I asked myself the very same question right before I showed up here. The answer is I want to feed myself false hope that I’m getting better. For six months, I’ve been coming here once a week—sometimes twice depending on my work schedule—trying to get help for my anger issues and the shit-ton of other issues I have.
Realization hits me—I’m a broken wheel on its way to destruction. All I want to do is get fucked up. Jack Daniel and tequila have been my best friends since I was sixteen years old, but my drinking has been heavier than usual. I’d give up my left nut for a drop of alcohol right now.
My life consists of pussy, alcohol, and work.
Repeat.
But I know I can’t keep living my life like this. Especially after last week when I almost got a DWI. When a female cop pulled me over and asked me to blow into a breathalyzer, I clutched my dick, shook it at her, and told her to blow. Her answer was to slap handcuffs on my wrists, and I ended up spending the night in the slammer. Luckily, my friend, Logan, a criminal lawyer, got me off the hook. Whatever illegal shit he did, I didn’t care. We work on a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, so if shit hits the fan and he gets caught, I won’t be incriminated for it.
“You know why I’m here.” My tone is still flat.
We both know I’m not talking about my drinking problem or my anger issue.
“I can’t help you if you don’t try to help yourself.”
“Point taken,” I say, stand from the couch, straighten out my Tom Ford black slacks, and stroll to the door. She grabs the disinfectant spray from her desk to spray the couch.
“I’ll see you next Friday. Be on time, please.”
I nod my head before the door clicks closed behind me.
Underwood Banking is in the middle of the Financial District next to Wall Street. Powerful men who shit more money than the US average salary pace up and down the sidewalk with their cell phones glued to their faces. By the time I swagger through the revolving doors of the thirty-story beige brick building with my last name attached, the pounding in my head has stopped and everything isn’t as loud. I tilt my head to Dexter and Waldo, both wearing navy-blue suits with wires linked to their ears, and they straighten their backs and nod in return. They know better than to ask me to empty out my pockets and show my work badge before entering.
As usual, I’m late for work. I’ve never been a punctual person and never will be. I’m supposed to be here at seven in the morning, but I manage to drag my ass in at nine or ten. When you run your own multibillion-dollar company, you can do whatever the fuck you want.
Right before I reach my private elevator, Donna, the receptionist, takes a seat at her desk. Her glasses are slightly crooked, and she’s wearing her striped blouse inside out. She’s an older woman with silver hair and wrinkling, blotchy skin. A few years back, she got struck by lightning, and it affected her mentally. Her speech is slurred, and she can’t remember what day it is. I should fire her, but I won’t because this is her only source of income. When I tried to convince her to stay home and I’ll pay her bills, she wouldn’t let me. She’s as stubborn as a mule. Donna has been working for me for seven years now. She was one of the first employees I hired when my bank was small, so she’s practically family. Call me a fucking Boy Scout all you want, but I enjoy helping people—especially women and kids. There’s no reason for me to have a shit-ton of money and not give some back to the world.
“Th-thanks for allowing me to s-stick my g-g-granddaughter in the daycare,” Donna says. “I-I don’t know where my t-tramp of a d-daughter is.” I have an in-house daycare on the second floor, that way my employees don’t have to worry about finding a babysitter.
“You’re welcome, beautiful.” I point to her blouse. “Your shirt is inside out again.”
“G-gosh d-darn it, this is the th-third time this week th-this happened.”
She grabs her cane and limps to the restroom. When I head to the private elevator, my employees bomb-rush to me, greeting me like I’m a fucking celebrity. It annoys the hell out of me on most days because all I want is to be left the hell alone.
“Gunner, is there any update on the new computer system change?”
I don’t know, check with the IT department.
“Are we still having the annual summer party?”
Ask Mandy, she’s in charge of hosting parties.
“The system is down in the marketing department.”
Check with the IT department.
“Mr. Underwood!”
“Gunner!”
The elevator doors open. I step inside and tap the button, and it takes me to the thirtieth floor. As I open the glass door, Gia sits at my sister’s old desk. Raggedy purple headphones cover her ears, and her wavy, brunette hair falls over her shoulders like a waterfall as she sings off tune to a garbage current rock song.
FYI—rock music today is straight-up garbage. Eighties and nineties rock music is where it’s at. Legends were created during that era.
I stand in the arch of the doorway, admiring the beauty in front of me. Gia’s face is as beautiful as a sunset over the ocean when the sky bleeds orange. You want to stare at it all day. Whiskey eyes with specks of gold around the irises. She has a button nose and bee-stung lips, the bottom one slightly bigger, and her skin is as pale as Snow White’s.
Is she wearing the black dress that hugs her tits and makes her ass look good enough to bite? The one I fantasize about fucking her in—the one that makes my dick go hard in my slacks?
When she shoots me hate glares from across the room, my dick gets even harder. I want to flip her over the desk and fuck her until she’s begging me to stop. I try to discreetly adjust myself.
Gia’s the fuck who got away. I wanted to fuck her in college, but she’d never give me the time of day. I’d stalk her when she was working at the library and she would not utter one word to me. At first, I thought she was mute until I saw her speaking to one of her coworkers.
Nothing has really changed about her; she hides her personality under cheap clothing, and she wears her emotions on her sleeve like armor as if she’s ready for battle. Mingling with people is her least favorite thing—when we have our Thursday morning meet-and-greets in the conference room, Gia sits in the corner by herself playing on her phone. When workers try to have a conversation with her, she only gives them one- or two-word answers, but when I speak to her, she bites down on her bottom lip, like she wants to say something smart. Gia doesn’t strike me as the type to do one-night stands or indulge in fucking without strings attached. She has this innocent and pure demeanor to her that tells me she hasn’t been properly fucked by a guy.
Don’t let me get started on how she sucks at her job—she sends the wrong flowers to my ma, books wrong meetings, and almost sent my ma and her husband to Georgia. Not the state, but the country.
The only real reason why I keep her around is that when I interviewed her, she was hungry for the job. The rest of the interviewees were interested in more than the job. They were interested in me feasting on their pussy.
My sister, Alana, was my last PA, and she worked for me for about seven years. She was on her A-game, and so far, no one has been as good as her.
When Gia stands up from the desk to lean over the printer, my eyes drink in her creamy legs up to her curvy, ripe ass. It’s like staring at a forbidden fruit. What kind of panties is she wearing? Probably some dark color that matches her dress.
Gia turns around and stops dead in her tracks, scrunching up her button nose.
Fuck me.
My balls feel like they are about to explode. The hem stops above her knee, and she’s wearing black knee-high socks. Rainbow looks like heaven wrapped in cheap clothing.
How can she be sexy without trying to be?
“I printed out your schedule for today and set it on your desk. You need anything?” Her voice is alluring, soothing my ears, like a siren.
Yeah, hop on the desk, spread your legs, and let me eat your pussy.
“Um, okay,” Rainbow says, her almond-shaped eyes narrow.
“Grab something to eat while you’re out.”
“Thank you,” she murmurs, clutching her purse and slinging it over her shoulder.
As she marches past me, the smell of fresh apples filters through my nose. This is what forbidden innocence smells like.
When I march to my desk, I slouch in my brown leather seat, glancing at the time on my computer. It’s eleven-thirty a.m. So I have three hours to kill until I have my conference call with my CFO, Mason. In the meantime, I can get my dick sucked by a woman I met last night at the club. I grab my iPhone from my breast pocket and tap the letter N in the contacts. She can keep me from fucking Gia.
Me: Come to my office and suck my dick.
I serve her a cold plate of straight-to-the-point, that way she won’t get it in her skull I’m the type to take home to meet Mommy and Daddy. No, not me. I’m quite the opposite.
N: B there in 20.
Me: Ok.
I set my phone on my desk, kick up my loafers, and wait.
Gia
After lunch, I take my sweet time getting back to the office. I stopped by Patsy’s on Fifty-Sixth Street, my favorite Italian restaurant, and filled my stomach with spaghetti and meatballs, then I stopped by Staples and bought colored pens on his credit card. I feel guilty for spending his money.
I hang his dry cleaning on the hook on the door in his spacious bathroom. Shaking my head, I set Gunner’s Rolex, worth more than my yearly salary, and his credit card on the glass desk and park my butt on the velvet couch pushed against the glass wall.
“Fix this mess, Mason. I don’t care how you do it.” Gunner speaks through the Bluetooth and a vein pops hard from his neck. He leans forward in his executive chair, stabbing the glass desk with his thick index finger.
Gunner is the type of man who, if he wants something, he doesn’t ask—he takes. Working for him taught me one thing, he likes control and power. He rips shareholders’ heads off in meetings like it’s his favorite cheap thrill. God forbid, if he thinks you’re a threat to his company, he’ll swallow you whole and spit you out.
Craig, the owner of Spencer Banking, a swanky man and a nose-picker with white patches decorating his face (the guy was as creepy as the Crypt-Keeper), thought it would be a good idea to mess with Gunner.
Gunner leaked to the media that Craig was screwing over shareholders, stealing money from his board members and employees. The news spread faster than a wildfire. Like the wolf Gunner is, he left Craig so broke he went from living in a million-dollar mansion to living in a studio apartment with his mom who suffered from dementia. To put the nail in the coffin for ruining the poor guy’s life, Gunner screwed his wife. Once you’re on Gunner’s hit list it’s a wrap, he’s going for blood.
In the banking world, Underwood Banking is his territory, and if you’re pissing on it prepare to get devoured like prey.
Gunner is the wolf of banks.
“Get Frank on the fucking phone. We need to clear this matter right now. Or I’m pulling my goddamn ten million off the table.”
He stands up from the desk, his black Italian loafers slapping against the black carpet, and he thrusts his thick fingers through his damp hair.
Why is his hair wet?
He’s changed from his gray suit he was wearing earlier to a black Armani without a tie. When I inhale a lungful of air, it smells weird—like expensive perfume that isn’t mine, and booty? Maybe?
What is that godawful smell? I wave my hand in front of my face.
I stare at Gunner’s face like the answer is written on it.
He has flushed cheeks, swollen lips, and messy hair. (Though his hair is always messy so that doesn’t count.)
Then it hits me like a ton of bricks.
On this couch. Just no. Eww.
He’s so gross.
I jump from the couch like my butt is on fire and sit in the black plastic chair in front of his desk. Gunner cocks his bushy eyebrow.
“All right. I better have a full report by five o’clock.”
Exhaling, he plucks the Bluetooth piece from his ear and sets it on the desk, and mumbles, “Fuck,” under his breath. That little word causes my stomach to clench.
“You had sex in here!” I say incredulously.
“What?” Guilt slices through his face.
“That’s why you gave me a buttload of errands to run, you got some booty.”
He sits on the edge of his desk looking like sex in a suit. Men wearing suits were never my jam—I always had a libido for guys from the blue-collar crowd—but the way the suit hugs his biceps is making my vagina jump for joy, and the way his ironed black slacks look around his waist with a leather belt makes me want to melt in a puddle.
“If you’re not next in line to suck my dick, I suggest you stay the fuck outta my business.” His voice is cold, and I swallow hard. I bet you a whole dollar my cheeks turn fifty shades of pink.
I tilt my chin in the air, inhaling. “You smell that?”
“Smell what?”
“It’s me slapping you with a sexual harassment suit.” My threat is as dead as a doorknob, but he doesn’t need to know that.
“The moment you sue me is the day hell will freeze over.”
“How so?”
“Because under your hateful glares, you’re starving for my dick.”
I want to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. “Whatever. I wouldn’t touch you if you were a cure to a disease I had.” The lie rolls off my tongue, and I twirl the strand of hair that floats in front of my forehead with my index finger.
“Liar.” His gaze clings to mine. “I fucked enough women to know when one wants my cock. When you look at me your eyes are begging for it.”
I stare down at the carpet. What can I say? I can’t lie anymore. Every time I’m around him my ovaries are on fire, ready to explode.
“If you got fucked properly on a regular basis, you wouldn’t walk around with a stick up your rainbow ass.”
Gunner doesn’t have any filters. I’m not offended because he’s the type to tell you if your poop stinks and if he doesn’t like you.
That’s just part of his personality. Last week, he asked Mason, during a business lunch meeting, if he dipped his toothbrush in crap because his mouth smelled like butthole.
“Don’t worry, we won’t be having any hanky-panky. Fucking my employee is as appealing as shoving my dick in a vise.” Before giving me time to respond, he reaches over his clean desk and hands me a brown folder with a stack of papers. “Make a copy of this orientation package for the new HR manager.”
Without a word, I head to the copy room located on the nineteenth floor where most of the employees have already gone home. Gunner likes to keep me after hours.
Four copy machines are pushed against the gray wall with a white dry-erase board above the paper station. Thankfully, the room is empty, and I don’t have to deal with other people. I’m not in the mood to hear about the latest office gossip.
My phone rings, and I grab it from the pocket of my dress. My landlord’s name flickers across the cracked screen. It’s odd for Jacob to call me during this time of the day. I just paid rent so there is no real reason for him to be calling.
“Hey, Jacob.” I juggle the phone between my ear and shoulder while lifting the lid to the machine, resting a sheet of paper face down, and closing it. The machine hums as it spits out freshly inked paper.
“I have some terrible news.” His voice is gravelly from years of smoking. I can practically smell the nicotine through the phone.
Swallowing hard, I place the paper back into the folde
r.
“You have a week to find a place to live. The new owner is knocking down the building.”
Is he serious? Please tell me I’m on Punk’d, and Ashton Kutcher is about to jump out and shove cameras down my throat.
“Is this a joke?”
“I’m afraid not.” He exhales loudly.
“And you couldn’t have told me earlier?” I screech through gritted teeth. My anger bites at me like a hippo chomping on food.
“Listen, you’re not the only tenant living here, Gallagher. I have a very sick mom who’s dying from cancer. Not everything is about you!”
The phone line goes dead, and I stare at it for a few moments, trying to fathom what the heck just happened. I want to bawl my eyes out. This week can’t get any worse. Where will I live? How am I going to find a new place in under a week?
My apartment might not be the best place in the world, but it’s still my home. When I first rented it, it was the first step of independence from my ex. It was a big F-you to him that I can survive on my own without help from him. He can no longer break my heart by feeding me empty promises.
I was proud I was able to get something on my own. Not only was it a place for me to live, it was my sanctuary.
No matter what I do, I can’t catch a break. I take two steps forward, and I get knocked back a step.
Before I enter Gunner’s office, I school my features and put on my best poker face. I set the thick paperwork on his desk and turn on my heels. I stomp to my desk and lay my head down while tears rush down my cheeks.
I don’t have family I can move in with. My mom was a prostitute and got T-boned by an eighteen-wheeler when I was a baby. She died on impact. According to my mom’s old friend, Petra, who died from AIDS a few years ago, my dad was one of her johns.
My childhood was as lovely as eating flour. I bounced around from foster home to foster home and then three group homes. When I turned eighteen the state kicked me out into the real world with no survival skills. I had to learn how to raise myself.
Chasing Gunner Page 2
