Shark's Edge

by Angel Payne, Victoria Blue

  I reached into my pocket and pulled out my phone, keeping my eyes trained on my impertinent assistant. Deciding I’d had enough drama for one day, I went back into my office and closed the door. I pulled up the app we used for quick office correspondence, and I saw Terryn’s response to my earlier request still in the unread messages.

  “Ms. Gibson replied to your request. Direct quote: ‘I’ll get there when I get there.’”

  For whatever reason, a wide grin spread across my lips. That little redhead liked poking at me, and she had no idea what it did to me. She’d find out soon, though. As usual, my cock woke up and took notice of all things Abbigail Gibson.

  Not now, man. No time for a quick one in the bathroom.

  She’d pay for all this torment, too. But wait. Virgin. My cock jolted to twice the thickness.

  “No,” I gritted out. “There is nothing remotely exciting about that.” I adjusted myself and grabbed the letter opener off my desk. Grant had given me the pen and opener set one year for my birthday. Both had my initials engraved on sturdy brushed-nickel handles. They had a nice bit of weight in my hand when I used them. Solid desk accessories.

  See? Not thinking about my dick at all.

  Worked for almost forty seconds that time.

  A new personal best since meeting Abbigail Gibson.

  Nothing good came by registered mail. That was a given. Certified letters were usually worse. Things sent by courier could go either way since many businesses used couriers to send contracts and other official documents that needed signed originals. I wasn’t expecting something unpleasant, necessarily.

  I definitely wasn’t expecting a handwritten letter. A full page of scrawled handwriting stared back at me when I unfolded the sheet of paper. Regular, everyday paper. Nothing fancy, nothing noteworthy. There wasn’t a monogram embossed on the top or a hotel’s logo printed in the corner. No, this was white copy paper, likely pulled from the paper tray of someone’s office printer.

  Dear Sebastion,

  Excellent. My name was misspelled. Joyous first impression, dear author.

  You probably don’t remember me.

  Nailing it so far.

  I know you have a lot of girls come in and out of your life.

  Jesus Christ, if this was some chick saying I knocked her up, this day was officially the worst day of my life. I. Swear. To. God.

  But ever since that girl, Tawny, jumped off the bridge on the other side of town, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.

  Shit, don’t hurt yourself with that, babe.

  Maybe she had the right idea, you know? After I met you and danced for you, I thought things were going to change in my life. The way you looked at me like you wanted me. Maybe needed me. Maybe you’d come back and sweep me away from this shitty life I have. So, I waited. Every day I danced, when the door opened at the club and a guy came in, I hoped it would be you, coming back to save me. But it never was. I fell in love with you that day.

  Oh, come on. Are you serious right now, lady?

  But now, I’m saying goodbye. It’s time for me to go. To go over the rainbow bridge . . .

  Isn’t that what people say about their pets?

  And be with my mom and dad.

  Goodbye, Sebastion,

  It’s an a. Fucking t-i-a-n.

  Cinnamon Spice

  What was I supposed to do with something like this? I mean, really? First thought, obviously, was the circular file. On any other day of the year, it would’ve already been in there. However, I already had one woman’s death hanging over my questionable conscience. Not sure what a second one would do to my mental state.

  Add in the situation with Abbigail. Something about her was gnawing away at the very fiber of my being.

  No, not something.

  Everything.

  How could that be? How could she be affecting me so fundamentally when I barely knew her? But I could guess what she would do in the same situation, and every instinct told me it was the exact opposite of my first inclination. Was that a bad thing? Probably. More than probably . . . It was an absolute, resounding affirmative.

  I’d never been willing to change who I was. Not for Pia and Vela. Not for Grant. Not even for the memory of my mother. I was proud of the man I’d become. I’d worked hard to get here. At my core, I was a good man. I did the right thing. Always. People didn’t always agree with the route I took to get to the final destination, possibly, but the end goal was always the right outcome. I did what I had to in order to win, and usually that lined up with what was best for my fellow man. I rarely did something solely for myself.

  Terryn interrupted my musings with a call to announce Ms. Gibson’s arrival. After she rolled in with her stainless-steel cart, I kept my distance as she set up my lunch in the usual spot. If she noticed the décor out of place from my tussle with Grant, she didn’t mention it. I waited while she carefully arranged the food and silverware, and then I positioned myself in front of the door. There was only one way in and out of my office, and I blocked her path to it.

  “We’re going to talk this out, Abbigail. Whether you want to or not, it’s going to happen. I tried reaching you last night, as I’m sure you’re aware. I don’t appreciate being ignored. But that stops now.”

  She glared at me. That was all. Just glared. No words of protest. No tears for me today. Just an icy stare that would’ve ruined a lesser man.

  Silly girl.

  Silly.

  Silly . . .

  . . . girl.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Abbi

  “Dammit.”

  So much for every precaution I’d taken to banish the word from my mind and lips. For three awesome seconds, I thought I had the self-control nailed—until Sebastian fielded my iciest glower like it’d come from a paltry commoner summoned to court.

  Three seconds.

  That was really all it had taken.

  Three seconds filled with his commanding stance and his steely gaze. I wasn’t about to ask about the bruise that swelled high on his cheek, even though I really wanted to. Just one charge in his no-isn’t-an-answer-choice baritone, and I’d lost it. Spit the word out with my frustration cranked to max.

  But did I really ever have a choice in the matter?

  Rhetorical question.

  I’d been screwed from the second Terryn’s order pinged into the online order queue this morning, with the extra details that were always typical for her boss. Sebastian Shark wore his impatience and insolence as perfectly as his bespoke navy-blue suit and dazzling dark-gold tie. It was high fashion, worn by a dark-haired god who effortlessly turned it into his own.

  Good God. He was so beautiful, it was surreal.

  Dammit.

  At least I was silent about the repetition. Small miracles were still possible.

  “‘Dammit?’”

  Or maybe not.

  Sebastian’s narrowed gaze, on top of his incredulous drawl, confirmed I’d been just as pathetic about spewing the words aloud. He leaned against the door, cocking his head as if to taunt me with the words again, but instead queried, “Is that really all you got for me here, Little Red?”

  I would’ve preferred the profanity again. I think he knew that.

  Instead of saying that, I shrugged. At the moment, it was shorthand for my middle finger. I think he knew that too. At last, I summoned up a clenched smile and breezed out, “Fine. Sure; whatever. Let’s do this. I’m sure tending bar will be part of owning my own place, so I can use the listening-but-not-caring skills.”

  One of those weird flashes took over his face, as if he got sideswiped by emotion and had no idea what to with it. “Your own place?” he echoed. “Like a brick-and-mortar restaurant of some sort?”

  “Not just ‘some sort.’” I fought to make it a snarky snap, but this subject deserved more than sarcasm. “It’s going to be a contender, even in this city. Top-shelf, all the way. Edgy décor but old-world service. White linen on every table and tasting rooms for wi
ne and whiskey. Classic menu favorites with modern twists. Like the coolest food truck in town colliding with a luxurious restaurant. I’m even thinking of a garden for specialty dessert service. And—” At last, common sense broke in. As my embarrassed flush crept over my cheeks, I slammed my hands over them. “Holy crap,” I muttered, able to add in a genuine laugh. “Some epic bartender I’ll make, huh?”

  A smile spread across Sebastian’s face. There was another holy-shit-I-have-feelings flash along with it. “Bullshit. You’ll be an awesome bartender,” he said, infusing it with the steady confidence he’d learned for Vela’s sake—or so I’d thought up until now. “But you’d better hire a team of good backups, because you’ll get pulled away a lot to greet VIPs.”

  “VIPs?” I hated feeling like I was walking into his punch line but couldn’t help myself. The fantasy was too enticing.

  “It’s an acronym.” He was still authentic and gentle, as if explaining tax codes to his niece. “It stands for Very Importan—”

  “I know what it stands for.” Swiftly, I qualified, “I mean, usually. But—”

  “So don’t underestimate the value of them. Even if someone’s a second AD for straight-to-video movies and insists he’s a VIP, treat him like one. Of course, the real ones get more than a hug and a free drink.”

  I hitched out a hip, propping my hand to the same side. “So which one are you, Mr. Shark? An insister or the real deal?”

  “Me?” He brushed out a dismissive hand. “Pfffft. I’m just an asshole, remember? No freebies for me, though I will insist you keep bottles of all the expensive stuff around for when I stroll in unannounced.”

  I threw my head back with a new laugh. “Unannounced, huh? You plan on pulling that number a lot?”

  “Oh, at least once a week. Because—”

  “You’re an asshole. Yeah, now I remember.”

  He pushed away from his spot in front of the door and approached me with steady intent. Once again, I struggled to swallow on an arid throat. Shark did things for cobalt blue that shouldn’t be legal.

  “But I’m an asshole who thinks your place is going to be insanely successful.”

  “Well, thank you.” There was something weirdly empowering about this. Yes. I actually could form words even with perfection incarnate entering my airspace and turning my knees to gruel. “But that’s not what we’re here to talk out, is it?” I ordered strength back into my legs and stiffness back into my spine. “You want to drag out the issue of my situation a little more, I take it?”

  He halted in his tracks. We were still at least a couple of feet apart, which was fine with me. I could still think at this distance.

  “All right, that probably wasn’t the best choice of words,” he said from tight teeth, and I almost responded with a huge grin. It was likely the closest to an apology he would ever get.

  “All right. Pardon me for my forwardness, Mr. Shark, but what did you mean?”

  He dragged a hand across his scalp. “That maybe we can talk about this like adults? For once?”

  As he dropped the hand to his nape, my attention was pulled back to the nasty bruise below his eye. I fought and failed to ignore the sympathy that hit because of it. Damn. What the hell had happened in here? I noticed the two new monitors that replaced the ones he and I had knocked over, but now his desk was the only pristine zone in the room. Everywhere I glanced, there was some toppled or missing décor. And was that blood on one of the sofa arms?

  Dammit. This time, I really kept it restricted to silence. Don’t tell yourself you care about any of this, Abs. And for God’s sake, don’t show him that you do.

  I felt better after the internal pep talk. I was doing well here. Just a few more minutes, and things would be even easier. I’d had twenty-four hours of practice now. My hurt-and-outrage combo had served me well since getting out of here yesterday, acting like an emotional balm on the Sebastian Shark bites. It had even worked on all the fantasies too. I’d gotten a great night’s sleep, with no fantasy sex turning me into a sweaty mess by morning.

  Now, I was determined to keep that track record going strong.

  Even as I followed Sebastian over to the front of his desk.

  As he angled a thigh across one corner, I leaned a hip against the opposite one. “All right, then. We’re officially in grown-up mode. Speak your piece. I’m all ears.”

  Without lowering his stare from me, Sebastian leaned over. With a hand braced on his knee, he looked both earnest and empirical—yet completely delicious. Every cell of my senses was rushed by his midnight eyes, his expensive cologne, his fluid power . . .

  “Your announcement yesterday . . . Well, it was like a nuclear bomb for me.”

  “You don’t say.” I popped my eyes so wide, there could be no mistake about my satire.

  He glowered, but as was the case with him so often, the ire only boosted the beauty of his dangerous side. “After you left, I had to ask myself some hard questions.”

  I leaned against the desk for myself now. Continuing to gaze at him in this new state, still attempting his apology-that-wasn’t, had my knees softening by enchanted increments. “And then what? You beat yourself up for it?”

  “Right?” He gingerly tapped his bruise. “But in a few ways, yes.” He loosely laced his hands in his lap. “Some of this won’t be easy for you to hear, but you deserve the truth.”

  He paused, giving me the chance to say something. But I had nothing.

  His confession had felt like a compliment but also a warning. Did I thank him or back away from him? I chose total silence, though it didn’t feel like much of a choice.

  “Taking your virginity is a massive concept for me, Abbigail. It’s ground I’ve never trodden before—or have even wanted to. Since I was young, I was always very aware of my . . . preferences . . . in the bedroom. I also took the time to identify the desires and needs that drive them. It’s never been anything I’ve had to hide.”

  “Okay.” I sensed there was more, and I didn’t want to break his stride.

  “It’s simply the way I’m wired. My tastes are intense, not wrong. But they do require like-minded partners. Women who don’t mind field trips to the dark side. Routinely.”

  Though he finished that off with a devastating half smile, my heartbeat got erratic for other reasons. I curled a hand to my chest before grating, “So is this the part where you tell me about the kinky dungeon inside your palace?”

  He twisted his lips with even more illicit intent. “No, Little Red. This is the part where I tell you that this whole mess has turned me into a mess, and I don’t know dick about messes or cleaning them up. I’ve lived unapologetically. I’ve never cared enough to notice the debris left in my wake. Until now.”

  “Oh.” I pushed back to my feet. “And I assume by mess, you’re not talking about the finless shark over there”—I pointed to the glass statue that rested between the coffee bar and the whiskey display—“or the dozen dings in the coffee table?” Or the blood on the sofa, though I couldn’t stomach going there.

  He took such a deep breath, his chest puffed out by a few inches. “Grant and I had a little . . . disagreement,” he finally said.

  “And got messy about it?”

  He nodded. “A little.”

  “What were you talking about?”

  He tilted his head. There was new tension in his jaw, emphasizing its stark masculine angles. But robbing my breath the most was the new light in his eyes, like starlight on steel, before he replied without hesitation.

  “You.”

  My belly lurched. My heart leapt. “What about me?”

  Shadows fell over his face. He licked the seam of his lips. “He thinks I’m being a fool. About your . . . situation.”

  “I knew I liked him.” I offered it with a frothy smile. This was exhilarating. There was real liberation in being able to talk like this with him, without tiptoeing around a single subject. Both our cards were on the table, no matter how hard it was to flip a few of th
em over. I almost forgot that I’d walked in here determined to stay pissed at him.

  Almost.

  It was easier to stay the course on my ire once I circled back around to his first point. Right. There it was. Bedroom preferences. Field trips to the dark side. Desires and needs and drives.

  “But I assume our ‘hashing this out’ doesn’t involve Grant.” It tumbled out with a harsher edge than I’d expected, but I celebrated the new strength it represented. I was holding my own here, despite his swoon-worthy suit and captivating stares.

  “Your assumption would be right.”

  “All right, so . . . where to from here?” I pressed. “I mean, you don’t really want to be regaling me with a blow-by-blow of your sexual history, do you?”

  He snorted. “Intentional choice of words, Ms. Gibson?”

  “Or not.” I scooted off the desk, caving to sudden restlessness. Besides, pacing prevented me from continuing to stupidly stare at the man.

  At last, he broke the silence again. “I think what I’m trying to say here is . . . I’m sorry, Abbigail.” He punctuated it with a laugh, responding to my instant double take. “I know, I know; alert the press. Shark apologized twice in one week.” He glanced up at me through the ungodly thick fans of his lashes. “But I can’t help it. You come around, and I want to spill shit out. Tell you things. Things I don’t tell others.”

  I stopped where I stood. Didn’t dare venture any closer to him, already knowing he’d turned his freaking magnet back on. Yeah, the crazy-powerful one with all its polarization set to attract all of mine. But I was too late. “Sebastian,” I rasped as he hooked his hands over my forearms and yanked me three steps closer. “Oh, dammit . . . ”

  “I know.” He held me even tighter. “I know. You’re running behind, and—”

  “No. No, that’s not . . . ”