by Amy Brent
“Why don’t you go home?” Fletcher asked as I turned to looked at him. He looked uncomfortable and regretful as he always did after one of our moments. “It’s late, and you’ve been working hard.”
Despite his politeness, the dismissal still hurt. I hated the fact that he didn’t want me here just as much as I hated myself for being in this position again. But, what was I going to say? He was still my boss, after all.
“Is there anything else I can do for you before I leave?”
Yes, offer yourself to my pleasure, I imagined him saying. But instead, his real words were, “No, Miss Taylor. That will be all.”
Miss Taylor. My shoulders sagged at the properness and distance of the term.
“Very good, Mr. Cox. I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” I said as I turned and walked out of his office smoothing non-existent wrinkles from my skirt.
I was at the door when he cleared his throat. Filled with the tiniest sliver of hope, I turned. His hand was on his buckle, and he tugged at his pants, adjusting the clear evidence of what had just happened between us. I couldn’t help but smile.
After a long glance my way, his face darkened, and he asked, “Will you contact Ms. Bauer for me?”
It was like a punch in the gut. With tears forming in my eyes, I nodded and closed the door behind me. My heart ached as I dialed the number I had called so often I knew it by heart and waited.
“Hello?” Charlotte Bauer’s voice was like a purr.
I cleared my throat. “This is Mr. Cox’s office.”
“Hello, Grace.”
As per usual, I didn’t respond to her cheerful a greeting. There was no reason for me to dislike her other than the fact that Fletcher preferred her company over my own. Rationally, I understood that she was closer to him in every way. She was rich, gorgeous, in her late thirties and, most importantly, not his employee. It made sense for them to be whatever they were. Still, I hated her with every fiber of my being.
“Mr. Cox asked me to contact you on his behalf. He was working late, but he’s now collecting his things and will be leaving the office shortly.”
She chuckled like she had expected this. “Thank you for calling, Grace.”
I put the phone down without saying goodbye and collected my things. With a final glance at Fletcher’s door, I switched off the lamp on my desk and left the office.
As I rode down the elevator, I did my best not to think of Fletcher, but it was damn near impossible. Yes, he was an asshole most of the time. He also had a mistress and, probably, a drinking problem. But despite all of that, I could see a vulnerable and genuinely nice man underneath. It was with that man I had fallen in love; the only problem was that finding him underneath all the crap was becoming an increasingly harder task.
“Can I call you a cab, Grace?” Phil, the night security guard, asked as I walked down the lobby. He stood alone by the door; all the receptionists already gone for the evening.
I smiled and nodded. “Thank you, Phil.”
He walked out with me and hailed a cab. Once a car stopped, he opened the door and stood out on the curb until the car was moving away. The kindness in his gesture warmed my heart. I really needed to go for a man like Phil—not Phil himself, of course, he was married—but someone who had manners like and knew how to treat a woman right.
The only problem was that I didn’t want that. I didn’t want a gentleman, I wanted the man I couldn’t have. Life was screwed up like that sometimes. At least, it was for me.
Fletcher
There are two things in the life of a billionaire mogul such as me that takes priority over everything else. Money and image. I know it sounds superficial and materialist, but it's reality. To keep the status and lifestyle I worked so hard to achieve, these are things that matter. Hence my debacle in regards to Grace.
We’d been working together for almost four years, and she was brilliant at what she did. She was also gorgeous, sexy and young. However, those qualities weren’t enough for me to ignore the fact that she was middle class and my PA, both things completely unfit for a man of my social stance.
Although I knew I couldn’t have her, I still wanted her. She was what my fantasies were made of, and the face I saw every time I fucked Charlotte. That forbidden want was what drove me to the bottle every night when the office was quiet, and it was just the two of us there.
I knew I was an asshole to her when I drank. The haziness of the alcohol made me weak and horny and thoughtless, and it often led me to do things I regretted. However, it was my escape from a life I no longer knew if I wanted. So, I continued to drink and act inappropriately towards Grace, even though I knew it hurt her and made me feel like scum. It was a vicious cycle I couldn’t break.
Frustrated and unhappy, I took a deep breath and pulled out my cell phone. I dialed Charlotte’s number as I looked out of the window.
“Hey, love. Are you on your way?” Charlotte asked in her sultry voice.
I shook my head even though she couldn’t see it and refrained from sighing. “I’m sorry, angel. Something came up, and I’m not going to be able to stop by.”
“Oh, no.” Her disappointment was so clear I could almost see her pouting lips.
In the name of our long-standing friendship—if you could even call it that—I spent the next few minutes coming up with fake apologies and explanations. In all honesty, there was nothing keeping me from going to her house except my urgent desire not to go. The only reason I had asked Grace to call Charlotte was to remind her where she stood after our almost kiss. However, now that I had sobered up a bit and realized I had just hurt two women, I could see it had been yet another huge mistake.
Once we finally disconnected the call, I started gathering my things to leave. As I walked through the dark, empty office, I couldn’t help but think that it was a good metaphor for my life. It was bright and busy during work hours, but when the sun set, it was cold and empty.
I sat in silence inside my expensive, black car while my driver took me home. Once we arrived, I rode the elevator up to my penthouse and ate the fancy meal my cook had left for me. Then, I carried a bottle of scotch with me as I walked to my impeccably decorated bedroom and got ready for bed all alone.
After another of my usual three fingers of whiskey, I lay in bed wide awake and thought about Grace. Behind my eyelids, I saw her face, her full lips, her deep eyes, her smooth skin. I wondered what it would be like to run my fingers through her shoulder length hair and feel her body pressed against mine.
Instinctively, my hand drifted down to grab my cock. Slowly, I stroked myself as I remembered the way she smelled, the way her ass looked in those tight dresses she wore, the way her mouth tasted in those stupid, drunken moments when I let myself go and kissed her lips.
The feeling was great and intense, and it made me think how it would feel like to get my pleasure from her. Thoughts of her breasts bouncing in front of me and her pussy milking an orgasm out of me, finally pushed me over the edge.
Grace’s face stayed in my mind until my body finally settled from my orgasm. Then, once my consciousness returned, bringing with it the cruel understanding that my fantasy would never come true, I cleaned myself up and drank myself into oblivion.
* * *
The persistent ringing of my cell phone woke me the next morning. Hungover as I was, each high-pitched ring felt like a drill piercing into my temples. I groaned and pressed the button on my console to close my automated curtains.
“Hello,” I groaned into the phone.
“Hi, Mr. Cox,” Grace’s voice sounded on the other side of the line.
I smiled. “Call me Fletcher, Gracie.”
There was a pause, then she spoke again, her voice a strange mixture of happy and reproachful. “Okay, Fletcher. Mr. Hawthorne is here to see you.”
“Did we have a meeting?” I mumbled as I tried to open my eyes and look at the clock.
“No, he just dropped by,” she informed. “He seems angry, too. What shall I tell h
im?”
I groaned. Hawthorne was one of my business associates and a giant pain in my ass. He was bossy, competitive and entitled. The very definition of the kind of people who would twist their noses and judge me if I ever decided to make my fantasies about Grace a reality. As much as I hated him and his kind, they were my kind too, and I couldn’t pretend otherwise.
Making an actual effort to sober up and distance myself from Grace, I cleared my throat and said, “Please tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. And make sure there’s coffee for me, Ms. Taylor.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied in the defeated tone she always used when I led her on and shot her down.
Not giving myself enough time to overthink things, I hung up the phone and hurried to the shower. Usually, I would give preference to breakfast over a morning shower, but today I needed it.
Going as quickly as I could, I managed to shower and get dressed in eight minutes. Feeling proud of myself, I grabbed my briefcase and ran out the door.
Exactly sixteen minutes later, I walked into the building. As expected, Hawthorne was in my office, and Grace was standing outside my door with a file and a Starbucks cup in her hands. I took both.
“Thanks,” I said without looking at her face. “I want to see you as soon as he leaves.”
Although the sternness in my voice had nothing to do with her, Grace took an audible breath before replying, “Yes, sir.”
Not bothering to explain that it was Hawthorne that made me nervous, I nodded and walked into my office. Like the entitled pain in the ass that he was, the man was sitting in my chair.
“Good God, Fletch. You look awful,” he deadpanned.
I rolled my eyes and motioned with my hand for him to get out of my seat. This was my company and my office, I’d drop dead before I relinquished my place. Thank goodness, he had the sense of moving so I could sit.
“What do you want, Ethan?” I asked, staring at his round face and long dark gray hair. I was sure the cut that was supposed to be modern, but it didn’t fit his old-fashioned face and ended up making him look like a 70’s reject. Despite the awful haircut, his suit was perfectly tailored in a way that made it clear that he was a powerful man.
As soon as I sat down in my chair, he tossed a piece of paper in front of me. “What is this?”
I looked down at the sheet in front of me, then looked up him. “It’s my projection for the building.”
“I know that, but why is it that high?”
I frowned. We were talking about building a college for underprivileged kids and, considering my humble childhood, I was very committed to making it the best and most tech advanced institution possible. Most of my associates—Hawthorn included—participated in projects such as this for the tax benefits and the publicity, but I did it because I actually felt like I owed some kind of payment to the universe for the good fortune I had had.
“The cost isn’t that high, to be honest,” I started in a very matter of fact tone. “Besides, I don’t see how we can cut costs. I’ve gone over it three times to make sure everything checked out, and it does. The only place where we could cut costs is in Tech, but what’s the point of building a college that is already outdated. That would defeat the purpose, and cause more bad press than good.”
Knowing I had a point, he sighed. “This is a lot more money than I’m willing to put into it, though.”
I fought the urge to roll my eyes. We both knew we would make the investment back in three months—and that was a pessimistic estimative. Despite being a part of this world for decades, I still wasn’t used to how stingy rich people were. It seemed like the more money a person had, the more they wanted to hold on to it.
“C’mon, Ethan. We’re both owners of Fortune 500 companies. What do you think the press will say if we decide to be cheap with charity? Are you sure you want that kind of press?”
I watched as he rubbed his eyes and scratched his head. I could see the reluctance in him, but I was confident that the publicity card would work. Image and money, the two values rich people swore by.
After a couple of seconds, Hawthorne cursed under his breath and stormed out of my room grumping that I would get a check soon. With a triumphant smile on my lips, I took a sip of the coffee I still hadn’t touched. It was strong and black, just the way I liked it when I was hungover.
“Mr. Cox?” Grace called from the door.
I hated it when she called me that, but given what had happened last night—and on the phone this morning—I understood why she was keeping her distance.
“Come in, Grace, and close the door.”
She did as she was told and then took a seat in the chair opposite to me. For a second, I allowed myself to admire how beautiful she looked, but I quickly pushed those thoughts aside. No matter how beautiful she was, I couldn’t have her. Wishing that I could wouldn’t change anything.
I took another gulp of my coffee and straightened my back. My head was still pounding thanks to my hangover, but I had become an expert in functioning in this state.
“I wanted to talk to you about last night,” I started. “I’m sorry that happened. I was drunk, and it was a mistake. I’m sorry.”
She nodded, and though her face was blank, I could imagine her cringing on the inside. “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Nothing happened.”
We both knew that though we hadn’t kissed, her statement wasn’t entirely true. It was also clear that she was saying those things for my benefit—as she always did—and a part of me felt guilty.
Still, I couldn’t help but feel glad when she added, “You don’t have to worry about me mentioning anything to anyone. I don’t have anything to tell. This job means everything to me, and I wouldn’t do anything to sabotage it or make you look bad.”
Her eyes were clearly hurt. I wasn’t as big of an asshole to ignore how much she was sacrificing to make me feel a little bit better about myself. That knowledge made me appreciate and admire her a bit more, which was something I couldn’t afford if I were to stop acting the way I did around her
“I’m glad we’re on the same page on that,” I said with a bite.
She took a deep breath and nodded. “Is that all?”
No, I wanted to tell her, but instead, I nodded. “Thank you for my coffee. It’s perfect.”
Grace nodded but didn’t smile as she walked to the door and opened it. I wanted her to turn around and look at me one more time, but she didn’t.
Grace
I loved office parties. Planning them was one of my favorite parts about my job, and unlike most of the things I did on my day to day, these parties were something I could actually relax and enjoy once I was done. It was a win-win for me. Unfortunately, they only came around twice a year.
Aside from the typical Christmas party, we also had an annual office party in the middle of the year to celebrate the day Mr. Cox started the business. I honestly didn’t think that Fletcher cared about the date too much. The way I saw it, the party was just a way for him to keep the staff happy and motivated, and to that, he spared no expense.
While planning the event, I had carte blanche to hire whatever entertainment, cater and decoration I saw fit, Fletcher’s only demand was that the party be held in the office’s lobby—I had no idea why, but he insisted.. Abiding by that rule, I planned the event to match the opulence of the building. We had flowers galore, waiters in pressed white shirts serving finger food, a DJ rocking the makeshift dance floor and an open bar.
The party was perfect, but I knew something was missing and when I saw Valerie from accounting walking in with a huge bowl in her hands, I knew what it was. My lips instantly curled into a smile.
“You brought it!” I said after greeting her.
“Of course, I did.” Her tone was a little incredulous as if she couldn’t believe I had doubted her. “My punch has been a company tradition for ten years. No matter how many yummy bartenders Mr. Cox hires, people still flock towards my bowl.”
I chuckled at
the truthfulness of her words. I had no idea why people—myself included—liked the drink so much, it was basically rubbing alcohol and sugar, but an office party was never complete without it.
“I, for one, am glad you brought it,” I told her with her a smile. “You can set it on that table over there, and save me a glass.”
“Will do, Grace,” she assured as she walked away.
I roamed at the entrance of the building for a while longer. To be honest, I lingered there to get a glimpse of Fletcher when he arrived, but I also took the opportunity to greet my coworkers and their families. There were a lot of lovely people I hardly ever saw around the office, and these parties were a chance to catch up and feel like I belonged to something bigger than the one-man show that was Fletcher Cox.
About an hour into the party, there was still no sign of my boss. Personally, it was frustrating. As dumb as it may sound considering what had happened just a couple of weeks before, Fletcher was still the reason why I dolled myself up to come to the party. If it weren't for him, I’d have put on comfortable shoes and a dress that allowed breathing. Still, I decided not to let his absence ruin my night and finally left my post at the door.
Shimming my body to the beat of the music, I made my way to where my friends were by the punch bowl.
