Dark & Dirty: A Dark Erotic Fantasy Anthology

by Lea Bronsen

  He turns to me. “They’ll end up on the street.”

  Wiping cloth in hand, I pause and stare.

  Our eyes connect, and he squints, indicating recognition. “They have kids. I’m not doing it.”

  “You can’t mix ethics into this,” the first suit grumbles.

  Slick’s sharp black gaze wanders back to him. “You can build elsewhere. It’s perfectly possible.”

  “If…” The second suit leans over the table. “We’re being sentimental in this business…”

  “We lose projects.” The first nods. “Turnover drops.”

  “And boom!” The second one slams his palm flat on the table, the slap resonating in the empty restaurant. “We sail into bankruptcy land. We fire people. We lose competence. The banks refuse to fund new investments. But you”—he points a thick finger at Slick—“you have the connections to do something about it.”

  “That’s your assignment,” says the first.

  Slick frowns. “There’s vacant, very attractive land all around the city border. If you prefer in-town housing, building higher is the new trend. Architects will jump on any occasion to design taller buildings or add floors to existent ones.”

  The second shakes his head. “You know who to talk to. And considering our company is one of your biggest members, you should—”

  “With all due respect.” Slick lowers his voice. “I’m not going to kick these people out of their homes.” He stands abruptly, forcing the two others to look up to him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a board meeting to prepare.”

  Ha, if these two suits are members of his organization, he has some nerve. I’m impressed. Having finished wiping the tables, I’m heading back to the kitchen when he walks over to me. The other men put their coats on and pick up their suitcases.

  Despite lines of fatigue on his forehead and dark patches beneath his eyes, Slick looks young, maybe in his early thirties. Yet deep black, scrutinizing pupils that seem to have an endless depth and centuries of wisdom suggest otherwise. “Have you finished your work for the day?”

  “Yeah.” I hold his gaze.

  “I have a meeting in a half hour and would need some coffee. I forgot to tell my secretary to make the booking last week.” Behind him, the suits leave.

  “No problem. I can bring you coffee. How many guests?”

  “Seven.”

  “Anything else? Cookies?”

  “Anything you have will do. And thanks.” He gives a tired smile.

  Pleased by his good manners, I ask, “Where should I bring the tray?”

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “Okay. I’ll get everything.” I’m not too happy about serving a slick suit after hours, but my boss expects that much. He wants his employees to be service minded, which entails leaving my disdain behind and doing what it takes to maintain our good reputation.

  We go to the kitchen. The food section is closed, but the coffee machine is always on. Swiftly, I grab two cans, fill them with hot coffee, put them on a trolley, and add cups and teaspoons.

  Slick throws his watch a glance. He’s in a hurry, and here I am making him wait.

  “I’m sorry it’s taking a little time.” I give him an apologetic smile. Always be polite with the customers. “I’ll just get the cookies.”

  He nods and checks his smartphone, which looks to be made of titanium. Slick.

  I find a pack of cookies in a cupboard, dispose them into a bowl, and place it on the trolley with some napkins.

  We hurry out of the kitchen, he thumbing his phone, and I wheeling the trolley, coffee cups clattering. The elevator doors are already open. He flashes his ID on the panel board and hits number fourteen. The top floor, as I thought. As the doors slide shut, we study each other over the trolley.

  “What’s your name?” he asks.

  “Luke.”

  “Sorry I’m asking you to do this, Luke. My secretary had to stay home with her little girl today because she’s sick.”

  His concern for me is surprising. And he accepted that an employee took a day off because of a sick child? I’ve heard of people losing their jobs for smaller infractions.

  “Are they paying you for extra hours?” he asks.

  “It’s not a problem. I’m happy to help.” The truth is I won’t be paid for something a customer hasn’t booked in advance, but I don’t want to tell him that. His kindness earns my goodwill.

  “You have a family to go home to?”

  “No.” When I was sentenced to jail, whatever I had that I could call family stopped talking to me, including Granddad, who died while I was inside. He was too ashamed. He may have served time, but as a prisoner of war, not a criminal. “Where are your kids?”

  “Their mother picked them up earlier.” His phone rings. “Speaking of which.” He answers on a deep sigh. “Hi, Jen.” A silence. The elevator dings and the doors open. He hurries out. “I have a board meeting in fifteen minutes. Can this wait?”

  I follow him, wheeling the trolley out into an empty, open land. From the mess of papers on scattered desks and cabinets, you’d think a blizzard had hit and everyone evacuated.

  Phone to his ear, he strolls to a private office section a few desks down. A long corridor with aligned doors on each side stretches to the other end of the building. I struggle to keep up the pace. The carpet absorbs the sounds of our shoes. At the bottom, he turns a corner and leads me past more offices to a door that has a plate with the words Associated Builders engraved on it.

  He unlocks and opens the door to a vast conference room. The lights are already on. It’s the kind of work place where you never turn them off, for some stupid reason. A wide, oval chestnut table stands in the middle, flanked by a dozen executive chairs. Abstract paintings adorn the white walls. A gigantic floor-to-ceiling window overlooks the city, allowing the low afternoon sunlight to flow in.

  “I need to change,” he whispers to me. “I stink.” Sending me a wink, he goes to an adjacent room.

  Heh. I smile. I haven’t noticed any perspiration smell, but I guess these guys can afford changing clothes several times a day.

  “Your lawyer said what?” he shouts into the phone. “Son of a bitch!”

  Minding my own business, I close the main door and place the coffee cans and the cookie bowl on the table.

  “Hey, Luke?” A different tone.

  “Yeah.” I walk to the other room, a corner office made of huge, perpendicular windows. Two black wood desks stand opposite each other in the center.

  Slick paces along one of the glass panes with the phone to his ear, a deep line on his forehead. On the biggest desk between us, a laptop, piles of documents, pens, and empty coffee cups elbow for space. A photo of his lovely kids stands on a corner, with a smiling blonde looking over their shoulders.

  Moves hurried, he walks over, stretches his free arm out, and whispers, “Can you undo this for me?”

  Ah, the sleeve buttons. “Sure.” While he listens intently on the phone, I unbutton both of his cuffs, help him pull one sleeve off his arm, wait for him to take the phone with his other hand, and pull the other sleeve off.

  Wow, fucking wow. His body is impressive. I stand with his shirt in my fist staring, almost frozen. Damp heat oozes from his naked, well-built torso. He has the long, lean, and firm muscles of a swimmer or a runner, and a mass of black hair covering his chest and arms. Not too much, just enough to be…sexy. I’ve seen all kinds of muscular torsos in jail, but this guy is clean, neat, and combined with his handsome looks and attentive behavior…he intrigues me.

  “Thanks,” he whispers, before walking to a tall cabinet along a wall, opening it, and displaying a row of hanging shirts and ties. “No, you can’t do this to me!” he tells his wife. Frowning, he grabs a shirt, bumps the door closed with his hip, and hangs the shirt on the back of his executive chair.

  He needs to be alone. I fold his dirty shirt on the table and prepare to leave, but the sound of a new cabinet opening piques my curiosity.r />
  Phone to his ear, he picks a bottle from a generous selection and spins to show it to me, lifting his brows as if to offer me a drink. The bottle has the rich gold-orange color of a bourbon.

  Is he crazy? I don’t drink at work. I shake my head and walk out to give him some space. It was a nice gesture, though, making a point of treating me like his equal. I had no idea such an important person, the director of an organization, apparently, could be so thoughtful. I’m too used to their looking down at me.

  I arrange the coffee cups around the conference table, wheel the empty trolley to a corner, and go to the large window to have a look. Fourteen floors separate me from the ground, and rooftops of varying heights stretch into the horizon. Feels like the building is swaying.

  This is power. You can drink alcohol in your work hours, come and go when you want, and have the most luxurious office on the top of the city.

  Still, I may be a cockroach living in a dump on the lugubrious side of town, I wouldn’t trade my miserable life for Slick’s privileges.

  “No! They’re my kids, too!” A yell from the door, followed by a bang and the sound of shattering glass.

  A shiver runs through me. I freeze and strain to hear.

  Gasps.

  Should I help him? He probably wants to deal with his personal issues on his own. When I have problems, I sure don’t want anyone to interfere.

  Silence. So fucking quiet, I can hear the blood pulsing in my temples.

  Alarm shoots through me. Broken glass and anger don’t do well together.

  I swivel and hurry into the adjacent room.

  Slick sits on the edge of the desk with a hand covering his ashen face and the other arm across his naked chest. His phone lies next to him. On one of the walls, a brown splatter narrows to a streak gliding down to the carpet, with sharp shards of glass at the bottom reflecting light.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  He nods, but doesn’t look at me. He seems petrified. Maybe the phone call was the drop that made the vase spill over, and he can’t handle the overload. Or maybe he’s ashamed of letting his anger get the better of him. Powerful people want to be in control, they don’t explode and destroy things. That’s what thugs like me do.

  I circle his desk, find a trash bin, and squat in front of the pile of shards to help pick them up.

  At last, he pushes from the table and kneels in front of me. He says something I don’t get because heat from his naked torso brushes me like the sensuous caress of a whore, and an ensnaring scent of musk mixed with cologne sneaks into the dark parts of my brain. Turning to mush, my head buzzing, I use my thick fingertips to pull the biggest shards out of the carpet slowly, placing them in the bin with exaggerated care to prolong the time I can be near him. This moment will be over too soon.

  He puts a hand on mine, his fingers radiating heat.

  Fuck, I can’t stand the intimacy. As if burned by fire, I retract my hand from underneath his.

  He growls, “I said, be careful. You’re going to cut yourself.”

  I suck in a breath. He’s referring to my trembling? My callused hands always tremble in every situation. It’s something I developed in prison. But he doesn’t know it’s normal for me. Maybe he thinks I’m a bundle of nerves and that the sight of broken glass shocked me. If he knew the things I’ve seen! Holding back a chuckle, I focus on the difficult task. Now that I’ve picked the bigger pieces of glass, miniature ones are revealed beneath, lodged between the carpet fibers.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” From the hard tone in his voice, he’s used to giving orders.

  For a while there, I forgot he’s a customer—thus the boss—and I the employee, the one who has to bow and give thanks for having a job at all.

  Trembling hand mid-air, I gaze up into his stare and swim in the storm of emotions in his black, strained eyes, framed by long lashes. I can’t resist glancing downward, to his mustache, full lips, and bearded jaw.

  Everything about him makes me sizzle. The vulnerability exposed by his ex’s phone call, dueling with the toughness he showed dealing with the suits earlier. His perfect muscles playing underneath tanned skin and a mat of manly hair. The very basic human way he kneels before a pile of glass shards, proving he’s mortal like the rest of us, while wearing one of the most expensive pant fabrics I’ve seen in my lifetime, in a luxurious office on the rooftop of the corporate-finance part of the city.

  A tick runs through his features. “I would never do that,” he tells me, dark eyes shimmering.

  “What?”

  “Keep the kids from her. Use them to bargain for what she wants. That’s so—” He bites his lip and muffles a guttural sound deep in his throat.

  “Amoral? Unethical?”

  He nods.

  My, my. How many times have I witnessed him sticking to ethics today? He may be wealthy and have fought his way to the top with means unknown, but he seems to be an honest person, not as shrewd and slick as I thought. Every moment I spend with this guy, I like him better.

  He returns the stare with something akin to recognition, as if reading my thoughts and agreeing.

  A rap on the door breaks the spell between us.

  “Would you mind letting them in?” Groaning, he gets up and goes to his chair. “I need to put my shirt on.”

  “Sure.” A bit dizzy, I stand and walk to the conference room scratching my head. What a strange day.

  I open the door, and a bunch of fat suits try to push in, not bothering to give me a look.

  These morons are the association’s board members? Ha. Well, I’m too son-of-a-bitch to let them in just like that. I loathe abuse of power. Slick is cool enough and treats me like a fellow human being, but these fuckheads… I stand in the doorway blocking their entry with my beefed-up arms crossed. I have the build of a bodyguard, and if I wasn’t wearing my stupid kitchen uniform, I’d pass as one. “You have an invitation?” I ask, using my most lethal thug voice.

  Maybe what I’m really doing is protecting Slick, buying him time. But why do I feel the need to cover for him? He has proved he’s more than capable of handling pressure in business affairs. But the personal vulnerability he allowed me to see moments ago is etched into my mind. He’s not as tough as he wants the rest of the world to believe.

  One suit with the hanging cheeks of a bulldog presses between the others and looks me up and down. “We have a board meeting with Mr. Spencer. He in?”

  I make a point of looking the bulldog up and down, too, before giving a level stare with my nose in the air, as if he’s annoying the living daylights out of me.

  He squints.

  “Who’s that?” someone grumbles behind him.

  Satisfied, I take a step back and leave the door open.

  Several sleazy fuckers enter one after the other and spread around the table, noisily pulling chairs back and throwing their document cases on the table.

  My work is done. I head for the main door.

  “Luke?”

  Now what? I spin.

  Slick walks over with a clean shirt on, looking amazingly handsome compared to his board members. He extends a hand with dollar bills in it. “For your extra hour.”

  He thinks I want his dirty money? I give him a cold look.

  From the change of color in his eyes, he understands I have a problem with his offer. But he doesn’t know why. He has no idea how deep my despise of his power world runs. Maybe he thinks I’m just being modest.

  He keeps his hand proffered to me. “At least let me pay for the coffee.”

  I snicker. “We don’t accept money under the table.” How bold. What happened to the politeness mantra? I don’t know, but his standing there representing the self-important employer organizations pisses me off. Minutes ago, he showed me who he was beneath his slick businessman layers. We connected on a personal level. Now, waving dollar bills in front of my nose, he’s treating me like a lousy bottom-of-the-ladder worker again, someone below his status.

  His eyes flash b
efore he regains his cool and pockets the money. “What do you need? A written order confirmation?”

  “Yep.”

  He nods, gaze hard. “I’ll get it to you tomorrow. I have to start the meeting. Thanks for your help.” He closes the door on me.

  I turn on my heel, chuckling to myself. The sleazebag thinks he owns the world. Someday, I’ll be back in this luxurious office on top of the mightiest building and impale him.

  Chapter Three

  The next day, an inhuman workload had Roman pushing his lunch break numerous times. He checked his watch every now and then, and his stomach growled several warnings as half the day passed—the kitchen downstairs would close soon—but it was only when a sharp ray of sunshine slipped past the blinds of his office and landed on his arm that he rose, his body ankylosed. It was ten to one, and if he didn’t hurry to the restaurant, he might as well drop the whole lunch idea altogether and stick to caffeine for the rest of the day.

  Grumbling in annoyance, he logged off the computer, put his phone in his pants pocket, and left the office. From the intensity of the high sun outside, he knew he was missing out on something, working hour after hour in the shade like a maniac. He loved his job. Being the managing director of a construction oversight company gave him plenty of challenges and fit his personality like a glove, but sometimes the amount of work was just too much for one man. New cases kept coming in, old documents piled on his desk, and he struggled to keep up. His associates expected him to solve every business issue they encountered, and wanted him to perform lobbying miracles. They were crazy.

  In the elevator, he breathed deeply and stared at his reflection in the mirror. He had dark patches under his eyes and his mouth made a straight line. The divorce weighed on him. After seven years of marriage to his best friend and the most beautiful woman in the country, he learned she had fallen for a younger partner in her law firm. Why she thought their affair stood a better chance at a forever after than the one she’d promised Roman, he couldn’t understand. They’d made two children, for God’s sake. Surely, it had to mean something.

  The doors slid open to a practically empty restaurant. His gaze swept the vast, open space. In a corner, the kitchen employees had lunch together at one of the long tables, chatting and laughing. It’d be nice to join them. Whenever he travelled alone, he aimed to meet real people instead of going to fancy restaurants reserved for rich tourists. Jen wouldn’t have it. She demanded luxury. It was she who had pushed him to buy a mansion on the residential side of town, cruise in an expensive car, and wear that high-end watch. Maybe now that they split, he could go back to enjoying the simple life and connect with people on the ground.