“A virgin,” he murmured as if to himself, rolling the word along his tongue like he’d never said it before. How the hell could he guess that so easily? Most women my age weren’t. I wanted to ask him how he could tell, what gave me away, and why in the world he’d asked me something so wildly inappropriate, but he beat me to talking first.
“No.” He shook his head and turned his chair away from me. “I don’t want you working here.”
I swallowed, caught off guard. I’d signed a contract with his father. I’d done it with the understanding that his son had consented to my employment. That was clearly not true, but it was my impression that the agreement we’d signed was binding. No one with a desk that big would have it any other way. “Your father hired me.”
“I don’t care,” he barked, cold and authoritative. “Get out.”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I might not have ever held a position of power and influence in my life, but I did not let people talk to me that way.
“I’m out.” I gathered my coat around me. He said nothing more. I stepped out and closed the giant door firmly behind me, pulling my hood up over my head as I winced my way into the drizzle. I only exhaled once I’d made it several yards away.
Anger and confusion wrestled for dominance, propelling my strides along the mile-long walk to the train station in the growing darkness. What made him think he could talk to me that way? There was no reason to be so gruff, or so dismissive. What, exactly, was he doing with his life, holing himself up in a mausoleum like that? He couldn’t be that much older than me. I’d guess early 30s at the most. I knew he was rich. The ancestral home had seen better days, but I’d met his father. The elder Mr. Douglas screamed money, from the tony address of his Edinburg office to his gleaming leather shoes I bet were custom-made.
Disappointment filtered its way in, too, as I tromped along my way. I’d needed that job. For one, I might have been able to buy a car with the money I would have made. No more walking, biking, buses and trains to patch my way through life. It looked like my Edinburgh dream would have to wait.
Ian was a surly beast. Now I understood why his father had specified a one-month notice clause. I wondered how many people he’d hired before me who’d tried to quit within the first few hours. I’d one-upped them, though. I’d gotten myself fired before I’d even started.
I knew it was nothing more than my overly-developed fantasy life that found Ian Douglas the slightest bit intriguing. That steely, intense look in his eyes. The dark, chiseled profile as he stared, brooding, out the window into the storm. All alone in his castle on the cliff, the tumbling gray of the ocean waves below, he had all the appeal of a doomed romantic lead.
But of course he wasn’t. He’d fired me, turning me out into the cold, rainy night. If he were a romantic lead, he’d swoop by on a noble steed, scoop me up and ride away with me back to his castle. I bet it would feel good pressed against his broad chest, the warmth of his body seeping into mine as we swayed together on the horse. Ian was so much bigger than me. I could lean back into him, his powerful shoulder keeping me steady, a large hand wrapped around my waist.
My heel slipped in the muck on the path. Stupid shoes. I should have brought sneakers to change into. That’s what you got for being romantic instead of practical: a twisted ankle in the mud.
Well, it looked like I didn’t have to worry about my strange attraction to that man. I’d never see him again. I sighed, long and deep. I’d really needed that job. I told myself that was the only source of my disappointment.
I told myself it wasn’t because Ian was the most darkly gorgeous man I’d ever met, like a huge, damaged beast trapped in a world of tragic pain, handsome and disheveled as he brooded inside his 18th century gothic castle. It wasn’t that at all.
2
Ian
My father sent me Mary Poppins. What a joke.
She was a pretty little poppet though, in a fresh, unstudied way. She’d been wearing what looked like a hand-knit hat and scarf, bulky, quirky things far more about the chill than fashion. She hadn’t taken them off while she’d been talking to me, either, clearly not overly concerned about making a polished first impression.
Her creamy skin had been flushed, maybe from the cold. She’d worn simple little earrings, her light brown hair full and tousled but tucked behind her ears, not in any particular style. It was her lips I kept thinking about. Ruddy, full and pink, her bottom lip was deliciously plump. I’d love to watch her open that virgin mouth with a gasp of pleasure, parting it with little pants as she responded to my touch.
And those heels she wore? Naughty. On a night like tonight, she should have worn her wellies, sensible things built for muck and mud. But she’d worn heels. I liked them on her. I could picture her in them and nothing else, bent over a countertop as I taught her what a naughty girl she really was.
I adjusted myself, taking another sip of Scotch. Good thing I’d sent her away. My life had no room for a girl like that. A girl like Annie would have no idea how to play the way I liked—no, needed. Only the most fucked-up of companions joined in my debauched reverie. Only the most perverted playmates made their way to my doorstep, preferably wearing nothing under their coat, not wanting to waste any time at all before dropping to their knees.
No, Annie didn’t fit into that mix. Even if the idea of her living under the same roof sent my blood surging through my veins. A voice deep within me growled for more. I could have her, trap her, keep her here, and she would be mine to toy with, teach, torment and pleasure all I wanted.
I took another sip. Reason had prevailed, just barely. I’d dismissed her and she’d scurried off.
Only my wicked thoughts remained. I could picture Annie flushed and parting her thighs, shyly showing me what she’d revealed to no other man. Corrupting the innocent had long been a favorite pastime of lost souls. She might even learn to like it. Sometimes the sweetest ones were the most eager to please. And she seemed sweet as a freshly-bloomed rose, begging to be plucked.
I wheeled myself into the kitchen to fix another drink. Vic might be coming over tonight. Or was it tomorrow night? She’d texted me that she was around and interested in hooking up. I couldn’t remember when, though. One day bled into the next.
A familiar stab of pain knifed up my side. That always happened when I stood up for too long. But I’d liked standing while I’d talked to my little rose. I’d towered over her, and she’d shivered and trembled under my watchful stare. I was a bad man. I’d liked wielding power over her. Her discomfort had made me hard.
Now, though? Pain spiked through my side yet again, sharper still. I knew where this was going. I palmed a pill. Too bad the effects of opiates lessened over time as the body adapted. Pain was a crafty fucker, resourceful and persistent. If it wanted to surface, it would find a way, no matter the new drug or dose.
I could still remember my first few months on morphine, transporting me away under a thick blanket of numb nothingness. That had been right after the accident, when I was 14 and staying full time in the burn ward at the hospital in Boston.
Now, when I looked back, I’d give anything for that total and complete oblivion. Lulling, sweet forgetfulness swallowing me up. Back then, pain meds had pulled me into blackness for hours at a time. Funny thing, back when I’d taken those full hits into my clean body, I’d resisted it. I hadn’t wanted to lose consciousness.
Silly, young boy. That was back when I’d thought all of this was temporary. Even as the doctors had explained my injuries to me and my parents, at first, none of us had accepted it. What was a broken back, a smashed foot plus second and third degree burns when you had tens of millions to fix it all? Rich and entitled as they came, my parents had been used to the best of the best. They simply had not accepted a poor prognosis for their son. With enough money, they were convinced they could buy their way out of any problem.
At least, that had been their expectation. They’d clung to that belief far longer than I had, signing me
up for surgery after surgery, treatment after treatment, grafting, injecting, even finding an experimental surgeon to reroute nerves pairing damaged with healthy in the hopes of stimulating recovery. Add to that the relentless years of punishing, excruciating, hour after hour of physical therapy and you’d think at this point I’d be the bionic man.
Not exactly. I wheeled myself over to the cupboard and got out another bottle of scotch. The Douglas family’s own brew, it was the best in the world. Only not many drank it any more. There were a little over a hundred whisky distilleries in Scotland, most of which were now owned by big corporate conglomerates. Ours was one of a handful that had remained fiercely independent, but sales had slowed to a trickle. Back in 1793 when it had been founded, though, it had been a big hit. Douglas Distillery had kicked everything off for our family dynasty.
My ancestors had built the enormous estate I now inhabited in the mid-1800s, just like the queen of England had built Balmoral Castle, modeled after the most impressive our country had to offer. But everyone knew the best castles dated back to the 1700s. The thought made me smile. It was one of many jabs that goaded my father, pointing out that we didn’t actually have the best of the best, just an imitation of the best. Sometimes it was the little things that brought joy in life. Moments when I could puncture my father’s pompous balloon? Priceless.
I poured myself another glass. Time to wash down another pill.
“It’s not all that bad.” That’s what Mary Poppins had told me. In her pretty little voice, with that pouty, lush mouth, she’d gazed at me from her heart-shaped face as if she liked what she saw. I’d seen curiosity in her wide eyes, even a hint of attraction. She’d even said she intended to see that I was well looked after.
I groaned, clenching the glass in my hand at the thought of the blushing virgin attending to my needs. She had no idea the darkness that lurked within me. She’d come so close to danger, walking right into my cave above the storm-tossed sea. She’d so willingly, so very nearly offered herself up, like a virgin chained to a rock in sacrifice to the monster.
But my mind knew what my cock didn’t. Annie wasn’t the type of woman who belonged in my life. She was all strings attached. She was a kindergarten teacher, a librarian, a quilter, the type destined to be a devoted wife and mother.
The type of women in my life were drawn to darkness. They wanted to explore the sins of the flesh, needed me to test their boundaries and make them crave exactly what they shouldn’t. My type of woman desperately needed to be bent over my lap to take the pain. The way I felt most days, I was exactly the man to bring the dark discipline of their fantasies to life.
Not Annie, though. I kept telling myself that. Even if the beast within me howled for satisfaction, insisting I needed to make her mine.
* * *
§
* * *
The knock that sounded on my door wasn’t later that night. It was the following morning, or afternoon I realized once I squinted out the window. The sun looked mid-sky.
Wrapping a bathrobe around myself, I took my time getting into my chair and going to answer the door. It couldn’t be anyone I was interested in seeing. Welcome visits generally happened after darkness fell. Finally making my way over, I hit the switch to open the doors.
The place hadn’t been updated much, but five years ago when I’d announced my intention to move into the Douglas ancestral estate, my parents had insisted on a few modifications. I hadn’t wanted them, but they hadn’t listened to me. As well they shouldn’t have, I realized once I arrived. Bathrooms enlarged, ramps installed, they’d made the first floor wheelchair accessible. Miserable wretch that I was, I hadn’t thanked them. I’d retreated and sulked.
It looked like I had a new opportunity to thank—or sulk—with my parents. My father stood on the doorstep. He looked like he’d just ingested a hornet’s nest. In my experience, he looked like that a good fifty percent of the time.
“Do you know what time it is? Are you just getting up?” He barged in, on full-throttle attack mode from the outset.
“Hey, Dad. Got a light?” I didn’t even smoke anymore, but I knew it would drive him crazy to ask. Like I said, sometimes it was the little things.
“When was the last time you had this place cleaned?” He looked around with disgust. I surveyed the scene, seeing it from his eyes. It had been a while. I’d fired the cleaners after they woke me up at eight a.m. one morning.
“What happened with Annie? She called me and told me you sent her away.”
“Let’s make some coffee, shall we?” I wheeled into the kitchen. No way was I going to deal with my father until I had some caffeine in my system. Pacing like a raging bull in a pen, he gave me a few minutes. I guess even he knew to bow down to the coffee gods.
Settling at the kitchen table with a steaming mug plus one for my father, I met his eyes for the first time. He looked good for pushing 60, freshly shaven, his hair in a trim cut and wearing a custom-made suit. Thirty years younger, I knew I looked like shit.
“You look like shit,” he told me. Funny how sometimes we thought alike.
“Thanks, Dad. Good to see you, too.”
“What have you been up to?”
The tone, alone, implied that I was a complete fuck-up. There would be no satisfactory answer. So, I did what I had to do. When you knew trying to climb out of your hole would be impossible, sometimes you had to dig even deeper.
“Drinking, popping pills, fucking a few girls, you know, the usual.”
“When I was your age, I had my college degree, my MBA, and I was breaking my back every day on Wall Street.”
“Sorry, Dad, I broke my back at 14. It’s kind of slowed me down since.”
He winced at his poor choice of words. But he didn’t stop. “What’s your plan, Ian? Do you expect to sit around here gathering dust for the rest of your life?”
“Well, that. Plus the drinking, the pill-popping—”
“Try, for once, to take things seriously.”
“I’m dead serious.” I sipped my coffee. I didn’t have my plans mapped out on a spreadsheet, exactly, but any vague sense of my future was deeply enmeshed with my day-to-day life. Pain—drink—pain—pills—pain—drink—fuck—pills. The order of my recipe could change, but the ingredients would not.
My father looked at me with deep disappointment, shaking his head. “You disgust me.”
“Thank you. That’s both encouraging and productive.”
“What about the distillery? Five years ago that was why you moved to Scotland. You were going to run it.”
“Yeah, well, I got sidetracked.” Or never exactly intended to do it in the first place. Douglas Scotch was the best bar none, absolutely no question, and at times in the past I’d had flickers of ideas. What if we tried different marketing strategies? We could leverage social media, sponsor more tastings or competitions and giveaways. And our logo? Aengus Douglas’s face should be reserved for the family album, not relied upon to sell whisky.
But then a wave of pain would wash over me, so intense I’d have to grip the arms of my wheelchair and try not to groan. Before long, the cycle would begin again.
“Son, I’m sorry it’s come to this.” My father rested both palms on the table and gave me the look I was sure he used when about to fire someone from his hedge fund. “You turn 30 at the end of this year. This is your final warning. Clean up your act, or I’m cutting you off and selling all of it. This estate, the company. Everything.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” He was deeply attached to this place, the distillery, our family heritage. He loved referring to it with Americans, as if our bootlegging past somehow gave us aristocratic blood.
“Yes, I would.” He went on to say a bunch more about how I was wasting my life, sponging off of the money he’d made, doing nothing with my talents, etc. It washed over me in a negative drone. But the meaning sunk in. Fuck.
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” he continued. “You have nine months before y
ou turn 30. You have time to clean up your act and make a change.”
“What, have you got me scheduled for another surgery?” He hadn’t tried to pull that on me since I’d turned 18. Frankly, because he legally couldn’t anymore.
“Well, since you bring it up. There is that reconstructive surgery you could have on your foot. And stem cell injections.”
“Enough!” Now I brought my palm down on the table. “I’m not a guinea pig to test out new experiments.”
“It’s not mad science. It’s on the forefront of science. There’s new technologies, new research. If you just opened your mind—”
“I know it’s hard for you to stomach looking at me.” In the past, I’d seen both my mother and father grimacing when they caught a glimpse of the charred flesh on my back and legs, or my mangled left foot. I knew I revolted them, the hideous son that marred their perfect ideals. In all the family photos my mother had around the house, not a single one showed me in a wheelchair, even though I’d been in one for the past 15 years. “But just because you can’t handle what happened to me—”
“I did not come here to argue with you.” He stood from the table, re-assuming his CEO demeanor. “I’ve hired you a caretaker.”
“I don’t need her.”
“You are not going to chase Annie away like you’ve done with all the rest of them.” It was true. My past was littered with caretakers, nurses and home health aides and cleaners I’d roared, sneered and railed at until they refused to work with me anymore. I was great at being worth no amount of money to be around.
“This time, you’re going to let her come here and do her job,” my father decreed. “You can’t do everything yourself. You need help. But it comes down to you, Ian. You have nine months to turn things around. Clean up your act and show me you’re doing something with your life.”
“I get it.” I looked up at him, weary and lazy-eyed. “You want me to assume the throne.”
All I Need: Ian & Annie Page 2
