Wallstreet God (The House Of Creed Book 1)

by D. M. Burns

  “You said you were an honest man but you’re lying to me.” It’s not said to become a topic of conversation. I’m stating simple facts. “I just don’t understand why. Whether I agree with your reasoning or not at least it’d be honesty. Something real instead of this hate and hostility performance you’re playing out.” His eyes shift down to where his hand is still locked around my arm then back up to me again.

  “If I told you the truth it would turn your mind into complete chaos.” He releases me and nods his head toward the hallway for me to move it along, dismissing me. Brogan’s entire upper body rises and falls with labored breathing as he stumbles back a few steps swaying to the side but rights himself at the last moment.

  “Brogan, please just tell me the truth.” My voice breaks on the plea and his lips thin out while he runs both his hands through his glam black hair in frustration.

  “Let’s just say that instead of confining the butterfly, I’m allowing that lovely flying little entity to go free so it can roam wherever it likes. Sharing its beauty with the world. Some would say that’s the definition of true love, huh?” He chuckles with zero humor.

  My chest caves in at his use of my butterfly story and the silent tears roll freely. He moves over to his bar grabbing up another bottle of brown liquor, screws the top off, and tosses it across the counter then turns it up draining an ungodly amount out. When he lowers the bottle, his eyes bore into me with an intensity I’ve never seen before.

  He spans both his arms out at his sides looking like what I’d imagine a wounded but enraged warrior angel to resemble. These pre-drawn conclusions that he’s entered into about us have infuriated him; that much I’m certain of. They tick me off too because I wasn’t included in on the final decision making.

  “You need to get that bullshit out of your mind. I’m far from a fucking angel; that much I’m certain of.” He growls. Did I say that out loud? I swipe at the tears. “Swear to Christ, every fucking thing inside me is urging me to extract the fucking wings, disabling the butterfly from ever being able to leave me. Does that sound like a god damn angel to you?” He leans forward his neck straining as he spits out those last words at me.

  “Brogan, I’m here. I don’t want to be anywhere else.” I go to move toward him and he slowly shakes his head from side to side. The look on his face leaves no room for negotiations. He’s about to lose all control. I see it.

  “I gave you more than I should have, but it was what you asked for, honesty-something real. I’m asking you to respect that. Now get the fuck out and don’t come back.” His entire body and demeanor are resolute even though in his state of mind he should be passed out on the floor by now.

  I nod my head as more tears break away. “Okay, sure-right… Uhm, Merry Christmas, Brogan.” I whisper out right before I do as he asked and leave.

  chapter 28

  Brogan

  I’m going to be the first one to break this shit down for you. Too much Southern Comfort can damn near kill a man, even an enhanced one such as myself. Those are facts that don’t need to be tested out. I’m floor position proof that after a five-day, non-stop drinking binge; shit can get a little twisted.

  Rolling over onto my back, I can tell the hard tile is not recommended sleeping conditions. I swipe at the drool on my face trying to focus my eyes on the white ceiling above. From what I can make out around me, I think I’m in my kitchen.

  Craning my head to the side, I see the cast iron bar stools circling the island then a pair of masculine shoes propped on the iron railing at the bottom of one comes into view. I follow the suit pants up to see a slow blinking unaffected familiar redheaded leprechaun smiling back at me. Carson’s elbow is positioned on the marble island and he’s causally holding his head up with an index finger to temple placement slow blinking at me.

  “What’s up, BRO?” His tone holds a lot of bite for such a happy looking assclown. “How does that cold slab for a bed feel underneath ya?”

  See that’s the thing about Carson. He can be smiling at you one minute then explode like an unexpecting violent timebomb the next. All the while you were unknowing to his level of fatal fuckery because of the Funtime cheerful bubble that’s constantly surrounding him. He’s like the human form of that Bazooka Joe bubble gum you could get as a kid that comes wrapped up with a mini-comic skit.

  The only response I have for him is to fly my middle finger high in the sky, fuck him. Rolling my eyes produces a painful gritty sensation. It feels like someone has poured sand underneath my eyelids. And when I swipe my tongue over my teeth it leaves behind a disguising aftertaste with a wretched cottonmouth effect.

  “Go get in the damn shower while I make a pot of coffee,” Carson mumbles as he shoves my stool across the kitchen tile intentionally sending out a screeching sound that has me wincing from the throbbing sensation in my head.

  If this bastard’s dick has caused me to lose the best damn marketing director I’ve had to date, I’ll bring the New Year’s in by kicking his ass all over BC Towers.

  “What did you say?” I growl while attempting to sit up but end up rolling into an upright position on my ass. I lean my elbows into my knees and wrap my hands around my head.

  “You smell like dead ass and don’t look much better. You get a shower first. Then and only then will we talk.” His low tone is a warning.

  He slams a couple of cabinets that only reinforces the fact that he’s not dicking around with me right now. So, I do the only thing I can. I literally crawl until I reach the kitchen wall climbing my way into a standing position.

  As I go to step out of the room, Carson flips on the god damn blender causing me to slap both my palms over my ears and groan out in pain. When I whip around, I see the fucker bent over at the waist laughing his ass off at me.

  “Payback is a motherfucker, you little redheaded bitch. Bank on it.” I grate out. He continues to chuckle while nodding his head and waving his bird finger my way.

  After a fresh shower and shave, I find myself back at the island working on my second cup of coffee while silently watching Carson’s green lucky charm eyes spear daggers at my forehead. He hasn’t bothered to say one word to me since I planted my ass in this seat. Not that I blame him. I’m in rare form. I’ve never been hungover, ever. It’s a new first and last time experience for me.

  The silence only gives way to a not so Merry Christmas play-by-play from Brea the other night. She only wanted to see me and check-in. I wasn’t surprised when Lincoln told me he sent her up, no. I knew she’d come, and I knew what I had to do. But what I didn’t count on was how fucking hard it’d be for me. That entire drunken memory turns my insides out, souring my stomach. Her thoughts torture my mind on a constant. I’ve given up trying to turn them off, waste of energy.

  She called me on my bullshit though. That hot as fuck slap that I most definitely earned for my asshole comments but didn’t think she had enough bravado in her body to follow through with, caught me off guard. I should’ve been looking for it though. Some of the most ruthless motherfuckers I know are from the south.

  No woman has ever slapped my face and believe me, I’ve justified it on several occasions. That was another first for me hand-delivered by none other than Miss. Winters. It was a pleasing jolt that made my dick harder than it’s ever been before. And her god damn southern goodness compelling her to apologize after the fact made my asshole heart cave in, Jesus. But more importantly, the shit scene was the way she flinched as if I’d retaliate and dare to hurt her in any way. Not in a million fucking years, never.

  Dreaming about her tears as they slip down her face. Hearing her voice telling me that I was important to her. The way she whispered my name then how she sounded as the words crumbled and broke painfully in her throat. Jesus Christ, I wanted to sweep her up off my floor and bury my face in her neck. Inhaling her selection of lotion for the day. But I couldn’t.

  It all echoes out in my mind with a front-row spectators view. EVERY DAMN THING. It’s killing me
slowly. I can feel it tearing me down like an army of evil demons have been freed to wreak havoc on my internal organs.

  To sum it all up, I don’t need this redheaded sidekick taking verbal swings at me. I’m mentally and physically torturing myself well beyond what any other could actually accomplish or inflict. It’s safe to say that I’ve had just about enough of Carson’s bullshit for one morning.

  Even though I feel somewhat like an active part of the functioning world around me again, I’m a far cry from being in the right frame of mind to deal with this fatherly punishment he’s trying to invoke.

  “Is it against the law to get drunk at my own home now?” I place my coffee cup on the island, lean back in the stool, and cross my arms over my chest. He presses his weight against the counter across from me and raises his eyebrows while shaking his head slowly.

  “Wanna enlighten me on why I’d received an e-mail from Brealyn requesting that I consider allowing her to terminate her work contract?” He places both of his hands on his hips getting ready to tear into my hungover ass with zero remorse. I’d probably feel bad had I not warned his meddling ass about this.

  “What were you doing at work? I thought you were visiting your parents for the holidays.” I try to deflect.

  “I can check e-mails from my damn phone just like you Brogan. Plus, my parents only live twenty minutes from here. They asked about your sorry ass by the way. Said for me to tell you Merry Christmas and they missed you, although I’m not sure why they do. Now, what happened with Brea?” He snaps.

  “Give her whatever she wants.” I rasp out while scrubbing my palm over my face.

  Carson tilts his head at me but is rendered speechless. It’s an understandable reaction. I’ve never condoned or catered to anyone wanting to break a contractual agreement ever, another damn first.

  “Brogan, please tell me that you didn’t treat that woman like just another cunt-coat on your revolving rack. That’s the term you use to refer to them, right?” He grates out.

  “No, not her.” I shake my head. “Brea’s nothing like that and you know it. Listen, I’ll take care of it, yeah?” I stand and rake my fingers through my damp hair while moving my ass to the bedroom. I can hear Carson’s shoes pounding out behind me.

  “What happened, asshole?” He asks.

  “I appreciate the in-person wake-up call but I’m good. Thanks. I hope you had a Merry Christmas. Tell your parents I’ll make it for sure next year.” I mumble over my shoulder. No, I won’t show but Carson already knows this.

  Walking into my closet, I make my way around the clothing island to my casual attire that’s color-coordinated and separated by designer. I throw on a pair of jeans, a black button-down shirt, then select a pair of shoes. I randomly grab a watch from my collection in passing. Once I’m dressed, I return to my room to find Carson leaning against my door frame.

  “Man, you say that every damn year. My parents don’t believe that bullshit anymore.” He says.

  I have nothing against Carson’s parents. Their good people. I just don’t like opening myself up for meaningless babble that only I can hear. So, I keep my mouth shut and nod my head.

  “Listen, I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but it’s out of your character to drink like that. You’re not composed like a corporate boardroom boss anymore. You’re off your normal A game and have been since your brother from another mother magically appeared.”

  “Channing’s a fundamental corporate cripple and considered challenged at best when it comes to me. I could handle that literal bastard at my worst. It’s her, you fucking dick.” I swipe my arm out angrily as if that should explain everything. “But you just had to interfere. I told you this would end badly.” I shake my head in frustration, but this fucker continues to smirk at me. “You have no clue what’s taking place and I don’t have the time nor the patience to explain it right now, man.” I shrug my coat on and go to leave, but Carson doesn’t move. I quirk my brow at him.

  “All bullshit aside. A-game or not, that woman was made for you. You finally fucking smile now and act more like a normal person than ever before. Well, as much as can be expected from a cold bastard such as yourself but you get my point. Don’t fuck this up.”

  “Don’t you have appearances booked out this week?” I ask.

  “The fuck…?” His face bunches up in confusion.

  “It being the holidays and all, I figured the ass-clown that is you would be in high demand,” I smirk.

  He points his finger at me then says, “Handle it and you better hope she doesn’t quit. I’ll expect a call from you telling me that my damn marketing director is motherfucking happy.” With that, he strolls down the corridor with me right behind him. “And I also expect you to find the time to clue me in on what’s going on and soon.” He stabs the elevator button as I pass him to go get my keys where I left them on the bar before my real-life Southern Comfort explosion appeared and slapped me silly.

  “No problem. See ya after the New Year.” I call out over my shoulder.

  “Speaking of performances, we have the company New Year’s Eve Sky Lounge party this year, Brogan. It’s the first one we’ve ever hosted, and I’ll expect your sorry ass to make an appearance. It’s non-fucking-negotiable.”

  “Not happening.” I stop dead in my tracks and whip around glaring at him. “I didn’t agree to that shit and you know how much I hate mingling with the mind fuckery.” I twirl my finger around at the side of my temple.

  Carson looks at his cuticles seemingly bored with my rant then back to me with his slow blinking bullshit and a sinister smile turns his lips up slowly. This is what I’m talking about when I say he reminds me of Penny the Clown from IT. His bat-shit crazy Joker side is coming out. He jabs his finger in my direction and that vein in his neck pokes out, throbbing like a healthy shot of steroids was just administered. I can tell I’m not getting out of this one.

  “Tough shit. You’ll fucking be there.” Then he disappears in the elevator.

  “Fuck.” I hiss while whipping back around continuing down my hall.

  When I swipe my keys up, my eyes scan the living room space landing on a bright red gift bag sitting on my white couch. Shit… I know it’s from her. How did I miss this? Oh yeah, that’s right. My drunk asshole ways, that’s how. Dropping my keys in my pocket, I move over to my couch and deposit myself down beside the decorated offering.

  Hell, other than Geneva and Carson, I can’t remember the last person to give me anything outside of their own wish list. Tugging the sparkling silver tissue out of the bag a card falls loose onto my lap. Picking it up, I flip it open and slide the card out to see the National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation themed front. Chevy Chase is hanging from his roof haphazardly wrapped up in Christmas lights, damn. The chuckle that breaks free from my chest couldn’t be held in if I tried.

  When I open the card, her delicate writing is strikingly beautiful much like she is, but it’s the words that catch me off guard.

  What do you get the man that needs for nothing?...

  You get him a beautiful memory as a constant reminder of the wonderful that can be found in the world surrounding him.

  You’ve become an incredibly special person to me, and I want you to remember that each time you get a glimpse of our tree.

  Merry Christmas Brogan – Love Brea.

  My brows draw together as I reach in and retrieve a heavy white box topped off with a picture-perfect red ribbon. I untie the bow and work the lid open pulling out a beautiful snow globe sitting on a shiny silver base with intricate rose gold bows engraved all the way around. Inside the snowy drizzling dome is an exact replica of the tree that Brea and I saw together at Rockefeller. The detail in design is remarkable.

  Tossing the box and bow back in the bag, I lean up and brace my elbows on my knees while staring down at the most treasured memory gifted to me in over ten years since I lost my dad. That night with her was hands down the best time I’ve spent with anyone, ever. I give the gla
ss circle a little shake and set it down on my bare coffee table watching as the tiny flakes fall to a sit still. I carefully place her card beside it on display too.

  Little does Miss. Winters know that she’s become my only special person. My beautiful rare butterfly. She doesn’t understand that what I’m doing is meant to protect her. Who knew that doing what was right and setting the butterfly free would ultimately damn me?

  Tapping on the door, I wait to hear the tunes of locks twisting and shifting. Instead, I hear Brea stumble and come damn near close to cursing. My ears perk up, but she bypasses the F-bomb and I hear her hiss out, “fudging freaking boxes.” Her substitute vocabulary is damn hilarious.

  “Who is it?” She sing-songs from the other side.

  “It’s me, Brea.”

  My voice sounds strange as it should. I treated her like shit while I was drunk and I’m afraid of the blowback. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be bothered with an apology or their feelings but it’s her. Come to think of it, my drinking stunt is only because my body and mind have tagged teamed me. They’re rejecting the idea of navigating away from her.

  Not being able to have what I genuinely want is fucking with me hard. And what I want is on the other side of this god damn door. I’m working on trying to find an even balance that I’m able to live with. Cutting this woman out of my life completely isn’t happening. I’m a greedy and desperate motherfucker.

  “Uhm… What are you doing here?” Her voice has a pitch to it. Uncertainty mixed with a little bit of shock. I’m not sure.

  “Can we talk please?” I rest my head against her door. I don’t hear anything out loud, but I hear her silently.

  I can’t do this again with him…

  “Brea, please.” I sound like a little boardroom bitch. How about that shit? Pussy whipped without ever touching the pussy. That’s a nice kick of reality to my set of blue balls, fucking irony.