Overworked

by Dark Angel

  Misty (I think) rolls over on the bed and bites on the tip of a brightly painted fake fingernail. “Liam,” she coos, rubbing the wrinkled sheets beside her. “Why are you getting dressed? Come back to bed.” She pats it for emphasis.

  I just look at her. What the fuck? She wants to cuddle or some shit?

  “Uh, Misty—” she doesn’t correct me so I assume I got that much right, “—that’s not part of the deal.”

  She pouts. “Maybe I’m not done with you.”

  Too bad. I’m done with her.

  “I thought maybe we could go again?” She bites her lower lip, no doubt thinking I’ll find it sexy. Whatever. Girls like Misty are a dime a dozen.

  Well, at least in the circles I run in. Yeah, she’s some celebutante socialite, always on the pages of the tabloids, but girls like her throw themselves at me on the regular. I’ll have another one begging for my dick tomorrow.

  Misty should know how this goes. It’s a one-night stand. I pull my pants on, making it clear that she needs to be happy with what she got. A nice, hard fucking from Liam Donovan.

  She slumps back onto the bed and shrugs, yawning, and my mind moves on to other things. I have a lot to do for work tomorrow and I need to get some rest. I’ll sleep better now that I got my rocks off.

  Pulling my shirt over my head, I notice that Misty’s already on her way to knocked out cold. Guess that’s what a bottle of wine and a good fucking will do to you.

  Leaving her there naked on the bed, I leave the room, pulling the door shut behind me. She’s totally welcome to stay in the guest room all night if she wants. I always let the women I bring home sleep there if they want, even though I don’t invite them to. I won’t even have to ask my housekeeper to clean the room up tomorrow. She knows the drill. It’s the room I use for fucking, and it’s always fresh for the next girl in line.

  I wonder briefly what my housekeeper thinks about that. I don’t ever fuck girls in my own room. It’s a rule. One I never break. But just as quick as the thought comes, it’s gone.

  Strolling into the living room of my penthouse apartment, I look out the windows at the lights of Manhattan below. I could probably go get some work done tonight if I wanted to. I have a lot on my plate right now, trying to juggle everything.

  Instead, I pour myself a glass of Scotch and settle on the grey sofa, my eyes on the city lights but my thoughts elsewhere. Taking a sip, I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling.

  I have a fucking awesome life and I want to keep it that way. The best apartment, all the best and sexiest women, the envy of every man in Manhattan, more money than anyone could ever need. They all want to be me.

  More than that, I have my work. I fucking love what I do. You can’t really beat that, can you? What more could I ask for?

  Nothing. That’s what.

  Yeah, some people want to razz me about my playboy lifestyle, but I don’t give a flying fuck. I like having a new woman in my bed every night. I like that I don’t have to worry about all the bullshit that comes with keeping one around for longer than that.

  Slamming the rest of my drink back, I go to my imported German bar and pour another glass of ten-thousand-dollar Scotch. Nothing but the best for a Donovan.

  I carry it toward my room, not bothering to look toward the guest room as I pass by. I’ll be gone before Misty manages to crack a hungover eye open in the morning. I work hard and play hard. My day tomorrow will be jam packed. And then the night will be spent drinking and fucking.

  Stripping down again, I set my Scotch on my bedside table and grab a quick shower in my top-of-the-line en suite, then drop into bed naked. I grin as I prop myself up on a stack of feather pillows and pull the Egyptian cotton sheets up to my waist, sipping on my drink with one hand propped behind my head.

  Like I said, everyone wishes they were me. I’ve got it all. Money, looks, women lining up for miles.

  Fuck yeah. It’s good to be me.

  Liam

  Morning comes fast, and next thing I know, I’m sitting behind my huge mahogany desk while my assistant sets a cup of steaming black coffee in front of me. I’ll need to mainline caffeine if I want to get through everything on my agenda today.

  “Thanks, Betty,” I tell her, giving her a charming grin.

  She smiles. “Of course, Mr. Donovan. I baked you some cookies, too.”

  Betty reminds me of a doting grandmother. Most people in my position would probably have a sexy young thing for an assistant. Not me. Like I need that kind of distraction while I’m working. Then things would only get complicated after I fucked her—which I’d obviously do. Nope. If I wanted eye candy in the office, I’d spend more of my time finding new assistants than I would working. Because no way would they be cool with working for me after I fucked them once and moved on.

  That’s why Betty is the best. Even if she does make me put in extra time at the gym or my private swim club to justify all the stuff she bakes me and brings here.

  “Keep the coffee coming, Betty,” I tell her. “I’m going to need it today.”

  Settling in, I wake my computer and get ready to dive in. Until I’m interrupted by my phone ringing. Not the office phone, which Betty would totally screen. My cell phone. Looking at the screen, my hand clenches around it.

  “Fuck.”

  Misty’s face appears on my screen, some pouty look that she no doubt thinks looks sexy. How the hell did she program herself into my phone? Gritting my teeth, I silence it and set it aside.

  It’s a damn good thing she has no idea where my office is. She’s probably still in my apartment. If she knew my office was in the very same building, she’d be worming her way in here. I can already tell she’s the clingy kind. How did I not see it before I took her home last night? I should’ve, because when she looked up at me after I fucked her, practically begging me to spend the night in bed with her, it was clear. And now she’s managed to get my phone number and is calling me first thing in the morning.

  My phone blinks yet again. Fucking Misty.

  What. The. Fuck.

  I settle into my chair, trying to refocus. I might have to send my housekeeper in early to shoo her off if this continues. I definitely won’t be going back to the apartment until I know she’s gone.

  This is the only downside of having my office in the same building—worrying about the women finding out it’s here. I need to be sure no one knows. I try to keep my office private. People don’t actually know what I do. And it’s a hell of a lot easier to keep up the facade of spoiled bachelor playboy who sits around the penthouse and counts his money all day when they don’t see me putting in long hours at the office.

  Shoving Misty from my mind, I pull up the file listing out the most recent donations to one of my newer charities. I smile. It’s doing amazingly well already, and I love how much of a difference these funds will make. Today’s biggest priority is making arrangements for the allocation of these donations.

  I get through that, then start making calls to the heads of some of my other charities. I like to touch base once a week to make sure things are going well.

  “Mr. Smith,” I say, a smile in my voice when I’m transferred to the head of one of my favorites, “I hear things are going well.”

  He greets me like an old friend, and I lean back in my chair as he starts filling me in on things I already know, for the most part. But I like to keep this personal element to my business interactions rather than just looking at reports all day.

  As I listen, I notice my phone blinking again, and I lean forward and grab it. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Misty again.

  I dismiss the call, trying to focus on Mr. Smith, but I have a hard time of it when I see that she’s been blowing up my phone all morning. Thirteen missed calls. Seriously?

  Goddammit. I never should have given her my phone number. What the hell was I thinking? Now she’s never going to leave me alone, no doubt wanting to try for another night together.

  I barely manage to k
eep my head in the game for the rest of the afternoon after that because I keep seeing her slutty face pop up on my screen while I’m in the middle of other tasks. I’m going to have to block her ass.

  By the end of the day, I’m mentally exhausted. Kicking back in my office chair, I scroll through my notifications and see a text from my mom buried in between Misty’s incessant missed calls. That brings a smile to my face, and I immediately tap the screen to call her back, propping my feet up on my desk as the phone rings.

  “Liam,” her voice comes through, obviously happy to hear from me.

  “Hey, Mom. How are you?”

  “Better now that I’ve heard your voice.”

  I chuckle. “You act like you haven’t heard from me in forever. We talked yesterday.”

  We talk every day, in fact, giving each other updates on our lives.

  “When are we having dinner again?” I ask her. She stays busy making appearances at many of the charity events around town, and I see her at some of them, but the general public has no idea that I’m the man behind most of them, so I don’t often go.

  “How about tonight?” she asks. “Unless, of course, you have a hot date lined up.” Her voice is teasing, and I smile. She knows my playboy reputation, even though we never really speak of it. Because hello. Awkward.

  “Nothing I wouldn’t cancel in a heartbeat for you, Mom.” It’s nothing less than the truth. While I fly through the women in my circles like they’re as disposable as they make themselves out to be, my heart actually only belongs to one woman. This incredible lady that raised me, instilling a sense of purpose in me that inspires me to do the work I do every day.

  “Sounds great, darling. Eight o’clock?”

  That will give me plenty of time to finish up here and hit the gym. “It’s a date.”

  Cara

  “Thank you so much!” Alexa squeals, repeating her words for the hundredth time since she stepped into my office. Reaching across the table, she takes my hands in hers and, squeezing them tightly, she looks into my eyes. “I don’t have the words to thank you, Cara.”

  I smile at her, trying to hide the pain shooting up my arms as she crushes my fingers in her hands. For as small of a girl as she is, she sure has a lot of strength.

  “Just doing my job,” I tell her, taking my hands back and flexing my fingers - yup, they might be numb but they still work.

  “You taught him a really good lesson… I doubt Ben will pull shit like that ever again. I bet he’ll think twice before crossing another woman. I can’t believe I fell for him and I --”

  She continues to drone about her ex-boyfriend, her monologue filled with gleeful hate, and I just nod. When Alexa goes on a tangent like this, there are two things you shouldn’t do - you don’t interrupt her and you don’t comment on anything she's saying. You do that and I guarantee you that you just added another forty minutes to her monologue. Just let her speak and, before you know it, it’ll all be over.

  Hopefully.

  “...and the look on his face! Priceless!” She continues, her eyes glinting as she remembers the way I managed to expose her lovely ex-boyfriend Ben.

  When Cara came up to me, suspicious that Ben wasn’t the man he said he was, I immediately got to work. It didn’t take me long to realize that Ben wasn’t even his real name.

  Presenting himself as an airline pilot, he was just running a con. Dazzling women with his quick-witted responses and tailored suits, Ben’s game was a simple one - he entered a relationship with women he felt could be manipulated and then, after a few months, he’d clean their bank accounts and disappear into thin air.

  Unfortunately for him, Alexa wasn’t as gullible as he expected. She came into the Lust Muscle offices, asked for my help, and I got to work right away. Pretending to be a rich widow that had no idea on how to manage her money, I ‘accidently’ bumped into Ben in one of his favorite bars. Red flags went up as he started to flirt with me, but I decided to dig deep into his history.

  I went on a few dates with him, slowly piecing the puzzle together behind his back, and I managed to discover that ‘Ben’ didn’t even exist - his real name was Jeremy, and he already had a warrant for his arrest in at least three states.

  I took the proof I had to Alexa and, after hearing her cry and rant for what seemed like an eternity, she finally decided to inform the police of the whereabouts of her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend.

  We accompanied the police to her apartment, and you can imagine the surprise on his face when he saw me and Alexa together, two cops flanking us. He didn’t even say a word - his eyes just bulged in their sockets as he realized what was going on, and then he tried to run out the door. Unfortunately for him, the NYPD officers accompanying us knew exactly how to handle scum like ‘Ben’.

  One punch was all it took to bring him down to his knees.

  I have to admit, though - as bad I felt for Alexa’s ruined relationship, it felt good to see a piece of shit like ‘Ben’ being hauled off by the police.

  Good riddance, asshole.

  “Oh, by the way,” Alexa says, remembering the purpose behind her visit. She rummages through her purse with one hand, and then fishes out a neatly folded check from the inside. She slaps it down on my desk and then slides it toward me. “Here it is!”

  Still smiling, I pick the check and, without looking at its value, I save it inside one of the drawers under my desk. I don’t need to look at it to know that Alexa has paid me handsomely. You see, this isn’t my first rodeo with her. This whole ‘Ben’ situation is the second time she has used my services, and I made a very nice profit the first time I did business with her.

  You’re probably wondering what I do for a living, right? It’s quite simple, actually: I’m a merchant of vengeance, a dealer of just retribution. I grab men by the balls and twist them hard, making them feel the pain they’ve caused to the women that loved them.

  Now, how I do things changes on a case-by-case basis, but rest assured: I’m a bad girl, and I do whatever it takes to succeed.

  “Thank you again, Cara!” Alexa repeats again, and I just give her my professional smile. “Now, I gotta go,” she continues, looking at her tiny wristwatch. “John is waiting for me.”

  “John?” I ask her, raising one eyebrow. Oh, I almost regret asking.

  “Yeah, he’s my new boyfriend, and he’s so sweet and amazing and --” She continues for almost five minutes, and I just nod patiently. Inside, I can’t help but wonder about why people such as Alexa jump back into the dating scene after situations such as the one she went through. Is it masochism or just plain naivete? Either way, it seems that some women just like to have their hearts broken over and over again.

  I’m not one of these women.

  Yup, I’m one of the women that don’t really believe in love. I mean, do people really believe that the “happy ever after” really exists? Yeah, right. The way I see it, love is just like cigarettes - it’s supposed to make you feel cooler but, in the end, it just rots you from the inside out.

  There’s only one type of love I believe in, and that’s self-love. Always look out for numero uno. After all, the only person that truly cares about you is… well, you.

  You might think I’m being too harsh, but that’s okay. This is how I live my life and I’ve been doing just fine.

  Cara

  “Your eleven o’clock is already here,” my secretary tells me through the intercom, minutes after Alexa left. Sitting by myself in the office, I was taking a few minutes to unwind and ready myself for the next meeting, but I guess that my break is now over.

  “Alright, send her in,” I reply to my secretary, and a few seconds later there’s a gentle knock at my door. “Come in,” I say, sitting up straight as the door swings open to reveal a woman in her mid-twenties.

  She’s wearing a tight navy blue dress, and the first thing I notice is her perfect tapered waist. More than having a perfect body, she knows how to draw the attention to her strongest characteristics. Her straig
ht golden hair cascades down her shoulders and, as she walks toward me, I notice the big (and expensive) sunglasses hiding her eyes. She has her arms folded over her chest, and in them she carries a tiny dog. From the look of it, it’s a Yorkie, one of these small dogs that socialite women just love to be seen with.

  Despite all that, there’s a sour smile on her lips. She’s beautiful, that much is for sure, but the expression on her face isn’t a happy one.

  “Please, take a seat,” I tell her waving at the chair facing me. I usually have my first conversation with a client on the couch I have in the corner of my office, but I decide to skip that for this meeting.

  Women usually come to me during their most desperate times and, more often than not, they end up needing a shoulder to cry. That’s why I always start off my relationship with a client on a more intimate and personal note. Not today, though - something about this woman’s strut as she walked into my office told me that I should keep it strictly professional this time.

  She sits down on the chair I pointed her to and, folding her legs, she just stares at me from behind her sunglasses.

  “My name is Caralyn, and --” I start to say, cutting through the silence, but she just waves me down with her manicured fingers and cuts me short.

  “I know who you are,” she tells me, patting the head of her dog as she speaks. By the look on his face, he isn’t enjoying it. He still hasn’t bitten her fingers off, so at least he seems to be tolerating it. “And I figure you know who I am, don’t you?”

  “I do,” I respond, leaning back against my chair. “Misty Lane,” I whisper, drumming my fingertips against the surface of the desk as I say her name. In case you haven’t watched TV or used the internet in the past year or so, Misty Lane is as famous as anyone can get. Not the good kind of famous, mind you.

  More often than not, she’s gracing the cover of some tabloid magazine, the life she leads like a beacon for the paparazzi. I’m not a big fan of the vultures in the press, but Misty seems to enjoy the attention.

  She rose to fame with a reality TV show called Authentic Heiress, and she had cameras following her around 24/7 as the producers showed America how the heiress of a billionaire lead her life. Her audiences shot through the roof after just two episodes, and I wasn’t too surprised by that. Her life’s a train wreck, and there’s nothing more hypnotizing that seeing someone ruining her life while you sit in your ass and stuff yourself with cheap beer and Doritos. We all fear a world of constant surveillance but, given the chance, we’re the first to give in to our voyeuristic tendencies.