by D. M. Burns
When I hear his closed-mouth thoughts, I want to power slap him out of his chair, grab him by the throat, then toss his slimy slick-talking ass out of the conference room window. Watching his ass go airborne from fifty stories up would surely make my black soul smile.
“You all have the details for our black-tie event on Friday. Remember to come prepared, be professional, and represent your company like the skilled individuals you are but also have fun. You’re the leaders of The House of Creed and that alone speaks volumes. If anyone has any questions please feel free to seek me out. Now go make some money and thanks for all you do.” Carson says.
Everyone stands to leave except Carson, Damien, Brock, and Lance. I move into the room allowing everyone to scamper by and escape. My gaze is still locked down on Damien. His fucking name even grates against me wrong today. It reminds me of that evil demon child from The Omen. I want to stab him with a crucifix.
I wonder if he took his meds this morning. Does he have anyone to remind him of that? I hope he does. He’s a pretty boss man though. That sweet southern accent filters through my mind then continues throughout my body.
Even though Brealyn refuses to look at me as she passes by, I hear her. I can’t help the tug effect that pulls at the corner of my mouth. She has her own little way of making me smile. I kick the door closed after the last body clears the room and continue to stare at Damien.
“Okay… What did I do this time?” Damien shifts in his seat and runs his hand through his hair nervously.
Shit… Does he know I fucked Beth from accounting in the boardroom yesterday? My eyes snap to Brock and he scrubs his hand over his five o’clock shadow while avoiding my stare. These assholes need to shut the fuck up. This is exactly why I don’t leave my god damn office and mingle amongst them.
I have a phone conference in ten minutes. This is unproductive bullshit right here. My gaze rolls over to Lance, Mr. Responsible. The only guy with his head in the business lane of things.
Fuck… Brogan needs to get on with this shit. I have a Georgia peach that I want to nail down concrete plans with before Carson has a chance to ask her out. I know he wants to, little redheaded bastard. My high beams find their way back to Damien. This little prick doesn’t know when to shut the sex shop down. I stalk over to Damien and kick his chair out from under the table successfully sending him rolling across the room.
Compared to these guys, I’m a suited-up beast with wicked ways. My intent is hostile. They know it. I know it. He stumbles to stand out of his chair, and I stalk forward until I bump my chest into him slowly causing him to scamper backward while snarling down like the bloodthirsty overdeveloped rottweiler I truly am. I loom over Damien like a dark shadow.
My overall size makes two of this guy. Who’s the real Omen now, dickhead? Here’s a plot twist for you; I am. I continue to advance forward until I’ve sheltered him into the far corner of the room. I can feel the other guys moving in, but I’ve blocked their thoughts out. Their commentary is not needed.
“Don’t fucking come one step closer,” I growl without taking my eyes off Damien.
Everyone stops. The only person who didn’t bother to move out of his seat is Carson. He knows better than to fuck with me when I’m like this. It’s rare. Plus, he’s well aware that there’s a good god damn reason for my abrupt reaction. He wants no part of the blowback, smart man.
“Brogan…. What the hell man?” Damien holds his hands up in defeat. I tilt my head sideways and stare at this motherfucker. The look etched out on my face must convey his fucked for life status right now. “Whatever I did, shit… I’m sorry.”
“You keep your motherfucking hands to yourself and off the other colleagues at The House of Creed. If you paid half as much attention to Miss. Winters body language as you do your dick, you’d know your bullshit earlier was unwelcomed, undesired, and not reciprocated.” His eyes flash with awareness. “Leave her the fuck alone.” I snarl.
“Shit… Okay, Brogan. I’ll apologize to her.” He’s rambling on. He’s not listening. He’s pissing me off. I shake my head slowly from side to side getting aggravated that he’s not taking in this simple request.
“I won’t repeat myself god damnit.” My voice is eerily calm.
“You’ll stay the fuck away from her, Damien. That’s what you’ll do.” Carson deadpans while looking at his nails seemingly bored with the shitshow playing out.
“If I find out anyone of you bastards has any other type of sexual relations in this office, let alone MY GOD DAMN BOARDROOM, you’ll count yourself lucky to finish out your fucked career in the confines of the downstairs mailroom.” Damien nods his head. I step back and cut my eyes to Brock. My jaw is clenched so tight that I feel like my teeth are embedded deeper into my gum line.
“Understood. Won’t happen again.” Brock says.
“I don’t pull that bullshit at The House.” Lance leans back in his chair checking the time on his watch again.
Damien and Brock believe that I saw their fuckery from the camera footage. Which that within itself blows my mind that they knew their antics where being filmed but still their okay with it. I’ll go with that instead of telling them the truth.
I’ve never had this compulsive, quick, and volatile reaction before toward Damien. His slutty ways are normally tolerated. This whole thing with Brealyn has pissed me off. Now he’s got me wondering if Carson has a hardon for her too. God damnit.
Moving across the room, I rip the door open, and haul my ass back to my fucking office where I lock myself in for the rest of the day. It’s safer this way, for them.
chapter 7
brealyn
When the automatic fluorescent lights illuminate throughout the building, I realize that I’ve once again worked well beyond our normal office hours. The real estate advertising ad I’ve been working on is going to be huge. Hopefully, it’ll blow everyone’s mind. In my opinion, it’s some of my best work to date and I’m excited.
Stretching in my chair, I click my mouse successfully shutting my computer down then fish my purse out of my desk drawer. It’s time to call it a day. I stand and push my chair under then turn to head for my office door only to stop abruptly when I notice Mr. Creed leaned into the door frame. It’s his silent, imposing, but identical position from earlier today when he appeared out of nowhere for our marketing meeting. Must be his calling card of sorts.
“Mr. Creed, you scared me,” I whisper as I nervously grip the side of my neck while clutching my purse closer to my body. Those rare high beam eyes pierce mine and I nervously look to the side. Letting out an uneasy sigh, I wonder if this man majored in wordless coercion in college. Jesus…
“I saw your light on in passing. Scaring you was not my intentions.” He says.
Is this guy serious? Everything about him suggests racy with a frightening conclusion. His lips quirk up and I wonder what has him so amused. Then I remember that I shed my overcoat once I got back to the confines of my office earlier. My coffee-stained shirt is in his face on that B.O.D. billboard display. Plus, my bra leaves very little to the imagination with my headlights on bright. Darn it. Advancing forward, I reach behind the door and grab my coat then cover myself.
“Do you work late a lot, Miss. Winters?” He quirks his eyebrows at me in question.
“Not as much as you do, Mr. Creed. You can call me Brea if you like.” I smile at him and he steps off to the side. “All my friends call me Brea. But if you’re not comfortable with that it’s okay too.” Gosh… I’m babbling again. Darn this guy.
“I like Brealyn. It’s unique.” His voice is husky and low. It’s sexy.
The fact that he doesn’t offer me the same informal first name basis approach is a bit of a sour bite. Then again, these northerner folks aren’t quite as friendly as us country kids with southern hospitality ingrained in our DNA. He steps away from the door jamb and backs into the hallway. I advance forward then clip the office light on my way out.
Moving alongside him, I n
otice he’s clenching his fists, and my gaze moves to his face. His jaw is hardened and his expression is contemplative. I can’t help but wonder why he’s always threaded so tightly. Surely, it’s not business-related. The man is on a superior playing field with the winning results surrounding him. Did he take his meds?
“I have my mom to thank for the trade name.” I shrug my shoulders. “Uhmmm. Are you okay, Mr. Creed?” I hesitantly ask. He visibly flexes his fists and rolls his shoulders back.
“Question for you, Brealyn.” He ignores my inquiry altogether, so I go with it. Maybe he doesn’t feel comfortable sharing. He doesn’t seem like a sharing is caring type of man. Heck, I’m just glad he’s speaking. This is far better than criticizing my coffee-stained, online blouse purchase that’s now ruined. When he chuckles, my eyes shift to him and he continues, “Do you ever curse?”
“Uhhhhh. Well, I… Uhmm. What?” When we reach the elevators, he extends his hand punching out at the button for our steel box downward destination.
“Curse… Profanity… Vulgarity… Blasphemy…” He chants out.
“Technically, I know what you mean. I just don’t understand what prompted this curiosity or interest.”
“Do you ever take a walk on the wild side and vent?” He looks my way and I can tell that he’s one hundred percent serious with this line of questioning.
“Do you want me to, Mr. Creed?” I tilt my head to the side studying this guy. I feel like I just stumbled into a dim and darkened Creed passageway for the first time. Feeling around for the freaking light switch is a pain in the butt.
“I’m just curious. That’s all.” His eyes are surveying me like I’m his next business massacre and he’s trying to figure out my bottom-line curb appeal.
“Yes, I do but only when I’m really angry. Gotta be honest with you though, it’s an ugly sight.” I giggle.
The elevator doors open and he holds out his arm for me to proceed him. This is a completely different person from the one that I encountered weeks ago upon my initial interview. Once we're both in the steel box, he taps the little circle for the lobby floor.
“My turn.” I say. He quirks his eyebrows at me. “You got a Q&A. Now I get one. Do you ever smile, Mr. Creed? Like a true-genuine smile, not a smirk.”
“Yes, I do Brealyn, but only when I’m really delighted.” He smirks at me.
“Touché, Mr. Creed.” I focus my eyes down to the blood-red elevator tile. It’s an interesting diamond-cut design. The black grout is pretty cool too. “Are you looking forward to the big bash on Friday?” I ask and he grunts in response.
“It’s probably the only event that I’m somewhat mildly interested in. And you?”
“Shoot yeah. It’s going to be so much fun. I can hardly wait. Plus, I managed to find another great TJ Max special for tha B.O.D. At least we’ll have something else to talk about, right?” I wiggle my eyebrows at him.
“About that…” He starts but I cut him off with laughter.
“I’m just poking fun at cha,” I say. The elevator doors open, and he waits for me to exit first again. Who would’ve guessed that Mr. Creed displays a side of chivalry? He has old school manors. I’m shocked but relieved at the same time. “Thank you.”
“Good evening, Stewart. How’s your wife?” Brogan asks the security guard as we get to the front desk post.
“She’s mighty fine, Mr. Creed. Thank you for asking.” Brogan nods his head.
“Miss. Winters.” Stewart tips his uniform hat at me and I smile brightly.
“You have yourself a lovely evening, Stewie.” Stewart chuckles at the use of the nickname I settled him up with a few weeks ago when I started working here.
“Same to you as well.” He replies.
“What means of transportation will cater you home this evening?” Brogan asks.
I focus my attention back to Brogan. He’s studying me again with apt interest. Gosh darn it, I’d give anything to know what’s running through his mind.
“Normally, I share a cab with my friend that works in accounting, but I guess I’m a little late for that. I’ll splurge on a taxi and enjoy the peaceful ride by myself tonight.”
“I can have my driver drop you off if you like.” He offers but I shake my head no.
There’s no way I’m going to let my boss man see where I live. He tripped out about my red power suit attire from the interview. He’s sure to scoff at my loft located directly above my favorite pizzeria.
Right after my second break-in, my best friend, Tamera Cole, tipped me off about another place that was located in a better neighborhood. When I went and looked at it, I immediately jumped at the chance. I’ve been renting from Mr. Maggio for six months. It’s perfect and so is the homemade Italian food he serves from the family restaurant he owns below me. I love my cozy but small home. But I’m sure my definition of a penthouse is nowhere close to the accommodations the Wallstreet God is accustom to.
“That’s very nice of you and I appreciate you seeing me down, but I can manage. If you keep on, I’m going to think you’re a big softy, Mr. Creed.” I turn to make my way out of the building when he speaks up from behind me.
“You can call me Brogan if you like.” His voice is gruff and filters throughout the large spacious but deserted lobby for this time of night. I turn around and face him while I continue to walk backward.
“You have a beautiful night, Brogan. See you bright and early tomorrow.”
Brogan tilts his head and his slicked-back hair gleams from the angled bright light’s above, sparkling that streak of blonde-white to life. He’s dissecting me. It’s like he’s exploring for my purpose or doesn’t know how to quite take me. He’ll be looking all day because I have no agenda.
It must be depressing and exhausting to question every human encounter day in and day out. Always expecting someone to have an ulterior motive or hidden agenda. Not to mention, very lonely too. That thought sends sadness soaring through me. God bless him. This was nothing more than casual conversation that surprisingly, I thoroughly enjoyed.
“You as well, Brea.” He tips one side of his mouth up. That’s a sexy sight. I bet if the man gave a genuine smile it’d have a devastating effect on my soul. I whirl around and continue out the doors. Iceman seems to be thawing toward me a little.
chapter 8
Brogan
Did she really just call me Iceman? Jesus Christ. The fuck… I’m trying to figure out how I ended up casing her office door in the first place. It’s a maddening paradox. I suppose it was out of curiosity. Admittedly, I checked for her lights as I was leaving. When I saw the glowing outline, instead of taking my private escape out, my feet propelled me forward. Reviewing the video footage, I gathered that she works late a lot, like me.
When I started rattling off questions at her, I was just as confused as she was on where my interest came from. A few weeks ago, I wanted nothing more than to send her sprinting from my building and on the first fight back to Atlanta. Silencing her southern thoughts and quarantine them to another state. Now it would seem, all I want to do is climb inside her head and get to know the detail and design intimately.
It’s not bad enough that I cornered Damien today, but my fucks are not given where he’s concerned. That asshole doesn’t know when to tuck his dick back into the holster and ride out. This fixation I have for Brealyn is tipping on the edge of absurdity.
Hell, I’ve never offered to have my driver, Lincoln, charter another employee home, ever. In the past, carrying on a conversation with the opposite sex had about as much potential in my daily routine as dipping my balls into a hot bowl of wax. This shit is out of hand.
I tried to block her thoughts out and allow her to speak her truths tonight. Give her the chance to offer over only what she wanted me to know. For the most part, I succeeded. The only thing that kept resonating out in my head like a cliffside echo was how badly she wanted to see me smile. Reverberating loudly over and over.
To be honest, I thought about givi
ng that to her just to shut her curiosity down. Admittedly, I kinda like her sweet southern request singing out in my head. Why I held onto that card is a mystery to me. Denying her of a simple thing such as a smile was wrong but maybe I just wanted to keep her talking. Honestly, I’m not sure.
Brealyn wasn’t ashamed of her loft but she hesitated because she thought I’d look down on her. It’s a fair assessment if I take into consideration how I treated her during her preliminary interview. I get it. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to see to it that she makes it safely home.
“Would you like for me to call Lincoln for you sir?” I turn around to Stewart and nod my head.
“Sure, Stewie. That’d be great.” I smirk at my tenured security guard and he chuckles while dialing the phone.
“Miss. Winters is a beautiful breath of fresh air. This place needed it.” He mumbles.
If I didn’t know Stewart to be the happily married man that he is, I’d think he has a crush on the little country girl. There’s an intended punchline that’s on the tips of his lips that I’m not going to push him for.
After seeing to it that Brealyn was tucked away safely at home the other night, I found my way back to the penthouse. Yeah, I had Lincoln follow her, and I have no fucking clue why though. I shrugged it off as a protective employer-employee tactic.
When I got back to my penthouse, I soaked myself in a few glasses of brandy while mapping out my deadly destructive deeds for tonight’s black-tie event. I search to find the ruthless cutthroats of Corporate America who step on others to harness their shit existence, excel their status, and credibility to the top. You know, people like Victor Malone. Those type of humans are what I thirst for, my targets.
The only person who knows about the demonic game I playout here is me. I keep this ruthless bit of information to myself. Not even Carson knows. I wouldn’t want that bastard thinking I was a decent human being. Cause I’m not.
