Wallstreet God (The House Of Creed Book 1)

by D. M. Burns

  “FUCK!” I growl out.

  Squeezing my eyes together, I shake my alcohol-induced foggy head then refocus on Brea as she sweetly welcomes fuckboy in. I’ve had enough torture for the night. It’s time for me to leave the confines of her fire escape and steer my ass away from this potential crime scene.

  If I stand around here much longer, I’m sure to barge in there and toss Nate’s ass out this window while enduring Brea’s censored G-rated curses as she lets them rain down on me for my transgressions in a southern accent. I’ve got to do something. Cut the ties, sever a fucking limb, or something to disconnect the gravitational pull I have to her.

  chapter 27

  brealyn

  Spending Christmas with Max and his family was not what I had planned on doing but he was not listening to my protest. The more I babbled about watching the Macy’s Day parade and eating in by the tree the louder his loafer tapped out on my floor. He snatched my country girl booty out of my loft forcing me to go with him to his parents’ house near Hudson Square.

  Being around his crazy family is always a refresher. It opens my eyes, giving new understanding in each occurrence toward Max and his outgoing ways. Max’s dad, Winston, resembles Sean Connery, and when that man speaks, everyone is quick to listen. He commands authority but expels energy and life out to all around him.

  The weirdest thing is that Max’s mom, Gabriel, is meek and quiet but with a keen fashion fabulousness all her own. That’s where Max gets his flair for style. I noticed that everywhere she went Mr. Boric’s eyes followed her. After forty years together, I thought their love for each other was romantically soothing.

  Gabriel and I made small talk about Tamera and we both expressed how much we missed her. I talked to Tamera this morning and we wished each other a Merry Christmas. She also let me know that she’d be flying out to the Bahamas for another shoot straight from Florida. It’d carry over into the New Year and she wouldn’t be returning until the fifth.

  That put the gloom and doom on my not so bright Christmas light, but she was excited about the career opportunity, so I faked my enthusiasm for her. I was really looking forward to getting my other BFF back. I miss her. I’m going to pray about my selfish attitude later.

  Before I could get off the phone Tam was trying to shove her long-distance nose up my butt from the sunshine state. I sorta think she was only checking in with me to see if I had slept with Brogan yet. I secretly held onto the details surrounding that whole fleeing from a virgin scene like it was Voldemort’s unspoken birthname.

  That didn’t stop Tam from telling me to get up on that Wallstreet God and worship that dick like the churches around the world depended on it. Those were her words, not mine. Sometimes I wonder why we’re friends.

  The bright side to the holidays is that between Max, Channing, and Nate, I’ve not been alone. Channing drops in sporadically with food in hand. I think he’s feeling a certain type of way because I’ve yet to take him up on the friendly date he proposed but I’m not up for that right now. And I can tell that Nate is simply missing his fiancé. Heartbreak is easy to spot from the heartbroken.

  Frankly, every time I inched my door open, I was filled with disappointment that it wasn’t Brogan’s face on the other side. The guilt I feel over not being grateful for those that do care enough to drop in and spend their time with me is real. I’ve turned into a pathetic person, period.

  Anyway, Max makes me, and Tam come with him to his families Christmas gathering each year. Of course, the Boric family welcomes us without so much as batting an eye. To be honest, I think they like giving me a hard time because of my southern accent and all the men just love to ogle Tam. Which is fine by me because I love their festive parties.

  Stepping through my front door with my hands full of Boric leftovers, I kick the door shut and stepover to the frig putting my future premade meals for the next week away. I shrug my coat off tossing it on my chair then fall onto the couch letting my head follow the motion while I eyeball the few lonesome presents that I have left under my Christmas tree. Tam’s and Brogan’s are the only two left.

  I’ve had nothing but radio silence from Brogan. No, see ya later. No, check-in, how are you doing. No goodbye-nothing. After the third day passed by without nah-da, I just assume that I've been written off as a bad mistake. Perhaps, a phase for the corporate warlord to work out of his system. That notion doesn’t sit right with me though. Brogan isn’t the type of man that would entertain any female unless it was his choosing.

  The flip side to that theory is that I’m fairly sure whatever he had to take care of at The House of Creed doesn’t warrant a five-day MIA disappearing person report. Then again, this man is known for mulling over multi-billion-dollar business deals before showing up for his actual routine office workday. He still could’ve taken the time to make a simple phone call or shoot out a text. Anything would’ve been better than the nothing he’s given me.

  Feeling strongly about Brogan being all alone today, I broke down and called him after wishing my grandparents a Merry Christmas this morning. I wanted to wish him a happy holiday as well, even if he didn’t care whether I was having one or not. Of course, I went straight to his voicemail. I kept it simple though. I merely said that I wanted him to know I was thinking of him and I wished him a Merry Christmas.

  After I hung up, I sat on my bed thinking that things could’ve turned out worse. Brogan could’ve slept with me then never spoke to me again. If I didn’t know him better, I’d be worried about my walking papers for when I returned from the Christmas holidays. I’m a little apprehensive about that but I know in my heart that he’s not that guy. No matter what, I’ll be strung tight with nervous energy when I return to The House of Creed.

  At this point what can I do? My tears are on a random hit and miss visitation schedule. I’m having a hard time eating and I prefer the comfort of my bed instead of interacting with people. I should want to dispel my decision to get involved with him, but do I really? Heck, no. Stupid, stupid girl.

  Brogan Creed is my favorite worst decision. A temptation that only grows with each second that ticks by, deep within. Sadly, I wished I had a whole lot more to be disappointed in myself for like sex itself. It’s like a nocturnal nightmare that regrets what limited amount of time I spent with him in his bedroom. Because I wanted to do so much more, everything. God knows I don’t need more nightmares, no. Apparently, I prefer a real-life version.

  I want his touch as much as I require my next minutes with oxygen. To feel his hand slide across my skin, giving life to those radiating tingles that skim over me leaving exposed goosebumps in the aftermath. Just thinking about how he amplifies my senses causes my cheeks to heat and my body to hum.

  Above all that, my instincts are navigating me in a different direction here because each time I replay the highlight of my thoughts for that night, I ping onto his words. It’s like there’s a loudspeaker next to my heart, reinforcing his spoken truths each time I start to stray.

  “I’ve waited longer for you than you have me, Brea.”

  There would be no reason for him to lie, zero. I was already an eager and willing participant laid out for whatever he needed from me. I sure as heck wanted everything, he was willing to give. Those icy panes shone back at me with a thawing reflection of gentleness coupled with compassion. It’s something that I’ve noticed he only shares with me.

  Jesus, I’m all over the place with the feels, ping-ponging back and forth like an uncoordinated tennis match between two crackheads. That alone should tell you what kind of headspace I’m currently in right now. I’m emotionally unstable so, what I’m about to do shouldn’t surprise anyone.

  Shooting to my feet, I shrug my coat back on then stalk over to the tree, grab his present up, and my purse then waltz right out the front door.

  As the BC Towers elevator descends up, I nervously watch the digital number change. With every added floor that passes by another chunk of my bad girl bravado barrier breaks away. That
confident country girl tongue lashing that I had intended to give Brogan face to face is sounding more like a bedtime story for children under the age of one. What can I say? He’s intimidating as all heck.

  The layer of clothes over my body feels increasingly uncomfortable and I’m beginning to sweat. More accurately, boob sweat. Now that’s an unattractive thought and the visual is not much better. I wring my hands together only to realize that the gloves I have on are probably contributing to the clammy hand thingy currently taking place too. So, I adjust the gift bag on my wrist and quickly tug my gloves off stuffing them in the pocket of my coat.

  Getting into this place was surprisingly easy. Okay, I’ll admit that I got lucky and saw Lincoln outside. He walked me to the elevator and even plugged in his credentials granting me access to Brogan’s penthouse. No questions asked. Lincoln simply smiled as I thanked him profusely while wishing him a Merry Christmas. He shot me a wink then disappeared as the elevator doors closed me in.

  Running my hands through my long hair, I swing it to one side and watch in the mirrored box as my blonde ringlets fall over my shoulder helplessly out of the way. At least my hair looks fashionable flawless. I wished my insides reflected the outside packaging though. I’m a darn mess. If I had eaten earlier, I’d probably give it back right about now.

  Jerking my head up when the door opens, I exhale a much-needed breath of air then straighten my shoulders and step into Brogan’s immaculate museum-like home. For a moment, I think about removing my coat but then I remember that I’m not an invited guest so, I forego that friendly formality.

  Darting my head from side to side in search of him is a no go. Brogan likes his view, so I turn and head in that direction. Hearing the sounds of my unsteady heels tapping out an SOS alerting anyone here of my presence. It’s cutting through the silence like gunshots. I try to tiptoe softly as if that’s even a possibility.

  In my quick decision to faceoff with Brogan, I didn’t change my clothes. But the little red dress that I wore to Max’s family get-to-gather paired with my black heels and black overcoat seems to be a nice touch. I’m not street hooker hood nor am I Broadway brilliant. It’s a nice festive medium for the holidays.

  Nervously, I switch the gift bag to my other hand gripping the handles until I can feel the impression digging into my palm. When his body comes into view, it’s his well-defined, shirtless, broad, tan back that sinks into my sockets, permanently. His lower half is covered by a pair of black running pants show casing his tight dairy-aire and he’s barefoot. Lord have mercy…

  If I had to take a guess, I’d say he just stepped out of a shower because his coal-black hair is wet making the top layer seem unruly. Probably from running his long capable fingers through it.

  Brogan's hands are crossed behind his back and he shows no sign of moving from the windowed wall in front of him. His stance coupled with his silence is identical to the way I found him in his office at The House of Creed. The very same day that Channing materialized in his boardroom. The suffocating air around me is thick with my own self-doubt, confusion, and insecurities. My throat bobs as I try to swallow the knot that has formed.

  “Merry Christmas, Brogan.” I rasp out. He doesn’t move, not an inch but I see the muscles in his back and forearms tense up.

  “What are you doing here, Brealyn?” His voice sounds like a low warning that propels my heart rate. It soars and sends a magnified thundering sound straight to my inner ears.

  This was a bad idea. My eyes scan the room looking for nothing at all, but I catch a glimpse of various empty bottles of alcohol cluttering up his bar top. Is this how he spent his Christmas? Oh, God… I breathe in a much-needed breath of air letting it fill my lungs and ready myself.

  “Uhmm, well, I wanted to make sure you were okay. Plus, it’s Christmas and you’re important to me.” I clear my throat and toss my hand out at him into the open space. Why? I’m not even sure because he’s made no effort to move. Therefore, he can’t see my hand gestures. I find my spine and take a tentative step to move further into the room.

  “Don’t.” He grates out.

  It sounds like he forced that word out from somewhere dark within his chest, hissing it out from behind gritted teeth. And let me tell you something when a man like Brogan makes that kind of sinister sound and demands action, you comply out of basic survival instinct.

  Needless to say, my body freezes and I begin to rethink my entire idiotic notion of coming here in the first place. To heck with the country girl conversation I was pumped up to have the entire way over. Heck, I forgot half of what I was going to say anyway. Even if I remembered, finding my voice would be a chore at this point.

  Leaning to the side, I quietly set the red gift bag down on his fancy white couch then shift on my feet inching myself backward. “I’m sorry I showed up uninvited, but I wanted to check on you. I never heard back after we went out and I got worried.” I fumble with my hands.

  “Brealyn, I didn’t call because there’s nothing to say. Go home and don’t come back here.” His words are curt and cold matching the penthouse surrounding him.

  This is so not the man that I’ve spent time with over the past few months, no. Brogan’s nowhere to be found. I’m dealing with the infamous Wallstreet God himself. The cold beast that adorns the boardroom. The callus cutthroat corporate suit. That incidentally is still the man I desperately want.

  Looking down at the expensive tile floor, I nod my head silently. Not that it matters, his eyes are still captured by the sky’s view. I turn on my heel moving for the elevator but stop short at the last second. It would seem my tolerance has a breaking point. A simple reason for all of this is not too much to ask, right? The anger rising in my chest is starting to boil over with mounting frustration begging to filter out of my lips. Confusion doesn’t sit well with me.

  “You’re a liar,” I state calmly but with conviction dripping from each word.

  That at least gets his attention causing him to look over his shoulder. When those ice chambers land on me he finally decides to face me head-on. I want to scream for him to turn back around because he’s a distracting beautiful liar. The last thing I need is for him to see how much my body wants him. I cross my hands over my chest, prop my hip out while letting my foot tap an angry sound on his floor.

  “You’re welcome to that opinion.” His cocky boardroom smile finally makes its debut. I ignore that along with his words because he wants to upset me and I’m not even sure why at this point. If I follow his lead, I’ll storm out of here before I can say what I need to say.

  “I’m not sure why you’re doing this, but I know in my heart,” I place my hand over my chest then continue, “that your struggling with this decision, Brogan. It’s all over your face and identifiable in your posture. You don’t need to be mean to me in order to shut things down between us. If you want me to go, I will. But hating you is not possible for me, so please stop.” I look off to the side in an effort to keep my tears in. Just breathe Brea. I turn my gaze back his way. “The truth works just fine with me. Be an adult.” His jaw twitches and his brows draw in like he’s picking his words out carefully.

  “The truth, yeah?” He poses it like a question and for a split second, I feel victorious. Could it have been that freaking easy? “It’s fairly simple, you don’t belong in my world. You have no place here in my penthouse. Hell, you don’t even fit in at The House of Creed. But since it’s Christmas, I’m going to go a step further and do you a favor by giving you the whole truth considering no one else close to you will. It’ll be my parting gift to you so to speak.”

  Brogan slowly stalks in my direction not stopping until he’s right in front of me. I can feel the heat from his body and with that close proximity comes the smell of alcohol seeping from his pores and every breath. His eyes are bloodshot making them stand out even more. The urge to wrap my arms around this man is real but I’m too darn afraid to make a single move. As unstable as he is right now that might send him over the e
dge.

  Leaning down until he’s an inch away from my face he whispers, “If I’m being really honest, you’re a fish out in dangerous water here in Manhattan. You need to take your virginal offering back to the countryside where it belongs and safely away from sharks like me, Miss. Winters. That’s your only chance at survival, period. Be an adult and know your limitations.”

  And just like that, the Wallstreet God gets slapped across the face with a venomous impact from the wide-eyed innocent southern country girl. He looks stunned for a moment and he’s not alone in that sentiment. I’m so shocked that I cover my mouth with the very same hand that just lite his face up like that Christmas tree we saw together. His surprise is quickly replaced with an expanding devilish smile that Satan himself would be proud of.

  “Oh… Uhm, I’m so sorry.” I can’t believe I just slapped him. I’ve never put my hands on anyone before. Never wanted to. Never cared enough. Never been hurt this much.

  I turn to make my escape for the elevator, but he grabs my arm pulling my trembling body back around. My long hair fans out sticking to my clear lip gloss. The jolt causes the unshed tears to leak from the sides of both my eyes. Between the adrenaline and anger, my emotions are winning out, getting the better of me.

  Brogan’s jaw is hard set, but his eyes are swimming in a fair amount of remorse. Why? I’m the one who slapped him, not the other way around. But when he extends his free hand my body locks up in preparation and he notices. His brows crease together but he gently tucks my hair behind my ear.

  “I’ll never physically lay a finger on you, ever.” His eyes bounce between mine before he finishes. “I’m a bastard. An unapologetic motherfucker. And I deserve far worse than that slap. Don’t apologize or feel bad for that shit, ever. It’s literally the best Christmas present I’ve received to date.” He scrubs his free hand across the angry red outline of my handprint that’s forming on his cheek then smirks again. “Now, go home.” Does he even realize that he still hasn’t let me go?