Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  As soon as she dropped her hand, my hunch was emphatically validated. In the vivid colors of the mark consuming her left cheek.

  The reds, fuchsias, and purples of a fresh, hard slap.

  It was impossible to restrain my gasp. And my concerned reach, landing at the ball of her shoulder. “Hey. Are you—”

  But it was all I got out before she sob-hissed at me. Then wrenched, spun, and fled, bolting for the stairs instead of waiting for the elevator.

  “What the . . . ”

  “Abbigail?” Viktor’s hail, which sounded like he’d just been relaxing in the park with a mimosa and a puppy, heaped more confusion on my psyche. “Well, look at this. It is you. What a day-brightening surprise.”

  “Uh . . . Mr. Blake . . . ”

  “How many more times do I have to remind you? It’s Viktor, remember?”

  “Fine. Viktor.” I jabbed my voice with the same rough edges as his. None of this was feeling right, and I wished more than ever for his typical formal facade. “Th-That woman . . . she was . . . ”

  “Lost,” he said, motioning me to come into his office as if he had a spare mimosa for me. “She tripped in her office and hit the corner of a filing cabinet on her way down. She got mixed up in the elevator about what floor the First Aid station is on. She’ll be fine.”

  I rolled my shoulders, focusing on settling my nerves. The explanation made sense—or so I tried telling myself. Instead, my memory flashed to the dickhead dad from the West Hills soccer game—and yes, I’d know that even from across the grass. The same way I’d watched in awe as Sebastian put the pig back into place—and how easily I could imagine those same words growling out of Viktor after his wife or kid accidentally hurt themselves running into a door.

  She’ll be fine.

  But what was he going to do about the bile my stomach had begun to churn?

  All the mental hand-wringing wasn’t helping a damn thing. It was time to hike up my big-girl panties, plaster a smile on my face, and grab the lunch that had been ordered for Viktor today. I wasn’t surprised to see a veggie loaf and a green salad through the clear plastic lid.

  “All right, well . . . lunch is served.”

  The man’s warm smile was a reassuring sight. There was no way for a guy to be that sincere and friendly if he’d just physically injured someone, right? That crap took strain and adrenaline. But as Viktor stepped back so I could walk in, it appeared like he’d really had a few swigs of his imaginary cocktail. But he looked that way every day. Nearly as tall as Sebastian, he was more graceful about handling his massive muscles. He was relaxed in his skin and surroundings, whereas Sebastian always jolted and sprinted as if all of it was too small for him.

  At the moment, I was feeling more of the latter, as well.

  Viktor’s office was expansive and airy, composed of a lot of glass, steel, and white surfaces. Didn’t stop the space from feeling weirdly confining.

  Especially as Viktor shut the door behind him with a loud clack.

  “Umm.” I worked my lips together after muttering it. “Where do you want me to set everything down? The desk or the table?”

  “Anywhere is fine.”

  Viktor’s murmur was as polished as the curved front of his designer desk. While delivering to the desk trapped me behind the massive furniture for a few seconds, it also gave me a viable exit route. Fortunately, the penthouse office had a side door too.

  “Rio added extra sauce to the veggie loaves today, so they should be really good.”

  “They’re wonderful every day.” His voice was still all brushed steel and shiny glass, an ideal match for how he practically glided back into the middle of the room. But while his movements were full of dancer grace, everything north of his shoulders was locked in weight-lifter intensity. Even the smile I’d first considered charming when I met him now favored dry plaster. “But the best thing about them is the service that accompanies them.”

  I scooted out from behind the desk, nervously fingering the apron ties at my nape. “Well, we’re happy that you’re happy.”

  “Very happy.” He moved into the space between the desk and his chair, and I inwardly high-fived myself for escaping when I had the chance. “Except for one thing.”

  “Oh?” I shoved aside the weird paranoia about my safety, returning to gut-deep paranoia about my business. “Is there a problem with something?”

  Viktor leaned down and opened a drawer. My heart throbbed to the point of pain. I barely subdued the lump that rose in my throat as panic slammed my senses.

  Was this it? The other shoe that would drop, validating Sebastian’s food-poisoning claim? Did Sebastian know about this already? Was that the motivation behind his avoiding me, instead of the bratty act I’d been assuming?

  And how I knew every danger about assumptions.

  “Well . . . yes,” Viktor finally said. “There is a problem, Abbigail.” He hitched up one side of his mouth while I visibly squirmed—which piled on more layers of weirdness to this exchange. Were Blake’s urbane exterior and golden-god looks just a front for a vile masochistic streak?

  “You know I’m always open to feedback.” I stunned myself by sounding like I’d rehearsed that a thousand times, when this script was as cold as an ice block to me. A faint clicking sound vibrated the air, and I wondered if it was passing high heels in the hall or my knocking knees.

  “I’m glad to hear that. Because I’m supremely uncomfortable about something.”

  Deep breath in.

  Deep breath out.

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It’s occurred to me that you filled a full lunch order for fifty last week with less than twenty-four-hours’ notice.”

  “It was our pleasure to do so.” An attempt at a smile. Major fail at execution.

  “And my comrades thoroughly enjoyed the meal.” He leaned over toward the open drawer. “But there was something missing.”

  “Oh. I’m so sorry.” Screw the smiles. I was furious. Why had he waited a full week to bring this up?

  “The chance to properly thank you.”

  “Well, I’m sure if you just tell me what the—wait, what?”

  Viktor’s grin was full of pleasure as he extended both arms. In his hands was an intricately painted oval. I dropped my sights to the beautiful object, absorbing all its details. The face with the big eyes, wrapped in a painted red head scarf. The painstaking detail in the pink and purple roses and the cheerful yellow daisies along the base.

  “Oh . . . wow,” I finally stammered and then shot my gawk back up to his face. “Nesting dolls. Right?”

  “In Russia, they’re called Matryoshka,” Viktor explained. “This set was handmade in the Khotkovo region, where my family is originally from.”

  “But not you?” I asked, tentatively running my index finger over the delicate brushwork on the doll, still resting in his outstretched palms.

  “No.” He laughed softly. “I was born and raised in Ohio. The Buckeye State.”

  I joined him in the chuckle, though mine died out as he slipped the doll into my grasp. “Viktor. I— I can’t accept something so—”

  “You can and you will,” he insisted. “It’s special. Like you, Abbigail.” He closed the drawer and then hitched his thigh up on the desk, sitting lower to bring our faces level. “The big green eyes remind me of yours. But they symbolize much more.”

  I would’ve dropped the thing back onto the desk but was more agitated than before about getting even closer to him. “I know that they represent family, home, and connection. That’s why you should maybe think of giving them to—”

  “I see the dolls as a metaphor for other things.”

  As he issued the interruption, he stood again. Then—dammit—edged closer to me, to where he could lift the top off the biggest doll as I held it in my unsteady hands.

  “Layers,” he murmured, securing my gaze as he did. Viktor’s eyes were the color of myrtle cacti, complete with the turquoise streaks and the ruthless ne
edles. “Layers,” he repeated, pulling off the next shell. “And how we all hide our most precious selves beneath them.”

  “Inside rose-colored dolls?” I prayed he’d catch my sardonic hint and back away from the intensity.

  “Or behind rose-colored glasses, maybe.” So subtle hints were not the guy’s forte. “Or under layers of humor. Or even buried in meaningless numbers that stand for meaningless things, splashed across meaningless screens on our desks.”

  He waved to the monitor gracing the other corner of his workspace, but even that and his modest smile didn’t convince me he’d issued the statement in self-deprecation.

  Somehow, in some way, he was saying he knew.

  He knew.

  About how powerfully I was drawn to Sebastian Shark. About the man’s attraction to me in return.

  But it wasn’t just that he knew the truth.

  He was hell-bent on thwarting it. Changing it.

  “Thank you, Viktor. It’s a lovely gift.” I’d take the damn dolls. Not because I wanted to. But at this point, that was the best option for getting out of there the fastest. “It was unnecessary but sweet.”

  “Abbigail.” He quietly commanded it while wrapping his grip around the back of my elbow.

  Flinching involuntarily, I tried to cover my response with a forced smile. “I really have to be going now.”

  “Why? You’re here early. Far ahead of schedule.”

  “On purpose,” I clarified, subtly moving out of his hold.

  “Because of pressure from Shark?” His prickly blues narrowed to accusing slits. “Has he threatened you?”

  Miraculously, I held back a laugh. This from the guy who’d shrugged off a weeping woman fifteen minutes earlier.

  I narrowed my eyes at the comment but quickly offered, “One of my brothers is in town, visiting from back east. We have plans.” A large part of me wished I’d told him my schedule wasn’t his business. Instead, I jerked up my chin and said, “Mr. Shark has nothing to do with it.”

  Damn good thing we weren’t playing Three Truths and a Lie.

  “That’s good.” Viktor studied my face. “Because, for the record . . . I’d like the chance to know what’s under your layers, Abbigail.” He stepped back but continued watching me in earnest. “And to let you see a few of mine, too.”

  I was saved by my watch’s buzz. It was just a last-minute order change from Rio, but he didn’t have to know that. “Umm, I really need to go.”

  “Will you . . . at least think about it?” His steely blue eyes studied me.

  I was out the door before he finished the question.

  And wishing I could be like the last woman who’d left and opted for the stairs.

  Fortunately, the elevator was already open. While riding it down to the next floor, I hurriedly tucked the dolls into an empty cup holder on the top of my cart—fighting not to think about all the expectations that had been offered along with them.

  What a day-brightening surprise . . .

  They’re special, like you . . .

  I’d like the chance to know what’s under your layers, Abbigail . . .

  Thank God a lot of the Blake employees were out getting ready for the company’s summer beach party today. I finished delivering to the building in under an hour and was never happier to hear the melodic ding that signaled my return to street level. I shoved my empty cart up into the van, fired up the engine, and pushed the speed limit to get away from the place as fast as I possibly could.

  My record delivery time at Blake Logistics was a welcome dovetail into the day’s bigger plan. I was fifteen minutes ahead of my planned schedule—meaning a good forty minutes earlier than my normal delivery time—when I pulled the van up to the usual cutout in the curb on Hope Street.

  “Sandwich goddess.” Maddon strolled up as I loaded the preorder bins into the delivery cart. He wore his normal grin along with a curious stare. “This is a surprise.”

  “Hey there, Mads.” My reply was breathless but friendly. “Not really a surprise, buddy. Just the usual, though a few minutes early.”

  “Uh, yeah. Early.” For the first time since I’d known the kid, he appeared jittery. He averted his gaze while shifting his weight, conveying nervous energy that hadn’t even been there during the media circus after the Tawny Mansfield incident. “Did, uhhh, Mr. Shark ask you to switch up the schedule?”

  “Nah. Just running ahead today and thought I’d—”

  “So his office doesn’t know you’re here? Like, right now? You didn’t call his assistant to tell her—”

  “Maddon.” I hopped down to the pavement and then punched the button for the lift to lower the packed cart. “You seriously think Terryn wants to be bothered with this?”

  “Yeah,” he cut in, showing authority for the first time. Ever. “I do.”

  Regrettably, I believed his paranoia—mostly because he mentioned Terryn. The woman probably had nightmares in which she’d neglected to tell the cleaners that Shark wanted heavy starch in his shirts, not medium. But I also knew that if Terryn was put on alert that I’d arrived, she’d find some way to alert Sebastian.

  Not. Happening.

  “Come on, Mads.” I laughed it out this time. “I’m delivering lunch, not state secrets.”

  And if I just happened to have a chunk of indignation to get off my chest, along with two dozen questions for which I was really entitled to some answers . . .

  Terryn had to stay out of this picture.

  Time to break out the heavy artillery.

  “But rather than calling upstairs, do you have time to sample a new menu item and tell me what you think? I could really use an outside opinion.” It was all I could do not to singsong the temptation, especially when the young guy jogged up a brow. “Nutella and caramel cheesecake . . . with vanilla wafer crust.”

  The guy groaned at once. “Damn. I love Nutella.”

  “Perfect, then! I had no idea.” Too easy.

  Okay, fine. Maybe scrolling the guy’s Instagram feed counted as having an idea. But I wanted to cover every possible roadblock. I’d attempted the same to learn Terryn’s sweet tooth weak spot, but aside from a bland LinkedIn account, the woman had zero social media presence. Which, in a modern world for a twenty-something young woman, was creepier than Viktor Blake and his nesting dolls.

  It was go time. Time to get in front of Sebastian and settle this . . . this . . . what? Situation? Problem? I didn’t even know what to call it.

  The one thing I did know was this time when that particular Shark smelled blood in the water . . . it would be his own.

  Chapter Ten

  Sebastian

  Secrets were hiding in the intricate crosshatch pattern of streets that wove between downtown buildings in Los Angeles. Old and new tales waiting to be told, if you just stopped long enough and listened.

  Dawn broke just after five thirty that morning, and the sun rose fully twenty minutes later. By then, the whispers stopped, and anyone interested in hearing the riddles would have to wait until tomorrow for another chance to get in on the magic.

  It was my favorite part of the day, and it was well worth getting up early to experience it. My driver had learned years ago to fuel up the car the night before, and he did the same for himself, stocking his cup holder with a venti Americano for the journey.

  I watched the streets below my building yawn and stretch and come to life with the first commuters arriving to work.

  What did my day have in store for me?

  I’d finally gotten a good night’s sleep—the first since the shit-show dinner with Abbigail Gibson. I’d vowed not to waste another minute analyzing the subject of her. In any form at all.

  My initial consideration that she was too young for me to be involved with was validated that evening after she left my home. I was better off putting the whole Ms. Gibson experience in a tidy storage box marked Goodwill.

  I’d set it out by the curb next to the other unused charitable efforts.

  I
t was time to refocus my valuable time and energy on what mattered most. The Edge. It was everything to me. Everything. And as I looked down at the streets below, watching humans move about, the familiar excitement returned.

  In less than two years, thousands of people would flock to my building, my dream—my legacy—to spend their day working, shopping, and playing. Sebastian Shark and the Edge would become household names. Synonymous with Gucci and Rolls Royce.

  The best part would be the secret behind the success. The story the streets of Los Angeles knew but others didn’t. Because they never stopped long enough to listen or cared enough to ask.

  When I watched the city below, in the quiet hours, I knew there were others like me. I knew the streets whispered hardship and pain. And I knew those who overcame the adversity life had dealt them would rise above the storm and find success.

  The Edge would be more than just another icon in the city’s skyline. When my story was finally heard, it would resonate with underdogs everywhere. Boys in the projects would relate to my childhood, and young entrepreneurs would connect to my business acumen. My persona would speak to everyone on their own personal journeys for success, and the Edge would be the physical symbol that represented it all.

  It gave me a hard-on just thinking about it, and if I had a willing body to fuck, I would. I needed to blow off the excess energy surging through my system. I was on a career and life high, and I needed an outlet for it all.

  “Siri, compose an email to LuLu Chancellor.”

  Siri’s voice filled my office. “What would you like to say?”

  “Good morning—comma—my friend—comma, new line—Would you happen to have a redheaded pony in the stable currently—question mark—I really could use a lap or two around the track today—period—Please let me know as soon as possible—period, new line—Kind regards—comma, new line—Sebastian.”

  Siri then asked, “Would you like me to read your message back to you?”