Skyscraper Cinderella

by K. Webster

  I sit in his leather chair, inhaling the lingering scent of cigar and bourbon. I’ll never admit it to anyone, but I miss him. He was my idol and best friend. His death was hardest on me, though I’d never tell my siblings that.

  Now that I’m alone, I reply to Ash.

  Me: That wasn’t so hard, was it?

  Ash: Lose my number, creep.

  Me: You can’t get rid of me now. Not when I know how wet your panties get when you’re embarrassed. Are they wet now?

  Ash: No.

  Me: Do you want them to be?

  Ash: NO.

  Me: I’ll send you a hundred dollars for every selfie you send me.

  She doesn’t reply. A few minutes later, she sends me three in a row. She’s taken the time to write a message on pink sticky notes for each one. Fuck. You. Asshole.

  Me: Cute.

  I shoot three hundred dollars to her.

  Me: What embarrasses you, Ash? Nudity? Dirty talk? Being told to do certain things? The more I know, the easier this will go.

  Ash: I’m not ashamed of my body.

  Me: You shouldn’t be. It’s hot as fuck. What about fucking yourself with objects? Does that embarrass you?

  Ash: I can’t with you.

  Me: You can, and you will. Because, little girl, you may live in a three-million-dollar home, but you’re poor as fuck. Your new stepmommy not giving you an allowance? You need my money, and I need your services.

  Ash: You’re a real asshole. Can’t get dates with normal women because you’re such a freak?

  Me: I could have any woman I wanted. They don’t intrigue me like your unruly ass does. I’m quite enamored with the possibilities between us. I’ll send a car for you at seven to bring you to my apartment for dinner. We can play then.

  Ash: I’m not coming over.

  Me: Two thousand dollars says you will.

  Ash: This is insane! You’re insane!

  Me: No, Ash, it’s not insanity. It’s boredom. When you’re rich as fuck, not much excites you anymore. When you find something that does, you obsess over it. You, my child, are my newest obsession.

  She doesn’t respond after that.

  It doesn’t matter, though. She will get in that car, and she will come see me because money talks. Lucky for me, I have endless supplies of it.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Ash

  This is crazy.

  I’m not going to that man’s home. Nope. Not happening. Never.

  Shrimp chirps from on top of his bird cage as though he agrees with me. I walk over to my parakeet and stroke my finger down over the top of his head. I’d gotten this bird when I got my first period. Dad was so horrified and confused by my raging emotions, he tried to make me happy by letting me get a pet. It helped, and I immediately fell in love with a bird of all things.

  “He’s a sicko,” I tell Shrimp. “If I go over there, I’ll end up hacked into tiny pieces and stuffed in a freezer.”

  Shrimp chirps and flaps his wings.

  “Right?” I say. “Total psycho.”

  “Boo.”

  I shriek, scaring Shrimp who flies over to my bookshelf. Whirling around, I shove Sully out of my way. Of the Terror Triplets, Sullivan Mannford is the most tolerable. A manwhore but less mean. “Get out of my room, freak.”

  He smiles as he rakes his gaze up my front, his eyes lingering at my chest. “Mom and Baron left for The Hamptons. We’ve got the place to ourselves. You actually going to party with us or are you still too good?”

  I’ve seen their parties.

  Sex. Drugs. Alcohol.

  Not my scene. Especially when the Terror Triplets get that glint in their eyes when they’ve knocked back too many shots. The last thing I need is to let my guard down around the three of them while inebriated. I’d wind up pregnant and full of STDs most likely.

  “I have plans,” I lie.

  His dark brown eyes narrow as he scrutinizes me. “With the psycho who’s going to put you in his freezer?”

  I hate when they snoop on me.

  The three of them are the creepiest fuckers.

  “That’s the one.” I give him a sweet smile. “My new boyfriend.”

  He tenses, sudden anger rippling through him. “You don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “I do too,” I snap back. “What’s it matter to you?”

  “You’re ours. I thought we made it perfectly clear to Tate.”

  I gape at him. “What? Tate and I broke up because we’re going separate ways.”

  At this, Sully laughs. “You don’t really think someone like Tate would let someone like you go, do you? He’s a three, and you’re a ten.”

  Gross.

  No one wants to be told they’re hot by their stepbrother.

  “You’re annoying me. Please leave.”

  “We’ll run this one off too,” Sully vows, his voice growing low and cruel, sounding much like Scout. “And each one after that.”

  “Why?” I demand, crossing my arms over my chest. “Why can’t I have a boyfriend?”

  “They’ll try and save you.” He shrugs. “And we want you right where you’re at. Helpless. Dependent. Flailing.”

  I blink at him, disgusted at his words. “You can’t control my life.”

  “That’s what you think, Ash.”

  Rather than continue to fight with him, I turn on music and ignore him until he finally leaves. At this point, I’m looking forward to dinner with Winston. Because if I have dinner with him, I’ll make more money. The more money I make, the sooner I can get out from under the Mannford influence.

  Winston wants to shame and embarrass me but pay me for it?

  So be it.

  I’m a tough girl. I can handle whatever he throws my way.

  * * *

  “Mr. Constantine is expecting you,” the doorman says, offering me his arm. “This way to his private elevator.”

  Oh, Jesus.

  Winston is so over the top. A private elevator? Come on.

  With a clipped nod, I follow the sharply dressed man into an elevator that has to be accessed by a key card. Once inside the shiny metal box, I glance at my reflection. I vowed to myself I wouldn’t dress up for this man. I’m not a pretty doll he can dress up and force to do tricks. I chose comfort over class. Fitted, worn denim jeans with more holes than material that I’ve rolled up my calves. Cute tan slide-on sandals with a leather bow on top. A white tank knotted just above the hem of my jeans. I left my hair down and in messy brown waves. I’m wearing my big silver hoops and several weaved brown bracelets. I also didn’t put on any makeup, because I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

  This is a job. Nothing more.

  We arrive at the penthouse floor. The doors open, and the doorman ushers me into a pristine hallway. It’s bright and white and sleek, much like Halcyon Building. He guides me over to a giant mahogany door and then uses his keycard to unlock it. The man steps inside and holds the door open for me.

  “Have a seat in the living room. He’ll be with you soon,” the man says before closing the door behind him on his way out.

  Silence greets me.

  It’s almost deafening. Intrusive. Maddening.

  I clear my throat, the sound echoing in the entryway. Nothing. Curiosity has me walking toward the open living room. The design in here is much different than his office or this apartment building. It’s ridiculously expensive—everything from ornate, artsy light fixtures to the unusual dark wood floors that curve in strange patterns but somehow slot together perfectly. Where his office is bright, his home is dark.

  Fit for a villain.

  I can’t help but smirk as I take in the beautiful living room space. The entire back wall is floor-to-ceiling windows. It’s impressive because the ceiling in this area is at least thirty feet high. The walls and ceiling are painted a deep navy blue, reminding me of his eyes.

  Stop.

  Yuck.

  I’m not going to compare walls to his eyes. That’s sick, infatuation type of b
ehavior. I’m absolutely not infatuated by this motherfucker. Rather than think about his eyes, I stare up at the massive light fixture that looks like a network of lit-up nerves with tiny bulbs at each end. A web of light and metal. It’s beautiful.

  “My favorite part of this room,” a deep voice rumbles from above me somewhere.

  I follow the sound to find him standing at the top of his stairs. He’s dressed down in a pair of gray slacks and white button-up shirt. The sleeves have been rolled to his elbows revealing muscular forearms, and his top two buttons are undone. His hair is perfect as ever, and he wears a shiny pair of black shoes. Without a care in the world, he descends the stairs at a slow, infuriating pace. As though he enjoys making an entrance and forcing me to notice.

  To piss him off, I look away and walk over to the windows. The view is breathtaking, but I won’t tell him that.

  “Are you hungry, Miss Elliott?”

  I tense up and turn to face him. “I’m here for dinner, aren’t I?”

  His dark blue eyes sparkle at my bitchy tone. It’s as if he delights in my attitude. I’m annoyed that rather than pushing him away, it only excites him further. Fucking freak.

  “Come then, little girl,” he says, gesturing for me to follow him. “Francis already set the table, and Hans is ready to put our steaks on.”

  Of course this spoiled bastard has a waitstaff and chef on hand. Of course he does.

  Despite nerves twisting in my gut, I am hungry. The Terror Triplets were causing a ruckus in the kitchen earlier, so I skipped lunch to avoid dealing with them. That’s the only reason I’m complying with Mr. Kinky Fuck.

  He shows me into a dining room that’s surprisingly small. I’d expected a thirty-place-setting table. Not a simple bistro-type table with four chairs. It has me relaxing a bit. He pulls out a stool and then offers his hand. Reluctantly, I take it and allow him to help me onto the high seat. His touch is warm, firm, and oozes power. I hate that a thrill races down my spine quickly followed by the hollow feeling of loss when he lets go.

  He takes the seat beside me and then calls out to Francis.

  A gray-haired woman with hair pulled into a severe bun walks in with a bottle of wine. She fills our glasses with the red liquid before hurrying away. Winston picks up his glass.

  “A toast,” he says, raising the glass. “To new adventures.”

  I barely refrain from rolling my eyes. “Right.”

  We clink our glasses together, and he flashes me a devious grin. My body warms several degrees. I quickly down the bitter wine, eager to distract myself from his penetrating stare.

  “You look good enough to eat tonight,” he rumbles.

  “Lucky for me, we’re having steak instead.” I smirk at him. “Cut the crap, Winston. Tell me what you want from me.”

  “Eager to make money, I see.”

  I flip him off. Big mistake. He grins wide, revealing each perfect white tooth in his stupid-hot mouth.

  “I find your middle finger very sexy,” he drawls out, eyeing me over his glass. He sips it, his gaze never straying from my lips. “I find your lips even sexier.”

  Francis appears with a basket of breadsticks. She uses tongs to place one on my plate. It glistens with melted butter, making my stomach growl.

  “Thank you,” I mumble.

  She gives me a polite smile and then serves Winston one before exiting again.

  He reaches into his pocket to pull out his wallet. My eyes drift to the way it bulges with money. After he pulls the wad out, he sets it on the table.

  “This belongs to you.” He pushes the stack toward me. “For dinner.”

  I stare at the two thousand dollars we agreed upon. It doesn’t feel real. Since meeting Winston, I’ve made over four thousand dollars, kicking me up to eleven grand in my college fund. It’s annoying the relief I feel. It would have taken me months to make that much at FGM Services. I know Manda offered to pay, but I’d feel much better if I could somehow pay for it myself, even if it’s just books and supplies. I hate having to be indebted to her.

  I go to reach for the money, but his hand covers mine, stopping me. My heart does a nervous skip in my chest.

  “Want to earn more?” His eyes flare with challenge.

  I can do this.

  I can endure his weird-ass fantasies because he pays well.

  “Yes,” I tell him with false bravado.

  “Then wrap those lips around your breadstick. Lick it and suck it. Like you wish it were my dick.” He nods at the bread on my plate. “Five hundred dollars.”

  God, he is so freaking bizarre.

  I’m about to tell him where to shove his breadstick when I decide to negotiate for more. It’s just a breadstick, not his dick. I can do this. Easily. I’m practically salivating for it anyway. The bread, not his dick.

  “Eight,” I counter.

  “A grand if you moan my name while you do it and don’t stop when Francis brings our food.” He winks at me. “Easy money.”

  “Fifteen hundred and I’ll gag on it.”

  He fists his hand, his jaw clenching, the first sign of a normal human reaction. Heat burns down my spine, pooling in my pelvis. I’m not turned on by him. Not a bit.

  “You have yourself a deal, little girl.”

  Closing my eyes, I attempt to distance myself from him as I pick up my bread. He clears his throat, earning my stare, and shakes his head.

  “Eyes on me,” he murmurs. “Everything you do, I want your eyes on me.”

  A flash of irritation bursts through me, but I obey. Because… duh, fifteen hundred bucks. I lick the bread and moan because it tastes that good. It won’t be so hard after all. The most difficult part will be not eating the savory bread.

  “Mmm,” I moan. “Winston.”

  It’s fake as fuck, but whatever. I’m not an actress.

  “Good girl,” he croons, his words wrapping around my heart like thorny vines, puncturing holes in my indifference. Like the predator he is, he senses what his praise does to me and delivers more. “So obedient. It makes me want to spoil your pretty ass. Give you everything you could ever want. I hope you’re making a list, sweet girl.”

  I lick the top of the breadstick and then suck on it, secretly eager for more of his words. When I take the bread deep into my mouth, it makes me gag. My eyes water and I sputter. My eyes fly to his. A strange, satisfied glint flickers in his gaze.

  “More,” he rumbles. “I like it when you gag.”

  It feels stupid, but I force myself to gag twice more on the breadstick. Saliva runs down my chin. He reaches forward with his napkin, dabbing it away, before sitting back in his seat. My lashes are wet from tears because gagging yourself will do that to you, and my throat burns from the garlic. I’m over it, but I promised to continue until Francis returns.

  Time passes slowly.

  I realize I should have negotiated a start and stop time.

  I’ll remember for next time.

  Next time?

  A tremble of excitement ripples through me. I’m clearly just as fucked up as Winston for agreeing to do this. It’s not completely horrible either. When you’re getting dollar bills thrown at you, and don’t have to take your clothes off for it, it’s actually fairly easy.

  Francis appears with two plates. I gag on the bread again. She glances over at me, a confused look on her face, but then quickly moves my bread plate and sets the food down before scurrying off. As soon as she’s gone, I take an exaggerated bite of my bread and chew with my mouth open. Hopefully that will kill his boner.

  He laughs, a riotous sound that infects deep parts of me I didn’t know existed. I roll my eyes at him, instead choosing to admire my meal. A nice filet mignon seemingly cooked to perfection. Asparagus and mashed potatoes.

  Buzz.

  I pull my phone from my pocket to learn he’s just sent me fifteen hundred dollars.

  Insane.

  He’s positively insane.

  But he also might just be my ticket out of the M
annford home.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Winston

  It’s cute how her cheeks remain pink after the naughty act she did before dinner. All through our meal, I kept quiet, forcing her to think about what she’d done. I’d been hard as fuck watching her try to deep throat the bread and slobbering all over herself in the process. She apparently gives head better than she cleans.

  Hans outdid himself as usual on the meal, and the bananas foster cream pie was fantastic. Once Ash is nice and stuffed, I stand and offer her my hand.

  “Let’s have a chat. See how much more you can earn tonight.”

  Irritation morphs her pretty features, but she takes my hand. So small and soft. I love the feel of it in mine. Rather than let her go, I guide her into my living room over to the L-shaped pale-gray sofa. She goes to sit, but I shake my head.

  “On your knees.”

  Her eyes widen, fear glinting in them.

  “Not for a blowjob, dirty girl,” I chide. “But because I quite like seeing you obey me.”

  I expect her to argue or negotiate, but the dutiful thing listens to my command, dropping to her knees on the soft fuzzy dark-gray rug. She crosses her arms over her chest, scowling at me.

  “Give me your phone,” I instruct as I sit down in front of her, stretching my legs out in front of me on either side of her.

  “Why?”

  “Because I want to photograph you.” I arch a brow. “How many times did you watch our movie from last night?”

  “None, you pig,” she snaps, her cheeks burning bright red.

  “I jerked off this morning imagining you watching it.” I lean forward, toying with a strand of her silky hair. “Your fingers got so sticky when you touched yourself.”

  Her nostrils flare with anger. “Picture is going to cost you. Videos are more.”

  “Name your price.”

  She chews thoughtfully on her bottom lip. “This is more than a selfie so it should cost more. Two hundred for each picture. For videos, it’ll depend.”