by Sienna Blake
On a normal day I might have noticed her cleavage straining against opal buttons a heavy sigh away from popping. On a normal day I might have appreciated the long stretch of exposed thigh with her legs crossed, a hint that it wouldn’t take much to be spread open. On a normal day I might have seen her bite her lip as my eyes trailed slowly down her body.
But on that day all I could see was red—pulsing, throbbing, violent red.
"I need to see Mr Peterson," I growled, my voice shaking like the floor during an earthquake.
The receptionist eyed the phone. "I'm sorry, sir, but Mr Peter—"
I snatched the phone, ripping the cord from the wall when she reached a manicured hand for it. On a normal day I might have paused to imagine what it would feel like to have them raking down my chest. But in that moment I only had time for blinding rage. I leaned over the desk and hissed through clenched teeth, "Mr O'Sullivan for Mr Peterson."
The mention of my name immediately changed the demeanour of the receptionist.
"Mr O'Sullivan," she said with a bent head and flushing cheeks. "Sir, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't recognise you because of the…"
Her eyes darted up to assess my dishevelled, dirty appearance. My hands balled up into tight, painful fists as my nails dug deep into my palms. "I need to see Mr Peterson right—"
"What's going on up here?"
I looked up to see Harry Peterson, the president of Levi, Levi, & Burke, enter the lobby with a pair of burly security guards on either side of him. They each reached for the weapons at their hip at the mere sight of me. I wasn't sure if it was the rumpled clothes or the waves of hot anger flooding off of me that sent the message that I was dangerous.
"Good lord," Harry sucked in a startled breath, "Michael, what—"
I stepped back from the desk and laughed darkly, sweeping my hands over the wreckage of my clothes.
"Oh, what happened to me? Is that what you want to know? Is that it?"
Harry took a step forward, only to retreat back to the safety of the security guards and their weapons when I slammed a fist onto the marble reception desk and barked in hysterical laughter.
"Story time then!"
I was out of my mind with anger as I stalked back and forth across the marble lobby floors with sloped shoulders and bright eyes like some kind of caged panther.
"How about we start with the fact that no one in this feckin’ city understands a single word I say?" I said, hands flying wildly into the air. "How about we start with the fact that I say, quite clearly I might add, 'Levi, Levi & Burke', and the taxi driver nods? 'Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I'll drive you there.'"
Harry and the receptionist exchanged concerned glances as I stomped back and forth.
"Michael, how about we go back to my office?" Harry suggested. "Kim here can get you a tea. Or a whiskey? How about a—"
Kim, the receptionist, moved to stand and stopped frozen halfway between sitting and standing when I launched back into my tale.
"Isn't it so fun, so much fecking fun when you expect to be taken promptly to a nice office building in a metropolitan city, such as this bleedin’ one," again my arms waved wildly, "but instead you're driven up into the mountains onto some nowhere, godforsaken highway?"
Kim's eyes looked pleadingly at Harry across the lobby, like she'd been thrown into a cage with a hungry lion and was begging for help, any help.
"So should I—" her voice nearly quivered, "should I go get the whiskey or…?"
I was dragging my fingers through my hair as I stared up at the ceiling with another burst of angry laughter.
"Don't you just love it when you argue with the cab driver about taking you someplace in the middle of nowhere where you definitely didn't ask to be taken, and after insisting there is no way in hell that you are paying him a hundred bucks for that pleasure, he kicks you out on the side of the highway and drives off with your fucking suitcase still in the trunk?!"
I bellowed out a frustrated yell, fists shaking at the ceiling.
"I know I love losing thousands of dollars in silk suits and leather shoes faster than I can say 'fuck'."
Harry mustered up the courage to inch forward a baby half step. His voice was timid as he tried to calm me down.
"Michael, we can certainly replace whatever—"
"Harry, it's fine," I said, grinning maniacally. "It's fine. I have this suit." I grabbed roughly at the now only suit I had in my possession. "It's not like after waiting for hours I hitchhiked back toward here with a most certainly wasted trucker who spilled his spit cup right into my lap— oh, wait, that's exactly what fucking happened!"
I was screaming at the top of my lungs by that point. It was loud enough to draw more curious eyes from the office toward the lobby. I saw them peeking around corners, lifting up blinds, poking their heads over the tops of cubicles. It didn't occur to me that this angry, crazy tirade in the very public lobby might be a teeny, tiny, itty-bitty bit damaging to my professional reputation, especially considering I was here as the lead on the merger. It didn't even cross my mind.
My mind was filled with anger. It was filled with frustration. It was filled with her.
"Michael." Harry, emboldened by the security guards at his side, raised his hands like he was trying to corral a wild bronco. "Michael, obviously something went terribly wrong and—"
"Terribly wrong?" I was nearly shrieking. "Terribly wrong? No, no, noooo. I had such a lovely afternoon sightseeing rundown gas stations and shite towns and port-a-potties left on the side of the highway. It was the experience of a lifetime to walk along abandoned streets getting blisters on each and every toe. That's really the only souvenir I wanted from this backward, hillbilly town—a burnt face with a little dash of skin cancer!"
I'd missed several important meetings I'd had scheduled for the morning, but the up side was that I didn't need to reschedule the meet-and-greet with the Levi, Levi, & Burke team. Everyone was apparently already here and they were getting to know me very, very, very well. I was near the point of bursting as I gripped my fists even more tightly at my sides, my arms shaking.
"I want her fired," I said. "I want her fired immediately."
Harry glanced around for support as he frowned in confusion.
"Who?" he said slowly, softly.
"This was all her fault," I growled. "Abbi left me at the airport and—"
"Abbi?" Harry asked. "You mean Ms Miller?"
I nodded my head, pinched the bridge of my sunburnt nose. I'd slipped up. My anger was fogging my brain, dulling my normally sharp mind.
"Yes, yes," I said quickly, shoving away the name “Abbi” like a stray that kept showing up outside my door. "Yes. Ms Miller. Ms Miller left me at the airport and I want her fired. Fired immediately."
Harry's confusion didn't seem to dissipate. "She left you at the airport?" he asked. "She—but why?"
I threw my hands up into the air, chest heaving.
"Ask her," I barked. "Ask her while you're handing her her pink slip. Because if this merger is going to continue, Ms Miller will absolutely not be employed here."
"I don't understand. She's—"
"She's insolent, she's rude, she's reckless, she's a liability, she's unprofessional, she's not up to snuff. Shall I go on?"
My breath came in shaky exhales as I stared down Harry, fire in my eyes, fire in my heart. She's wild, she's vibrant, she's intoxicating, she's unforgettable, she's irresistible, she's inescapable.
Harry was hesitant.
"Michael, Ms Miller has been extremely consistent in her good work for Levi, Levi, & Burke," he said, flinching at each word as if he expected me to fly off the handle again at any moment. "I just don't understand why she would leave you like that. There has to be more to the story…"
I glowered at him. I glowered because there was more to the story. There was a linen closet, a shared bottle of wine, a shared look. There was a mountain village, dancing, drinking, dancing some more. There was a bed. There was more than just a be
d. There was a connection.
There was a note left behind. A note and some money and a choice. My choice.
And it was the right choice, feck it.
It had to be the right choice.
My voice was low and threatening as I said my last words on the subject. "Either Ms Miller stays, Mr Peterson. Or I stay."
I told myself the reasons that I wanted her, Ms Miller, fired were obvious, clear, unequivocal. It was undebatable that she saw me, she recognised me, and she left me. That was fact. And it was also fact that she cost me time and therefore cost both PLA Harper and Levi, Levi, & Burke money. She was a risk to the financial bottom line of two huge international law firms. How could she not be fired after such a bold course of action?
I told myself there was no other reason than business—pure, calculating, cold business—that I wanted, needed her fired. It wasn't because seeing her stirred feelings in me I'd spent near a decade forcing down with work, booze, drugs, and girls. It wasn't because seeing her awoke regrets I'd run away from by chasing after more money, more success, more prestige. It wasn't because seeing her, just for those few seconds, had seared her image to the back of my eyelids so when I closed my eyes, all I saw was her. It wasn't because that scared the fuck out of me.
No.
It was business.
It was just business.
"Well, Mr Peterson?" I said, gaining control of myself and smoothing down my hair and straightening the lapels of my jacket to stare him down with a high chin and icy eyes. "What will it be?"
Harry swallowed, lowered his eyes, and then sighed. He looked up to me and gave me a curt nod.
"I'll have my assistant draft up the termination papers right now."
My eyes narrowed dangerously at him, and Harry cowered slightly.
"Mr O'Sullivan."
Abbi
I gripped my cardboard box of things in the elevator as I waited for the doors to close and debated between crying and screaming. My knuckles were white from gripping the edges so tightly, and my eyes stung with the very real threat of tears. As the doors began to slide closed, I realised there was nothing to stop me from doing both: weeping till I was shrivelled like a raisin and yelling at the top of my lungs till I was hoarse and mute.
My toe was tapping furiously on the floor of the elevator, just waiting, begging for the doors to close so that I could lose it, absolutely lose it. The doors were inches from creating a soundproof seal when fingers darted into the space, forcing the doors back open.
I sucked in a breath at the sight of Michael. His own eyes widened in surprise as he held the door open, the air between us growing thick as if a fog swept in suddenly from the mountains. Neither of us said a thing as the silence stretched on. Michael hesitated as I stared at him, unflinchingly, the cardboard box in my arms. It was clear in his tightened shoulders that he wanted to step back and let the elevator doors close on me.
By letting the elevator doors close, he would be letting the doors close on me too, on us. I saw he wanted that. I saw that he had to fight against everything inside of him to clear his throat, straighten his tie, and step into the elevator with me.
His pride made him. His ego. His arrogance. His stubbornness. He didn't want to appear weak. He didn't want to allow the impression that I'd somehow won the upper hand. He had to maintain control.
So he went against what he knew was best, what we both knew was best, and stepped inside.
The doors slid silently shut as we stood side by side, each facing straight ahead. I bit my lip as I watched the numbers count down from seventy-six. Seventy-six seconds and I'd be free from him. I only had to keep my mouth shut for seventy-five seconds and I'd be able to walk away, unharmed, save a tiny, fresh wound in a sea of scars. Seventy-four seconds of self-control, and Michael O'Sullivan would once again be out of my life.
Hopefully for forever this time.
Seventy-three seconds. Just seventy-two seconds.
"You got me fired," I hissed.
I immediately knew it was a mistake. A huge mistake. But I hadn't been able to stop myself. Something boiled over inside of me and it was as impossible to stop as a crashing wave. I told myself it was anger, indignation, a sense of injustice. But I feared there was something deeper, a longing, a yearning, a need for this sixty-five seconds not to be the last sixty-five seconds.
As my heart pounded in my chest, I thought that maybe Michael wouldn't respond. He would do what I could not, what was best, and keep silent for sixty-four seconds more. I thought he was going to keep silent. But then I heard his voice, low and hard, as he continued to stare ahead at the closed doors just like me.
"You left me. You saw me and just drove off."
I let out an angry scoff. "And that justifies getting me fired? Making me jobless, paycheque-less?" I spit. "When I have a—"
I caught myself just in time. But my near slip-up scared me. I tried to regain a measure of self-control over my racing heart and sweating palms.
"When I have bills to pay," I said slowly, in the closest thing to calm I could manage in the tight, hot space.
Michael gave a dark laugh of his own. "What did you expect?" he asked. "I'm a senior partner for one of the largest international law firms in the world. I will not tolerate insubordination of any sort."
Again I tried to bite my tongue. I willed the flashing lights above the doors to flash faster. Forty-five…forty-four…forty-three… Just shut up, I told myself. Just shut up. Don't make it worse.
The wave was crashing again, and all I had was my two bare hands to stop it.
"You know damn well that this wasn't about the fucking airport," I whispered, daring to glance up at him next to me.
"You're mistaken," Michael said, his tone distant, disinterested, cold. "It was business."
"Bullshit," I laughed. "Bull. Shit."
Next to me, Michael shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.
"Perhaps consider being more professional next time, Ms Miller," he said.
I bristled, my fingers holding the cardboard box shaking. Twenty-five seconds. Twenty-four seconds of self-control and he would be gone. Twenty-three seconds of shoving down my anger and my frustration and my hurt and it would be over. My breathing was quickening, coming in fast little gasps, but the flashing numbers above the door seemed to be slowing with each passing number.
Twenty…nineteen…eighteen…
"Why don't you just tell the truth?" I blurted out, anger bubbling up again. "I know you couldn't just tell me the truth nine years ago, but maybe you could 'consider being more truthful this time'?"
Michael's voice was emotionless as he said, "I don't know what you're talking about."
My jaw clenched painfully. My whole body was tense, like I was a bow pulled back farther and farther and farther.
"I think you do," I said.
"I'm sorry," Michael said. "I don't."
Seven…six…five…
The elevator was about to stop. The doors were about to open. Michael was about to walk out of my life. It was what I wanted, I told myself. It was exactly what I wanted. To be free. Free of his pull, his draw, his gravity. His memory. His eyes.
The number above the doors flashed two and then one. The elevator jerked suddenly as my finger darted out at the last minute and jammed the Emergency Stop button.
"What the fu—"
I dropped the cardboard box and whipped around to face Michael.
"This wasn't because of the airport at all, you liar," I shouted, jabbing a finger at his chest. "This is because of our history."
Michael squared his shoulders to me and loomed over me, his face stormy as he growled. "History?"
"Yeah."
"What history?" he yelled. "We fucked nine years ago. That's it."
I shook my head, my chin raised defiantly to him. "No," I said. "No, that wasn't it. That wasn't it at all. Or else you wouldn't have gotten me fired today."
Michael threw his arms up into the air. "I got you fired, Ms Miller
, because you left me at the fucking airport."
I laughed and leaned back as I crossed my arms over my chest. "Are you telling me the 'senior partner for one of the largest international law firms in the world ' doesn't know how to hail a cab?"
I grinned victoriously when I saw his cheeks redden slightly. But just like poking a snake, this seemed to serve only to make him madder. Michael stepped closer to me, his chest bumping against mine so I had to crane my head back to meet his narrowed eyes.
"Nine years ago was nothing," he hissed. "Nothing. A drunken weekend and an easy American chick. Nothing. Do you hear me?"
I uncrossed my arms and shoved him back. "You're a bad liar," I said, stalking toward him. "I can see straight through you, Michael."
He advanced on me, a churning storm of dark, flashing eyes and tense muscles. I retreated till my shoulders collided with the back of the elevator and he once again loomed over me. Angry, pent-up energy sparked between us as I felt his heart racing against mine and he felt mine racing against his.
"I haven't thought about you once, once, in these past nine years," he said, his voice dripping with anger. "And I have no intention of thinking about you for the next nine years either."
His eyes collided with mine like a torrential downpour against the hard, parched earth of the desert. It was violent and rough and brutal. And I needed it. We each were breathing heavily as we glared at the other, pressed tight against one another. Our bodies yearned to fight; it was as if we'd each been waiting nine years for this moment. To come to blows. To scream and yell and throw our bodies against one another. To crash once again.
I stretched up onto my toes, breasts sliding against his chest, so that my lips were only a hair's breadth from his. I was so close that I could almost feel the searing heat of his lips.
"Liar," I whispered.
