Take Me Over: A Protector Enemies-to-Lovers Romance

by Summer Brooks

  "Perish the thought," he said. "Why don't you—uh..." One look at my guards and he’d understood just how out of his league he was. "Why don't you come on in. My secretary and I were just discussing the transition. I'm sure you'd love to meet her."

  I forced a grin just to ease the tension. "Oh, you have no idea..."

  This was it. The moment that I'd been waiting for all those years.

  8

  Victoria

  It felt like a cold chill slithering up the length of my spine and gripping each individual vertebra with a sandpaper skinned python. My heart banged in my chest like a jackhammer on concrete. My palms sweat and my feet nearly tremored their mismatching shoes to the floor as my legs swung in wait.

  The rest of me was waiting as well. I never thought that so much discomfort could be compacted in such a narrow span of time.

  I'd heard Brenton's voice from just outside the door. It was unmistakable, now that it'd surfaced to the forefront of my mind and waded alongside my every thought like a river bend beside my consciousness—rolling its rapids to chaotic effect through the shoreline of my life.

  I wasn't sure what I was going to say. I didn't know what he would say. All I knew was that if I'd been made to wait even a second longer, I may very well have imploded right there in my seat—with nothing left in aftermath but the chunks of my regret and embarrassment.

  I was a mess.

  I didn’t expect to see him again.

  I'd hoped and all at once feared it more than my last breath.

  "Vicky," Luthor said, still feigning his niceties with the man who'd been every bit his superior. "There's someone that I'd like you to meet."

  There was no comparing them—by any fair parameters. Yes, Luthor was the esteemed heir to a family fortune. A powerful man, though maggot-like and despicable. He'd never know what our lives were like. He'd never understand what the average person thought, or felt, or pined for. All the world was to him was playpen in which to spread his dying seed.

  That wasn't Brenton.

  Despite what the news had reported—and social media subsequently ran with—I knew that Brenton wasn't the entitled monster that they'd made him out to be. I knew that, beneath his tough exterior, lay the heart of a prince and the empathy of a saint. Unlike the many powerful men that I'd met in my life, to that point, Brenton gave a damn—whether he wanted to admit it or not.

  He used to talk to me about his dream of making the world a better place and bringing some semblance of joy to the bewildered masses and their offspring. He wanted to make this big blue rock better, stronger, unified.

  They were the goals of a child and soon after he'd become well-known, that particular narrative fell to the wayside.

  Rather than prop himself up for political office (a position he could've easily won), he embraced the persona of the "bad-boy" —banging his way through half of Hollywood and showing off his mixed martial arts skills at every public opportunity.

  It won him the younger generation. Most others scoffed at his immaturity.

  I didn't buy it. Not for a second.

  I knew with every bone in my body that he'd still been that kind teenager who'd never kissed a girl. He'd still been that brainy optimist.

  That was the man that I met at the bar the previous night. The Dr. Jekyll to his media friendly Mr. Hyde. That was the real him.

  "Hello, Victoria," Brenton said.

  I just hoped that he remembered me too.

  "Brenton!" I started—trying to sound non-plus and professional (all the while feeling myself open up). I shot out of my chair with fawn legs and adjusted my "second-chance" pants suit to hide any rolls of fat that may have escaped. "It's so good to see you again."

  He strolled in like Luthor and I had been unwelcome guests is his home. By the end of that business day, the demeanor would've been warranted.

  He'd worn a pair of sunglasses indoors—likely to cover up his antics from the night before. But, his cheeks were a bit less puffy and, rather than bourbon, he smelled of vanilla and cocoa.

  Every bit of him was like a pristine cappuccino—poured from a diamond chalice and into the electric figure that made up his entire existence. He was gorgeous. Almost prettier than any man should be.

  "It's nice to see you again, Victoria," he said, as cold a judge. "I had no idea that you worked here."

  "Yes," Luthor interrupted. "Ol' Vicky here has been my secretary for about five years..."

  "Seven..." I corrected and was answered by a momentary hush in the room.

  Luthor jumped in—either to save me or himself from a quiet humiliation, I couldn't be sure. "So, you guys have met before?"

  "A long time ago," Brenton said as he ignored my offered handshake. It was like I was a stranger to him.

  Suddenly, the glass wall that stood thirty-seven stories above the ground, seemed more tempting. I dropped my head and lowered myself back into the chair—defeated and altogether lost.

  "School?" Luthor asked.

  "College," Brenton began his pace around the office. He didn't look impressed.

  Luthor's primary desk was strategically placed in the corner of the room—several feet in front a twenty-foot conference table that was lined with leather seats. He'd organized it this way to ensure that he grabbed a majority of the attention whenever he held a meeting of importance.

  Luthor hadn't had one of those in months.

  Brenton slid his finger over the surface of the table and took a second to admire the layer of dust that it'd given him. "Cleaning lady off this week?" He snarked.

  "She's...uh..." Luthor pretended to check the time on his wristwatch. More so, it'd looked like he was just deciding on an excuse to flee the situation. "...They come around at about noon," he smiled. "Once you've gotten all set, you can change that time to whenever you'd like."

  Luthor trailed Brenton like a prom-date and leaned in to his ear, "Personally, I prefer never having to see them..."

  "Afraid to meet the help?" Brenton sniped. Much to Luthor's surprise. Clearly, Brenton had been one of the privileged few with whom Luthor's power-tactics had no effect. I would've enjoyed watching the two—if I wasn't so certain that the day was to end with my forced resignation.

  "Nothing so cruel..." Luthor continued. "Just never saw the point in involving myself with the plight of others. It's not my racket..."

  "What exactly is your racket, Luthor?" Brenton's voice turned, in an instant -- From pleasant farm-boy to the calculating mind behind SplitWire. He sounded as if he'd been personally backed by the devil. Had I known any better, I may have taken that deepened bass as a sign of horrible things to come...for Luthor.

  "I—Um..." he checked his watch again—looking like he was ready to piss himself. "Look at the time," he whined like a dying pig. "Vicky!"

  "Yes sir?"

  "What time was my meeting this morning?"

  There was no meeting. For the previous two-months, Luthor had preferred to handle all of his financial dealings at his condo in East Village. However, I'd known the code. He’d done the very same thing when the Feds had barged in, with a warrant, demanding answers.

  I knew what to do.

  "11:30, sir." The thing to do...was lie.

  "Jesus! I'd hate to be late on my very last day. Brenton..." He extended his hand for a shake. Brenton returned the gesture with a steely nod and a poke of his green eyes from behind his sunglasses—which looked like they cost a mortgage. "Very well then..." Luthor smiled.

  "No offense," Brenton said. "I just don't like being touched."

  As a woman who'd been more than just "touched" by Luthor—I couldn't blame Brenton's insistence on keeping the grime off of him. It was bad enough that he'd just left a six-inch finger mark on the office filth.

  "No worries," Luthor continued. "You must be hungry."

  "As a matter of fact, I could use something to eat. Know any place good?"

  For a second, I thought that I'd been off the hook.

  Luthor tilted his hea
d to the ceiling and fondled the bit of stubble that he'd let grow beneath his jowls. "None come to mind at the moment...but, I'm sure that Victoria here can help you out. Isn't that right, Vicky?"

  "B.B. King's is really good..." I said, almost too low to hear.

  "Right! B.B. King's!" Luthor intervened like it was his idea. I suspected that similar actions were how he'd amassed his fortune and collected a good deal of his powerful friends. "You'd love it..." The words sprang from his mouth like he was giddy school-girl trying to impress the school quarterback. "Live music. Good food. Amazing atmosphere. You should check it out."

  "Maybe, I will." Brenton moved his gaze to me and I felt my insides seize like I'd been flash frozen. "Anyone care to join me?"

  "Vicky would love to." Luthor leered at me. To his gaze and in the presence of the two men who'd then controlled my life, I submitted to it. Hating myself every step of the way.

  Waiting for permission to speak.

  I was nothing but a prop to him.

  "Wouldn't you, Vicky?"

  "Yes..." I answered—still buried deep between my shoulders.

  "Wonderful," Brenton smiled and returned his attention to the man who'd been swooning him. It was like my time was just another one of their transactions. "I've just got to drop off some things at my hotel...Victoria?"

  "Yes, Brenton..."

  "I'll pick you up in a half-hour. Sound good?"

  "Sounds fine."

  He left the room not a moment later—still avoiding Luthor's touch like the plague and surveying the office space as he exited.

  It was the third time that Brenton Fox had walked out of my life and left me in near shambles.

  Luthor made it a point to close and lock the door behind him—chuckling to himself as he did.

  9

  Victoria

  "Interesting," Luthor said. The sprigs and gears in his mind had been visibly turning as he continued to finger his dangling stubble. "...Very interesting."

  "How you barter my time, like it's yours to give," I snapped. "Yeah...that is very interesting."

  "Oh, shut up...I'm thinking." He spun away from the door like Lucifer after he'd been ousted from hell. His eyes had taken on that same lowered gaze that I'd first seen him make at the beginning—back when I was still innocent and relatively free of his grasp.

  I knew that it couldn't have been anything good.

  "Thinking? About what?" I said—afraid that I'd already known his answer.

  He slithered into one of the conference chairs and dropped an elbow onto its surface—smearing his suit-jacket with that same layer of dust that Brenton had been unimpressed with. Cupping his chin with his pointer finger and thumb, he continued. "Didn't you see the way that he was looking at you?" He started. "That guy is fucking hooked!"

  My initial response was nothing, if not, pure joy at the illumination of a fact that I'd been oblivious.

  To me, Brenton had shown no special attention other that the acknowledgement of my existence. The possibility that he'd have wanted anything to do with me at all filled me with the kind of hope that I hadn't known in years.

  Though, I could have done without its messenger.

  "What's your point?" I snarled back—hoping that it would deter Luthor from whatever plan he'd been hatching.

  "My point!" He shot. "Is that, that curvy little figure of yours might just save all of our asses." Suddenly, it was like he'd no longer been a mortal man, but rather, an agent of wretchedness—lustful at the thought of his latest damned machination. "If we can get him to play ball..."

  "No!" I interrupted. "You promised me that this would never get bigger than where it's gotten. You're willing to let an innocent man get tangled up in your bullshit!"

  "Easy, sweetheart," he slithered. "I'm just contemplating..." He emerged from the conference chair—newly invigorated with mounting thoughts of saving his own ass. To some extent, he looked as happy as a grandparent on Christmas—his grin glowing from his sun-crusted wrinkles. "Do you have a problem with that?"

  I did.

  "No," I answered. "I just want to be done, Luthor. I need to be done. I don't get any sleep as it is."

  He walked over to me like a ballerina—light on his feet and donning that same curling smile as if I was still his tempered muse.

  When he arrived behind me, I knew what'd been coming next. It was always his goal to seem like the victim when he, in fact was the mastermind behind every single one of his own problems. He'd orchestrated them in such a way that he himself could have held the noose and been seen as a blameless participant.

  It's how he got me.

  "Shh...Shh...Shh..." He craned his hands over my shoulders and pressed them lightly—clamping them down into my chair. I still wasn’t sure what it was about him that made me weak. I knew that it was no longer the same "old-man" attraction that first tempted me into his bedroom. It hadn't been that for quite some time. Though, he'd tried.

  Rather, it was like being pinned down by a two-ton weight and offered the chance to breathe...should I have complied.

  "Relax, Vicky," he slithered. "We're just talking. Just trying to figure this whole thing out."

  He circled his thumbs into the divot of my shoulders and pressed ever-harder. It felt less like the calming massage that he presented and more like the seconds before he wrapped his fingers around my neck and squeezed until my skin turned pale and my heart stopped beating.

  It wouldn't have been the first time.

  "Just think about it. If we can get him to play ball, that means, there's no case." He painted the picture in the air with his fingers—as if he was some kind of magical maestro—flicking and zinging them about like they added some depth to his words. I knew the truth. He was scared shitless and hiding his panic; hoping that I'd play along.

  I'd have been a lie to say that I wasn't interested, but at the same time, I was far from okay fucking over that man yet again.

  But I couldn't tell Luthor that.

  I couldn't let it be known.

  So, I was forced to listen.

  "If you continue on, moving the revenue, despite my direct involvement, then it means that the jury has got no case. The district attorney will have to move mountains to explain the expedition of millions while having me in their custody."

  "Get your hands off me." I swat him away, like the fly he was. An ever-present annoyance in the receding tide that was my life back then. "They'll still think it's me!" My head spun around so quickly that my neck nearly snapped off of my body.

  "Shh...Shh...Shh..." He hushed. "Keep your voice down and relax." He slid into the seat beside me. "As far as they're concerned, your only involvement, in any of this, is with me." His eyes wriggled in their sockets like a dozen caterpillars bursting from their cocoons. He zoned in on me.

  Bartering my life.

  Gambling my future.

  Again.

  For years, I'd been helping him "clean" any and all "dirty money" he'd earned—filtering each and every cent through MossCorp's grand holding, liquifying the equity, and dispersing the money as ordered.

  Simply put, Luthor had been breaking the law. When I'd first found out about his under the table dealings, I pretended to be none the wiser. Just another dumb little sheep in his herd—hoping not to piss off the shepherd. That lasted all of a month.

  He'd enticed me with his wealth, knowledge, and the knack he'd had for always seeming to be several steps ahead of the opposition. Our relationship, all those years ago, had equal parts genuine emotion and my own fascination with the almighty dollar.

  After our first date, ironically at B.B. King's, he'd made it a point to introduce the concept of "unapproved income". The conversation went surprisingly well. He'd painted himself as this sort of Robin Hood figure—stealing from the wealthy and giving back to his company and all of their subsidiaries.

  He called it the price of doing business.

  I would later learn that, for transactions such as his nefarious ones, there would
be no receipt. The only piece of paper that a history like that would receive is a warrant—attached to some definite jail time—just for knowing what it was that you’d done wrong.

  In the end, it turned out that Luthor—the self-proclaimed Robin Hood—had gone rogue.

  He'd long ago stopped funneling his dirty profit back to the company—and the various good that their subsidiaries had done. Rather, he'd been using upwards of fifty-million dollars a year to further enrich himself and to indulge in the lavishness that he would flaunt and claim innocence.

  I was innocent. I was blameless the first time. For every time afterward, however, I deserved no mercy, no opportunity to repent.

  When we had our final falling out because I'd refused to continue sleeping with such a grotesque man, he decided that my time was worth buying, as opposed to pulling at the few heart-strings that I'd ever allowed him to touch.

  With the flick of a pen, half of my debt was gone—nearly $100,000 in student loans and the mounting credit issue that had arisen while trying to keep afloat.

  The wages at MossCorp were competitive—but only if you'd planned (as so many did) to spend the remainder of your days cooped up in their bullpen and inching your way toward financial independence in the form of retirement.

  Needless to say, that paycheck twice a month was barely enough to keep me above the red line of bankruptcy.

  Luthor's proposition would prove to alleviate that fear—in the form of some additive income that was, in all honesty, some of the easiest money that I'd ever made.

  But everything comes with a price.

  He continued—trying not to sound like he needed me as badly as I knew he did. Brenton would never buy his line of crap. Not from him, at least. From me, however, it was possible.

  "All that it'd take is a little coercion and perhaps some happy play time in his bedroom," Luthor said, sounding like he'd been talking a baby lamb to sleep. The devil always likes to hide behind the mask of a blameless face.