Cindersmellya: A Dark Comedy Fairytale Romance

by Alexis Angel

  So when Linda Vanderhill and Drake Carlton divorced, it wasn't a big shocker.

  But what had saddened me was that it would be harder to see Natalie.

  "Let me know what you decide," Cheryl says, and walks out.

  Yeah, it was hard to see Natalie.

  But with her company, Dirty Lil' Angels, about to break, this might just be my ticket back into her life. As well as the way I save my own company.

  Gotta fucking love fate.

  Drake

  "Well, if it isn't the man, the myth, the legend—the shark," a voice says. I feel a meaty hand clap me across my back.

  I look over my shoulder at a familiar face—a round, bald, middle-aged man who smells of false pretenses and feigned confidence. I play the game and return his smile.

  "How are you, Tom," I say, not as a question, but as a bland statement. I honestly don't give a fuck about him. I know this guy. He's like so many on Wall Street. He's a mediocre broker, in a mediocre suit, at best.

  "Apparently not as good as you, buddy," he smiles. It's an over-the-top smile that I'd like to wipe off his face. "I've heard all about your latest acquisition. That was one hell of a move."

  "Indeed it was," I reply, expressionless, and motion to the bartender for a drink. We're two seconds in and I'm already bored with this conversation.

  "What can I get for you, sir?" the bartender asks. He has a waxed handlebar mustache and I can't help but focus on its perfectly curved tips, sharp as teeth.

  "Blood and sand," I reply, with the emphasis on the word 'blood.' They don't call me the shark for nothing.

  The bartender nods and smiles, "One of my favorites," and he moves deftly behind the bar, grabbing a top-shelf bottle of rye. There's a miniature pig with wings on the bottle's stopper. Yes, this is the good shit. WhistlePig Rye. The kind of bourbon that instead of scorching your throat, lights a warm fire. I watch as he pours two fingers of the amber liquid.

  "You've never been a man to shy away from making bold moves," Tom continues, trying to reel me back into the conversation. He's beginning to detect my disinterest.

  "No, you can say I'm anything but shy," I smirk, and he laughs a big-bellied laugh like I've just said the funniest fucking thing on the planet.

  The bartender places my drink on the bar, and I grab it in one fist.

  "Good talking to you Tom," I say, getting up from my stool and giving him a nod. This conversation was over before it began.

  "Let's do this again sometime—" he begins to say, but I'm already walking away and I lose his voice in the ambient noise of the 21 Club.

  Maybe you've never heard of me, but on Wall Street, I'm revered—feared. I'm Drake 'The Shark' Carlton. More often than not, I don't have time for small talk. If you open up the latest issue of Wall Street Journal, I'm sure you'll find my name on the front page, and the page after that, and the fucking page after that. I was recently profiled in Forbes' 40 under 40 column as one of the most influential men on Wall Street.

  Most people end up on Wall Street for the money, not because they love finance, or the work, or anything else. But I'm here because I fucking love it all. The power, and the grind. During the course of my career, I've made firms boatloads of money—I'm aggressive. I didn't shy away from thin margins or risking a lot of capital. As a kid, my father taught me two things: Fear is the enemy, and loose lips sink ships.

  You can say I've repeated those mantras like prayers.

  I fucking love Wall Street because I can feel the entire planet pulsing beneath my feet. You better believe that the planet has a heartbeat, and it's money. I can feel countries swelling with power and others losing it. It's like standing above a swollen river, billions of dollars raging beneath you. If you can navigate it, you win. If not, you drown.

  And do you want to know what money sounds like? It's the sound of phones ringing and traders shouting and emails pinging and fists pounding on desks. And it has a smell—sex and leather and green wads and a metallic cold and cigars smoldering in dark rooms. It also has a face—lines, some straight and some jagged, but all moving up and down on a Bloomberg screen, and sweat, lots of fucking sweat.

  And you want to know what makes my cock hard?

  All of it.

  Every. Single. Fucking. Thing.

  I look around the 21 Club—at the New York elite—men in suits and women in designer dresses, their legs drunk and slightly spread beneath their tables. The place is filled with dark woods and deep reds. It's an old institution that knows old school cocktails—there's history, but best of all, there's secrets. That's why I decided to celebrate my latest acquisitions here. I couldn't think of a better place, to be fucking honest.

  I walk back to our table and notice one of my senior managers, Eric, trying to schmooze it up with a lovely young woman. I'm guessing she's in her early 20s, legs that go on for miles, and a wide white grin that's more expansive and full of life than the Serengeti. Not bad. The man's got taste. For a moment, I look at her tits and her legs and wonder what it'd be like to fuck her.

  By the way Eric's leaning in, and brushing his hand against her thigh, I can tell he's thinking the same thing, and he's laying his charm on thick too.

  I smile and hang back, wondering if he's going to botch things, but the woman's holding a Manhattan in one hand and tilting her head back in full, open-mouthed laughs. Eric's in his early 30s, and if I had to guess, he probably hasn't been laid in years. Maybe tonight will be his lucky fucking night.

  "Like what you see?" a voice asks.

  I turn my gaze and come face-to-face with a woman like no other, wearing a tight black dress and shoulder-length blonde hair that cascades down the sides of her face like a river of fucking gold.

  The woman who Eric's flirting with doesn't even compare to the one standing in front of me. This one would fucking stop traffic on the Lincoln Tunnel, or even on the Long Island Expressway.

  She prods me further before I have a chance to speak. "You don't recognize me, do you?" A smile spreads across her lips, and I can tell she's having some fun with this.

  How do I know her?

  There's something vaguely familiar about her face. I'm searching my brain and hoping this isn't going to be a repeat of the incident at the bank. Yesterday, I went in to make a withdraw and a woman says the same fucking thing, that I don't recognize her, but of course she poses it as a question, and when I shake my head no she says, "You should, because you fucked me."

  She said it loud enough, and let me tell you, it turned some fucking heads at the bank.

  Now here I am, looking at this new woman standing in front of me. I'm eyeing her up and down. She's young. I'm guessing early 20s. Her face has delicate features … wait, this can't be. "Natalie?"

  "Bingo."

  "What brings you here?"

  Now my head's really fucking spinning. I haven't seen her since ...

  "I heard about your new acquisition, and wanted to say congratulations. It's all over the news."

  "You came all the way over here just to say that? Isn't it easier to send an email?" I grin.

  Not that I'm complaining that she's here, but it's a legitimate question.

  "Email is so … yesterday," she smiles. Seems like she's full of secrets too. God, she looks just like her mother. "Besides, it's been a few years," she continues.

  That's a conservative estimate. It feels like a lifetime ago. Almost another life completely.

  "How have you been, and your stepbrother, Sloane?"

  "You can drop the forced niceties. You and Sloane were never close … none of us were. Even Mom divorced you quicker than any of us predicted. We were never much of a family."

  "That's harsh."

  "It's the truth and you know it. But if you must know, Sloane hasn't changed, scandalous as always."

  I laugh and ask, "How old are you now … 24?" I can't help but notice how much more mature she looks now. She's not the kid—braces and unruly hair—that I remember. She's a woman, a young, beautiful
woman. Holy fuck.

  "Close," she replies. "25. A stepdad should know these things."

  "You look good," I say, ignoring the dig.

  "Not as good as Ms. Legs over there, right?" she laughs, changing the subject and pointing back to Eric and the girl he's trying fuck tonight.

  I start to shake my head, but she continues, "Oh come on. Don't be shy. I saw you staring."

  "I'm many things, but shy isn't one of them," I say, for what I realize is the second time tonight. I bring my drink to my lips and take a sip, letting the warmth simmer in my throat. My eyes lock on hers.

  She holds my gaze, changing the atmosphere around us. "Is that so?" she asks.

  Her words are posed as a question, but they tumble from her lips like a dare. I'm instantly made aware of the shape of her slender neck, and her pulse fluttering there. I'm aware of her intoxicating smell—like a ripe garden on the edge of a salty ocean. I'm aware of her lips, plump and moist, and slightly parted.

  I clear my throat.

  "Ms. Legs has nothing on you," I say, daring her back, my eyes traveling from her bare shoulders down to the mounds of her tits, and I think about sliding my cock between that dark and secret crevice of hers. I shouldn't be thinking about her like this, but I can't help it. There's electricity in the air—something that makes me feel protective and possessive at the same time. My cock is throbbing. It has its own fucking pulse at this point.

  Can she guess what I'm thinking? She takes a step closer, an instant magnetism drawing us together. I try to change the subject. She's my fucking stepdaughter, I try to reason with myself.

  "So, what do you do these days?" I ask.

  "I make sex toys."

  I nearly choke on my drink. What did she just say? So much for changing the subject.

  "Don't look so surprised," she coos. "I've always liked … sex," she says this with a slow emphasis, staring directly into my eyes, "and these toys take it to a whole new level."

  "And what level is that?" I ask. Her eyes are like the deepest part of the ocean, and I feel myself sinking into them.

  She smiles. "Let's just say that by embracing technology, no woman is walking away … dry."

  Now she really has my undivided attention, and she knows it. She steps closer, placing her delicate hand on my arm and she leans into my ear.

  She parts her lips and whispers, "It simulates like no other," and when she drags the 's' out of the word 'simulates' an electric current travels down my fucking spine.

  "That sounds … interesting." My eyes flash at hers.

  "It's even more interesting in action," she smiles, dragging one finger across one of my legs. My cock pulses at the thrill of her closeness.

  "How much more?" I ask, a grin forming on my lips.

  "Would you like to find out?"

  As she asks this, I picture her hips in my hands, and my mouth on her neck. I picture a nipple pinched between my teeth. I have an entire movie scene playing out in my head … one directed by my throbbing fucking cock.

  "I'd like to learn more about your … business," I say. "Let's meet for dinner tomorrow. I'll have a driver pick you up."

  "I'm sure you will."

  "What does that mean?"

  She steps closer again and delicately hooks one finger in the pocket of my pants. She asks, "Is he going to …" and then she pauses, looking down at my belt buckle, "GPS me … right here?"

  I know exactly where her eyes land.

  Natalie

  Drake 'The Shark’ Carlton—now there’s a man I haven't thought about in a long time. It’s not every day you get to meet your stepdad, after all. And what a good turn of events that was … He looks better in person than in all the pictures I've seen of him.

  Despite being ten years older than me, there’s still a rugged youthfulness to him, and his frame makes him look like he belongs on a football field instead of in a boardroom. He’s much taller than me—taller than I expected—and I had to do a double take before I realized exactly who he was.

  It was supposed to be a regular night out—dinner at the 21 Club, and then drinks somewhere else, when he showed up in his tailored suit, looking like he stepped out from a Hollywood set. I had heard about his latest acquisition, and I decided to approach him. His eyes roamed over my body eagerly, and I could tell there and then that he wanted me. I know, I know… he’s my stepdad, and so that’s supposed to be weird; but, hell, I wanted him at least as much as he wanted me. I’m not saying that I want this fantasy to turn into reality, but when you have a man like that in front of you it’s not like you can think rationally, right?

  I can’t tell if he was more interested in me or in my company, though, if I’m being perfectly honest. But whatever it was, I agreed to have dinner with him. No, don’t look at me like that; nothing is going to happen between us. I mean, he’s my stepdad, for God’s sake!

  I’m still thinking of him when the elevator stops on my floor, and the doors slide open with that old ding. I go for my door, but I have to use both hands to slide the key inside its slit; I guess I’ve had a few too many drinks at 21, and I’m still feeling a bit tipsy.

  I’ve just stepped foot inside my apartment, purse slung over one shoulder, when my cell phone starts to ring. I take it out of my back pocket and raise one eyebrow as I see Sloane’s photo and name splashed on the screen.

  What the hell’s going on? Seems like today’s Family Day. First I run face to face with stepdad, and now my stepbrother’s calling me? It almost seems like we all get along all of a sudden. Yeah, right.

  “And how’s my favorite sister?” Sloane says the moment I pick up his call. I haven’t heard his voice in a while, and I had almost forgot how sexy he sounds when he’s not being an asshole, which is pretty much all the time.

  “What do you want, Sloane?” I ask him, throwing my purse on the couch and sitting down by its side.

  “That hurts, ‘sis. Can’t a guy call his sister just to see how she’s doing?” he starts, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he doesn’t care if I see right through his nice guy facade.

  “I know you, Sloane. You’re not the kind of guy to make small talk, so let’s have it. Why are you calling me?” I ask him again, but my sixth sense tells me that it has something to do with my company. I guess my success did more than impress the whole world; it impressed my family. And you don’t impress my family easily, that much I can tell you.

  “I want us to have lunch,” he says, his voice changing to an all-business, no-bullshit, tone. “I want to discuss your company. Dirty ‘Lil Demons, right?”

  “Dirty ‘Lil Angels,” I correct him. “But speak of the Devil,” I chuckle, distractedly playing with one stray lock of blonde hair. “I just ran into Drake, and he wanted to talk about my company as well.”

  “Fucking Drake,” Sloane hisses, more to himself than to me. There’s no love lost between these two, that’s for sure. I never really got Sloane’s hateful attitude toward our stepdad, but whatever; it’s not like our family is a close-knit one. After my mom and Drake divorced, I guess that whatever bond existed between all of us kinda vanished.

  “What did he want?” Sloane asks me, and I know he won’t like my reply one bit.

  “Well, I actually agreed to have dinner with him to talk about my company, so there’s that.”

  “Just tell him to fuck off, will ya? And have lunch with me. I can promise you that having dinner with him won’t be half as interesting as having lunch with me, ‘sis. You can take that to the fucking bank.”

  Oh, I seriously doubt that, sweet brother, I think to myself, replaying in my head the way Drake’s eyes seemed to devour my body.

  “That’s not really fair, is it? I have to meet Drake; I told him I’d do it. But we can agree on having dinner the next night, what do you think?”

  “Fine,” he grunts, still not happy about the fact that I’m having dinner with our stepdad. According to my mom, these two always butted heads for everything, and now I guess they’
re butting heads over me. Men, right? “Let me know when and where, and I’ll be there,” he finishes off, and then ends the call without waiting for my reply. I guess some things never change—an asshole once, an asshole always.

  That feeling that things are about to change for good creeps in again, and now I become positive about it. Running into Drake, and now Sloane’s call… Something’s definitely afoot, and I’m pretty sure that both my fate and my company’s is intertwined with what's looming on the horizon. Maybe they’re looking to invest, and if that’s the case… Well, with a few million in my pocket it’d be a matter of months until I dominated the whole sex toys industry. Maybe weeks.

  But I simply can’t focus on business right now. Although I’m good at crunching numbers, it’s no use if I don’t know what their intentions are. But let’s be real for a second; the real reason I can’t focus on business is because my mind is busy with other things. Other dirty things.

  Yeah, one’s my stepdad and the other’s my stepbrother. I read the memo, hun, I’m aware of all that. It’s taboo; it’s sinful, blah, blah, blah. Do you need me to say it again? It’s not like I want it to happen. It’s just fun to think about. And a little fun never hurt anyone, right?

  I look at my work table, grab one of the prototype vibrator bullets, and then sink into the couch. What? As far as I know, daydreaming isn’t a sin.

  Sloane

  Honestly, the spy that I have in Drake’s administrative assistant pool has paid for herself so many times over; it's insane. I mean, I’m smart about it. Don’t get me wrong. I usually only contact her a few times a month. Tell her what I’m interested in, or what I’m looking for.

  Really, the spy is more of a way of making sure Drake doesn’t do anything crazy trying to get back at me or bring me into the fold.

  You want to know who she is don't you?

  I mean, it doesn't matter so I guess I can tell you. Her name is CJ and she works for Drake Carlton. On the side, she spies for me. I pay pretty handsomely.