by Elena Monroe
“Really on a date, huh?”
Her arms draped across herself, hugging her body, as she felt my eyes taking in every inch.
“Seriously, why am I here? I was on a date. This better be good.”
“I need you to patch me up.” I moseyed to my living room with the black furniture and floor to ceiling windows that gave a view of the ocean.
Falling into the clouds made of cushions, I sunk deeper, feeling the Xanax dance with the whiskey.
Ethanol mixed with the medication only intensified being drunk and slumped from the benzo. It was a stronger trip, but a bitch to live through the next day. I preferred my Xanax untainted.
Slipping her heels off and jiggling the big medical box, she looked unconvinced still. “You look fine to me. What’s this about? We need boundaries if I’m gonna work for you.”
“Vic is all about boundaries—so many boundaries that I swear his soul skipped town on his ass.”
She laughed and sat on the coffee table, waiting for more direction.
“Bullet in my arm.” More whiskey went down cold, as my body heated up against the Xanax.
She laughed again. “Grimm, seriously, why am I—” Showing her my arm, she stopped talking to examine me, then said, “Normal people do not get shot!”
“You think we’re normal?” I could stop the laughter erupting from my throat.
“How did this happen?” She kneeled on the couch next to me, and I could smell her perfume. She smelled like a good time and green apples, and that made me hate whoever she went out with.
All I needed was one sign to give me permission to touch her how I wanted.
“Happy accident. I just need the bullet out, Abigail.”
Her knees touched the side of my leg, and I watched her dress ride up, showing more of her taut thighs. She was too focused on my wound to notice she was giving me a tease.
“You need a doctor… or an emergency room.”
Leaning over into her, I tucked her perfectly curled lock of hair behind her ear. “No. You’re my assistant. I only want your help.” My lips were seconds from hers—so close I thought I could taste her already.
She didn’t pull away, like I expected. “Exactly… your assistant. This is beyond the scope of my job description.”
Letting my head drop back, I looked at the ceiling, officially high as fuck. “I’ll change your contract tomorrow... What do you want? More money?”
“How drunk are you?” She straddled my lap with ease, like it was purely clinical, and her hand rested on my chest. “You’re gonna need to finish that.” She made wide eyes at my glass of whiskey.
“You don’t know what pain is, Abigail.” Downing the rest of my pretty full glass, I placed the glass on the cushion next to me and let my hand smooth up the outside of her thigh.
I had all the signs I needed to act on the heat building between us.
“Hands... Don’t distract me.” She had her phone in between us as she pulled up Google. I peered at it upside down, but I saw it “how to treat a gunshot wound” in the search results.
I didn’t even mean to grow harder, pushing against my pants and into her thigh, but I couldn’t help myself with her on top of me. I assumed she was sitting there to keep me still, which was laughable. I could probably lift her tiny body with one hand…which was all I had to use right now.
“Just do it quickly.”
She didn’t flinch as her delicate fingers picked up the tweezers, and she looked at the hole in my arm. It made me wonder what kind of monsters she already had inside her life that this didn’t scare her.
My grip on her thigh tightened, and my fingers curled around to brush the front of her panties, feeling exactly how wet the delicate material was. She could pretend to be professional all she wanted, but the heat between her legs had other ideas.
I prepared for pain, but all I received was the mercy of black.
I must have passed out, because I woke up on my couch to a note on the coffee table in front of me that read: Skip work today, and go see a damn doctor. Next time just go to the ER.
Abigail was feisty. She didn’t like doing what she was told, even though it was her job, and everything about her made me turned on. That wasn’t something easily done; it was a feat, really—a kind of gold star I didn’t give out.
Looking at my arm, I saw the bandage wrapped around it almost expertly. I was impressed—another thing I didn’t feel often.
My phone said it was almost two in the afternoon. No chance of me going to the office now anyways. Not just for a few hours, I wasn’t Vic.
The only thing enticing me was fleeing from my overbearing mother. She’d never look for me there.
ABIGAIL
The office was buzzing with rumors with the men almost giddy on a Monday morning. It was alarming to see the world’s grumpiest men seeming... happy.
In the small kitchen, I made another cup of coffee just to have something to do, since my boss was clearly taking a sick day. One of the other office girls, her name escaping me, who I rarely work with, snagged a sugar packet to dump into her already cold coffee.
She blurted out, “Guess the boys had a good weekend. I heard it’s basically some freaky cult. Very Eyes Wide Shut, sex parties, and masks.”
“Then why do they call it the Hunt?”
“I heard back in the day they used to sacrifice people after hunting them. Guess even cults modernize after a while.” She bounced off, like she had just reminded me of the date, instead of dropping bombs.
Dumbfounded at the rumor mill, I laughed to myself, heading back to my still bare desk.
After adding random things to my Amazon cart, the office stopped buzzing with office white noise. When I looked up, I realized why: Grimm had arrived. This wasn’t normal by any means. Just since working for the Clave, I could count on one hand how many times he’d come to work.
Must be nice.
Sitting back in the standard swivel chair, in his uncomfortable glory, I thought about my white chair that I had rewarded myself with after being on Vic’s desk for six months from West Elm. The blonde I was replaced with was now enjoying reaping my rewards.
Lucky her.
“Shouldn’t you be at a doctor’s office?” I quipped, while fiddling with the loan piece of office equipment I had: a stapler.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” he retorted, then added, “It’s the only place Mommy Dearest isn’t gonna look for me.”
Every girl knew Mommy problems meant you should run the other direction, but I stood up and followed him into his office anyways. He sat behind his desk and rolled the sleeve of his shirt up enough for me to see that the dressing needed to be changed again.
Stepping around the desk into his space felt personal—not as personal as last night after a few glasses of wine with dinner and then straddling him later—yet still personal.
Grimm’s eyes focused on the office outside his glass walls when he leaned back, “They’ve already planned to talk… gossip. It’s like knowing when it’ll rain.”
Carefully reaching for the pair of intimidating scissors on his desk, I cut the bandage off his arm and looked at the wound that was still gaping open, but at least it was clotting. There wasn’t an endless stream of blood flowing from his bicep anymore, making his tattoos even more terrifying. At this distance, I could make them out clearly: angels, demons, and a sinister take on religion.
Grimm wasn’t a man who looked religious. He looked like a Satanist, if anything. Oddly enough, when I was hired, the four mystery men, their fathers, asked me about religion. It seemed like a deal breaker if I wasn’t, so I answered that I was Lutheran, explaining how I grew up and how the dedication had faded since then.
“They’ve been gossiping all day already about what you guys did this weekend.”
I would be lying if I said I wasn’t curious what they did, right along with the rest of the office. They were all happier than I had ever seen, and Grimm came back last night with a bullet in
the arm.
“Let them. I don’t really care.” His voice was soaked in exhaustion as his eyes closed and his head rested on the back of the chair.
“Hung over?”
“Painfully.” His eyes were still closed, and I was still inches from him as I wrapped the new bandage along the wound’s opening, keeping it clean from infection. Fingers crossed. I wanted to pry, get some answers, but it was pretty clear he wasn’t a sharer.
“What do you guys do up there all weekend? How did you get shot exactly?”
Patting the tape down along the bandage, I leaned more against his desk, giving him space, but still probably feeding the rumor mill with some class A gossip.
“It’s a gathering. Boring shit. Mandatory. Don’t worry about it. It’s fixed now. All better.”
“You know if I’m gonna be the best assistant I can, you should probably just be honest with me. I need to know what I’m getting myself into.”
The soundless doors really needed some kind of alert that they were being swung open, especially when my old boss appeared in the doorway, unamused, and I was sandwiched between my new boss and his desk.
Awkward.
“Oh, good… You’re here. You need to get your shit together. Alba and Zeus will be here tomorrow. You need to impress them with whatever it is you do.”
Typical and traditional Vic. He liked the power plays. He liked acting like he was in charge.
Key word was acting.
Vic was the guy you agreed with to his face, then immediately talked shit about when he left. A false sense of power was all he had.
Jumping in to rescue Grimm, when clearly he didn’t need it, I spoke up in the silence: “I can make arrangements.”
I didn’t have to look over my shoulder to know Vic was still standing there. Standing up from leaning, I smiled softly at Grimm, almost feeling bad for him. He had to deal with Vic on a whole new level—one I didn’t envy.
“I need to speak with him alone. Shouldn’t you be at your desk?” Vic was the perfect kind of asshole. He remained calm, unamused, yet he still knew exactly how to remind you that you weren’t up to snuff. It was effortless.
“Am I dismissed?” I stood, waiting for Grimm to acknowledge me, rubbing it in Vic’s face how much more obedient I could be if it wasn’t under his reign.
Grimm nodded slowly, bringing his gaze back to the room, and staring into Vic like he was see-through. You could feel the melancholy between them swell and steal all the good air out of the room.
I was more than happy to leave the two heirs to duke it out however they saw fit.
Maybe that’s how he got shot in the first place. Maybe that’s how they settle fights.
GRIMM
“Can I help you? I’ve been hosting scum of the earth for a while now. I’ve got it.”
Vic came further into my office—the other direction than I was hoping for. His hands grasping the back of the chair, sitting in front of my desk so I could visibly see how much I pissed him off.
He was suffering a full body pandemic. Being put in his place never sat well with him.
I was the Rothschild here, not Vic. Everyone knew how much weight the name alone bore. It was a straitjacket made of metal.
“He’s a big client, ally, important. You need to take this seriously.” Venom, pure venom was laced between his words.
“Got it, dickhead.”
I saw it on his face: the grating satisfaction of not having the last word and no real comeback. He stalked out of my office, and I saw Abigail smile in his direction. She was on my side, no questions asked… well, maybe a few. It was sexier than a woman completely naked and willing to let me choke her to climax.
I shouted her name from my seat, knowing she was still in eavesdropping mode. I started talking before she pushed the door all the way open: “Normally, I do this myself... guess that’s your job now. I need reservations. Chow’s for 9 p.m., and there’s this club downtown called Sins and Forgiveness. Just let them know I need a table.”
“I’ve never heard of it…” I watched the end of her pen sit between her full lips, and her bushy brows were pensive before she wrote it down.
“It’s lowkey and members only. You wouldn’t have.”
Looking up at me from her pad and pen, her lips pursed. “Your elitism is showing.”
Abigail had a backbone that she didn’t showcase. She rubbed in being my assistant to the guy who fired her. She found a way to get a plane without my help. She was an enigma leaving breadcrumbs I was going to follow right to her front door.
Satisfied with herself, I watched her long ponytail bounce as she spun on her heels and walked away. She wasn’t prompting me to look at her tight ass, but I was.
Sitting back, I felt like enough had happened in the short time I was here—enough of an impact for me to go home. I was just avoiding my mom until five o’clock came around. After 5 p.m., my mother poured herself a drink, which then led to no longer making anymore decisions.
My mother married into the Rothschilds—never asking for this life, but playing the wife of a powerful man to a T. Hosting all the parties, doting on members, wearing her Clave snake pin at all times, she never questioned anything. She was pretty much the perfect cult member.
If only someone told her and Vic it wasn’t a competition.
On the way out, I fished out my credit card from my wallet and let the heavy metal of the card hit the desk with a dense clashing sound. Abigail had proven loyal and useful. I may not do well with emotions or being redeemable as a person, but I knew when credit was due.
“Buy whatever you need for this sad desk.”
Abigail stared at my card like it was a bomb with my birth name engraved onto the front of the all-black, matte card.
Jason Rothschild.
I just gave her ammo without even trying. Abigail was the sole person set on this earth to mess with my head more than Xanax.
“Jason, huh?”
“Fastest way to be fired is calling me that, ever, toots.”
Cat with a canary in its mouth was the expression she wore as she picked up the card so delicately it made me wonder if my card really was some kind of time bomb.
Abigail made me question the wealth I paid no real mind to. She was allergic to it, and it made me question why I wasn’t.
My assistant, who probably had a normal childhood and normal life, was disgusted by something I didn’t ask for: to not need for anything. If I was normal, or at least trying to be, shouldn’t I hate it too?
I was stumbling around by example. I wasn’t even close to normal. The people around me, outside of the Clave, were the only hints I got on how to behave. It didn’t take long before I realized as a teenager that my last name got me out of trouble, that having safe words in bed wasn’t exactly normal, and that killing people certainly wasn’t. Abigail, with her sparkling almond eyes and freckles across her perfectly straight nose, was the normal I begged for my whole life. She had me ignoring the bad and feeling whatever trip this was—Xanax-free.
Abigail was by far the best medication I had taken in years.
She could hate my elite status. I didn’t care. Burn the card. Spend all the money. Donate it to the poor. None of it was buying me an endless supply of her.
The elevator binged, and the doors opened to the garage, where my million dollar car sat pretty. Suddenly, I loathed it. I was seeing shit from the eyes of my new drug, and it made me feel dirty.
Bought.
Property.
An asset.
Monster for hire.
Everything I had was soaked with the blood of the people I killed by climbing this mountain.
The feelings I normally numbed had my hands shaking as I climbed into my car and reached for my Xanax bottle. Abigail was a drug so strong you needed to ease into it. Taking her all at once was asking to be set on fire just to see how long you could function through the burn.
Wasn’t long.
Swallowing the pill down dry lik
e a champ, I gripped the wheel, cursing myself silently.
Why are letting some girl get to us? She’s nobody, literally.
With every inhale I took, I felt the monster falling asleep. Xanax always killed his ambition.
If it were up to me, I would cut him completely out, but I wasn’t convinced I’d like what was left.
After a while, you stop seeing the parts of you that you forgot existed. All you see when you look in the mirror is the monster you are, nothing worth saving.
The drive from the office still sucked, with each clump of time wasted in stop-and-go traffic. I was the only one outside the traditional LA bubble.
Just as I pulled into my driveway, only stopping to punch in the code to push the gate open, my phone buzzed against the top of my thigh.
Figuring it was Abigail, without looking, I answered it. To my shock and dismay, a deep menacing voice poured in from the other side. My father never called me directly. He was the hands-off parent. That was what drove my mother into being overbearing for the both of them.
“Are you prepared for tomorrow? I can’t stress how important our guests are.”
“Trying to recruit them?”
His deep laugh almost sounded genuine, but I knew him better than that.
“Zeus owns the Clave. We’re all just puppets, Jason.”
I had never considered the four fathers weren’t truly the ones pulling the strings. They did it so well, with no room for you to think otherwise.
We’re all puppets, Jason.
His words rattled in my head, unable to really absorb the way they should. It only left the question of who was his brother that I reminded him of.
That was the only reason I had been awarded the pleasure of showing him a good time.
“Jason? These are the typical guests. They want what you have.”
I put the phone on speaker on the counter and pulled out a Smucker’s peanut butter and jelly sandwich. The Xanax was wearing off, and my hunger was kicking into high gear.
“Anxiety? Instability? Trigger finger?” The monster waking up inside me laughed, but my rigid father wasn’t about to be caught doing anything so unmeaningful. He would have been happier if Vic was his child. They were close, on the same page, just the tragedy of a different last name.
