Eighteen
DALTON
“S hit,” Cabrera, one of the interns, says. His eyes are huge as I triumphantly toss my empty beer bottle into the recycling bin, where it clatters against the growing pile. “That was six seconds.”
“Damn,” I mutter, wiping the heel of my palm over my mouth. “I could chug one in four in college.”
Cabrera faces another intern, Barnett, whose bushy eyebrows are high enough to see the flags on Mount Everest. Next to them, Weston takes a pull from his own bottle before he raises his beer in my direction.
I grab another and go to my living room, where the other four interns I manage are occupying my couches. The charcuterie boards I ordered were two hundred dollars each, and the interns know it. They’re eating prosciutto like it’s a commodity, dismantling the little roses I’d wanted Essie to see because she would have thought they were adorable—but she’s not here.
Frankly, she’s the only person I want here.
I leave a stack of napkins next to Gaffney and Chan, shooting them a look that says, I’ve never hurt these seven-thousand-dollar couches in any of my drunken escapades, so you better not either , and text Essie a second time: When are you getting here?
“My dad is obsessed with you,” Weston mentions, appearing at my side.
He startles me, but I turn my phone so he can’t see the screen. “We work well together,” I respond, downplaying it. I’d drop most things for Warner; I’ve done it before.
Weston’s brow tightens. There’s a glossiness from the alcohol layered over his blue eyes, and he wets his lower lip with his tongue before he says, “Why is everyone obsessed with you?”
The last time I heard jealousy so thinly veiled as a question, it was when Everett and Lander found out I was having lunch with Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and Everett asked, “ Have you even read one of her dissenting opinions?”
Weston is a particular brand of finance bro who finds the mere act of working in the industry to be an aphrodisiac. He’s the type who grew up dreaming of a Patagonia and a button-down, and any given day, he’s high on himself or high-grade blow—more often than not, the latter. And the particularly annoying thing about Weston: He typically has no clue what the fuck is going on at Hannington-Hale.
His marble cut cheekbone elevates alongside a smile that looks one part genuine and two parts annoying. I wonder if having his last name on the building feeds his high or dampens it. If I were a betting man—and to be clear, I am the quintessential betting man—I’d venture it’s the former; he probably loves working for his daddy and hates that his father does indeed love me.
“Hey, can you keep an eye on Hayes?” I ask, avoiding the question. “I might have to call him a car.”
Weston nods, and I take advantage of his distraction to go onto my balcony. It’s cold out here—too cold to be jacket-less—but the liquor coursing in my bloodstream eases me as usual.
Essie answers on the third ring, and her voice fills my ear with a lyrical, “Let me guess. You want me to teabag you while you update the quarterly dashboard.”
“Don’t be silly. I would never ask for that,” I reply, leaning against the railing as I speak. “Everyone knows senior VPs don’t mess around with dashboards.”
She sighs. “What do you want, big brother?”
“That is so gross, Ess.”
“Or is it inexplicably hot to you? Hotter than, say, using my body like a fleshlight whenever it strikes your fancy?”
“One time, I watched you stuff yourself with two dildos at once, so stop pretending you’re a prude,” I retort. “You’re going to love free-use.”
Another sigh. “What do you want, Dalton?”
“I told you I was having my interns over for drinks. Since Claudia Villatoro has now personally requested your presence, you’re my intern. Come over.”
“I don’t drink. Halloween was an exception.”
“Rule number one: If you’re not in the room, you’re not getting a seat at the table. Rule number two: If you don’t have a seat at the table, everyone at the table is going to talk shit about you or forget you exist. Rule number three: I will literally uproot a sequoia with my bare hands and build you a table—don’t tell Everett. Rule number four: I don’t know shit about building tables, so in the meantime, get your perfect ass to my place. I’m sending a car.”
Essie doesn’t respond at first, and I’m about to tell her about rule number five (You don’t actually need a seat at the table because if there were a table near us, I’d bend you over and fuck you on it), but she clears her throat. “Be honest,” she requests. “Is this important to my career?”
“Direly,” I reply. “Fifteen minutes. Don’t be late for me.”
***
When she arrives, her expression is indignant. It’s also so hot.
The other guys greet her drunkenly, and her wave is infinitely less enthusiastic (if not cautious) before she slides off her coat. Then she joins Cabrera, Barnett, and Weston in my kitchen without saying a damn word to me.
Then, she just watches them—and I watch her.
After another minute, she’s still standing there, hands resting on the counter next to the sink. Her eyes track between the guys on the other side of the island, who are getting increasingly louder. She’s quiet. Too quiet. But it’s not from meekness or shyness—because Essie is neither of those things. No, this is discomfort.
I bend down and whisper, “When I ask, say you want a double vodka soda with lime.” I keep my face serious so she knows this is important. She nods. “What are you drinking?”
“Double vodka soda with lime,” she replies.
“Good girl,” I murmur, and her subsequent sharp inhalation is a straight up aphrodisiac.
It doesn’t take me long to make her drink: a club soda—no vodka—with lime. I work quietly, checking on the other interns to make sure they’re not watching, and I stand next to her with one hand on the counter. “You need to talk to them,” I whisper before I pass her the drink.
“I was studying,” is her response.
“Stop being bratty. I’m trying to help you.” And before Essie can deliver whatever biting remark is dancing on her tongue, I give her an order: “Spread your legs.”
Now, her brow pleats. “Dalton—”
“You signed a contract. All of this,” I dip my chin at her body, “is mine when I want it. Spread.”
Essie glances at the guys and sucks in a breath. “Fine,” she grits before she separates her legs. She’s wearing the same tight pencil skirt with the slit in the back that she wore to work. Fuck me. The first time I saw her in this skirt, I closed the shades to my office and came in my hand.
“If it’s too much, say Halcyon,” I whisper before I place my fingertips on the back of her leg. From the other side of the counter, the other interns won’t be able to see us, but we’re still in the conversation—and my hand is under her skirt.
While Barnett talks about his favorite breakfast bagel, I move my hand up the crest of Essie’s ass. She’s wearing tights, which I’d normally love, but as it stands, they’re in my way. I don’t like things in my way.
I fake a cough and rip them, and Essie shoots me the most lethal warning glare I’ve ever seen—but it’d be a hell of a lot more threatening if she were wearing more than a microscopic thong under these tights.
“Say something to them,” I instruct while I drag my index and middle fingers against her opening. She’s so damn wet.
Instead, she takes a sip of her drink and rolls her eyes at me, which is unacceptable.
I push my fingers into her, and Essie gasps. “Say something, or I start pumping,” I warn.
“Cabrera, how’s your desk going?” she asks immediately.
“Not bad,” he responds, facing us. He shrugs. “Cavendish put me on a pretty big account.”
“Foster,” I confirm as I pull my fingers out and slide them to her asshole, where the tight, puckered skin I’ve fantasized about is waiting for me.
Cabrera bobs his chin at Essie. “So is it true you’re just doing computer stuff?”
“Yes,” Essie confirms—and I don’t like her downplaying it, so I slip the tip of my finger into her hole. “Algorithmic modeling,” she clarifies, taking the hint. “I’m maximizing profit potential by reducing inefficiencies from transaction delays.”
The guys stare back at her, expressions blank.
Fighting my instincts, I wait, expecting Essie to say more, but nothing—not a word.
“Essie is doing great,” Weston interjects, slurring slightly. “You should check out the model.”
Cabrera snorts and glances at Barnett. “I’m all set—”
“And what the hell have you done, Cabrera?” I interrupt. I take my fingers out from Essie’s skirt—reluctantly, but I do my best intimidation when my hands aren’t knuckle-deep in the finest pussy I’ve ever seen.
The room goes quiet save for the music playing from the speakers in my living room.
“I mean it. Your capstone is in a few weeks, and you’ll have to do this anyway, so tell me what you’ve done.”
Cabrera shoves his hand through his hair. He’s sweating. “I—”
Essie shoots me a look. Shit. I went overboard.
“Cabrera, I’m fucking with you. You’re doing great,” I lie; he’s pretty average.
Cabrera forces a smile, but he doesn’t talk to Essie anymore, and she doesn’t talk to any of them either.
…We’ll have to work on that.