8. Peter Is Confused
8
Peter Is Confused
K ristoff is confusing the hell out of me, and I don’t like it.
One minute he’s blatantly disobeying my orders and the next he’s being an indispensable employee. I’ll be pissed off because he’s brought me a latte flavored with hazelnut instead of mocha and just when I’m about to tear into him he puts a report on my desk that I didn’t ask for, but I’ll find in less than a half-hour that I need desperately. It’s infuriating.
He knows I’m not up to this job without his help and he’s still helping me. He could’ve let me crash and burn any number of times but he’s always there along with anything I need to solve whatever problem is in front of me. Then for lunch he’ll bring me a turkey and Havarti sandwich when I specifically asked for roast beef and aged cheddar.
I honestly don’t know what to make of it. I’ve considered talking about it with my stepfather, but I’ve held back for a few reasons. He’s still in Italy, several time zones distant. When I call it feels like every single time I’m interrupting something more important than me. Beyond that, though, of all the people on earth, Baldwin Minola probably knows the least about his son and is bound to be the least help in solving my little Kit dilemma.
“He’s been late to work every day this week,” I bitch to Veronica. Today had been full of tiny infractions that were annoying, but not severe enough to be considered against the code of conduct. At the same time Kristoff solved a problem we were having with one of our suppliers and he shoved all the credit for it in my direction. He’s up to something—I’m sure of it. I just don’t know what.
Veronica shrugs. “Then write him up. Isn’t that what you’ve been wanting to do from day one?”
Yes, obviously, but… “It’s always only 4 minutes or less. And he stays for far longer than he’s scheduled. Even with HR in my pocket, I have no justification for writing him up. He’s always at work within five minutes of his start time and he’s been consistently working ten-hour days.”
“Then enjoy your extremely overqualified assistant. You know, even if he’s not showing it, being at your beck and call has to be killing him.” Veronica takes a bite of her strawberry mille-feuille and makes a yummy sound.
It reminds me of how earlier today Kristoff had brought me coffee—my incorrectly made coffee—then sat down to drink his own. He made that same yummy noise and for some reason it had gone right to my cock. Hard. I wanted to make Kristoff make that noise, but because for me, and I have no explanation for the why of it. Other than, of course, how very pretty he is and that my cock has no discrimination when it comes to skull fucking a pretty mouth.
I’m here to humiliate then throw Kristoff out on his ear. I want him on his knees before me, but not just figuratively. I want to stick my cock in his mouth and have him make that yummy sound before I force it down his throat until he chokes on It. I want him gagging on me and my cum. I want to see it spill out of his mouth because he can’t swallow it fast enough. I want him to lick up every drop that falls on the marble floor then beg me for more.
I want a lot of stupid shit. If Baldwin had any idea I wanted to skull fuck his son, his response wouldn’t be pretty, and the consequences would be… bad. Really bad.
“Earth to Peter,” Veronica says. “Come in, Peter.”
“What?”
“You were a million miles away. I stole two of your madeleines and you didn’t notice. How is your mother doing?”
I’m grateful for the change of subject. “The same. She’s got her good days and bad ones. How about you? How goes the grad school application process?”
Veronica wrinkles her nose at me. “The same. My parents are being a pain. They want me to get married and have babies, like humans are going extinct or something. They keep asking when you’ll pop the question.”
“Tell them that I’m holding out for a wife that’s got a post-graduate degree. That might shut them up for a year or two.”
She snorts and somehow makes the sound delicate and pretty. “I wouldn’t hold your breath, but sure, why not? I’ll give it a whirl.”
Afterward I go home, realizing I’ve settled nothing inside my own head. I still don’t know what to do about Kristoff.
“Try harder,” Baldwin says implacably when I attempt to explain to him why I’ve made no progress with his son.
Baldwin is home, but apparently it’s only temporary. He still has more “business” to conduct there, but he won’t share with me what that means. I’m beginning to think it might be something illegal.
“I’m sure he’s trying his hardest, aren’t you dear?” my mother says, giving me a brilliant, if brittle, smile. She’s pretending to eat but is just pushing food around her plate.
Baldwin snorts, the sound neither delicate nor pretty. “I expect results, boy.”
“Yes, Dad,” I say dutifully.
“Kristoff is sly and ungrateful, just like his mother. He’s been planning on taking the company from me for most of his life. We can’t let him win.”
“No, Dad.”
I try to eat my meal, which is probably delicious, but it’s like sawdust in my mouth. All I can see is my mother wasting away a little more each day.
“We’re running out of time,” Baldwin says.
I shoot him a surprised look. “Kristoff’s birthday isn’t for months.”
“There’s no reason to let this drag out for months, Peter. I’d hate to think you’re going soft on me.”
The dining room has a painting in it of a ship on a tossing sea. My stomach feels like I’m on that ship. I Googled the painting, doing a reverse image search. Turns out it was painted by Simon de Vlieger and is worth somewhere between three to five million dollars, easily, if sent to auction. I can’t help but calculate how many doses of that new cancer medication its sale would buy for my mother.
“No, Dad.” The last thing I feel is soft. I’m all jagged edges looking for something to destroy. But while that thing should be Kristoff, right now all I can think is how Baldwin told my mother, and I there would be no money to spare until the company was ours.
Or in actuality, his.
Everything is always his. The company, this house, the cars we drive, the clothes we wear, hell, even that damn painting of a ship hanging on the wall. It all comes from Baldwin and no, it’s not something I am ever able to forget. He would never let either one of us forget that we owe everything to him and that we would have all the money we needed if only Kristoff wasn’t in the way.
I look up and stare holes into that damned painting. It belongs in a museum, not this dining room. It’s not the only original artwork in the house, either. There’s a Degas and a Singer-Sargent and one by Dali that’s a bunch a dicks when you look at it closely. There’s even a mosaic by Matisse in the sunroom, seen mostly by my mom when she has to dust it.
How much money would they bring in if we auctioned them off? Baldwin’s new Cadillac Escalade would have paid for five or six months of medication easily. All I can see around me is this house full of precious things that have no purpose while my mom slips away from me a little more each day.
Abruptly I stand up from the table. “Forgive me,” I say stiffly, not forgetting my manners even in a fit of what Baldwin would call a childish rage. “I’m not very hungry and I have a ton of paperwork to catch up on.”
Baldwin gives me a narrow look but doesn’t say anything. I lean over to kiss my mother’s thin cheek. “Love you,” I say softly.
She reaches over squeezes my hand. “Don’t work too hard. You’ll make yourself sick.” Like she’s not dying in front of my eyes.
“Don’t let me or your mother down,” Baldwin says.
I want to throw up or smash something but instead I give my stepfather a nod and polite smile. “I’ll do everything in my power not to disappoint you.” Because if I do disappoint him, my mother will never get the medicine she needs. It goes unsaid but all three of us know that’s what he’s really saying.
My only choice is to follow this through and get Kristoff fired. It’s my one and only option.
I drive aimlessly, wishing I could outrun my problems and knowing I can’t. I make aimless turns and take random streets, but I’m inexorably drawn south, into Chicago. Maybe to find a bar and some whiskey then a warm body—or two—to fuck, but where I find myself stopping is outside the entrance to a skyscraper.
The valet comes to my side of the car and pulls the door open then hands me a ticket. “Any of the residents can validate it for you,” he says smoothly. He has an accent but it’s soft and distant, only noticeable to someone who was put through years of speech therapy. Someone like me.
I mutter a thank you at him and walk around the car to the entrance of the building. A doorman ushers me inside and tells me to speak with the building’s concierge.
She’s exactly my type, with long inky hair, blue eyes, and a mysterious smile. “Can I help you?” she asks in a beautiful contralto.
I’m suddenly sure this is a terrible idea and I’m not sure which would be worse—finding Kristoff here or learning that he’s out. Perhaps he’s with friends, or on a date, or at one of the many gay clubs in the city. He could be anywhere. Eating dinner in New York, for all I know.
The concierge suddenly smiles at me. “You must be Peter Verona. Mr. Minola informed us that you were to be taken to his residence when you arrived.”
I feel like I’ve been sucker punched. “What?”
She frowns prettily. Veronica would be impressed—and possibly in love. “Are you not here to see Kristoff Minola?”
I blink at her. No, I’m not. But yet, here I am. And he knew, somehow, I was coming. I feel drunk without having tasted a drop. “I… yes,” I finally say, because I have no other response.
The concierge goes back to smiling at me. “Wonderful. You can use the elevator at the end. I’ll let him know you’re on your way up.”
I regain enough composure to shake my head. “No, don’t do that. I’d like to surprise him.” I wink at the concierge and give her a roguish grin.
She smiles wider and shows dimples. “Of course, Mr. Verona. And I hope you have a lovely evening.”
I walk to the elevator and force myself not to look back at her. Just what did Kristoff tell that woman, and more importantly, why? The elevator doors open as I approach and it starts moving up once the doors are closed. I don’t have to worry about what button to push because this elevator contains no buttons. I swallow my nerves and dig up every shred of gravitas I have or can quickly manufacture. In just a few moments, I’m going to have answers to my questions.
Or else.