  Rofler answers for her, before she can respond. “We work on a lot of antivirals. It’s a guess as to which one is the most important. It’s like asking someone to choose their favorite child.”

  Two people in the small group laugh. A few smile. Not me. I’m not amused.

  Neither is Rofler. He’s wiping his neck now.

  This is going nowhere fast. I stand and push the chair in. “Compile a list of every project SOLO is involved in. Add a coherent sentence or two, describing each one. I want it within the hour. No extensions.”

  My hand is on the doorknob when I turn back around. “You were all at the meeting today in the cafeteria?” They nod. “Good.” I make eye contact with each scientist, spending an extra couple seconds on Rofler. “Don’t leave anything off that list.”

  15

  Julian

  The parking attendant nods and opens the gate for me. Gray and I are having supper tonight at Wildflower. Chase can’t join us because he’s still holed up in Washington with the transition team.

  Before the campaign, the three of us had supper together once a week, usually on Monday nights when the club is quiet. After supper, we usually catch the end of a game, or shoot some pool—and the shit—for a couple hours. It gives me a chance to lay eyes on them, and preserves some semblance of family, small and pathetic as we’ve become.

  My mother raised us to be there for each other. Good times and bad, show up and cheer. She always did—we were the center of her world. She also expected me to keep tabs on my younger siblings, to make sure they stayed out of trouble. I still look out for my brothers, and I show up for supper every week for her. It’s the best way I know to honor her memory.

  That’s a lie.

  I show up for myself, too, because I love my brothers. Because they’re all I have left in this world that really matter. Sure, there are people in my life who are like family. People I’d do almost anything for. But my brothers—for them, I would do absolutely anything. Anything. They’re everything to me. Always have been.

  That’s a lie, too.

  Years ago, Gabrielle was everything. Everything I ever wanted. Everything I needed. She was mine. Plain and simple. But now, despite this bullshit arrangement, despite how many times I tell her she’s mine, and how many times I make her say the words to me, she’s not mine. And no matter how much I bribe, threaten, and blackmail, she never will be. Not really. Not in the way that counts. Not in the way I want her to be.

  But that little fact doesn’t stop me from wanting her, from closing my eyes and imagining her hands on me as I stroke my dick at night. It was her face I saw in every woman I’ve been with for the last fifteen years. And it’ll be her face I see in every woman I’ll ever be with. Her whimpers of pleasure I’ll hear, her soft skin I’ll feel under my fingers. Her sweet taste on my tongue. It’s always been her, and it always will be.

  I tried to forget Gabrielle, for my sake and hers. Tried to drink my way past the memory of her, tried to bang my way through the pain, but it didn’t work. Nothing worked, not the booze, not the women. Nothing. I’ve just resigned myself to it. Made peace with the emptiness.

  But it doesn’t change a damn thing. Doesn’t change how much I want her. Doesn’t change the crater-size hole in my chest. And it sure as hell doesn’t change the fact that I will protect her with my life if necessary.

  One of the bouncers standing guard at the entrance to Wildflower holds the door open. I make a beeline for the bar, hoping to avoid the glad handers. Since it’s just the two of us tonight, I grab a s
eat at the bar.

  The bartender sets a glass in front of me, and serves me a generous pour of Pappy’s. Like a skilled lover, he always knows exactly what I need. Although it’s not like I’m that complicated when it comes to booze. Always want the same thing.

  I’m not that complicated when it comes to sex, either. Get in, get off, get out. And by get out, I mean get the fuck out of her place before she can think straight and start pestering me about breakfast, or next time. Breakfast is never included, not even if you pay extra, and next time—there is no next time. I’ve never had a problem breaking the bad news to a woman, but I find it’s less trouble to get out quickly and avoid the conversation altogether.

  I savor the bourbon, letting it slide down my throat, enjoying the hint of sweet vanilla before it becomes a spicy heat. The first taste is always the best.

  Gray slides onto the stool next to me. “Starting without me?”

  “Figured you’d catch up. Busy in here for a Monday night.”

  Gray points to my drink, and nods at the bartender. “It’s been busier than usual since the election. People stopping out front to take photos.” He shakes his head. “Security’s been swamped. It’s too damn much. I’m hoping things settle down soon.”

  The bartender brings Gray’s drink and a couple menus.

  “The club puts us all at more risk now than ever before. I think it’s always going to be like that now.” My eyes are glued to the menu while I have this discussion with Gray, yet again. “We might need to reconsider the value of holding onto it.”

  “This is my life.” Gray’s voice is brittle, and I feel him tense up next to me.

  He loves the club, almost as much as I despise it. If it were up to me, I’d have dumped it fifteen years ago. Burnt the whole place till it was nothing but a pile of ashes. I actually threatened to do it once. DW dared me to try, but I didn’t bite. “You could start over. Buy another place, in another part of town.”

  “What is your problem with this place? What?” Gray tosses his menu on the bar. “I’m sick of your piss-poor attitude about it. It’s not like you have such high moral standards. You’ll stick your dick into anything breathing who spreads her legs. Hell, I’m not even sure she has to be breathing. Or a she.”

  “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but that’s a yes to both, asshole.”

  “JD, we don’t sell sex, and I don’t allow any bad shit to go down inside these walls. It’s all above board, and consensual. And you damn well know it.”

  I shrug. “Above board might be a bit of an overstatement, don’t you think? It’s not about morality. It’s just not my thing.”

  “Which is good, because you were banned until you get some basic training. It’s been what thirteen, fourteen years? And you still haven’t done it.”

  “Once again, I was twenty, and those women liked it. They were masochists. That’s how they got off.” And I was in a world of hurt, looking for some way to forget Gabrielle, looking for some way to punish my father, punish everyone who had anything to do with the club. I acted out all over the place.

  “You were totally out of control. That can’t happen here. Not on my watch.”

  “Of course not. Theme rooms filled with industrial-sized equipment that looks like it came straight from the Inquisition isn’t out of control. Don’t give me that shit. People wear masks because it’s so fucking out of control.”

  “Maybe you should give it another try before you insist on selling it.”

  “I don’t need carefully planned out scenes and someone calling me sir to get off.” I drain my glass, and motion to the bartender for a refill.

  “But you need control. You need to be the one in charge, always.”

  I rest both elbows on the wooden bar, and turn my neck toward Gray. “How do you know what I need?”

  “Pft. Like you’re so hard to figure out. You’ve never done a single thing in your life where you weren’t in charge. Where you didn’t expect everyone to do it your way.”

  “I like people to listen, and to do what I tell them. So what? I’ve got no problem with kink, but contracts and agreements that dictate where you can touch someone and where you can’t—takes the mystery out of everything.”

  “It’s a safety feature.”

  “Sex isn’t supposed to be safe. Not all the way. Anyway, I don’t need that shit. And I sure as hell am not a sadist.”

  “There might be a couple of women who disagree with you on that point.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Well, if you always need control, and you’re not a dominant, or a sadist, that pretty much leaves just one other possibility.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  I burst out laughing, and then Gray starts to laugh, too, until we’re both practically sputtering booze out our noses. “I guess that’s about right.”

  I need to go easier on Gray about this place. I know I should just leave it alone, but I can’t stop myself. I might be a fucked-up asshole, but it bothers me that all his relationships with women are scripted. That he hasn’t ever let himself just be with a woman. The club encourages that behavior. I want something more for him. Even if I’ll never have it for myself again, I remember what it’s like to be in the moment. To explore and discover a woman, inhibitions and prohibitions cast aside. To love. I want my brothers to have that.

  But my hatred of the club, of the memories that get dredged up every time I step foot downstairs, stem from another reason. A reason so dark, so ugly, that I’ve pushed it as far back into my subconscious as humanly possible. Only sharing it with one person. Ever. And even then, not all of it.

  I turn to Gray. “What’s good tonight, besides the hostess you can’t take your eyes off? Has she been downstairs yet? Or up to your place?”

  “No. And she won’t be going down there, either, or upstairs. Not in the way you’re implying. Even if he wasn’t the president, she works for me.”

  I’m just giving Gray shit, and he knows it. But he’s a little too defensive.

  The hostess looks like she was tailor-made for Gray. Surprised my brother hired her. I would have thought her wide-eyed innocence would be too much of a temptation for him. There’s nothing he likes better than introducing a newbie to kink, but he cares too much about the club to ever fuck anyone who works here. “I don’t have any quarrel with the way you run this place. You’ve always had more self-discipline than me.”

  “Always been better lookin’, too.”

  “Pft.”

  The bartender takes our order and pours us each a beer. “Zack’s about the same,” I tell Gray. He never asks about Zack, it’s too hard on him, but I bring him up every time we’re together because Zack’s our brother, and the goddamn accident didn’t change that. And if anything happens to me, I need Gray and Chase to fight for Zack so my father doesn’t get his clutches on him again. He won’t survive next time. “We’re heading into winter, and he’s pretty susceptible to catching something he can’t fight off. You should stop by and see him.”

  Gray takes a long swig of beer. “For what? It’s not like it would do him a damn bit of good. He doesn’t even know I’m there.”

  The bartender puts a small dish of warm nuts between us, and I scoop up a handful. “I don’t believe that’s true, but even if it is, you should stop by for yourself. Because after your stomach stops roiling, it’ll make you feel better to spend some time with him.”

  “Is that why you do it? Does it make you feel better?”

  “We’re family.” A fucked-up family who meet once a week for supper in a sex club. Misfit toys, every one of us, lucky we weren’t sent off to some island. But yes, it does make me feel better. It doesn’t assuage any guilt, but it settles me in some way. It just feels right. Always has.

  “I can’t do it, JD. Every time I visit, it takes me weeks to recover. You’re a better man than me.” He downs his beer and sets his glass down harder than he needs to.

  “
No. I’m not. I’m just a different man. Sure as hell not better. So, what’s the hostess’s name?”

  “Mae. Didn’t you meet her while I was traveling with the campaign?”

  “I might have. She’s cute. I can see why you like her,” I say.

  “Cute? Pft. Get in the game, old man. She’s hot as hell.”

  “And an employee.”

  “Fuck you.”

  The bartender brings over our burgers, and we order another round. A piece about the transition flashes on the television above the bar. Apparently it’s moving forward smoothly. Sure it is. The sound’s off on the TV, but images of the new administration are plastered on the screen.

  “What is it with the cabinet officials who never met a war they didn’t want to wage?” I keep an eye on the transition, but Gray works closely on it and knows the ugly details. “Defense, State, and National Security. It’s like the holy trinity of old white guys. What’s he thinking? He campaigned as a non-interventionist. Those guys are all hawks.”

  Gray takes a bite of his burger and wipes his mouth. “They’re well-respected and battle tested. They can provide valuable insight. But it’s mainly a show of power and strength.”

  A show of power and strength. Give me a fucking break. “Like buying a big-ass truck you can barely drive, and outfitting it with giant wheels and an enormous gun rack. God, he must have a tiny dick.”

  "You’re too hard on him, JD. As far as you’re concerned, everything he does has some sinister motive. He can be an arrogant jerk, I’ll give you that, but a lot of people like him. A majority of the country voted for him.”

  “So he keeps telling anyone who’s still listening. They don’t know him the way I do. What’s that PT Barnum said? ‘No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American people.’”

  “Most of his bullshit comes from insecurity. Cut him some slack.”

  “Cut him some slack? I’ve already cut him way too much fucking slack.”

  Gray shakes his head, and pushes away the plate.