The Barrett Brothers Collection

by K B Cinder

  “Hardy har har!” scoffed Lee, throwing her head back in mock laughter.

  “I'm serious!” snapped Monica, planting her hands on her narrow hips. “You two are impossible to work with!”

  “You take yourself way too seriously...” muttered Lee, slumping further into her seat. “Lighten up, LaFleur.”

  “Look, I didn't choose to be the leader! I earned it!” Monica pointed an accusing finger, the painted talon aimed straight at Lee.

  “You stuck lead sales assistant in your email signature and appointed yourself queen of the castle!” Lee shot back.

  Honesty wasn't on Monica's palate for the day, so she dropped into her seat without another word, a loud huff all she could muster.

  “So, is it me, or is he a total workplace distraction?” Lee asked in a rough whisper. “He shouldn’t be allowed in the parking lot. I might sideswipe a car or seven.”

  I shook my head with a smile. “Don't get me started...”

  “I know. I saw you staring.” Lee burst into giggles, signaling she was only teasing. “It's a shame all that sexy is packed into a grouch!”

  “You're telling me...” I trailed, opening my email to see that a fresh wave of complaints rolled in. “He got pissy over a lunch box.”

  I tucked my pride and joy in a drawer beside my handbag at its mentioning, not wanting him to circle back and declare war. Lee bought me the macabre piece years before, and it was my lunch date ever since. I didn’t want to risk losing it in battle.

  “But... he's not married.” Lee waved her very-occupied ring finger, the gold bands dazzling in the light.

  I rolled my eyes, not honoring her with a response. She was ridiculous, and she knew it.

  “I'm serious! He didn't have a ring!” she pushed.

  “That means nothing. Besides, I'm not interested in a grouch. No matter how sexy.”

  I wasn't speaking from experience, really. All the men I dated were nice guys until Justin. For all I knew, the brooding bad boy could live up to the hype. Just not that one.

  “Why? It could be fun!” she protested, bouncing her arched brows.

  I plucked an order from the top of the pile and slapped it to my desk. “Grouches are never fun.”

  Her lips pulled into a cartoonish grin. “You're fun.”

  I tossed a paperclip her way, stirring up more giggles. I was anything but fun since everything that happened, but I was glad my best friend thought so.

  * * *

  I barely touched the pile of entries when Marty pulled us in a meeting with Jason, cramming the entire office staff into the dingier of the conference rooms. I sat between Lee and an intern in the last row, trapped in a thick smog of recycled breath and clashing perfumes.

  Barrett spent a chunk of time detailing his years as the director of Croft Tampa and his goals for our branch, dropping figures I had never seen in Ithaca. He knew the business inside and out, a stark contrast from Steve and Marty as he rattled off targets and lines without missing a beat.

  While he was hardly pleasant in our interaction, he held my attention while everyone else tuned him out, a few of their scattered snores escaping. The long day had me tired, too, but having someone in charge with a clue was promising.

  I tracked trends for years, only to have it dismissed by the product department and management alike. They weren’t interested in what I had to say, but the lumbering jerk seemed to be someone who would.

  But like all things, the bliss didn’t last.

  He dove into a speech about expectations, mentioning how unprofessional it was to eat at our desks. While he didn't call me out by name, it was no secret who he was referring to thanks to his hard glare all but pointing a spotlight on me.

  Worse, he hit me with it throughout the meeting, and I wished I was sound asleep like the intern beside me, her head pressed against my shoulder as she snored away.

  I forced my attention to the wall behind him, each passing glance burning as he leaned against the speaking podium with crossed arms.

  When it was finally over, I was more than ready to flee, though our spot in the back meant we had to endure the shuffle of bodies like cattle while the room unloaded.

  Once we reached the freedom of the hallway, we were far behind anyone else and in no hurry to get back.

  “No wonder he's not taken,” grumbled Lee, letting out a ragged breath. “The man has the personality of toast.”

  She released her mane from its clip, the red curls spreading wildly down her back.

  I smiled. The guy desperately needed some zest. “Yup. Burnt toast.”

  “It sucks. He has all that sexy and no spunk. Obviously, he strictly engages in outercourse,” she continued. “What a waste.”

  “Definitely,” I agreed, still seething at his public finger-pointing. “Such a damn shame.”

  And it was. Nothing was worse than a good-looking guy with a turd sandwich personality. God knows I had already taken a huge bite of the biggest one, Justin Riker. I was still brushing that taste out of my mouth.

  “He probably thinks a cock ring is chicken jewelry!” Lee giggled. “Or that a clitoris is a type of flower.”

  “He’s a missionary only guy,” I mused. “One speed, no kissing, and definitely no whammies.”

  Jason

  Motherfucker.

  Another report showed a projected loss — the third straight in a row.

  I checked them over, hoping I made a typo, but nope, it was my new reality.

  Nightmare, really.

  It was supposed to be an easy gig — a six-month stint to oversee the branch while Corporate found a permanent replacement. It also was enough time for the national director to wrap up and hand the reins over.

  It wasn’t necessary to do Corporate the favor, but it’d look good and might come in handy. In our business, a small favor went a long way; a huge favor could be life-changing.

  The day was a disaster, starting with my dump of an office with my name misspelled as Barit on the door. I should have known an assload of problems was to come after that gem.

  My setup was a worn desk and faux-leather chair, potential visitors equipped with seats that appeared to be pillaged from a hospital waiting room, stains and all. If the branch manager’s office was a trash heap, it spoke volumes about the place.

  Once the shock wore off, I started Steve’s old laptop and tried to log in to no avail, ringing IT who didn’t respond. I settled in with my system instead, connecting to the server for my first in-depth look at the numbers. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the data poured in.

  Nate, a Corporate contact and longtime friend, mentioned things were slow, but nothing like the disaster flashing across the screen. There were no sales strategies, targets, or contracts — just a lot of what the fuck.

  Out of desperation, I pulled in the inside sales manager, Marty, hopeful for direction, but he met each question with a shrug.

  Nice guy.

  Funny at times.

  But fucking useless.

  I bounced from Marty to Melvin, the only IT person on-site, hoping he could get into Steve's system. I found him in the lobby with a doughnut in hand flipping through the sports section of the newspaper. He wasn’t eager to help but was easily persuaded with an old-fashioned do this, or you’re fired. By his swift exit with the laptop in tow, it was clear he couldn’t unlock it either.

  There were a lot of Melvins around the building — blank faces fixated on monitors with a spreadsheet up on one screen and solitaire on the other. It was a wonder the place hadn’t burned to the ground. If it had, there would have been a lot of idiots who cooked with it.

  Despite the deadweight strewn about, there were signs of life from the cheerful receptionist to a support cell I'd kill for in Tampa.

  The brunette blew me away — Elena Julian. She caught my eye from the moment I hit the sales floor. I studied the metrics for each department before going to meet everyone, and hers were more than impressive. She blew the others out of the water wit
h her minimal error rate and entries through the roof.

  I wanted to excuse her for a break after Marty mentioned everyone worked through lunch, but like everything else that day, it backfired. The words spewed out like a father scolding a child.

  I tried to right the wrong during the intro meeting, only to fuck up worse while attempting to make light of it. For someone who made a living smooth-talking, I was choking hard. But stress would do it to anyone. God knows I had more than enough to go around.

  I attempted to apologize after, only to overhear what she thought of me, and that was that. People called me a lot of things over the years, but I never had my sexual prowess called into question. I wouldn’t have it doubted by a fucking sales assistant.

  Afterward, I retreated to my office for the day, hellbent on locking away any triggers. A shitty situation or not, I wouldn’t flip a lid on day one. Time in Ithaca would pass like a kidney stone, but it would pass.

  The pressure of flipping the branch should have been my focus, but it wasn’t. And I should have been calling contacts like a hungry dog after a steak, but I wasn't.

  Instead, I was muddling over a petite brunette in a green top between spreadsheets. I had no idea why she was wearing a fucking sweater in July, but I couldn't get her or the damn thing out of my head.

  She was maddening, the way she so flippantly said missionary only as if she'd know. She wasn't anything like the women I enjoyed, a tiny thing with wild brown hair hanging in waves, her attempts at taming it with pins futile. She was soft with wide hips and ample bosom balancing her small frame. Far from the tall, leggy models who kept me company.

  I mapped targets for the next month, plotting markers at various accounts and burying myself in the facts. Numbers and projections were my strength, and I lived for the industry.

  Usually, I could zone out, focus on the data, and bang it out. But my mind kept wandering back to those soft curves. To the sweater that did nothing to hide them. How those rounded hips would feel in my grip.

  I’d fuck her hard, forcing her to take back those biting words with each thrust. She'd be so hungover on me there would be no doubt in her mind about my sexual abilities.

  I slammed a hand on the desk, desperate to kill the fantasy. I needed to get a grip. I had too much work to do. I could worry about my cock later.

  I alternated between typing like a madman and cursing every bastard who talked me into the mess. Line after line, I laid out the facts, determined to make a firm statement about the bullshit I inherited.

  As I completed another pivot table, I glanced out the window, the large, square panel my only view to the outside world. My old bay view was now an asphalt parking lot, a few scraps of browned ivy framing it in a depressing exterior set of curtains.

  Employees were beginning to flood the area, escaping like rats from a sinking ship. One by one, they poured into the lot, plucking away cars until there was only a handful left. I wondered if they were all laughing at the shit storm I walked into.

  Marty hobbled to his Mercedes, running a hand through what hair he had left, not a laptop or briefcase in sight. He wasn’t someone who put in the extra effort. In fact, he didn't seem to bother to work at all.

  I'd deal with him in time but needed someone with a pulse in the role while I mounted an offense against the abysmal failure on the horizon.

  Monica was close behind, walking in long strides as her blond locks whipped in the breeze. As much as I hated to notice, she was stunning. She was also aware of it, trying like hell to get attention. It might have worked with most men, but I wasn't game. Other than following a vow to never mix work with women, her attitude was more than a boner killer. It was one thing to be confident and beautiful; it was another to expect the world because of it.

  Next to go was Lee, a frantic burst of red hair skittering to a large SUV. The bags on her shoulder hunched her over, her mouth moving a mile a minute, likely with cuss words flying.

  At last, the lone wolf emerged, making her way towards a sedan at the end of the lot. Step by step, I watched in appreciation, her ass hugged by a black pencil skirt. I saw women like her all the time in Florida dressed in far less, but she had my undivided attention in her little getup.

  My cock stirred as I pictured her in one of the tiny bikinis, her ass on display with those full, perky tits glistening. God, what I’d give to see it.

  I chased the thought away and got back to work. July goals. July targets. July contracts. I skimmed through them all one by one, ignoring the growing bulge below.

  No matter how many numbers I threw at it, my mind kept wandering back to her laying in the sand with the waves kissing her beautiful body. I fantasized about those full lips against mine, how they'd feel on my skin, dipping below to explore my cock.

  I had to call it quits by six-thirty, my body throbbing from the bombardment of x-rated thoughts. I drove to the hotel blasting country, praying the honky-tonk bullshit would kill any trace of lust. Each twang of guitar and guttural yodel murdered my eardrums but did little to stifle any desire. In the end, I was wondering how she’d look in some cutoffs.

  A brutal gym session was the only remedy, each burst draining the perversion, a cold post-workout shower banishing the trouser demon once and for all.

  With Elena out of my system, I settled in for the night with Privately, the dating app I had been toying with for weeks. It was an anonymous setup, intriguing me from the start. An executive-level career demanded privacy and discretion, two things it offered plenty of.

  A no-strings arrangement was a must. Relationships were too much work to maintain. Something always needed fine-tuning or repair. A new chick every few months was like taking a sports car out for a spin and exchanging it before wear and tear showed.

  If I wanted more stress, I'd get a second job, not a girlfriend. Casual flings were the way to go. No expectations. No feelings. Just great sex.

  I had been chatting with a woman from the area for a few weeks already, igniting things while still wrapping up in Tampa. Now that I was in town, there was no reason we couldn't take things off the app.

  My cock demanded it.

  Elena

  When I wondered in the past if things could get worse at Croft, I was speculating, not challenging them to. Life took me up on the offer in the form of a six-foot-something grump who showed up three weeks earlier.

  He remained in his office on the other side of the building, only wandering into the salesroom to hunt Marty down. He didn’t say a word to me, though he offered scowls and scoffs, and a shiny new lunch policy sent via email. There was an upside to his attitude, at least, since we could step away from our desks again.

  Expectations were high and anxieties higher, as each department’s goal metrics were raised substantially. The surge in work caused a frantic rush to the finish each day, with Lee and I working in a flurry to make up for Monica.

  She left after Marty daily as she just had, heels clicking in the distance across the lobby.

  “I hate her more today than yesterday,” grumbled Lee, a fresh round of angry typing sounding from her station. “And I didn't know that was possible.”

  I sighed, exhausted from the day. “Amen, Sista.”

  Between primping, Monica fired off insults at whoever was in striking distance, all while falling short of her share of the daily input by a mile.

  “Drinks tonight? Jesse is taking the kids bowling.”

  I beamed, more than ready for a night out. Like Lee, I remained chained to my desk long enough to deserve a starring role in a cruelty commercial that day — sad song and all.

  “Definitely. Where do you want to go?”

  “Crow Bar, duh.”

  “Hell yeah!” I skimmed my inbox, checking for any last-minute requests to complete along with the three-hundred lines needed to hit our goal.

  “I'll meet you there,” Lee called, gathering her belongings. “I say we miss the mark. Marty has to do something about her.”

  She had a point.
Falling short of the daily target would draw attention, but I would do it even if it meant Barrett came sniffing around.

  “Sounds good to me,” I agreed. “Let me finish up, and I'll meet you there. Grab a spot for us?”

  “Will do,” she replied, hurrying off in a flash of red.

  As I logged off, I spied a coffee untouched in its Styrofoam prison beside my phone. I headed to the break room to give it a farewell sendoff.

  Grabbing a cocktail for Thirsty Thursday had the potential to salvage the week. Perhaps I'd meet a dashing bad boy with a penchant for business-casual brunettes. Stranger things had happened.

  Once I reached the break room, a crudely written OUT-OF-ORDER sign greeted me, hung with smudged tape on the closed door. “Damn.”

  I whirled toward the women's room as a desperate plan B, ready to get the hell out of there. At least it offered a mirror to take an inventory of my haggardness. I likely looked like a foot and a troll had a love child after a long day squinting at screens. My body was feeling the effects, at least, cracking and popping with each step like rice cereal.

  Always the graceful one, I cut it short rounding the corner, careening into the wall and bouncing back to land on the floor. Coffee splashed everywhere, my white blouse sprayed in an oh-so-attractive milky brown splatter.

  A screech erupted that put a tired toddler to shame, my voice emerging after a long, breathless moment. If I thought I was sore before, I was in for a rude awakening, my ass throbbing from impact.

  A large hand appeared before my face. My eyes traveled up the mile-long arm to the face of Jason Barrett, his jaw tight and eyes cold.

  “You should watch where you're going,” he scolded. “You could have hurt someone.”

  Embarrassed, I climbed to my feet, rejecting his offer of assistance with a hefty side of lecturing. “I'm sorry. I don't know how I ran into a wall.” I stared at the now-empty cup, wanting to sink into the carpet along with the liquid that spilled from it.

  Not only had I ran into the wall, but I had done it in front of him and shrieked like a pterodactyl from the depths of hell. He'd probably send out an all-points bulletin about it and pull the security tapes for added shaming–volume and all.