9. Atticus
Chapter 9
Atticus
I 'm reclining in my leather throne, eyes glued to the screens that display every inch of my penthouse. But who am I kidding? It's not the gilded fixtures or the panoramic sweep of New Haven City that have me hooked. It's Lemon, sprawled out on my Italian leather sofa, looking like a damned siren with her curves wrapped in expensive denim and cotton.
Her red tipped toes wiggle into the couch and part of me wants to gripe at her not to fuck up the leather, but a larger part of me finds it utterly fucking enticing.
Fuck, she looks like she belongs.
How easy would it be to just rip the thin cotton threads?
There she is, so innocent looking, her fingers dancing over her phone before she scribbles something into her notebook. She's been at it all morning, typing away on her laptop until her brow furrows in frustration and her lower lip is caught between her teeth. Bless her heart, she thinks she's got an idea, but here I am, watching her every move, the puppeteer of this show .
She picks up her phone and I see her typing before looking at the device as it no doubt rings. I lean back in my chair; the leather creaking under my weight, and flick the switch that lets me eavesdrop. It's dirty, but hell, since when have I ever played clean?
"Yeah, hi, this is Lemon Vaughn returning your call about the administrative assistant position?" Her voice wavers slightly,
"Ms. Vaughn, we've reviewed your application..." some peon on the other end starts, and I can almost see Lemon perking up, eyes shining with hope. But I know how these calls go, especially for a girl with no experience and a last name that's now poison in this city.
"Thank you, but..." The caller trails off with the usual letdown. Lemon's shoulders slump, the defeat radiating from her even through the cold lens of the camera.
"Of course, thank you for considering me," she says, her voice barely above a whisper, and ends the call with a defeated sigh. My chest tightens in a way I don't want to examine too closely.
"Fuck," I curse under my breath, running a hand through my hair. A smidge of a conscience peeking through at how crushed she sounded.
I watch her stand, stretching her arms above her head, the soft fabric of her clothes hugging her body in ways that make my blood heat. It's been a few days since I laid out my proposition: Be ours, or be gone. A week to decide her fate, and the clock is ticking.
It's a cruel game, but I didn't become Atticus Reid by handing out charity. Life's a bitch, and then you find your best friend's daughter stranded, her life torn apart thanks to daddy dearest screwing people over, including you. So what if I'm making her pay for her father's sins? It's not like I asked for any of this.
Damn it, thinking of the man who was once my closest ally is bittersweet. His betrayal stings like an actual knife in my back, and I can't help but want retribution. Lemon is collateral, nothing personal. That's what I keep telling myself. I have to repeat it to myself to make sure I keep my mind focused and Ezra’s as well. He’s more wanderlust than I care for.
As if I haven’t played the uncle role for most of her life. There’s something wrong with me and I acknowledge that.
My mind plays a dangerous game of what-ifs. Images of Lemon caught between Ezra and me, her body writhing, her moans filling the vastness of my penthouse.
The thought pulls a primal growl from deep within me. If she says yes...God help us all. Because I know one thing for sure, I won't be able to hold back. Not with her. Not with him. And definitely not when there's a score to settle.
My office door clicks open and before I can yell at whoever just interrupted me without waiting for an invitation, Ezra waltzes in, all smiles and charm with bags in his hands. He's like a damn hurricane. Unpredictable and untamable. But that’s what I enjoy about him because breaking him down as a punishment is titillating.
The brown with gold trim paper bags crinkle as he dumps them on my desk, not even batting an eyelid at the scattered blueprints and financial reports.
Like I said, walking fucking chaos. Determined to wreak havoc wherever he goes.
"Thought you might be peckish," he says, that roguish glint in his eyes telling me he's here for more than just delivering sustenance .
I don't take my eyes off the screens; Lemon's hunched over her laptop, oblivious to the world and the predators around her. "Not hungry," I mutter, but who am I kidding? My appetite's not for food.
"Aw come on, Uncle Atti, everyone needs to eat." Ezra leans in, and I can feel the warmth of his body, smell the scent of cologne and the scent of brat that's distinctly him. His gaze follows mine to the penthouse feed. "Looks like our little Lemon is squeezing out every last drop of determination, huh?"
There's a hint of a tease in his voice, a nudge toward thoughts that coil tight in my belly.
"Watch it, brat," I growl, the words thick with warning.
"Or what?" He fires back, challenging. "You'll punish me? I’m counting on it." There's that damn wink. Always pushing, always testing limits.
Something snaps inside me. My control, hanging by a thread since this whole shitshow started, frays a little more. "Corner. Now." Three syllables, ice-cold and hard.
He doesn't move at first, just studies me with those deep brown eyes that have seen too much of my darkness. But then, there's that smirk again, like he knows he's gotten under my skin. "As you wish, Sir."
Ezra saunters to the corner of the office, shoulders relaxed as if he hasn't got a care in the world. I watch him slide down till he's kneeling, face against the wall, the very picture of obedience. But it's all an act; we both know it.
And as I turn back to my surveillance, I can't shake the heat that's building inside me, a fire stoked by defiance and desire.
"Are you hard at work or just hard and working?" Ezra's voice cuts through the silence, snark laced in each word. "Guess I’ll find out soon enough."
I don't turn to acknowledge him; let him stew in his corner. My gaze stays fixed on my lemon drop.
"Keep your thoughts to yourself, playboy," I say, voice low but edged with steel. "It’s not your concern right now."
"Everything involving you is my concern," he retorts, and I can hear the smirk without seeing it. "Especially the entertainment."
A muscle ticks in my jaw. Control, Reid. Focus on the plaything, not the player. Lemon's scrolling stops, and she leans back, rubbing at temples hidden beneath waves of dark hair. Poor thing doesn't know the headache she's in for.
Ezra's voice speaks again, disrupting the quiet of my office, but like a good boy he does keep his face to the wall. "You know, Atticus, watching her like that is such an invasion of privacy. Your voyeurism is very high right now. Makes me wonder if she’d like it in a different scenario as well."
I don't look away from the screens, where Lemon's fingers dance on the laptop keys again, oblivious to the games men play in her orbit. I remain seated at my desk, the leather chair a throne for my kingdom of glass and steel high above New Haven City. "Your mouth’s running without a leash again," I say, my tone even but sharp enough to cut.
"Ooh, someone's touchy." He chuckles, and I can hear the rustle of his clothing as he shifts in the corner, that restless energy of his needing an outlet. "All I'm saying is, she looks ripe for the picking. I can’t wait until we can get our hands on her…well those and other parts as well."
My eye is twitching at the way he’s baiting me. Ezra doesn’t give a damn about boundaries. But I do. Boundaries, rules, control; they're not just words to me. They're the foundation of everything I've built, and they both will do well to abide by what I give them.
"Keep wondering." My gaze stays fixed on Lemon, who pauses to tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The picture of innocence amidst the maelstrom brewing all around her.
"Come on, Atticus, we both know you're dying to see her crack," Ezra prods, his voice now a low purr meant to entice. "To see that composure shatter under your command."
"You annoy me." It’s a warning, my voice a growl rumbling deep within my chest. It should send a clear message to back off, but I doubt he'll take it.
"Yes, and you love it." His challenge is blatant, a dare wrapped in a smirk I don't need to see to picture. "All you’ll do is deny me the pleasure of her flesh and you are already planning on doing that."
The thought of bending Lemon over my desk flashes across my mind, every inch of her exposed to my gaze, my touch as he waits in the corner. Damn him for planting these seeds, for knowing exactly which buttons to push.
"Maybe I will," I say, cool as ice, though my blood simmers hot beneath the surface. "Maybe I'll make you watch, unable to touch or taste."
"Sounds enticing," he says, and there's a hint of real anticipation in his voice now. "But we both know I’m a masochist and I welcome it. I welcome everything you give me, Atticus. We're two sides of the same coin."
"Are we?" The question hangs heavy in the air.
"Absolutely," Ezra insists. "You, with your desires hidden behind a mask of control. And me, with my hunger for life's pleasures worn proudly like a badge. "
"Stay in your corner, Ezra." I tell him, my voice a low command. "Remember your place."
"Ah, but that's just it," he murmurs, a hint of laughter in his voice that doesn't quite reach his eyes as he turns away from the wall. "In this penthouse, in this city, in this game we're playing...do any of us really know our place?"
"Better than you think," I reply, but I leave it at that. No point in giving him more ammunition.
"Of course, Sir." Ezra's voice is thick with amusement.
"Only a few more days," I say again, leaning back in my chair, the leather creaking under my weight. "And then she's ours."
"Or we're hers," Ezra adds thoughtfully. "Ever think of that?"
And with that thought lingering heavily in the air, I turn back to my surveillance, watching over Lemon like some kind of deviant guardian. Because in New Haven City, even angels have their demons. And I'm riddled with them.