by D. M. Burns
She’s fucking drop dead dangerous, features most wouldn’t mind dying beside. Only I know too well, she’s a vicious viper but tell that to my dick. We all know he loves to live in sin. He’s a risk-taker and residing on the wild side is his thing. Hell, he’s giving her a standing ovation. That thrill-seeking motherfucker is applauding her presence with enthusiasm.
It’d benefit me best to remember that this seductress of Satan has been taught well. Because this bitch has a wicked black heart that rivals any demonic diva dwelling behind Hell’s flaming gates. When Brogan chuckles under his breath my eyes slide back to him, fucker.
He’s droning on about credentials and references that mean not a god damn thing to me. It’s merely a precursor leading him up to introductions. To someone, I’m very much fucking familiar with. A little fact-finding tidbit that he’s well aware of.
Not to mention, I’ve been blindsided with an invisible steel bat out of left field by my fucking business partner and he damn well knows that too. Hell, I was patting myself on the back for avoiding her over the past year that she’s been “temporarily” working on Brogan’s to-do list of shit. I’m not going to lie. It stings a little more because I consider Brogan to be like a brother to me, more so then the twin I have. Plus, I warned him about this bullshit.
I’m the calm, composed one out of the Chaos crew but I’m also the one that strikes without warning. Much like Miss. Carter, I have volatile venom dripping from my fangs. My skills are disciplined and detailed. I’m the one you know the least about, right? Keeping my family in the dark and exiled from my business operations is a choice I live and breathe. They only know what I want them too, it’s safer that way.
I’m the unfamiliar because my impact is nasty but delivered with an Oscar award-winning smile. Those with a firsthand experience never talk or rumor a reason. My violent spirit is the unspoken and unknown truth that you’ll never hear about because anyone that’s witnessed it has no story left to tell.
I cornered off my emotion’s years ago because of the god damn redheaded vixen seated before us right now. Weaseling her way back into my domain. My casino. My life. And Brogan’s boardroom bitch-ass is aiding her cause. My emotional checklist is slipping out the window of his motherfucking skyscraper.
“Did you say something, Rampage?”
I pull my eyes off the crack in this boardroom bitches massive war room sheetrock and focus on him. Brogan quirks his eyebrow at me like he’s reading my fucking mind again. Does he have a crystal ball shoved up his kinky ass? When he chuckles at me yet again, I tilt my head to the side and let my gunmetal glare flash out at him. That shit is unnerving as fuck. Rage is right, this asshole is weird.
Those steely ice-white, cold corporate cutters are beaming out at me in amusement. I slowly rise from my seated position leaning into his pricey boardroom table with both of my hands. Leveling his high beams with my war façade stare. I’m calculated and combat-ready, asshole. Nine times out of ten, most motherfuckers end up dead or relocating to the far ends of the earth when I’m pressed like this.
“I don’t need no fucking introduction, BRO.” I grate out from behind my now sawed-off teeth.
I know he hates being called that and my inside asshole is flipping the middle finger up right now. Brogan rests back in his chair lacing his fingers together like the boardroom bitch he is. He fucking smirks at me then turns his head to the side and addresses Lena.
“Miss. Carter, would you mind stepping out for a moment. Give me a second to speak with Mr. Carter in private.” He chuckles at our matching last names.
I swear to Christ, I want to give this table a fresh new coat of red stain using this corporate dick’s blood. Brogan’s eyes snap back to mine and he laughs out loud, a full throaty deep laugh that fills the room.
“Sure, if this is a problem… I…” Lena’s voice is unsteady with hints of caution.
Turning my head to her, I squint through the red haze covering my vision. I’m fairly certain I resemble a male version of Regan off the Exorcist because Lena’s mouth snaps shut in a thin tight line.
“Excuse yourself… Please. Find some strawberries or something.” I growl low then turn my head back to Brogan as she moves her ass toward the door. As soon as I hear the metal closure click shut, I point my index finger at my partner and try to harness my hostile aggression. “What the fuck?”
“You said to hire someone, I did.” He shrugs his shoulders with zero give-a-fuck for my disgruntled disposition. “Aces Down needs an interior designer for this project and a curator, full time. No more part-time bullshit. Lena Carter can do both and she’s the best. Problem solved.” He blinks casually reminding me of a car switching on and off the high beams.
“No, no, no… Hold up a fucking minute, Brogan. You’ve been riding my dick about a new look for the casino. Fine, I relented. I was okay with you sending someone in to hang some damn pictures but not a permeant curators’ position. And especially not Lena god damn Carter. What the fuck is she going to oversee at Aces Down? A collection of drunken gamblers?” My face is that of pure annoyance and anger directed at this dick in front of me. I reach up and loosen the knot on my tie. God damnit, is it hot in here?
“First off, I’d never touch your dick. I prefer a pretty cunt coat. Plus, I’ve purchased a compilation of some costly paintings. I want Miss. Carter to incorporate them into the new creative designs she’s come up with.” He steeples his hands together. The look on his face is one of pure joy. He’s fucking enjoying this. “If it’s about the salary, you can offset whatever it is that Aces Down contributes to my healthy bank account each week.”
He waves his hand dismissively in the air. This trillionaire bitch probably doesn’t even know what his take is from Aces Down. We both don’t give a shit about her salary. That’s not the point of the problem here and he knows it.
“Fuck the money, Brogan. You know damn well that’s not the problem. I never wanted her at my club in the first place, much less on a fulltime payroll scenario. You’re swimming in shit that you know nothing about my friend.” I say.
Pushing off the table, I walk over to the floor to ceiling windows and inhale a deep breath through my nose while counting to ten. Ruthlessly rubbing at the stress knot forming at the base of my neck, I try to stable off the headache that I know is coming.
“Well, I definitely had no idea that you had… How do I say this?” He pauses his statement as he stands, casually buttons his coat then walks over to the bar area and pours himself a glass of water with his back to me. “Such strong personal feelings involved where the lovely Lena Carter was concerned.” I grind my teeth together again.
“I cautioned you almost a year ago. Told you that this was not a good idea. I asked you then to cut the shit. Hell, I’m right in the middle of trying to figure out who’s tipping the god damn FBI off about Aces. I don’t need this added distraction.” I clip as I turn away from the window view. He angles around and faces me.
“No problem. I’ll keep her here with me in New York.” He winks then tilts his glass back.
The fuck? Tossing his ass in the East River is a pleasant thought and doable. I mean, I’ll have to wait on nightfall and stock back up on some plastic to wrap the body in but that’s minor details. I can sort through those as I go. He chuckles while shaking his head back and forth. What the fuck is wrong with him?
“Motherfucker’s want ice water in hell too, Bro. Don’t fuck with me right now. Poking the business beast can lead to my creative side which will end badly, for you.” I grate out.
He sets his empty glass down on the bar and tucks his hands into the pants pockets of his custom-made Bulletproof Armani suit while staring down at his Louis Vuitton business kicks. I like his fucking taste though, but truth be known, I’d wear it better.
“Does that mean you’ll play nice? Aces is a massive place. She should’ve been hired permanently to begin with.” Those led bulbs look back at me.
“If nothing else, I’m a god damn
professional. Do not ever hire anyone for a permeant position at my club again, ever.” I snap.
Sauntering over to his bar, I slip around and start shuffling through his well-stocked bottles, looking for his preferred Sidecar Cognac. I know he keeps it on the ready. When I fish it out, I pop the top and guzzle it knowing this little indulgence costs him well over ten-grand. I smirk then give him a chin lift as I head for the door. Fuck you very kindly you, boardroom bitch.
“Does this mean we’re good?” He asks.
“Your cognac is just the tip of the iceberg, asshole.” I turn back to him when I get to the door before stepping out. “You’ve already hired her. I don’t really have a fucking choice, do I?”
“There’s always a choice, Rampage. Just like you’re choosing not to leave her here with me, smart man.” He deadpans. This asshole must think I’m blind and god damn stupid, far from it.
“By the way, who’s the new and incredibly beautiful blonde I passed on the way in here? She has a fucking sexy country accent and if I say so myself, a fuckable mouth too. Reoccurring style.”
I’m baiting the business bitch in him. Bending him over his own boardroom table. My lips tip up in a practiced playboy winning grin. The same one that has all the pussy pouring into my bedsheets like fabric softener. Yeah, asshole. I see your female flaw too. His jaw hardens and he clenches his fists.
“Don’t fuck with The House of Creed, Rampage.” He grinds out. Well, this is the first time I’ve ever seen this cold-hearted Wallstreet bastard show any type of sentimental fucks for anyone.
“Now we understand each other, yeah?” I growl. He gets my point perfectly.
“By the way, what the fuck happened to the wall.” I point the cathedral ceiling at the top.
“Let’s just say my biological brother pissed me off. Some shit went flying.” He shrugs unaffected.
“Didn’t know you had a bro… BRO.” I chuckle.
“Yeah. Me either. I’ll have my jet ready to take you both back to Georgia tomorrow morning. Also, look for my personal assistant to swing by later tonight. I’m setting you up with a suit like this and shoes too.” He smirks.
“Fuck your peace offering. I can dress my god damn self, you dick.”
The suit and shoes are a nice touch but fuck him. I flip him off and move out the door while he smirks. Bypassing the shocked look on Miss. Carter’s face as I pretend not to see her. Unsurprisingly, she’s chewing on a damn strawberry.
Tilting the Cognac back and guzzling down the luxury liquid, I swipe at my mouth using my designer coat sleeve as a few droplets escape. Fuck her too. I’m gripping the reigns savagely but I’m losing control.
Aggressive Anger Boiling Over.
My Calculated Composure Turning Chaos.
Engulfing My Future In Fiery Flames.
Chapter 3 - Lena
That entire plane ride was one of the most uncomfortable, silent, and intense couple of hours I’ve had the displeasure of experiencing in my entire life. I knew this would be hard coming into it. Not to mention, it was evident that Rampage was hungover. The only intelligible responses out of the man were those of growls and grunts to the stewardess.
He sat slouched in The House of Creed’s lush and comfy oversized leather chair with blacked-out shades covering his eyes. His crisp white business shirt collar stuck straight up. His corporate Godlike fashion façade was alive even though his personality was very much dead. And I had a front-row seat to his assholiness while indulging myself with some fresh strawberries the stewardess provided me with. Let the plot playout.
Any thoughts that I had mulled over from the night before to discuss décor design or show him my plans for Aces Down was literally thrown out of the plane before takeoff, seriously. The asshole snatched my rolled up plans I had tucked safely under my arm, tossing them over his shoulder onto the tarmac as we went up the stairs to board Brogan Creed’s sleek ass jet.
Whirling around to face him, my mouth hung open in shock at his jackhole stunt. Those plans held almost a year’s worth of my hard work sketched out for Aces Down. I was on the verge of cussing him out when he held his hand up in my face issuing a silent protest while massaging his temple and forehead with his other hand. I snapped my mouth shut when I heard his low disgruntled voice painfully speak out.
“With all due respect Miss. Carter, those plans were what you prepared for Brogan Creed, not me. Unfortunately, you work for me now, full time.” He spat that last part out. “So, fuck those thoughts as well as those fashioned floor designs you prepared without my input. Aces Down is mine. We do things my way. You’ll start over, using my ideas. But that won’t happen today and probably not tomorrow either. I’m in no mood to converse. We’ll talk business later but not now.”
Then he held his hand out motioning for me to resume forward. My narrowed frosted blue view was bouncing amid my reflection in his aviators. After a moment of staring back at myself in his mirrored shades, I caved. He was done and as far as he was concerned the conversation was too. Righting myself, I turned back around and moved forward with my head held high.
Why was I choosing to allow him to treat me that way, you ask? It’s quite simple. Slade Carter was in fact my employer now. I was hired to do a job and returning home permanently to Georgia is essential to me. Brogan Creed urged me to reach out to him should I have any issues but causing problems between two partners that clearly have a close friendship outside of business is not who I am. Anyway, I can handle myself.
Rampage is suffering from the previous night. His wicked party life choices landed him with a ferocious alcohol-induced hangover. One of which, I get the pleasure of witnessing in the flesh, living, and breathing. But from the looks of Ramp, he probably feels close to death. Hell, he probably wishes he were too.
For me, dealing with a much more charming and fashioned out Bradley Cooper, less the unruly hair and sporting a massive asshole attitude, wouldn’t produce the results I seek. Any other time I’d have punched him in the dick. I gave him a free pass, a onetime occurrence only.
After his little boardroom bastard episode, the day before, I desperately tried to rummage through my minds vault AGAIN. Picking through the years of history we shared. It made no sense why he’d have such a negative attitude for bringing me on board for this project at hand.
I’ve been at Aces almost a year anyway without incident. I mean, other than that one middle finger flip but he asked for that. Anyway, I’m more than qualified and capable. Plus, I’ve never done anything wrong to Ramp, ever. Other than take up for myself and that’s on him, not me.
Rampage, on the other hand, is a totally different subject altogether. I wasn’t hired to judge him though, no. But just between us, if I were to cast my opinion out there, I’d tell you that Ramp’s bed mattress probably has a thickly layered bedsheet consisting of STD’s. Equivalent to Bret Michaels silk set after the final season of Rock of Love.
The only difference between the two is Ramp’s beauty is flawlessly empowering with promises of sinful pleasure tucked behind fashionable Italian business suits. His debonair looks have only improved over the years too. That containment vessel for a body has taken shape. Sculpting from the muscular frat boy into that of a fully grown masterful financial Godlike man. The defined masterpiece ending in magnificent, mature, male pheromones personified.
His broad shoulders square off nicely and extend out into long capable arms accustomed to a routine workout. A manly set of large calloused hands with long manicured fingers that I find to be a sexier trait than what would typically grab my attention. His chest and abs are obviously sculpted like the rest of his body inching down into a rock-solid V-shape design, ending over his vast legs. His custom suit displays the design of him well, kudos to his tailor.
Ramp’s hair has slowly over time turned onyx black and the gel he applies only adds dazzle to the blackened sleek shine but tames the long texture on top. His clean-cut sides remain the same, neatly done with precision in the cutting craft. Th
ose eyes are gunmetal gray and easily burn through the heir of his attention. I’m thankful he’s kept them hidden and blinded behind the shades today.
Thick plush red lips placed perfectly under a straight nose with high indented cheekbones that any woman would die for. It’s an unfair attribute to be wasted on a man, just stating facts. A set of masculine dark and dense eyebrows curve devilishly, proudly displaying that dashing scar above his right eye that only adds a tad bit more character to his corporate allure. He’s your favorite fashion villain drowning in an unhealthy amount of success laced with sexual fantasies.
It’s a damn good thing that I know the man behind the fuckable financial façade. If not, I’d find myself in dark murky waters with my hand in his pants. I’m employed to complete a job that word of mouth and prior projects proves my powers. I’m the guru go-to in my field. Just keep in mind that things are not always what they seem.
The only reason Ramp didn’t seek me out himself is because I’m the only girl to ever stand up to him. I wasn’t raised to swallow shit from any man. The kick in the ass with Ramp is, we were close, or at least I thought we were. He’s fully aware of all the shitty things he has done.
Granted, we were kids, but it doesn’t seem like time has changed anything for him. Apparently, he’s okay with the man he’s grown to be. After all these years, why shouldn’t I be as well, right?
It’s not like I’ll ever entertain any type of liaison with him outside of work-related adventures anyway. Between the tabloids and social media documenting his various romps of hustler-hysteria ways that span from Atlanta to Manhattan, I’m good. His dick prefers a multi-flavored activity type of lifestyle. I’ve heard and read all about it throughout the years. He can keep that wandering rod of dick-a-licious powers directed at his fan club.
