The Casanova (The Miles High Club)

by T L Swan

  “What?”

  “You’re wearing a new perfume today.”

  “No, I’m not,” I snap. Oh, hell on a cracker . . . this trying to be sexy is a disaster.

  “Yes . . . you are. I know your scent.” His eyes hold mine. “And . . . today it’s different.”

  He knows my scent . . . what the fuck?

  I frown as I stare at him. “Umm . . . ” I give a subtle shake of my head, completely flustered. “I don’t know, maybe you haven’t been around me when I’ve worn it before.”

  “What a shame.”

  I drop my head in confusion. Is he flirting with me?

  I don’t get it: for seven years I’ve known this man, despised him, and thankfully been immune to his charm. I’ve watched every woman around me in the office fall desperately in lust with Elliot Miles and I could never see the attraction.

  For the life of me, I didn’t get what they saw in him.

  Today, I do.

  I open my folder as a distraction.

  Focus.

  “So . . . the projected income is on the left-hand side of the graph here.” I point to the pink line with my finger as I try to act professional. “This line here is the actual income of the UK office, and this line here is projected advertising costs, although we don’t have all the data for France . . .” My eyes flick up to see if he’s listening; he’s sitting back in his chair, his thumb is under his chin, and his pointer finger is tracing over his lips as if he’s thinking deeply.

  “What are you doing?” he asks.

  “I’m . . .” I pause. Huh? “I’m explaining the projection report. Isn’t that . . . ?”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is this an entrapment?”

  “I’m sorry . . .” I frown.

  “Is that your plan?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He stands and puts his hands in his suit pockets as if angered. “That’s it . . . isn’t it?”

  “What?” I shake my head, confused.

  “Do you really hate me that much that you would stoop that low?”

  “What are you talking about?” I frown again.

  He screws up his face. “Come off it, Landon. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s all making sense now.”

  “Well.” I widen my eyes. “Good, because you can explain it to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s wrong with this report?”

  “I can see it so clearly now . . .” He shakes his head as if having an epiphany. “Of course, that’s it,” he whispers under his breath.

  “Mr. Miles.”

  “Elliot,” he corrects me. “And don’t give me your fucking shit.” He picks up a remote from his desk and points it to the corner of the ceiling; I glance up and see the green light go off. He just turned the security cameras off.

  “So, this is your plan?” he sneers.

  “Plan?”

  “Turn your stupid boss on, until he cracks and pursues you. Then you have him charged with sexual harassment in the workplace.”

  My mouth falls open in horror. “What?”

  “Oh, please.” He screws up his face in disgust. “It’s clear as day now—the hot little dress, turning up at that event looking like a walking fucking orgasm and then going home with another man. The sauna, ha.” He throws his head back. “The sauna was a good one, what chance do I have seeing you hot and sweaty in a bikini like that?”

  I stare at him as my brain misfires.

  I turn him on.

  “You can cut the shit, right fucking now,” he growls.

  My temper begins to simmer. “Turn the camera back on for this because I want you to rewatch it later when you’re in a straitjacket.” I stand and we come toe to toe. “For your information . . . Mr. Miles,” I sneer, “I have just come out of a traumatic period in my life and have just started to refind myself. My new clothes, male friendships, and dresses have nothing to do with you or your inflated ego.”

  He narrows his eyes as we glare at each other.

  “This may come as a surprise, but I have only ever treated you as you have treated me, with contempt. Excuse me for not lining up to suck your dick like the rest of the stupid female population.”

  “You know nothing about me.”

  “I know that I’m not a bitch. You, however, are a fucking asshole . . . and stupidly, for a few moments there, I forgot.”

  I slam the report folder down on his desk.

  “What was the trauma in your life?” he barks.

  “None of your business.” I turn and walk toward the door.

  “Kate.”

  I turn like the devil himself and point at him. “You don’t get to call me that,” I growl. “To you, I’m Kathryn.” I march out the door and straight through reception, hit the elevator button and bite my lip to hold it in.

  I can feel the angry tears coming.

  Don’t cry . . . don’t cry . . . don’t you fucking dare let him make you cry.

  Entrapment.

  What an asshole.

  Chapter 4

  I storm into the elevator like the Hulk. After the worst day in history I am ready to fight someone . . . anyone.

  Come at me, bitches, because I am ready to rumble.

  After my meeting with fuck-face Miles this morning, the day started to spiral. Before tea break, we had a computer glitch that appeared for no reason and wouldn’t go away. Then when I was on my break, I got an urgent call that the entire network had crashed. I had to rush back from lunch before my food had even arrived and go into damage repair. I ended up having to shut down the entire system and reboot the whole building, then to top off the debacle I got a call from fuck-face to tell me to hurry up about it.

  My fury bubbles deep in my stomach. Hurry up about it.

  I’ll give him hurry up about it.

  It’s now 7 p.m. and I’m just leaving, I’m tired, I’m angry, and worst of all, I’m hangry.

  I could eat a horse and chase the rider.

  I’m going straight to the nearest bar and having the largest chicken schnitzel and fries, and ten thousand wines.

  The elevator doors open and I look out onto the street and roll my eyes. Of course it’s fucking raining.

  This day is a living hell.

  I exhale heavily and walk toward the doors and I hear the elevator ding.

  “Kathryn.” A deep voice calls from behind me. “Wait up.” I turn to see Elliot stepping out of the elevator.

  Ugh, seriously?

  Just when I think the day can’t get any worse, the heavens open up and deliver again.

  I want to ignore him and march off, but then I’ll look like a petulant child. I stand on the spot as I wait for King Asshole to arrive.

  “Hi,” he says as he approaches me with a smile. “Bad day?”

  I stare at him flatly. Of all the fucking nerve. “You could say that.” I turn toward the doors and he falls in to walk beside me.

  “What was the problem with the server,” he asks.

  “You’ll have a report about it in the morning.”

  “Why can’t you just tell me now?”

  I turn to him. “Because I don’t want to.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because my opinion from this morning still stands, you are an asshole and if I talk to you I am apparently trying to”—I hold my fingers up and air-quote—“turn you on and make you crack.”

  He drops his head to hide his smile. “Still carrying on about that, are you?”

  I glare at him as my temper hits a crescendo. “Are you for real?” I whisper through gritted teeth.

  “Well.” He shrugs casually. “I had a concern and I voiced it.” He looks out toward the pouring rain. “We should get a drink to discuss it further.”

  My face screws up. “What the fuck?” I whisper angrily. “You accuse me of trying to set you up for sexual harassment and then you want to have a drink?”

&nbs
p; “It’s over to me.” He shrugs casually. “And why not get a drink, it’s been a bad day. Might be good to let off some steam.”

  “It’s not over for me, nobody can be this stupid?”

  “I’m sure we could both do with a glass of wine.”

  I exhale heavily. This guy is as thick as a brick. “Mr. Miles, as I stated this morning, I have no interest in you. I am highly offended at your accusation this morning, and for your information, I was in the fucking sauna first!”

  Amusement flashes across his face. “You’re saying ‘fuck’ a lot today, Kathryn.”

  I get a vision of myself punching him fair and square in the face.

  My nostrils flare as I fight for control. “Good. Bye.” I turn and march toward the door and the rain really begins to hammer down. I see the black Bentley and his driver waiting in the drop-off area.

  Fuck it . . . now I have to storm off in the rain while he watches from the backseat of his wanker-mobile.

  Kill me now!

  I open the door.

  “Would you like a lift?” he calls.

  I ignore him and try to shuffle along as I concentrate on the wet ground. Slipping over now in front of him would be the end of me.

  I march around the corner and look for the closest thing undercover. I don’t care where or what it is, just get me out of here.

  I see a pharmacy—oh, I have a prescription. I’ll get that dispensed now while I’m here and it’ll get me out of his sight. I dart inside and turn to see the black Bentley pull out slowly and into the traffic. I let out a sigh of relief; thank God, he’s gone.

  I dig the prescription out and hand it over the counter to the pharmacist. “Can I get this please?”

  “Alright.” The kind-looking elderly man smiles as he takes it from me. He reads it over the top of his glasses and then looks back up. “Have you ever taken this medication before, dear?”

  “No, I saw a new doctor this week and this is the first time it’s been prescribed.”

  “It’s very strong, do you mind me asking what it’s for?”

  “I have endometriosis and very painful periods. Apparently it should help on day one.”

  He nods. “Okay, that makes sense. Make sure you take it with food, and no alcohol or operating heavy machinery.”

  “Alright.” I smile. “Thanks.”

  Thunder rumbles loud from the heavens and we both peer out to see the rain bouncing on the road as it lands. “It’s really coming down out there,” he says. “It’s a good night to be tucked in at home.”

  “Yes.” I smile.

  Either that, or getting drunk alone in a bar. I feel myself relax a little for the first time all day.

  I’m taking option two.

  ELLIOT

  Early morning and my door opens. Jameson walks in. “You ready?”

  “Yep.” I close down my computer and we make our way down to the lobby. We have a meeting this afternoon with the board before Jameson returns to New York in the morning.

  We walk out of the lift and see a sexy ass in a skirt in front of us with a group of people. Long legs, sculpted calves, the perfect ass.

  Our gazes immediately drop and he raises an eyebrow in a silent will you look at that?

  I smirk and we keep walking and then the skirt turns as she talks to her friends. It’s Kathryn. I’m taken aback.

  I nod. “Kathryn.”

  She smiles politely. “Hello.” She smiles at Jay. “Hi.”

  “Hello.” He smiles.

  We stand still on the spot and watch her leave the building with her colleagues.

  My eyes meet with my brother’s. “You should look into that,” he says.

  I stare after her and then, finally, I snap out of my momentary trance. “Not my type.”

  Jameson watches her through the front windows as she crosses the road and I feel my hackles rise. “She’s everyone’s type,” he mutters dryly.

  Everyone’s type.

  “Will you shut the fuck up?” I put my hands into my trouser pockets in annoyance. “Are we going or what?”

  I send my last email and stretch my arms in the air. It’s been a long day . . . week. I get up and go to the bathroom and pick up my briefcase and put it on my desk to pack, and then I remember what day it is.

  Thursday.

  I glance at my watch: 6:40 p.m.

  I wonder if she’s . . .

  I sit back down at my computer and look around guiltily. This is nothing new. I seem to be always looking around guiltily lately; guilty of watching a certain snarky IT manager as she works.

  I’ve got issues, I know, and I hate to admit it, but her deciding to openly hate me this week after our little episode in my office is a major fucking turn-on.

  Hell, I’ve even been loitering in the sauna after work, hoping for a rematch.

  So far, no luck.

  I’m never going to do anything about this sick attraction that I seem to have for her, but for some reason I can’t stop. I tell myself that this is the last time I’ll look at her on the security camera, and sure enough, half an hour later, I find myself doing it again.

  Like now, for instance.

  I exhale heavily in frustration with myself, click through the security cameras and go to level ten, scroll through until I get to her office . . . it’s empty.

  I slump in my seat.

  Fuck it.

  I stare at her office on the screen while I contemplate my next move.

  I mean, I could ask her out, but we both know how that’s going to end.

  I don’t even want to go out with her. She’s a raving bitch, remember?

  What the fuck am I doing?

  I go to close down my computer and I see a foot coming out of the bottom of the screen. Huh?

  I lean closer to get a better look.

  It is a foot, wearing a white sneaker. What’s she doing on the floor? Is she stretching or something?

  I run my finger back and forth over my lips as I watch; she’s dead-still.

  What’s she doing?

  A feeling of uneasiness creeps over me.

  “Move,” I whisper.

  I click through the camera angles as I try to see her better.

  Nothing.

  I rest my chin on my hand as I watch for five minutes while she lies dead still.

  Ten minutes . . . fifteen.

  Fuck.

  Something’s wrong. I march to the elevator and hit the button for level ten. I watch the dial move slowly as it travels down through the floors. “Hurry up,” I mutter. “Hurry the fuck up.”

  The doors open and I stride out and down the corridor to her office, open the door in a rush to find her passed out on the floor. She’s in her red sports dress and sneakers, completely out of it.

  “Kathryn.” I gasp as I drop to my knees and give her a shake. “Kate, wake up, are you alright?”

  Silence.

  I shake her again and grab her face in my hands and try and pry her eyes open.

  Nothing . . .

  “Shit.” I grab my phone and dial 999.

  “Hello emergency.”

  “Hi,” I stammer. “I need an ambulance to the Miles Media building, level ten immediately.”

  “What’s happened, sir?”

  “I’ve just found one of my employees unconscious on the floor. She’s out cold.”

  “Is she breathing?”

  “Hang on, I’ll check.”

  “Put me on speaker, sir, and I can guide you.”

  I put my phone on speaker and on the floor beside us and I hold her face. “Kate. Can you hear me?”

  “Is she breathing?”

  I put my ear down to her mouth.

  “Check her chest. Is it rising and falling?”

  Fuck.

  Is she dead?

  The room spins as I begin to panic. “Send two ambulances,” I bark. “I’m about to have a fucking heart attack myself.”

  “Check her chest, sir.”

  I put my hands
on her chest and feel it rise and fall. “She’s breathing.” I sigh in relief.

  “Can you feel her pulse?”

  I close my eyes. How the hell do I do that again? My mind has gone completely blank; this is why I’m not a fucking doctor, I’m useless in an emergency.

  “Put your fingertips on her neck just under her jaw,” the operator reminds me.

  “Oh, right.” I put my fingers on her neck and feel a strong pump. “She’s got a pulse.”

  “Has she fallen? Check her head for an injury.”

  “What’s with the questions? Can you just send a fucking ambulance?” I cry. “She’s about to die any second.”

  “I need to know what’s happened, sir, I can’t help you without all of the facts.”

  I look around, and check for blood, but everything seems normal. Her work clothes are in a bag and then I notice something on her desk, a white box of prescription pills.

  “There are pills,” I stammer as I dive for them. “Prescription.”

  “What’s the name of them?”

  I fumble with the box to try and read it out fast and drop it, and I scramble to the floor and under the desk to retrieve them. “Fuck it.”

  “Calm down, sir.”

  “Send a fucking ambulance,” I yell. “What is your name? I want your fucking name and rank.”

  This bitch is going down.

  Kathryn groans.

  “Kate,” I whisper, and take her hand in mine. “Wake up.”

  She frowns as she tries to come to.

  “Are you there, sir? What is the name of the medication?”

  “Um . . . Hydrocodone slash acetaminophen,” I reply.

  Kate’s eyes flutter open and she looks up at me.

  “Are you alright?” I whisper.

  “What?” She frowns and tries to sit up and onto her elbow.

  “Lie down,” I bark.

  “How many tablets has she taken?” the operator asks.

  “How many tablets have you taken?” I ask Kate.

  She frowns. “Huh?” She then flops back to the floor; she appears drunk.

  “She’s disoriented,” I reply.

  “She’s taken a strong painkiller. Count the tablets, sir. I need to know how many she has had.”

  “Send a fucking ambulance before I put my hand through this phone and strangle you,” I scream.

  This bitch is hopeless . . . no wonder people die every day.

  “Count. The. Tablets.”