7. Jason
Iglance at the trading clocks and lean back in my chair with a sigh, as Shane Waldron goes into yet another fear-driven rant about how much of his money is at risk.
It’s only fucking money. He knows how to make more. I could make it back for him within the week, but still he’s dragging his heels, and I’m done. It’s been a hard day’s night, and I’m too fucking distracted for bullshit.
I can’t stop thinking about why the fuck Mandi came to see me.
You know why.
I glance at the cum-smeared Post-it note stuck to the corner of my screen, and then at the small mountain of used tissues in the trash. I doubt I pay my cleaning staff enough to clean up after that much of my self-soothing. I need to go home.
“If you need more than sixty seconds, the opportunity will pass, and we’ll be done for the night,” I inform Shane, unwilling to suffer his indecision for another minute.
“That soon?” he asks.
“You’re not my only client,” I reply, unable to summon the energy to lessen the harshness in my tone. “I brought this offer to your attention first, out of loyalty, but if you don’t want it, there’s a steady line of eager beavers behind you, who’d love to pony-up the funds. High risk, high reward, man. But that’s a young buck’s game, and maybe you’re getting too long in the tooth.”
Great. I’ve resorted to talking in clichés, like a fucking imbecile.
Fucking Amanda Warren.
I drag my hands down my face, grateful it’s an audio-only meeting. “What’s it going to be, Shane? I’ve got places to be,” I lie.
“Fine. Put me in for ten mill, you cocky fuck. But you’ll be hearing from me?—”
“When I’ve doubled it in a fortnight, and you’re begging to name your first born after me. I know. Goodnight, Shane.” I end the call and tap out the sequence required to complete the transactions I’ve had staring at me from the screen for the last three hours.
I loosen my collar even more and find an envelope big enough to accommodate the well-fertilized contents of my trashcan, while I await the confirmation e-mail. As soon as it comes through, I slam my laptop shut, shove it into my backpack, pull on my leather jacket, sling the bag over my shoulder, and head down to the basement with the envelope. I’ll toss it in the trash down there.
Of course, I’m so preoccupied, trying to figure out the puzzle that is Amanda Warren, that I’m still holding my creepy package of reproductive waste when I get to my bike.
I hear snoring, and then spot the soles of Mandi’s boots poking out from behind a nearby pillar. I know they’re hers, because they’re small — no bigger than a five — and they’re worn down on the outer right heel, because she rolls her ankle outward when she walks. I got her orthotics to even that out, so she wouldn’t get backaches, but I found them in her empty house after she left.
My teeth start to ache from my clenching them so hard, and I relax my jaw before quietly lowering my cargo to the ground. I sneak toward her sleeping form in the shadows.
How did she get in here? I pay good money to keep out any riff-raff, but after this fucking travesty, I’ll be donating the security team’s annual bonus to the cleaning staff instead.
I stand over her curled body and let every emotion I have for her wash over me, while I remain perfectly still. Part of me wants to break her scrawny, shivering neck. A dumber portion longs to pick her up and build her a cozy nest. The smarter thing to do would be to walk away and leave her there.
There’s no denying the urge to touch her pretty dark hair. Or to pull it out. My body almost begs to lie down next to her — not to snuggle — just to watch her sleep until the sun comes up. Though my blood does rush at the idea of grabbing every used tissue from the nearby envelope and stuffing them inside her. Down her throat. Up her cunt. In her ass. I’ll shove them in with my fist, and then fuck them deeper with my cock.
It’s a little hard to breathe, and my vision starts to blur, as my heart tries to expel itself from my chest.
I’m going to sue my fucking doctor. He said my cholesterol was excellent and I have the heart of a man in his twenties, but here it is, about to fail on me. Fucking quack.
Fucking Amanda Warren.
Poisonous little retch. I’ve tried for twenty years to get her out of my system, and now she’s trying to dose me again. My fingers are fucking tingling from her effect already. They’re just itching to strangle her.
I take a calming breath and take note of exactly where the security cameras are.
Clever girl has placed herself perfectly. Did she mean to fall asleep? Had she planned to jump from the shadows and startle me? And did she assume I’d be lenient, either way?
I step around the pillar and crouch in front of her. What’s the best way to approach this situation? I’ve drained my tanks twice tonight, but my cock is hard again from my considering her possible punishments. Now that she’s here in the flesh, she’ll need to repent multiple times, before I cut her loose.
If she tried to make an appointment to see me, I would have punished her by not showing up, but she’d know that much. Hence the sneaky rendezvous attempt at my bike.
Wisely or unwisely, she’s put herself in my hands.
I reach for her throat, and careful to support her body so I don’t damage her larynx, I yank her off the ground, and pin her to the concrete pillar before she’s alert. It doesn’t take her long to figure out who’s got her once she’s wide awake, though.
She makes her eyes grow round, large, and glassy, before she flutters her dark lashes like a doe-eyed little harlot, because she knows her sad, pretty eyes make me fucking weak.
I give her a short, sharp shake. “What the fuck are you doing here, Amanda?”