by S. J. Blaze
He falls back on his haunches, then slowly stands, his eyes remaining on the offending scar the entire time. “I asked you a fucking question. What the hell happened, Charlie?”
A curse word and my name. That’s like a double negative. But this isn’t one story he’s getting. You’re so smart, Cocky. You figure it out. “Where’s my clothes, Mr. Collins?”
“No, don’t you dare run. Why won’t you tell me?”
You’d think that would be obvious. Maybe he’s not as smart as I’m giving him credit for. “Where’s my fucking clothes?” I scream at the top of my lungs. I’m shaking now. I don’t know if I’m angry or hurt or who the fuck knows? I hate feeling this vulnerable.
I’ve pushed him away and am frantically looking around. I can’t see my boots, my cell, anything. He comes after me, grabs my head, and pulls me into his chest when I notice that he’s shaking, too. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” He rocks us gently. “You don’t have to tell me. Its fine, we’re fine.” He breathes in, shakily and continues. “I’m having your clothing laundered. You were sick on them last night. Please stay, love. Please. Take a shower, it’s still early. Please!” His voice is shaky and everything feels odd.
I swallow and after some hesitating, nod. Realistically, what are my alternatives? I don’t have any clothes, or a ride, and I don’t know where I am. Plus, a shower in the whimsy spa of Chez Collins sounds about fantastic right now.
He squeezes me and kisses the top of my head over and over. “Thank you, thank you. I’ll grab you some of my clothes. They’ll be big, but at least you won’t be walking around like that.”
Rich billionaire sex god, says what? He tries again. “I mean, your body is perfect, love. You can walk around here naked.” My head snaps up to glare at him.
Shaking his head and murmuring about what an idiot he is under his breath, he walks over to an oversized dark oak chest, rummages through some clothes, and hands them to me. “Here. You shower. I’ll wait for you downstairs.” He stops at the dresser, grabs some clothing for himself, and walks out of the room without looking back at me.
I’m standing in the middle of his room completely lost. This is worse than a rollercoaster. It’s not just up and down, high and low. No, it’s more like some cracked up tilt-a-whirl.
After showering and getting dressed in a long sleeved baggy Red Sox t-shirt and a pair of oversized sweats that I’ve rolled down the waist twice, I leave the bathroom. There’s not a whole lot of improvements I can yield especially since I have no makeup to hide the bruising behind a painted face. Running my fingers through my long dripping wet hair in an attempt to untangle it, I notice Coen’s cell on the far night table. Score.
I may or may not have done a random background check on Coen. I like to know who I’m working for, and as of Thursday morning, when the partners cornered me and told me exactly this, I took it upon myself to learn about my new employer.
Information is the real source of life. At least in my world.
It’s locked…hmmm, time to utilize my newfound knowledge. His birth date? Too obvious and too narcissistic. Not Coen. Let’s try the date his mother died? Nope, didn’t work. Her birth date? Reversed? His graduation from Stanford? No. Shoot, I don’t know the date he lost his virginity but would that really be his password? No, probably not, he’s not that vain. Think, think.
Something momentous.
What do I know about Coen? What does he value? Piece it together. I flick through the images I have of him in my mind. Where is he? What’s he doing? Who’s he with?
A number pops out. Can’t be. But I try anyway, plugging it in. 0 3 1 1
Wednesday’s date.
Unlocked.
Without processing that implication, I quickly call Malice.
“Allo.” His gruff voice sounds like he’s just woken up.
“Pourquoi suis-je dans la maison de Coen Collins?”
Why am I in Coen Collins’ house?
“Vous avez dit que vous vouliez aller avec lui.”
You said you wanted to go with him.
“Eh bien, maintenant que je dis me chercher la baise.”
Well, now I’m saying pick me the fuck up.
“Où es tu?”
Where are you?
“Je vous ai dit au Coen. Je ne possède pas d'adresse. Mais me trouver et venir me chercher !”
I told you, I’m at Coen’s. I don’t have an address. But find me and come get me!
“Je suis en route. Je vais le trouver. Ne rien faire.”
I’m on my way. I will find it. Don’t do anything. He hangs up.
I erase my call from the log and look towards the door. I might have a few more minutes. I decide to snoop around and notice a lengthy text between Coen and Davis yesterday.
6:33 Davis: She’s left her office and has taken a taxi Southbound. I’m following.
6:38 Coen: Don’t lose her
6:58 Coen: Where is she?
7:02 Coen: Davis….
7:06 Davis: The taxi dropped her off at an old abandoned firehouse in Lynn.
7:07 Coen: Did you follow her inside?
7:10 Davis: Yes, it appears to be some underground fighting ring. She’s entered one of the fighter’s locker rooms.
7:11 Coen: What? Get in there!
7:12 Davis: I’m at the door. I can’t get in.
7:14 Coen: I’m about twenty minutes out. Don’t take your eyes off that door.
7:38 Coen: I’m here. Where are you? Where is she?
I’m startled with a noise coming from the hall. Coen is on his way to the room. I quickly secure the phone in the same spot I found it and drop to the floor looking under the bed.
“Charlie, love, where’d you go?” he asks, walking into the room. He must have showered elsewhere because his hair looks damp and he’s wearing jeans. Only jeans.
“Hey.” I’m peeking my head over the bed, still kneeling. “Have you seen my phone? I can’t find it.”
“You left it downstairs. Come on, I’ve made breakfast.” He ignores my flush, thinking it’s ‘can’t find my phone’ frustration, when really it’s ‘what the fucking hell, he had me followed’ flush. He takes my hand and leads me downstairs into the kitchen. He has me sit on a stool then proudly hands me a plate of eggs, bacon, and toast. You sweet, creepy man.
“Oh, um, Coen, as delicious as this looks, I don’t eat bacon,” I say, pushing the plate away.
“Is it just bacon or do you not eat pork?” he asks looking truly interested.
“No all pork; bacon, pepperoni, sausage, and other piggie parts and pieces.”
“That explains the pineapple cheese pizza the other night. Is there anything else you don’t eat, love?”
“Yes.” But I don’t want to talk about this. I want to know why you had me followed.
“Please, tell me. I want to know all about you.” He takes my hand looking exceedingly sincere and genuine. This is the first time anyone has said that to me. Not interview me. Not interrogate me. And certainly not dissect me. But want to actually know me.
Although he’s asking for all of me, I only give him a bit of the surface. The glossy pages in the front of my story. I don’t want him in too deep. Then he can hurt me. I can’t allow that. I don’t know him and I don’t fully trust him.
I continue talking about my food likes and dislikes. It’s a safe topic, friendly, yet personal. He smiles and laughs along. I think he likes my sharing. He seems pleased and for some unknown reason, I like that.
While he is busy declaring his love for the new restaurant he just found, the one with the best duck in town, I get lost watching him. Not just his lips and the way they pucker and stretch, but how his entire body speaks to me. Shirtless, I see how his deltoids rise faintly with each of his breaths. His hands, still seated on his legs, twirl with each thought extending the triceps and biceps. Everything bunches and moves. It’s elegantly fluid. He’s so graceful and beautiful.
And... he’s stopped talking. I look up from my enamored
perusal to meet his eyes. He’s watching me watch him. He’s the one who started this whole staring thing. I guess I just threw my hat in the ring.
His bottom lip is tucked between his teeth, his stare intense. I can only imagine my face is the same. Minus the lip part, I’m still sore where that’s concerned. Plus, he has that delicious scruffy yummy look that men sport in the morning.
“Hi.” He smirks, finally releasing that lip, though I can still see the indentions there. He must have been biting pretty hard. I bet he tastes good.
Chills. Everywhere. “H..h..hi-ye,” I croak out. Was that a real word?
His frosty eyes light up even more landing all over me now. They aren’t searching, they’re taking all of me in. While I’m wearing this ridiculous shirt. I look down. Yep, it’s still there.
He reaches over and cups my left cheek. His thumb rubs my bottom lip. “This mole…” Don’t talk about my moles. Is this a skin screening? “This sexy as sin beauty mark, I want to lick it.”
I’ve seen cartoons where the dog or rabbit or whatever animated character becomes speechless because their tongue drops out of their mouth and rolls about a mile on the ground. I think my tongue might very well be hanging out of my mouth. It might have even rolled up the stairs for all I know. Because, right now, I don’t know. Everything is Coen. Even I am Coen.
He reads my silence. Then suddenly there’s movement and I’m on his lap, straddling it. All I see is icy blue. I must feel icy blue because I can’t stop shivering. I’m lost in the blizzard, possibly never to be found again. His gentle hands seal us together. One around my face, the other on my lower back. But I’m not moving; this moment has been branded into me. He’s still watching me, his smirk gone. He leans forward, holding me frozen with those majestic eyes, and softly kisses the mole that resides under the left side of my lip.
It must have been some type of hormonal button because I find myself wrapping my arms around his neck, running my fingers through his honeyed curls.
His lips, never moving from their new found corner, bite my mole. Yep, bite it. I yelp and he chuckles, pulling back slightly. “May I taste you?”
“Yes, please,” I whisper. Though I’m not sure if manners are required at this moment. These kind of occurrences don’t happen often for me. Hence, the new found knowledge of the happy button mole. I wonder if it only works with Coen.
He licks his thick lips, the moisture giving them a beautiful shine. Then his nose starts a slow lazy trail from the bottom of my jaw. He’s rubbing scruffy yummy all over. His nose leading the way from my jaw higher. More chills. He breathes out filling my senses with more Coen. Taste…please. I need taste but he’s over my eyes. Kissing each one with gentle lips. His nose runs down mine, up and down. He’s moving dreadfully slow. It’s nearly painful. My body is wound tight anticipating the arrival of a Coen kiss.
Finally, he places his lips on mine, but rather than kiss me, he rests them there, breathing me like I’ve been breathing him. He moves them ever so slowly from side to side, maybe testing their firmness or their softness. Then he opens his lips marginally and kisssssssssses me. I pull him further into me, silently begging for more. He grants me another kiss. This one is sturdier perhaps more assured, his lips opening wider. Then another firmer touch, and this time his tongue licks my bottom lip enough to taste me. I part my lips begging for his entrance. He meets my needs, his tongue darting out a little inside waiting for mine to grant permission. I willingly consent and we are touching. We are tasting. We are breathing.
Lost in our heated frenzy, he bites my top lip and I wince and pull back. I’m woken from my Coen coma. “Shit,” he whispers pulling me even closer, his head finding the crook of my neck.
“I forgot about your injury. I’m so sorry, love.”
I’ve fallen down from the glittery rainbow and have landed in a puddle of muddy dirt. I nod and lay my forehead on his scruffy yummy chin. Closing my eyes, I try to ground myself. I’m tilted. My axis has been fully knocked over.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
I nod against his chin again, attempting to comfort him and this fleeting moment.We’re lost in our own heads for a while before we hear a banging at the door.
“I’m not expecting anyone. Stay here, I’ll be right back.” Putting me back on the stool next to him, he nods and placates a smile.
Then I hear yelling and a loud beastly voice.
Coen comes back with Malice hot on his heels.
“You called him?” he asks accusingly.
I nod. “I can’t stay here, Coen. This isn’t a surprise.”
“I would have taken you home.” His voices rises and he points at himself.
He’s acting as if Malice has come to take his favorite toy away. Childish. I’m not his plaything. I’m not his…well, anything really. I mean, except his employee in a roundabout way.
Oh my goodness…I work for him.
Aren’t I the one who purposely hides behind glasses and clothing so I won’t be viewed in some demeaning sexist way? Because some chauvinistic ass hats believe that the bigger the chest, the smaller the IQ? No way! I want the corporate world to see me as a productive counterpart. As an equal. Not as the convenient whore that works so well underneath them. Because there are those that do. They believe a woman doesn’t belong in the harsh realities of law. Somehow those confines are too structured for the weak minded, delicate female sphere. I’ve worked my ass off to get here. I’m not ready to walk away.
I can’t have a physical relationship with Coen. This is wrong. Despite my skewed view of life, even I know this isn’t right. Sure it isn’t truly wrong either, but I can only focus on one thing at a time.
“Malice, vous attendez-moi dans la voiture.”
Malice, will you wait for me in the car.
He nods and leaves after a grunt of affirmation. Who needs words?
Turning back to a frustrated Coen, I try to extinguish the slutty walk-of-shame chick I’ve turned into by channeling my inner lawyer. I can see by his stance that he’s preparing for a verbal fight. He knows what’s coming. Coen is incredibly perceptive and he reads me too well, which I’m unfamiliar with. I need to be more creative in my approach.
“Thank you for taking care of me last night.”
“Of course,” he answers, still waiting on my move.
“I was hoping after the merger is complete, we could spend more time together.” He looks confused and quirks a brow. “What do you mean?”
Tricky. “It wouldn’t be prudent to be seen together while I’m under your employment. But there’s an end date. I’d like to explore the possibilities of a friendship?”
He didn’t like that. “Did that look like friendship, love?” he says pointing to the stools we’ve just vacated. “And you’re not my employee.”
“Semantics, Coen. Please don’t be difficult.”
“I’m difficult?” he says towards the ground, eyes latched onto his beautiful, yet strangely manly feet. I must be developing a fetish. “Maybe you’re right?” His eyes harden and shoot me with disappointment. “Maybe this connection I feel, this crazy tethering, is too difficult. Maybe knowing you, cherishing you, aching for you is difficult. Yeah, that’s it. I’m being difficult.”
And that is how the lawyer crumbled, at least internally. My breath stalls somewhere in my lungs. My heart beats slam into stutter. My fingers twitch by my side. I can’t find my words. I can’t find my voice. I’m not even sure if I can find a thought. Everything random is splintering through me. Around me.
Bobbing my head, yes, no, I’m not sure. I spy my boots on a glass table in the living room. If that isn’t a sign…
I clear my throat hoping some sound will emerge. “Well then.” Deep breath. “Thank you for your time. I look forward to working with you, Mr. Collins. Have a lovely weekend.”
I move over and grab my boots and cell phone that has been placed next to them.
As I make my way to the door, in my periphery vision I see Coe
n with both hands pulling at his hair, his body locked tight. Muscles tense. It’s not until after I close the door that I hear him scream. Like a battle cry scream. It sounds both angry and hurt. I can’t tell if he’s prepping for war or succumbing to defeat.
Chapter Six
I’m listening to Edward gripe to the table. “It’s just a commercial solution,” he screeches exhaustedly.
Jordon joins in. “Darrien is being incomprehensible. His demands are unethical. He’s forcing us to redraft this proposal without the additional addendums and proper corrections.”
Usually, my head is fully submerged in the murky waters of corporate bureaucracy, but my focus has washed away. Out with the tide.
I’ve been sitting at this table since eight-thirty this morning trying to piece together what the Collins Corp or CC legal team has made an absolute debacle. Pages and pages of regurgitated drab.
The head of the CC legal team, Jordon, had food brought in twenty minutes ago, attempting to keep us here with this vacant bribe. I think he’s hoping we’ll stay and finish the work he seems to be so adequately inadequate to do.
Though the abject fear he emits is strangely intoxicating, I can’t stay. There’s an edginess in the air; a prickliness that my skin has absorbed. It fell upon me the second I walked into the Collins Corp building. It began harmlessly as goosebumps across my flesh. Then an accelerated heart beat joined the collaboration. Next, came the pounding in my temples, my lack of sleep the most likely culprit. Finally, the trepidation jumped in to harmonize. A full orchestra of idiomatic panic.
I know he’s here. I can almost sense him. When watching those psycho fanatical killer movies everyone loves, every time the murderer/creeper/run-away-from-him-he’s-totally-gonna-kill-you guy is near, there’s this eerie chilling music that alerts the viewer something bad is coming. A warning. And I’m totally hearing it now.
