Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  I laughed. Then scowled. Then laughed again. “Uhhh . . . none.”

  “Abs.” Her stare turned to fire. “You’re not seriously thinking—”

  “Of continuing to serve the biggest client we have right now?”

  She re-crossed her arms. “And because of that, you’re automatically taking his side?”

  “Whoa.” I raised both hands. “How are there suddenly sides?”

  “You don’t realize the media is already creating them?”

  “That woman jumped on her own. He wasn’t up on that bridge with her.”

  While she openly fumed about that, I grabbed the chance to neutralize my own features. My argument to retain Shark Enterprises as a customer made a ton of sense, but no way could I reveal it was based on anything except business. No way could Rio—or anyone else—discern what a mess Sebastian Shark made of my nerves, my senses, my sex drive.

  “Look, I know the guy seems like a real douche sometimes. But we don’t have to be in bed with him for—”

  Rio cut in with a cute snort. “Luckily, we don’t have to be in bed with him at all.”

  With an eye roll, I said, “You know what I’m talking about. The checks I’m collecting from Shark Enterprises are the surplus revenue we need to make headway on the dream.”

  I didn’t elaborate past that because I knew Rio got it. My whole family did. Ever since the day my mom was suddenly supine on the kitchen floor, breathing her last breaths due to a massive coronary, making me promise I’d never give up on our vision. Ever since that morning, when I swore to her I’d one day own and operate a full restaurant and not a piddly food-delivery service.

  Rio’s huff saved me from diving down that heartache hole. “I get that. But you can get someone else as big as him, Abs. There are hundreds of huge corporations downtown.”

  “Yeah? And tell me how many of them are planning to break ground on a skyscraper that’ll be a hundred stories high? That’ll have both professional occupants and personal residents? That’ll have hundreds, maybe thousands of people not just wanting lunch at noon but something easy to cook up for dinner that night? That’ll be one of the largest exclusive catering contracts to ever be landed in the city?”

  She hauled out a headstrong pout. “I hate it when you’re right.”

  I preened—but just a little—and said nothing else. We were wasting time, and it was going to be a scorcher of a day. So instead, I refocused on loading the sandwiches and entrées for the day’s runs.

  Our new silence meant we could hear Cindy again. “LAPD has stated they’ll be reaching out to Mr. Shark today, hoping he’ll be able to provide more clues about Miss Mansfield’s actions. But at this time, no foul play is suspected, and Mr. Shark is not under criminal investigation.”

  “Not a suspect.” Rio harrumphed. “Too bad shattering a woman’s heart isn’t a criminal offense.”

  I had no idea whether to laugh, scream, or both. “The prison system would have an even bigger overcrowding problem then, wouldn’t it?” I walked toward the delivery van. “Text if you have any issues with the pinwheels.”

  “Only if you promise to text back with pics of the circus at Shark’s office.”

  I halted in my tracks. “Huh?”

  She stared back, lips quirking, before drawling, “The . . . media circus?”

  “Pffft.” I shook my head. “Not going to happen.”

  Her grin grew into a full giggle. “How do you call yourself an Angelino?”

  I shot her a narrowed glare. “There’s not going to be a circus, Rio.”

  “I predict at least a dozen rings, honey.” She brightened and raised a finger in the air. “Hey, if you see TMZ, can you snag a selfie with their cute ginger reporter for me?”

  “Oh my God.”

  “No, just little ol’ me.” She shrugged and gave me a playful wink. “The one you love with the passion of a thousand suns.”

  I spread my arms heavenward and turned to leave as Rio pumped a victory fist into the air.

  “Pesto pinwheels!” I yelled over my shoulder.

  “Cute ginger!”

  “I’m doomed,” I muttered for my ears alone while climbing into the driver’s seat.

  The frantic energy in the air was palpable the second I turned onto Hill Street. It was the same vibe that emanated from crowds gathering to ogle film or TV shoots, except worse.

  Traffic crawled for several blocks before reaching the turnout where I normally kept the van while making deliveries in the building Shark Enterprises occupied. Not happening today. Four bulky vans were parked bumper-to-bumper in the spot, with a fifth attempting to be part of the mayhem.

  “Dream on, asshole,” I growled at the van, its back end trapping me in place while the honking cars behind me tried to merge into the next lane over.

  I was getting ready for some head-slams onto the steering wheel when a bright spot in the chaos appeared. A cutie with a lanky physique and big hair jogged out to the curb. I pressed the switch to lower the van’s passenger-side window, and Maddon leaned in.

  “Yo, sandwich goddess,” he said in a relaxed drawl. “So what’s the sitch, right?” He gestured toward the media mob with a dazed look.

  “Hey, Mads.” I gave him a friendly smile. I admired how hard the guy worked but always made it look like fun. “Guess it’s a slow news day.”

  I’d have to admit to Rio how right she was about all this. Dammit.

  “Truth. And there’s more of them inside. This is just the overflow.” He dragged a hand through his wild auburn locks. “Apologies about your spot. I set cones out, but CBS flattened them. Crazy, right?”

  “Right. Crazy.” But that wasn’t going to help me unload sixty prepaid lunch orders . . . Most notably, the meal for the man everyone was here to see.

  The man in the penthouse.

  The same man who hardly stopped to look at what I brought anyway.

  Still, as I considered the likelihood of going a day without Sebastian Shark’s menacing glory, there was an undeniable sensation in the pit of my stomach. The feeling seemed to swell until it lodged between my breasts, causing every inhalation to be a physical ache.

  What the hell was this?

  The answer wasn’t reassuring.

  Disappointment.

  Unfounded. Unexplainable. But there all the same.

  Maybe I really should have let someone pop my cherry at some point over the years. Maybe I wouldn’t be sitting here in a funk over a man who barely knew I existed.

  “I know it’s not a perfect fix, but I called back to the loading dock.” Maddon grinned, as if that alone was an accomplishment and a half. “They have a place for you to park back there if you promise not to take more than an hour.”

  And just like that, my frustration turned into jubilation. “Mads, I could freaking kiss you.”

  The poor kid looked instantly conflicted. “Or I could have a turkey and tomato on rye instead?”

  I swooped the sandwich out with eager speed—and a hell of a lot of gratitude.

  Which was the last sensation I should’ve had as I drove the van to the rear of the building, now making my load in twice as difficult.

  I unpacked the delivery coolers and ordered myself to take in calming breaths, begging the extra oxygen to ease my anticipation. The same ritual I practiced every time I arrived at this building.

  No use, though. Apparently changing how I entered the building didn’t change the emotional riot inside me once I did. My nerves got no relief. The torque in my stomach became the pressure in my chest—and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it until I was up in the penthouse.

  And why was that? I’d be lucky to get a hello, yet I craved his attention like a forgotten middle child. But my body had become addicted to the physical reaction he induced. The chemical high I got from the excitement of knowing he watched me. I caught him enough times by then to know it was a part of our regular routine. He was getting bolder, though, and no longer bothered to look away
when our eyes met. I was usually the one who would quickly avert my gaze back to my approved task.

  Did that make me a coward? Maybe. But at least things would be in their proper place, business as usual. Everything that was expected to happen would. Right on cue. Rules followed. Lines colored within. Everyone knowing their roles.

  Walls erected.

  Whatever. So what if Rio was right? It wasn’t a bad thing to keep professional lines very clear. Even if I wasn’t the only one blurring them. All this nonsense just served as a reminder. A reminder to approach this whole ordeal like tossing out bad coleslaw. Just like Rio said. It would be unpleasant for a little bit, but I’d be better off in the end.

  “Coleslaw.” I turned it into a whispered mantra while disembarking the elevator at the penthouse level. “Coleslaw. Coleslaw. Coleslaw.”

  But there was just one hitch with that plan now.

  Dammit . . .

  I really liked coleslaw.

  Chapter Two

  Sebastian

  Two hours. Two goddamn hours into the day and my brain felt like it was splitting along the corpus callosum into its two equal halves.

  The collection of oversize monitors on my desk displayed different news channels’ coverage from outside my own building. Overly dramatic talking heads were spouting facts and less-than-facts about a woman who threw herself from the Vincent Thomas Bridge in San Pedro before dawn. Somehow, my name was being dragged into the fiasco, and now the bloodhounds were sniffing and yipping at my front door, looking for an exclusive scoop.

  A sharp knock on my office door barely sounded above the helicopters that droned overhead.

  “Terryn! I told you, I don’t want to talk to anyone.”

  I had to give my assistant a bit of credit. She’d lasted longer than all the others. We might even see the full turn of a calendar at this pace.

  “Sorry to let you down, boss man. Not Terryn.” Grant Twombley strode into my office and quietly closed the door behind him. My best friend—hell, my only friend—had a grin on his face that was completely out of place considering the media hailstorm swirling around the building.

  “I hate when you call me that.” I stabbed at the keyboard to bring up a different news outlet on one of the screens.

  “Precisely why I say it.” He chuckled, his grin growing impossibly wider.

  “What can I do for you, Grant? I’m a little busy, in case you haven’t noticed.” I motioned with a huff toward the monitors on my desk and then to the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the far side of my expansive penthouse office.

  “You’d have to be unconscious not to notice the chaos in here today, my man. What have you gotten yourself into this time?” He rubbed at his chin with his thumb and index finger, looking at me with open skepticism.

  “This is complete bullshit. I didn’t even know this . . . this . . . ” I thought better of calling a recently deceased woman the derogatory term that came to mind. Even a bastard like me knew that would be in poor taste.

  “Way to rein it in, Bas. Charm school is finally paying off.” Of course Grant didn’t miss my self-edit.

  “Fuck off,” I muttered again, not bothering to spare him my true feelings. He’d seen me at my highest highs and my lowest lows. We’d grown up together on the streets of the east side of LA and had each other’s backs more times than either of us cared to remember. Our friendship was beyond brother-deep.

  “Seriously though, my friend. What’s the story here? Before the legal team assembles. You must have really done a number on this one.” He flopped down onto one of three black leather sofas that were arranged in a perfect U shape in the sitting area of my suite.

  Just as he stretched his long legs out to prop them on the table in front of him, I stood and scolded, “Keep your nasty feet off my furniture. Do you do that at your own house?”

  “Actually, I do. Why do we go through this every time I’m in here? You’re worse than a nagging wife.” He planted his feet on the floor and sat farther back into the deep cushion. At six feet six, it was hard for the man to sit comfortably on most furniture, but that was hardly my concern.

  “Because if Pia saw you putting your feet on that table or sofa”—I stabbed my finger at each piece as I lectured—“or anything other than the floor, she would serve us both our balls for lunch.”

  Grant held up his hands in surrender. “Enough said. Enough said. But speaking of lunch, when does the little redhead scurry by? I’m starving.”

  “Those are Terryn things. Not Shark things.”

  “Nice try. And we’re talking about ourselves in the third person now? How dictatorial asshole of you.”

  I leveled my stare at him to convey explain.

  “I see the way you sneak in gawks at that catering girl’s ass.”

  “I do no such—”

  “Cut the shit.” Only Grant could get away with such rudeness and live to do it a second time. He stood and walked over to my desk. “This is me you’re talking to. The same guy you confessed your crush on Miss Dandelion to when we were in the third grade, remember?”

  “Yeah.” I let out a sigh, remembering our heavenly third-grade teacher. “But her tits . . . ”

  “They were stellar tits.”

  “I wonder whatever happened to Miss Dandelion.” I let myself drift to the past, away from the disaster of the present. Life was so much simpler then—even if my father was a neglectful drunk and I was already taking care of myself and Pia.

  Grant’s voice interrupted my memories. “Every boy in the class sported their first boner for that doe-eyed teacher.”

  I shook my head hard before snapping, “Yeah, well, some douchebag probably plucked her pretty flower and then she became old and bitter, just like the rest of the teachers at that school.”

  I smacked the top of my desk with my palms, making Grant jump.

  “So jaded.” Sadness clouded his normally lively eyes. “Always so jaded.”

  “It’s called reality, Grant.” I walked over to the wall of windows while I spoke. “And you know it’s the truth. Look at the bullshit going on right now if you think it’s anything else.”

  This was my usual thinking spot. Mid-room, staring out from the top floor of my downtown building over the City of Angels. I crossed my arms over my chest and faced the extraordinary view, this bird’s-eye vantage point of my empire. I owned a good portion of this city and made deals by the hour to acquire more.

  A king.

  My kingdom.

  I’d earned every bit of it.

  Every. Single. Bit.

  But now someone was messing with me, and they wouldn’t get away with it. I barely recalled the woman’s name, even though it kept popping up on the news reports. Tawny Mansfield. But really, in a sea of Candys and Sugars and the occasional Minx or Jinx, Tawny didn’t seem all that special.

  I wasn’t doing much better with her face in the grainy photo that flashed across the screen repeatedly. Dancers and escorts had a certain look in common. A little too much makeup, a little too much hair product, clothes that were worn a little too tight. Nothing really stood out about her appearance either.

  What did it matter?

  What did they matter?

  Well, of course they mattered, but not to me. That was my issue. Mine. I wasn’t interested in getting attached. I didn’t have time for relationships, and I certainly didn’t have time for emotions. I stuck to secure sexual transactions. Uncomplicated arrangements where both parties knew exactly what was—and wasn’t—expected.

  “Do you think she was one of LuLu’s girls?” my best friend asked, as if he had a direct link into my thoughts.

  “I don’t think so. I imagine LuLu would’ve already been breathing down my neck by this point if she were. She’s fiercely protective of her assets.” It wouldn’t hurt to confirm the thought, though.

  “Siri, page Terryn.”

  “Do you mean fucking Terryn?” the disembodied voice volleyed back.

  “Yes!”r />
  Grant’s face split in two with a wide grin.

  “Yes, Mr. Shark?” Terryn’s voice came over the intercom speaker.

  “Get Louise Chancellor on the phone.” I didn’t bother with “can you” or “please.” Just merely stated what I needed and expected my assistant to make it happen.

  “I can, but I may be able to save you a call. Ms. Chancellor left a message about fifteen minutes ago. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to give it to you before now, sir. It’s been a bit hectic out here.”

  “Cry me a river, Terryn. Just tell me what she said.” I scrubbed my hand down my face, hoping to hell Tawny Mansfield hadn’t worked for the high-end madam I regularly used.

  “Ms. Chancellor said, and I’m quoting . . . ” Terryn inserted a dramatic beat. “‘She wasn’t one of mine.’” She paused again before adding, “Uhh, I’m guessing that makes sense to you?”

  “Terryn?” I queried, impatience oozing from my voice.

  “Sir?”

  “Is it your job to play superspy decoder ring or just give me my phone messages?”

  “Uhh. I was just trying to make sure—”

  “Terryn?” I cut her off before she could stammer any longer, wasting my valuable time.

  “Yes?” she answered timidly. Christ. I’d break this one too. It was just a matter of time.

  “Just answer the question so we can both get back to work.”

  “To give you your phone messages, sir.” Her voice had gained strength as she repeated the answer option verbatim.

  “Perfect. Now where’s my lunch?” I switched topics, ready to move on to the next item.

  A soft knock sounded on the door, and just like that, my dick twitched in my slacks. It was like my goddamned body sensed the young redhead was within a fifty-foot radius.

  “Never mind,” I said, disconnecting the intercom. “Enter!” I shouted toward the door, the way I always did when Little Red Riding Hood came by with my lunch.

  Most days, I attempted to appear occupied with my work as she set up my meal, but since I was already standing in the middle of the room, there’d be no way to avoid her today. Maybe that was a good thing. It just meant I could sneak in a few glances of her glorious, lithe body from a new angle. I’d been getting more obvious with my staring lately, but it couldn’t be helped. The air thickened between us the moment she walked through my door. The thrill of the hunt, maybe?