by L.J. Shen
“Ask me what I want,” he ordered again, his pupils so wide his eyes were almost completely black.
He was following me again, matching me step for step. My wrist was still clasped in his hand, and a part of me wanted to know what it’d feel like to fall into his claws. But this chase was going to end soon.
The back of my knees hit my bed, and the hunt was over.
“What do you want?” I obeyed him, asking the question not because I had to, but because I wanted to know what vile thing he’d say next. It was bad. It was immoral. And it was the moment I knew I should break up with Dean. I should’ve never agreed to date him in the first place.
“I want you to kiss me back,” he whispered into my face, his breath tickling my cheek. So close.
“But you—”
He shut me up by slamming his lips on mine. They were warm and sweet and right. Not too wet and not too dry. His kiss was carnal, deep, desperate, and I felt dizzy—breathless—the weight of his muscular body pinning me to the edge of my bed, seconds from pushing me onto the mattress.
But I wasn’t going to cheat on Dean, no matter what I felt. It wasn’t who I was. So despite the tingle sizzling down my spine and to my toes, I jerked my head to the side, looking at the floor and pinching my lips together. I covered my mouth with one hand to make sure he didn’t try to do it again.
“Get out of my room, Vicious,” I said through my shaking fingers. It was my turn to order him.
He stared at me intently for a few heartbeats. I saw him from the corner of my eye, angry and…defeated? It was the first time I’d hurt him back, and even that was only because I absolutely had to.
I wasn’t a cheater.
But not hurting Dean felt like crap, because I’d hurt Vicious instead.
It took him a few seconds, perhaps less, to compose himself.
Then he leaned forward. “Ask me again,” he said for the third time, a sly smile on his face.
I closed my eyes and shook my head no. I was done playing his twisted game.
“Ask me how she tasted when I kissed her tonight after we threw you out of the media room. Your sister, Rosie.” His voice was velvet, but his words were poison, and I crumbled inside.
It hurt me more than I could ever describe, because I knew it was true. He sliced through my flesh, leaving pain with every stroke of his imaginary knife.
“Let me give you your answer, Help. She tasted like you…but sweeter.”
The Present
“IT’S OPEN.”
Help waltzed in, and holy fuck, what the hell was she wearing?
She looked like she’d gotten lost in Keith Richards’s closet and barely survived to tell the tale. She wore leopard leggings, ripped at the knees, a black Justice tee (the band, not the philosophical theory), a checked raincoat, and cowboy boots. Her lavender hair was mostly covered by a beanie, and she held two Starbucks coffees, taking a sip from one. She looked like the PA of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar financial company like I looked like a prima ballerina. If this was another way to show me she didn’t give a shit, it worked.
“Hey.” She slid one of the Starbucks cups across my desk. It bumped into my forearm.
I glanced at it without touching it, returning my eyes to my laptop screen. “What the fuck is this?” I wasn’t completely sure if I was referring to her outfit or the Starbucks. Was this Halloween? I checked my calendar just in case. Nope. We were definitely deep into December.
“Your coffee. Your breakfast awaits in the kitchen.” She threw her Harley Quinn courier bag across the brown leather sofa in the corner of my office.
It took everything in me not to toss the coffee against the wall and send her on her way back to unemployment. I reminded myself that I hadn’t hired Help for her magnificent PA skills or her fashion sense. I needed her. She was a part of a bigger plan, and I was gearing up to execute it. Soon, she was going to be worth the money and the glitzy apartment.
And she is better than my ex-psychiatrist for the testimony, with her big innocent eyes.
Fuck. The apartment. In my quest to convince her to take the job, I threw out a lot of shit I needed to back up now.
I sucked in my cheeks, feeling my jaw locking. “Get me my breakfast,” I hissed out.
“No,” she replied evenly, clearing her throat and tilting her chin up. “Your highness, I request that you go to the kitchen and have breakfast with your loyal subjects. I believe it’s important that you familiarize yourself with your colleagues. Did you know half the floor is sitting there right now? It’s French Toast Friday.”
She tilted her chin even higher, inspecting me.
Of course I didn’t fucking know that. The very notion of getting out of my office and spending time with those people who I didn’t know or care about was making my insides bleed.
She stared me down, and I wondered what was going through her little purple head. Actually, I was also interested in the origins of that lavender hair. I didn’t hate it. It suited her round face and eccentric style. She knew—Emilia LeBlanc fucking knew—she could bring a man to his knees, so she never bothered with pretty dresses and makeup. She wasn’t a tomboy—in fact, today she was even dressed up in her own weird way. Her hair was always a mess, though, and she looked like one of those urban New York chicks who carried professional cameras around, taking photos of their Pret A Manger breakfasts and pinning them on Pinterest, genuinely believing that they were legit photographers.
And still, I knew Help well enough to recognize that she wasn’t being pretentious. She really was an artist. The best painter I knew.
“Vicious?” she asked.
I slammed down my laptop screen, leveling my eyes at her. “Get me my breakfast. Unless you want to get back to bussing tables in a French maid uniform?” My voice dripped ice. It calmed my nerves a little.
She squinted at me, not budging.
I’d forgotten how hard to tame she was.
And I’d definitely forgotten how much it turned me on.
“You won’t fire me. You need something from me. Heck if I know what, but if you’re so desperate you gave me a job, I have a feeling I can bend you a little too.” She wiggled her brows and let out a throaty chuckle. “Come on. It’ll be fun to meet the people you work with.”
I hated that she had leverage over me and that she knew it. Help, of course, was right. We needed each other. She needed my money, and I needed her cooperation. Weighing the situation, I decided to pick my battles.
“Let’s make one thing clear so that there won’t be any future confusion. I’d hate to kick your ass on your second day, but I also won’t hesitate to do so. You’re my employee. Hence, I make the rules. The moment you signed that contract, you became mine. You will serve me. You will obey me. You. Will. Help. Me. Understood?”
Our gazes locked, and I allowed myself to get sucked into those blue eyes for exactly two seconds. They were Smurf-blue today. Probably not the best analogy, but shit if it wasn’t the truth. Help’s eye color constantly changed, according to her mood.
She arched an eyebrow. “You promise what you want me to do isn’t illegal?”
“It’s not illegal,” I said. Of course it was illegal.
“Nothing of a sexual nature?” she proceeded.
I threw her a condescending glance, as if mocking the very idea.
She was going to have sex with me. But of her own free will.
She blinked, clearing her throat. Shaking her head. So, Help needs some help with breaking the spell.
“Fine. You got yourself a deal. Let’s go. But I’m fucking warning you, I hate French toast.”
Spending time with my staff reminded me why humans were my least favorite creatures.
We all sat at a round white table, and I glared at my cold toast and egg-white omelet with little appetite. Help laughed a hearty laugh, the type I had never heard before she moved to California, as she showed the geriatric receptionist something on her iPad. They cooed and exchanged grins, and I
wanted to know what they were talking about, but didn’t ask. Then the receptionist said she was retiring at the end of January, and Help jumped at the opportunity to organize her farewell party, as if she was going to be around that long.
Whatever. I wasn’t going to burst her bubble just yet.
People made small talk with each other but barely acknowledged me. My employees at this New York branch were timid and wary of me whenever I was here in-person, which wasn’t very often. They were used to Dean, who might have been a sleaze ball but was also a pretty decent boss. I was cold, more detached, and when I got angry, I’d yell at the person who fucked up so loud the glass walls in the office would rattle.
They treated me like I was a ticking bomb and asked the dumbest, most boring questions.
“So how do you like New York? Is it very different from California?”
No shit, Sherlock.
“Have you done any of the holiday stuff? Ice skating in Central Park? Rockefeller at Christmas?”
Fuck yeah. I also took selfies of myself holding the Statue of Liberty in the palm of my hand and hung it over my fridge with an I <3 New York magnet.
“How big is the Los Angeles branch?”
Big enough to avoid all the people who work there with me.
I’d always been antisocial. My popularity in high school blossomed through association. I hung out with outgoing people. Trent, Jaime, and Dean lived for the crowd. But me, I still liked the silence. The humming sound of expensive electronics in my Los Feliz penthouse and nothing more. Well, maybe the slurping of a nameless woman beneath me as she sucked on my cock. Specifically, one with a hair color like Help’s. That made the fantasy so much more realistic. Anything else was pointless noise I wanted to eliminate from my ears.
“I’m done,” I announced to Help after fifteen minutes, getting up from my chair.
She was still engrossed in conversation, this time with the NY branch’s chief accountant. He was fairly young for a senior accountant, a preppy New Englander who probably graduated from an Ivy League school. Reeked of privilege. A guy like me.
“Emilia…” I snapped my fingers twice, like she was my pet.
Help swiveled her head, giving me her unimpressed look, before resuming her conversation with him. At this point, the guy turned mute and kept stealing glances at me like I was the Grim Reaper.
I got him, I did.
I was young. So fucking young to be a CEO. People didn’t achieve this level of power at twenty-eight. But the HotHoles and I, we’d had our fair share of shortcuts, what with the ability to invest millions of family dollars in our business from the very first year. Wealth attracted more wealth. And with Jaime, Dean, and me putting ten million dollars in FHH back when we founded the company, we saw a return quicker than the average idiot entrepreneur.
We’d created a monster.
And we were in charge of it.
That made me even more formidable than your usual CEO, and the young accountant knew it.
“If you’re not in my office in sixty seconds, I’ll just assume you’ve resigned,” I said easily before I turned around and left. On my way back to my office, I kicked the HR manager’s door open and proceeded—without even looking at the person who occupied the desk. “The accountant kid—how good is he?”
“Floyd? He’s good. Been here for three years now. Mr. Cole never complained.” The middle-aged woman behind the desk looked at me like she didn’t want me there. That made two of us.
“Send him to my office immediately.”
“Is there a problem?”
I closed the door without answering her, then stormed back to my office, where Help already stood. Good. At least she knew that my generosity and willingness to make this work had its limits. She was focused on her iPad and seemed to give zero shits about my semi-tantrum.
“Book a flight to San Diego for this afternoon,” I barked. “And arrange for my father’s limo to take us to Todos Santos.” Without a glance at her, I fell into my executive chair and rolled it toward my laptop, pushing my sleeves up.
“Us? I’ll need the other person’s name for the ticket.” She tapped on her device, the trace of a smile still on her lips.
“The other person is you.” My voice was flat.
Her eyes arrowed from the screen to me. “I can’t leave my sister.”
“I clearly remember you agreeing not to argue with me, Help. Don’t start a war with me. I come equipped.”
“That was before I realized my sister’s health could be compromised—”
I cut her off. “Rosie will have a private nurse attending to her while you’re gone. Have my people move her to your new apartment today.” I scrawled the address of the building where I was living.
I wasn’t stupid enough to tell her I was living in Dean’s apartment. The HotHoles had invested in a few smaller units in the building. One was a corporate place we used as backup if we were all in town at once. Also a convenient place to get laid. The apartment was vacant and minimally furnished. That was more than enough for these two.
“And what do you know, this apartment has heat,” I added, remembering the cold, drafty hallway in her ancient brownstone.
She shoved one of her hands deep into those pink-purple locks and massaged her skull in frustration. Seeing her sweating made my cock twitch. Luckily, I was behind a desk.
She had no way out. This was happening.
“I’ll call Rosie and see what I can do,” she muttered, her eyes shooting daggers at me. Blue with light purple hair. And that Harley Quinn courier bag.
How could you not want to fuck this chick? Of course I was hard. She looked like a rainbow.
“Here’s a friendly reminder. Your sister’s not your boss. I am. So you better not come back with the wrong answer.” I twisted to my laptop when I heard a knock on the door.
“Come in,” I called out, and Floyd entered my office, reeking of Brooks Brothers.
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Spencer?” he stuttered, smoothing his starched shirt. He looked like he might’ve shit his pants.
I was hoping he had because that would absolutely kill any chance of him and Help ever hooking up. I nodded at him while Emilia gave us a hooded glance, wrinkles knitting the corners of her eyes.
“I’ll get out of your way, then” she said and turned to leave.
“Stay,” I ordered sharply and pushed back, sprawled in my chair. I’d always been comfortable with other people’s defenselessness. “Close the door and take a seat, Floyd. You too, Ms. LeBlanc.”
They did as they were told, and I took a deep breath. I needed to tread lightly on this one.
But I needed to remind Floyd who was in charge more.
“Who am I?” I asked Floyd before he had a chance even to make himself comfortable in the chair in front of my desk.
He shifted in his seat, rubbing the back of his neck and throwing a glance toward Help before his eyes landed back on me. “The CEO of Fiscal Heights Holdings,” he said.
“Try again.” I knitted my fingers together, leaning back and tapping my two index fingers on my lips. “Ms. LeBlanc, who am I?”
“A sadistic jerk?” She examined her nails.
And my blood fucking boiled. I felt it bubbling in my veins as I grinned away my anger. Anger that quickly turned into delight. I liked her sassy. Floyd, on the other hand, gasped in horror.
“Wrong. Try again.” I turned to him. “Your turn.”
“Baron Spencer,” he said.
“Ms. LeBlanc?” I asked, even though I knew she’d be rude. This wasn’t an argument. This was foreplay. She just didn’t know it yet.
“The world’s worst neighbor? I think I’m beginning to enjoy this game.”
“Floyd?” My eyes landed back on him. “One last chance to get it right.”
He looked so miserable. Sweaty and helpless and confused. I knew that if this leaked, I was going to get shit from Jaime, Dean, and Trent for the next century. Among us, I was known as the one who
always took it a little too far with the staff.
“You’re my boss,” Floyd stammered, finally—fucking finally—getting it right. “You’re my boss, Mr. Spencer,” he repeated louder when he saw the approval in my expression.
“That, I am,” I agreed, crashing my palm onto my glass desk. “I’m your boss.”
He jumped in surprise. Help didn’t flinch.
“And I remind you,” I continued, “I’ve built this company with everything I have in me. I’ll be damned if something as foolish and careless as an office fling will stain the reputation of FHH.”
Recognition dawned in his expression. Floyd knew where I was going with this. Office romances were something I didn’t tolerate. I gave Trent shit about it, and Trent was a childhood friend and the owner of twenty-five percent of the company. He’d fucked his way into three sexual harassment lawsuits in three years. I swear, sometimes it felt like fifteen percent of our revenue went straight to making sure the employees he fucked-and-dumped stayed silent.
Sexual harassment my ass. The women who’d sued had wanted Trent’s dick more than I wanted Floyd’s stupid-ass, tennis-loving, hipster-glasses-wearing limp body out of my fucking vicinity. There was no way I was letting Justin Timberlake Junior with his second-hand Brooks Brothers suits fuck things up for me with Help.
“Do we understand each other?” I said, glancing between them. “No more flirting.”
“Oh, sir!” Floyd looked horrified by the idea. “We were just talking! This is a big misunderstanding. Millie told me she used to work for an accountant. I would never…I’ve worked so hard to get where I am today. We were mingling, that’s all. Actually, I told her about this show I started watching, Arrow. She said she’d look into it too. Anyway, I have a girlfriend.”
Of course he did. And now Help knew that, too.
I could see I’d pissed her off. Her lips had thinned into a hard line. Her small hands curled into fists until she had to tuck them between her thighs. She looked like she was on the brink of punching both of us. Her anger turned me on, and I made a mental note to warn her to keep her feelings to herself unless she wanted me to throw her over my shoulder and fuck her against the glass wall of my office.
