Chapter 3 Damon
DAMON
We’re behind on the number of orders we need to wrap, package, and post by the end of the day.
The phones in customer service are running off the hook, with customers complaining that we’ve already cut off ordering in time for Christmas.
It’s the twenty-first of December, for fuck’s sake.
Don’t they realise how overloaded the postal service is at this time of year?
Do they think we’re going to hand-deliver their giant dildo, complete with realistic veins? No. No, we’re not.
I’ve convinced half a dozen people to work overtime tonight, which means I’m staying late, too.
I don’t want to risk a single package failing to get to its destination in time for Christmas.
We should have cut Christmas ordering off sooner.
Other online companies did, but Nigel loves cutting it fine.
I wouldn’t be so pissed about it if he hadn’t fucked off and left me to deal with the headaches his decision has caused.
I’m disturbed by a bright knock on the office door. I grunt a ‘come in’ and glance up in time to see Rowan slip into the room, holding a clothing bag and a hatbox.
He shuts the door and grins. “Personal delivery! Where do you want it?”
“Anywhere.” I’m beyond caring about tomorrow night’s charity ball. If things aren’t in control here, I won’t even want to go.
Who am I kidding? I don’t want to go full stop. These events aren’t my thing at all. Nigel loves them. I’d rather spend a night with friends than sit at a large table, making small talk with strangers, and eating food that I haven’t been able to choose.
“Do you know what the menu is tomorrow night?” I ask.
Why would Rowan know? He’s a driver, not a PA.
I don’t even need a driver. I could rent a car and get myself to the ball.
I don’t own a car, because I live near excellent public transport links, and most of the time I’m heading into central London anyway.
Nigel doesn’t need a car, but the success of the business is allowing him to fulfil a childhood dream of owning big, flashy, expensive cars.
Cars that he’s too nervous to drive, hence Rowan.
He lays the costume carefully over the back of an armchair and pops the hat box on the floor. “No, sorry, but I can find out.”
I don’t know Rowan well, but every time I’ve seen him, he’s struck me as being irrepressibly cheerful.
He has a bright smile that always stretches to his grey-blue eyes, which occasionally flash green when he laughs.
He’s a redhead with hundreds of pale freckles, which are frankly adorable.
I draw an instant line under the thought.
He’s an employee, which means I’m not allowed to notice how attractive he is.
“That’s not your job,” I say.
“I don’t mind. Nigel pays me to hang around all day in case he needs driving somewhere; I might as well make myself useful while I’m here.”
I want to grumble that it’s a waste of money paying Rowan to ‘hang around’. It is a waste of money. It’s a good thing Elevated is successful and thriving, as it allows Nigel to get away with being frivolous.
“Is there anything else you need help with?” he asks. “I could make myself useful in fulfilment. I know how to wrap a vibrator.”
The air rushes out of my lungs. I school my expression quickly, pinching my lips together. “That would be helpful, thank you. They’re a bit snowed under at the moment.”
He clicks his fingers. “Ah. Thanks for reminding me. Snow is forecast for tomorrow night, but it’s not due to get heavy until after we’d have arrived at the ball.”
“That’s not a problem then, is it?”
“Hopefully not. But, as you mentioned earlier, the venue is in the middle of nowhere, so if it lies, it might make leaving tricky the next morning.”
Wonderful.
“The roads will be gritted, won’t they?”
“I don’t know if they grit all the back roads. I’m a city boy.” He grins, which is utterly swoonworthy.
“Maybe I should send my apologies.” It’s a good excuse to get out of it.
Rowan tilts his head, changing his expression into a hint of a brattish pout. “That would be a shame.”
“I wouldn’t want to get us stuck out there. I’m sure you’ve got Christmas plans.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
I gawp at him. I was not expecting that.
“I was going to visit my parents, but they got a last-minute cruise deal, so it’s just me this year. Which means I wouldn’t mind getting stuck in a posh hotel for Christmas.” He tugs at his collar. “And that was an overshare, wasn’t it? Sorry, boss.”
A shiver runs down my spine.
“Not that we’re going to get stuck,” he adds hurriedly. “You’re right. The roads will be gritted. It won’t be a problem. I’ll find out about the menu and get back to you.” He turns on his heel and hot-foots it out of the office, leaving me staring at the closed door.
Him calling me ‘boss’ did things to me that it shouldn’t have done.
And now it’s easy to imagine his bright, cheerful voice calling me ‘Daddy’.
I take a deep breath. Employee. Boss. Nigel might own the lion’s share of the business, but I’m still a partner and hold seniority over everyone except my brother.
I’m not allowed to even think about how nice it would be to hear him call me ‘Daddy’.
An email pops up on my phone. It’s from Nigel.
Is he still on the plane? Most of them have WIFI now.
I have no idea where he’s going. Was it a long-haul or short-haul flight?
I check his email, expecting it to be something important.
It’s not. His message is short and sweet: ‘Don’t even think about backing out of the ball.
’ I clench my teeth, hating that he knows me so well.
I put my phone face down on the table, and head out to fulfilment to check how they’re doing.
Miriam, the team leader, seems to have everything under control.
She’s got everyone doing their bit, so no one is standing idle, and their mini production line is running smoothly from selecting the right products, individually wrapping them beautifully, to choosing the perfect-sized box, and labelling them.
If it weren’t for the irritating Christmas music blaring through the speakers, I could stand and watch them all day.
I seem to be the only one who finds the music annoying and jarring.
Rowan scoots up to me. “The meat option is chicken, with dauphinoise potatoes, and seasonal veg, while the vegetarian option is a mushroom wellington.”
I hate to admit it, but those choices sound nice.
“Nigel had opted for the chicken, but I can call the venue and change it if you’d prefer the wellington.”
“The chicken is fine, thank you.” Even if it wasn’t, I’m not going to treat him like a PA when he isn’t one. Other than sending him across London to pick up a costume for me.
“Awesome.” He pauses for a moment, staring at me, while smiling adorably, and then bounces—yes, bounces—to Miriam. “Can I help?”
“Damn right you can.” She puts him to work double-checking the orders that have been picked. “We’re good here,” she says, which is clearly her way of telling me to stop hovering over her team.
I nod and retreat to the office, where the blare of Christmas music is more of a background annoyance than a full-frontal assault. I just need to get to the end of the ball, and then I can have the relaxing Christmas I’d planned. Delayed, but not abandoned.
It’s the twenty-second. All the orders have been delivered to the post office or dropped off with the courier, with pre-paid, guaranteed next-day delivery. It won’t be our fault if a package doesn’t reach its recipient in time for Christmas.
We’ve sold an overwhelming amount of sex toys this year, from themed sets of anal training plugs, Seventh Heaven, our most effective clitoral stimulating vibrator yet, to the Mighty Meaty, which is our biggest and most popular dildo, and everything in between.
It’s been a record-breaking year, which I’m sure Nigel will be happy about.
Shame he’s not here to congratulate the staff before sending them home for Christmas. Instead, it’s my job to do that.
As soon as the last person is out the door, I switch off the annoying Christmas music.
“Aww, I was enjoying that.”
I’m not quite alone in the office. Rowan is here, ready to drive me to the charity ball. It’s a two-hour drive, assuming we don’t get stuck in London traffic.
“You like Christmas music?” I ask.
“Of course! It’s cheerful.”
“It’s been playing all month,” I say through gritted teeth.
“You’re not a fan?”
“No.”
“I’ll make sure I don’t play any during the drive, then. Which probably means we can’t listen to the radio. Got any requests?”
“No.” I check my watch. Should I put on my costume now, or wait until we get to the venue? I decide now will be the safest option, just in case we do get stuck in traffic. “I’ll be ready in ten.”
“No rush. We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll see you in the car park?”
I nod.
The building doesn’t have its own car park, but Nigel rents space in a neighbouring secure car park for his two flashy cars.
They have twenty-four-seven security patrols, and you can’t get in without a code.
Just as well, considering how much those vehicles cost. I don’t get the point of having cars you never drive.
Let alone keeping them in central London.
I guess they’re status symbols, more than anything, and having a private driver only adds to the illusion of glamour.
Having money, after growing up with practically nothing, has definitely gone to my brother’s head.
I get changed in the office. The costume is a decent fit.
Not as good as my tailored suits, but it’ll do.
It comprises of a white shirt with frilled cuffs, a white cravat tie, a black Victorian jacket, trousers, and a top hat.
It also has a grey wig and sideburn pieces, but I ignore those.
After collecting my overnight bag, I go via the toilets so I can look in the mirror.
A younger version of Scrooge stares back at me, expression as miserable as the actor’s in the old Black and White movie.
Maybe I should have worn the wig to look the part, but I can’t think of anything itchier and scratchier than a wig several other people have worn.
I lock up the office, say goodbye to Abbey on my way out of the building, and walk the short distance to the car park.
I punch in the code, which grants me access, and navigate my way to Nigel’s parking spaces, which are side by side.
Unlike in a public car park, the spaces are vast, with plenty of room for even the biggest, widest car.
Rowan is standing beside Nigel’s white Rolls-Royce Phantom, polishing it with a cloth reverently.
The vehicle gleams under the car park’s fluorescent lighting, making it almost painful to look at.
I have to admit, it’s a beautiful car, even if it is an entirely unnecessary extravagance.
Nigel’s other car is an orange McLaren Artura. A supercar that’s utterly useless on British roads, where the maximum legal speed is seventy miles per hour. He calls it his ‘fun car’. Unsurprisingly, it spends a lot more time in the car park than the Phantom, which is for business.
Rowan turns, tucks the polishing cloth into his back pocket, grins at me, and opens the rear-hinged back door. “Your carriage awaits.”
I roll my eyes. “This is so over the top.” I feel ridiculous having a driver open my door.
Rowan seems totally unfazed by my gruff response. “Can I take your bag?”
I’m capable of putting my bag in the boot.
I hand it to him nonetheless. He holds onto it, patiently waiting with one hand on the car door for me to get in.
I do so with a heavy sigh. I don’t want to admit how gorgeous the car's interior is. The spacious seats are hand-stitched cream leather, with adjustable footrests and a large centre armrest. Even the sound of the door closing screams opulence. Rowan puts my bag in the boot and then slips into the driver’s seat.
He turns the engine on, which purrs. At the same time, dozens of tiny lights come on in the roof, creating a starscape above my head.
It’ll be much more impressive once we’re away from the artificial lighting in the carpark and the bright lights of London, but it’s breathtaking all the same.
Rowan looks at me via the rearview mirror. “Privacy screen up or down?”
The privacy screen will cut us off. We won’t be able to see each other, and we’ll only be able to talk via an intercom.
I should welcome the solitude. I’m not exactly the king of chit-chatting, but I like being able to see his smile and sparkling eyes via the rearview mirror, even though I shouldn’t.
“Down,” I reply, against my better judgement.
“Your wish is my command.”
Oh, how I would love to give him commands of a different kind. I tug at my collar, wishing it didn’t suddenly feel so hot in the car. I fiddle with the air con controls on the centre console until the vent is blowing cool air onto me.
“Next stop, the ball.” Rowan puts the car into gear and smoothly steers it out of the carpark, straight into nose-to-tail traffic.
“Did you check the weather report?” I ask, after twenty minutes of going nowhere.
“Yes. The prediction has changed.”
“Oh?”
“They’re saying it’s going to be worse than expected, but the direction of the wind should blow it away from where we’re going to be.”
I huff out a sigh of relief. “At least we won’t get stuck.”
“Doesn’t look like it.” He smiles. Damn, he has such a joyous smile.
“Although we might be stuck here.” I peer out the window. The car’s excellent soundproofing muffles street noise, but I can still hear the high-pitched blare of car horns as drivers vent their frustration.
“Nah, we won’t be.”
“You sound confident.”
“I am. We’ve left plenty of time to get there. I’m used to driving in this traffic, remember. Trust me, boss, I know what I’m doing.”
I bite my tongue to stop myself from whimpering. He needs to stop calling me that. Not that I’m going to, in case he asks me to explain my request.
“Just sit back and relax,” he says.
Sit back and relax. Easier said than done when I’m on the way to a social event, which is going to be hell on earth.
Even so, I might as well make the most of being in such an extravagant car.
I use the controls to move the footrest into a comfortable position, rest my chin on my hand, and stare through the privacy glass at London, as we crawl through the busy streets.