Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  “Déjà vu, anyone?” I smirked, knowing she’d gotten the message. Loud and clear.

  “I’ll pass. Thanks, though.” She pivoted on her heel and headed to the door, proverbial tail tucked between her legs.

  I shot to my feet, rushing up behind her to slam my hand to the door above her head, effectively preventing her from opening it.

  Without turning to face me, she seethed, “Excuse me. I’m leaving now.”

  “Is this how you handle yourself in a tough situation, Ms. Gibson?” I clucked my tongue in disappointment while she still faced the door. “When the going gets tough, you bolt?” I increased the cadence of my words but kept the tone antagonistic. “If you land the exclusive catering contract for the Edge, is this the level of professionalism I can expect from you?” I provoked her further. “If we had a black-tie event in-house—oh, I don’t know . . . let’s say international dignitaries for a seven-course meal—will my caterer leave in a huff because her feelings were hurt due to someone not liking the goddamn salad dressing?”

  Slowly, she turned to face me, schooling her features so I couldn’t predict what was about to come.

  “Mr. Shark, I don’t ‘bolt’ when things become difficult. Quite frankly, nothing could be further from the truth. There’s a lot you don’t know about me, and I can admit my behavior takes unusual turns when I’m in this particular office. And as much as I hate to overinflate your ego more than it already is, that seems to have everything to do with you specifically. Not my job nor my ability to handle it. Rest assured, I am the best person to handle the exclusive contract for your new building.”

  “Why the tears again, then?” I demanded but then inexplicably shifted to a softer mien. “What’s this about?”

  “Unfortunately,” she sighed, inspecting her shoes before continuing, “when I get angry, I well up. I’ve been this way my entire life. It’s very frustrating, trust me. It makes me look fragile to outsiders, which only makes me more mad and then more tears and so on.”

  “I have a theory about anger, Ms. Gibson.”

  “Please, enlighten me.” She swiped her cheek with the back of her hand. One quick wipe on each side while she glared at me.

  “Anger is fear’s alter ego.”

  “That’s absurd.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m not afraid of you, Mr. Shark.”

  “Maybe not of me, necessarily. But of the situation? This situation?” I couldn’t stop myself from wiping the last tear that rolled down her flame-red cheek. It evaporated from the heat of her skin as quickly as it was shed.

  “Fear, anger, excitement . . . no matter what you call it, Abbigail, they’re all forms of passion. And to be good at something? Whether it’s feeding people, housing people, or hell”—I chuckled—“even moving freight across the ocean. To be the king of your kingdom, you have to do it with passion. That’s what gives you the edge.”

  I stepped away from the door and pulled the large panel back, holding it open while the captivating girl gathered her bearings and realized she was being dismissed.

  “I hope you have a productive weekend, Ms. Gibson,” I said in place of goodbye.

  “Uhhh, yeah, you too.” She shook her head slightly, still seeming to be working out what had just happened as she went.

  The door closed, and I sat down to eat the lunch she made for me, grinning from the knowledge that her careful hands created my meal. Her sexy fingers manipulated the ingredients along with her intelligent mind that combined flavors and textures to assemble—honest to Christ—one of the best sandwiches I’d ever eaten.

  To the extent that I was inspired enough to pull out my phone, snap a quick picture of the empty plate, and send it to Little Red along with a text message. How I had her cell phone number was inconsequential. I was a very resourceful man when properly motivated.

  Lunch was outstanding. Thank you.

  The throbbing ellipses appeared almost instantly, signaling her impending reply.

  My pleasure. I aim to be king.

  “Uuugghh.” I groaned loudly. The wrenching pain in my abdomen had gone from uncomfortable to unbearable in an hour. I dialed my sister’s cell phone for the fourth time only to end the call quickly, rush to the bathroom, and drop to my knees in front of the sleek porcelain bowl.

  Dry heaves. Nothing was left. I’d lost all the contents of my stomach over the past forty-five minutes. But the sensation to retch continued. My guts felt like they were turning inside out and trying to make a break for it through my esophagus.

  Food poisoning. It was the only thing that made sense. I felt fine otherwise. No fever, no chills or body aches.

  As if cursing the gastro-gods, my lower intestinal area gurgled and cramped. “Jesus Christ,” I muttered, wiping the sweat beads from my brow. I hadn’t had “the spinners” since my frat days. Another gurgle rumbled through my bowel, and then sixty more minutes of just trying to stay out of the bathroom long enough to call my sister for help.

  What had I eaten? Typical oatmeal for breakfast. The food service I had delivered to my home left portioned servings, marked with color-coded labels for each day. I’d felt fine after eating it.

  For lunch, I had the fantastic turkey club Abbigail Gibson brought in. I ate every last crumb of the sandwich and didn’t touch the salad. She took the offensive dressing out with her. I was all about eating healthy, but I wasn’t a damn rabbit. Who the hell ate dry lettuce? I was so swamped the second half of the day; I hadn’t even indulged in an afternoon pick-me-up.

  It had to have been the sandwich.

  I redialed Pia. I was going to need to go to Urgent Care at the very least, and I’d already sent my driver home for the night. I knew I was becoming dehydrated, though, and there was no way I could get behind the wheel.

  The line rang twice before she answered. “Hey, brother. What’s going on? You okay? It’s pretty late for you to be calling, no?”

  “Hey. Yeah, need some help.” I groaned, trying to tone down my reaction to the pain.

  “Dude . . . ” Nope, she saw right through me. “Are you okay?” Her voice rose with concern.

  “I think I have food poisoning. I need to get to the ER or Urgent Care—ugh! I don’t know. Something.” I was whining as only I could do in the safety of her presence.

  “All right, all right. Calm down. Let me see if Millie can come stay with Vela, and I’ll be over. Sit tight. No pun intended. Okay,” she snickered. “Maybe a little bit intended.”

  “Piiiiaaaa!”

  “Sorry, Bas, couldn’t be helped. I’m on my way, brother. I’ll call you if I can’t manage for some reason.”

  “You’re a lifesaver, Dub.” Cassiopeia, her birth given name, represented the W-shaped constellation in the night sky. Hence the “dub” moniker. My sister hated the childhood nickname, so I used it precisely for that reason. Brothers reserved the right to do annoying things like that.

  “See you soon,” she said, her voice gentle as she ended the call.

  God, please be soon.

  As soon as I felt well enough, I’d have a bone to pick with one Abbigail Gibson.

  Chapter Five

  Abbi

  “Okay, how many more of these little buggers are there?”

  Rio’s sarcasm, blending with the sea-salted morning air, was another layer of a much-needed balm on my tattered senses.

  Yes. Needed.

  Especially because I was still recovering from my latest run-in with Sebastian Shark.

  Run-in? More like run-over. In every startling, wrenching way.

  Not that I could speak with authority about it or anything—after reliving it five hundred times in my mind’s eye.

  Oh, God.

  The man wasn’t considered the world’s most dangerous billionaire because he’d signed a deal with Lucifer. He was Lucifer. And heaven help me, even now, I longed to strip naked and swim in his lake of fire—a fantasy only given more juice by the satellite radio station Rio had picked for our bag-s
tuffing party on her and Sean’s front porch. The sensual European instrumentals had sound effects that came way too close to unraveling my composure. The memories of being pressed up against his office door . . . my body molded by his, my groans blending with his . . .

  Dammit.

  No more.

  Please . . . no more.

  The Queen Mary’s ten a.m. horn drifted down the coast from Long Beach, supporting my effort with its distinct bellow. The sound traveled on balmy breezes through a crystalline sky, which provided a perfect backdrop for Rio’s tinkling laugh.

  “Okay, wow.” She raked a stunned stare over the piles of goodies intended for the bags we were stuffing. “There’s more stuff here than a trip to the goodie room at the Oscars.”

  I added my chuckle to hers. “And you know that . . . how?”

  “Hmmm. I have my ways.” She winked impishly.

  I bet Sebastian Shark went to the Oscars every year. His was the kind of recognizable face that would actually make the how we tally the votes part bearable. And he’d accomplish it in a tux that fit him to a T, accentuating that carved face, that tapered torso, and those ungodly long legs.

  The same legs that had pinned mine to the back of his office door yesterday.

  “We’re making forty total,” I said, despite every tender inch of my pussy pleading me to take it home and take care of this fresh ache. Like I hadn’t done just that this morning. “But officially, we only have thirty-two girls in this chapter of the Intrepids. The extras are for top performers with this quarter’s fundraiser—running the snack stand at the Westside Junior Soccer League.”

  Rio tilted her head, her version of an affirming nod. If she discerned how desperately I was fighting off wicked fantasies of Shark beneath my chipper shell, she didn’t show it. Thank God. That meant my effort of keeping it all stuffed down was a success.

  “Success” being relative.

  Did I want to tell her everything that had happened yesterday? More than anything. But I was still too damn upside down about it right now, and a Rio-style grilling would make it worse. Right now, Abbigail’s Walls were the better choice.

  “The Intrepids.” Her echo was my saving goat hook out of that emotional mire. “That’s short for what again?”

  “The Intrepid Entrepreneurs.” I supplied it while reaching for another empty goodie bag. I had to admit, she was right. We’d secured a generous haul of donations from local bookstores, beauty shops, and office supply warehouses. “The program is designed to hook up local female business owners and community leaders with middle and high school girls interested in the same. We’re there to motivate and encourage but also to mentor and advise.”

  “So these teenagers learn valuable lessons from your mistakes?”

  A wry snicker. “Something like that, yes.”

  “Hey, your misery now serves a purpose!”

  “Gee, thanks for pointing that out,” I answered with a generous helping of side-eye.

  She flung back an equally droll smirk. “And all the girls are from different schools in the region, right?”

  “Right. All the cities from Santa Monica down to Long Beach are included, and east of the 405 too.”

  I slid some neon-colored pencils into my bag, along with a copy of Thom Shea’s Unbreakable. In the stack from the bookstore, there were also copies of The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Tools of Titans, and Awaken the Giant Within. We were distributing the copies evenly, with the plan that each group of girls who got a title would present the information to the others at upcoming meetings. I already smiled in anticipation of the concepts they’d be sharing from the reads.

  “It’s cool because they come from all walks of life and demographics. They’re all learning that the real world”—I used my fingers to gesture air quotes around the words—“is a little different from what they might be experiencing in school. That there are lots of different kinds of people and that quite a few of them aren’t selfish monsters or entitled bitches.”

  “Wait. What?” Rio flashed a bugged-out gaze. “Are you talking about groups of girls in puberty? Being mean and cruel and judgmental toward one another? Unheard of!”

  A spurted laughter. “Don’t faint on me, please.”

  “Who’s fainting?”

  The disruption came from inside the house, startling both of us. Sean, returning from his morning run, had obviously dashed in via the rear alley and then the bungalow’s back door. My oldest brother—and Rio’s husband—appeared just inside the screen door, the mesh distorting his handsome face.

  “Babe, are you sick? You need me to scoot to the drugstore and get you something?”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’d probably swim to that drugstore even if it were across the channel on Catalina, wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course he would.” Rio preened and purposely magnified the look when I added an I’m-going-to-barf groan. “Beauty always slays the beast,” she drawled. “Words to live by.”

  As she finished doling the advice, Sean unfurled a savoring growl. “I’ll be your beast any day, princess.”

  “Oh, God.” I doubled down on the groan. “Just no with the princess stuff, brother.” Cradling my face in my hands, I whined, “My brothers are such dorks.”

  “And to think I longed for a big brother when I was little.”

  “Doomed yourself. You ended up with three by marriage.”

  She swept a look up at Sean, who had joined us on the patio. “Not complaining.”

  “Thanks, Abs.” Then he added, “That reminds me. I gotta call Zander.”

  “Why?” I flinched a second time. “Does he need bail money again?”

  A nod from Sean wouldn’t have come as a surprise. Though I was the youngest in the birth order, Zander behaved like it more than the rest of us combined. The guy was a trouble magnet. Not all of it was his doing, but a big chunk was.

  “Fortunately, nothing like that this time,” Sean offered while scrolling through screens on his phone. “He’s coming out for a visit and wanted to confirm some dates.”

  Sliding his phone into his pocket, he surveyed our work. “What the hell is all this?”

  “Your sister’s latest pet project,” Rio said just as I was about to launch into the elevator pitch about the Intrepids.

  My brother wrapped his wife in his arms while she answered his follow-up questions about her plans for the day, each new answer earning her a kiss or a squeeze, his adoration glowing like the Hollywood sign on a clear night.

  Jealous. I was jealous of what they had because I wanted that too. And the worst part? The man I was pining for would never hold me in his arms in front of other people and pepper my cheeks with proud kisses. He would never take interest in simple things like household chores and weekly errands.

  I was a damn fool, and I needed to stop wasting my time hoping for the impossible.

  I had to curb my contact with Sebastian Shark. Professional manners and culinary transactions only. Food on his damn table, wrapped in whatever linen he dictated. No more rocking his boat on purpose. I couldn’t care about his boat anymore. He certainly didn’t care about mine.

  Didn’t care. Couldn’t care.

  A few million more repeats, and maybe it would sink in.

  In the meantime, I was thankful for the footsteps and throat clearings that filled the bungalow’s tiny front yard, giving me an excuse to forget how my brother’s PDA was tearing me apart inside.

  I turned toward the source, ready to smile at whatever neighbor had chosen to come by and exchange greetings with Sean and Rio. My brother and his wife knew everyone who lived within a six-block radius.

  I was completely surprised to turn and find two police officers instead of the usual surfers or retirees that dropped by. The first officer was fitted in an LA County Sheriff’s Department uniform, and the second was wearing the colors of the Orange County Sheriff’s force. Both were beefy guys who could’ve been fitness models, their biceps bulging from their short sleeves as
they hooked their thumbs into waist-level loops.

  “Oh.” Rio’s little peep, which she delivered while stepping back from her husband, echoed my astonishment. My gut tightened with the instinct that these fine public servants were the bearers of disturbing news. Because, really, how often did cops just stop by to say hello?

  “Good morning,” said Officer OC, adding a smile that dazzled like halogen in contrast to his dark sienna skin.

  “Good morning, officers. Is there . . . some way we can help you?”

  “My name is Deputy Silva, and this is my colleague from the Los Angeles Sheriff’s Department, Deputy Bourne.”

  “Morning.” Bourne, who resembled his famous spy-film counterpart, ticked a fast nod.

  Silva flashed his brilliant teeth again. I might have actually smiled back if I wasn’t so focused on maintaining my composure.

  He walked forward a couple of steps while offering, “Sorry for disturbing your morning, but we’re hoping you can help us. Are you Sean Gibson?”

  “I am,” my brother answered. “What can we do for you?”

  Silva’s nod was a clear acknowledgment of my sibling’s acquiescence. “Deputy Bourne reached out for our help in locating a Miss Abbigail Gibson. He attempted to contact her at her home address in Torrance, but a neighbor informed us she might be at this address instead.”

  “I’m Abbigail Gibson, officers. What can I do for you today?”

  “Seriously?” Rio swung around, grabbing my elbow with her free hand. “Don’t you dare speak to them without an attorney present.”

  Bourne clenched his jaw, though he softened the action by taking off his glasses in a smooth swoop. “We’re not here to take her into custody, ma’am.” He spread his hands out, palms down. “This is a fact-finding visit only. Mr. Shark insisted that we—”

  “Dammit,” Rio muttered.

  My pulse rate spiked. It was twisted and wrong, but hearing this burly alpha refer to my most trying client with such veneration . . . I liked it.