Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  “Oh. Well. Hi. Hello,” she stammered, taking in my looming form from head to toe as she came into my penthouse office. Gazes locked. Breaths stuttered. Cheeks flamed.

  And then my annoying COO cleared his throat, tramping through our moment like a wayward puppy through a newly planted flower bed. I gave him a sideways glance, and Ms. Gibson slipped past me while asking her daily inquiry.

  “Where would you like me to set up lunch today, Mr. Shark?”

  On your flat stomach. Between your milky thighs.

  “Here, let me help you with that.” Grant, a warm smile on his face, all but tripped over himself to take the large tray from her.

  “Sit down, Twombley. Let the girl do her job.” Because you’re spoiling my view.

  He glared at me over his shoulder and continued taking the burden off Little Red, ignoring me completely. “This looks fantastic,” he said, giving her the full force of his pussy-slayer grin.

  “Thanks. I tried something new with the dressing today. We’ve been working on a few new recipes.” She gave an impish shrug toward the food before looking back up to Grant. “Are you having lunch in this office today, Mr. Twombley? I can get your tray off the cart and set it up in here as well.” As they moved deeper into the penthouse to the area I used for meetings, they continued chatting. She tilted her head way back since he towered over her by a solid twelve inches. Then they both swung their gazes to me.

  “Well, shit, don’t let me interrupt.” I threw my hands up, unexplainably pissed after watching their exchange.

  Who was I trying to kid? It was completely explainable.

  It’s called jealousy, motherfucker. The good old-fashioned green-eyed monster.

  But what the hell was that about?

  I didn’t experience jealousy. I inspired it.

  I narrowed my eyes at the young caterer and then shifted my stare to Grant. “We need to strategize about this Mansfield situation. More specifically, how it might delay progress on the Edge. We can do that while we eat.”

  Grant pivoted smoothly back toward Abbigail. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, then . . . I’m sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever caught your name.” He set the tray down on my sleek stainless-steel conference table and offered his hand. “Grant Twombley.”

  I continued to stare in borderline fury while my chief operating officer gently caressed the inside wrist of the intriguing redheaded sandwich girl. Her lips parted slightly while she stuttered to form her own name, wholly affected by his attention.

  “Abbigail Gibson. Abstract Catering. It’s very nice to meet you, umm, Mr. Twombley.” She smiled shyly, causing me to suck in air sharply. The woman yanked her hand from Grant’s at once, darting her eyes in my direction as if caught doing something she shouldn’t be doing.

  Grant leaned down, sharing a conspiratorial murmur. “Ignore him. Nearly everyone does.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” she replied quietly. I almost thought I misheard her but trusted my senses. I also had help from the sexy red flush spreading like wildfire up her neck and cheeks.

  What the hell was it about this girl that had my balls pulling up so tight?

  Literally.

  She was young. Very young. Something that generally had me running the other way quicker than a wedding band on a flirtatious woman’s finger. But there was an unmistakable pull from her that rendered the complete opposite effect. And that bastard Twombley—who knew me better than anyone—was playing me like a fiddle and using her as the bow.

  “So, Mansfield wasn’t from LuLu’s stable. Are you using anyone else?” Grant asked as we sat down to eat. Anyone who had access to this room had signed a nondisclosure agreement, so we didn’t have to censor our conversation.

  I watched the sandwich girl walk out of my office to get his food, finding it impossible not to focus on her tight ass as she went. Christ, I’d love to dig my fingers into the flesh of those perfectly round cheeks while she bounced on my lap and I gave her the best ride of her life.

  “Dude.”

  I shook my head slightly. “No, but I’ve been thinking; maybe she was from Club Delilah. That’s the only other place I may have met her—if I ever met her at all. I’m still not convinced I did. She doesn’t look familiar. This whole thing could be a setup.” I shifted in my seat, trying to adjust myself in my suddenly too tight slacks.

  Abbigail came bustling back in with another tray of food for Grant.

  “This smells like that Russian bastard if you ask me.”

  Grant scoffed. “I think you’re giving Blake more credit than he deserves. How would he manage details of this magnitude? Finding a woman you slept with, a damaged one at that, and then planting a suicide note that implicates you? Think about it. Just saying it all out loud”—Grant shook his head slowly—“do you hear how ridiculous it sounds?” He leaned back in his chair to make room for Abbigail to place his food in front of him.

  “I don’t know,” I said, unrolling my utensils from the tidy rolled linen napkin that always accompanied my lunch. “I wouldn’t put anything past him. He’s a bitter, ruthless cocksucker. Vengeance drives men to do unhinged things.”

  “Excuse me, gentlemen.” The caterer stood off to the side, waiting for a break in our conversation.

  We both looked to Little Red. Grant smiled, but I was mid-chew, just about to swallow the first bite of my lunch.

  “Forgive my interruption . . . I just wanted to see if you needed anything else before I left.”

  “Did we ask for anything else?” I tilted my chin in her direction.

  Her already large green eyes widened farther.

  Grant quickly interjected. “This looks great. Thank you so much, Ms. Gibson.”

  My God. Her eyes. Green like emeralds. Emerald City in The Wizard of Oz emerald. They were mesmerizing.

  She slid her head back as if ready to launch into some sort of tirade or comeback. Likely about my lack of civility. With a rough swallow, she tamped down the inclination.

  Without another word but with the unmistakable welling of tears in her huge green eyes, Abbigail Gibson bolted from the room. Complete with a slight—and sexy as hell—stumble right before she reached the door. She caught herself on the ornate knob and then let herself out. My ears vibrated, catching the buzz of her mumbled comments as she frantically exited.

  “My God, you can be an asshole.” Grant stared at me in disbelief.

  “What?” I said around a second forkful of greens, making the delivery something more like “Whuu?”

  “You made that girl cry.” He pointed toward the door with his fork.

  I chewed slowly and then wiped my mouth with the linen napkin. Today it was sky blue. A different color every day. Yes, I’d noticed.

  “I didn’t make her cry, Grant.” I grinned from behind the napkin. “But now I have a hard-on, too. This day just keeps getting better.”

  “Her crying made you hard?”

  “I’m an asshole, Grant. Why are you acting like it’s breaking news?”

  “You’re going to die a lonely old man.”

  “Again, breaking news? And to clarify, I don’t enjoy making women cry. But something about seeing her cry . . . ” I shook my head, bewildered. “I don’t really understand it myself. She just looked so fragile and vulnerable. Like she needs someone.” My voice had gotten unusually quiet as I pictured the tears filling Abbigail’s eyes. “Someone to be her everything.”

  Wonder of wonders, I’d finally rendered my best friend speechless. There really was a first time for everything. But I’d also succeeded in coating the room with a heavy shroud of intense emotion. An environment in which neither of us were particularly comfortable.

  So I shrugged and took another bite of my salad. “And really, she should’ve left the dressing recipe alone. This one sucks.” I pushed the plate to the side. “Why can’t she just serve an old favorite like coleslaw? Everyone loves coleslaw. My mom made the best coleslaw ever, and we’d always bring it to family reun
ions. When we went to those sorts of things.”

  Enough of Abbigail Gibson talk for the time being. I had real problems to deal with, as I was reminded by Terryn’s familiar knock on the door.

  “What?” I called from the far end of the room.

  “Sir? Your twelve fifteen is here.” Her mousy voice sounded from the other side of the panel.

  “Dammit!” I thought for a second. “Terryn, get in here.”

  She opened the door slowly, looking like she was ready to duck and take cover in case I threw something. Which, for the record, I had never actually done. The woman was as overdramatic as Grant.

  “Clear this out of here.” I made a sweeping gesture to the lunch spread on the table. “I need to take the meeting here.”

  She looked down at the barely touched lunch. “Do you want me to wrap it for later? You’ll probably be here late; your schedule is pretty full today.”

  I knew I should be touched—or some shit like that—that she was thinking of my well-being and planning for the entire day, not just appointment by appointment. I admired that about this assistant, but I wasn’t about to dole out compliments and risk her getting full of herself.

  “No. It wasn’t good the first go-around. I can’t imagine it reheated.” I grimaced.

  Grant stood. “Terryn, please wrap the plate for Mr. Shark. It’s a sandwich, for Christ’s sake. It won’t need to be reheated. He’s just being his usual pleasant self. If he doesn’t eat it, I will.”

  She smiled up at him while he helped her consolidate the leftovers from both our lunches onto one tray and stack the empty plate beneath, and then he held the door open while she scurried out with the food. But not before she gave him another imploring smile and a quickly mouthed thank you.

  “You’re such a pushover.”

  “Next to you, everyone looks like a pushover. Ebenezer Scrooge would look like a doormat next to you, Bas.”

  “Meh.” I shrugged. “Dude was a cuck. What can I say?”

  The meeting with the soils engineer was dragging on for the longest thirty minutes of my life. The spreadsheet in front of me showed seismic fault evaluations, color-coded by date and lot number, for most of the downtown corridor where my new building would be constructed. But between the tedious nature of the material being discussed and the constant nagging reminders of what was going on with the media outside the front doors, focusing on any of it was challenging.

  The project had been named Shark’s Edge years ago when I’d first announced my dream to the team I’d assembled to turn my lifelong vision into reality. The marketing gurus I had paid ungodly amounts of money felt like the name reflected both my corporation’s mission statement and my personality’s strong attributes all while mirroring the architectural design elements of the edifice itself.

  “Is any of this going to delay the forward momentum? I’m committed to staying on schedule.” I looked pointedly at Jonathan Brookside, the man sitting across from me, expecting a straightforward answer.

  “Well, that’s hard to say.” Brookside shifted in his seat.

  “Booooonnnnkkkk,” I blared obnoxiously, imitating the quarter-ending horn at a basketball game. Grant scowled in my peripheral view. “Wrong answer, my man.”

  Taking a fortifying breath, Jonathan launched into an explanation of why he was, indeed, giving the right answer. By the time he was finished, I was both annoyed that he’d challenged me and impressed because the man really knew what he was talking about.

  “It’s a complicated process, Mr. Shark.” He set down his pen and spun it from the center. “As we outlined in our initial proposal, many factors are at play here. They come together to form our final report for the architect and structural engineer. Both entities need our report for sign-offs with the city’s inspectors. We sent you images when we did the on-site boring to obtain soil samples several weeks ago.” He looked up to make sure I was still listening. “Did you get that email?”

  “Yes, I did, and I appreciate you keeping me in the loop. This project is of the utmost importance to me. Despite what the circus out front may imply.” I settled back in my chair and waited for him to continue.

  Brookside nodded once and continued. “The lab is wrapping up their testing of those samples. I’d like to schedule another meeting next week to present our final package. Your team will be able to see the three-dimensional geometry of the underlying earth materials, the lab results from the soil samples, the seismic fault evaluations and predictions, similar to what you have in front of you here.” He tapped his neatly manicured finger on the spreadsheet in front of me. The man dealt with dirt all day but apparently didn’t touch much of it himself.

  “Lastly, we will recommend foundation and sewage disposal options for your project based on the compiled data. The only issue we’ve had up to this point is obtaining public records for the property itself and the surrounding lots. This information is vital in forming a complete picture.”

  Keeping his eyes fixed on me, he asked bluntly, “Have you pissed someone off at City Hall?”

  Grant chuffed from the seat beside me. “You’d probably be better off asking who he hasn’t pissed off. Anywhere. Ever.”

  “That’s what I was afraid of. I realize you don’t know me from Adam. I also get the distinct impression you aren’t the sort of man who takes advice easily. But I’m going to give you some anyway.” He held up his hand to stop me from spouting off before I could say a word.

  “I’ve built a lot of buildings in this city, Mr. Shark. Start playing nice with the suits up there. They can make this project a real headache for you if they want to. And figuring out what the holdup is can be nearly impossible. If someone owes you a favor, hold on to it. You’ll probably have to call it in.”

  He efficiently shuffled his papers together and stood to leave. We shook hands and agreed he would set up a follow-up meeting with Terryn on his way out. When he cleared the door and closed it securely, Grant heaved into the sofa, much as he had earlier.

  “I knew we were going to run into trouble at the city.”

  “Anything worth having is worth fighting for, my friend.”

  He sat forward, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, my neck is stiff already. I need a massage. What’s next?” He slumped down lower on the couch to rest his head on the low back cushion.

  I scrolled through the calendar app on the monitor that displayed my dashboard—the hub of the inner workings of my life.

  “I thought I had a meeting with Pia, but that’s been moved to dinner.” Frustrated, I activated the computer’s virtual assistant. “Siri, page Terryn.”

  “Do you mean fucking Terryn?” the voice asked from the built-in speakers.

  “Yes!” I turned to Grant. “How am I ever going to retrain that thing?”

  He laughed. “I think you’re stuck with it like that. I hope she never hears it, though.”

  “Yes, Mr. Shark?”

  “Why has my appointment with my sister been moved to dinner?”

  “Because the police are here to speak with you. I called to reschedule with Pia, and the first thing she had open was at six. She said if it doesn’t work, you can see her Sunday at Vela’s game.”

  “Fine.”

  Dead silence.

  Then finally, “Sir?”

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Shall I send in the detectives?”

  “Give me three minutes and then send them in.” I mashed my fist onto the keyboard to disconnect the conversation, launching an unwanted web browser window and opening a new email message all at the same time. Muttering a string of profanity, I began quitting the unnecessary applications I’d opened in my frustration.

  “You’re going to blow a gasket if you don’t settle down,” Grant mumbled, rubbing his sore neck. I didn’t miss the tension he was holding himself.

  “Thank you, wise and healthy one.” I checked my email and spotted an incoming message from my amazing, smart, and sassy niece, Vela. She was only eight,
but she already showed her mother’s take-charge temperament.

  Dear Uncle Sebastian,

  I can’t wait to see you at my soccer game tomorrow. My number is four so you can look for me on the field. Mom says your eyesight isn’t that great because you are so old. She was laughing when she said that, so I think she was just teasing you like she likes to do. After the game we have snacks and juice, but I will share mine with you if you want.

  See you tomorrow!

  Love,

  Vela

  That child was one of the few things that brought light into my life. A genuine smile spread across my lips but vanished as Terryn knocked on the door. The escape was nice for the two minutes it lasted.

  “Email from Vela again? That’s the only time I see that peaceful look on your face.” Grant stood and slid on his suit jacket.

  I quickly did the same, buttoning up and pulling the cuffs of my shirt into place.

  “Yeah.” I sighed heavily. “She’s so precious. Innocent. I want to protect her from everything. All the bad shit in the world. All the bad people. My sister gave humankind the best gift when she created that little girl. On the other hand, if I ever find the loser who fathered her and then abandoned her . . . ”

  With that unpleasant thought, I strode across the room to greet the two police detectives, hoping to convince them I had nothing to do with Tawny Mansfield’s alleged suicide.

  “Well, I’ll be damned.” I shook my head, hand outstretched to greet the two detectives.

  Terryn looked crestfallen that she’d missed the opportunity to do some sort of dramatic introduction, but when the taller of the two cops clasped my hand heartily and grinned from ear to ear, it became clear to her that introductions wouldn’t be necessary.

  Grant stepped in to slap the man’s back in hello. “Josh Peters, how long has it been, man?”