2. Rian
Two
Rian
Ijab the button for the lift five times despite knowing it won’t make any difference. My jaw is clenched so tight, I’m about to give myself a headache.
Fucking Smyth and fucking O’Toole contract!
If it hadn’t been for the file Catriona prepared that I skimmed through on the way up to see Smyth, then… Well, it saved my fecking arse, but I’ll never give her the satisfaction of admitting it. My mood clouds over even more at the thought of her cold blue eyes.
Dad’s behind this test, I know he is. Always checking up on me and criticising. He thinks it will make me strive to perform better, but it has the exact opposite effect. Why the hell should I strive for perfection when nothing I do is good enough?
“When I was your age…”
How many times have I heard that speech?
And every time it makes me feel so insignificant.
Inadequate. But what the hell does he expect me to do?
I can’t build my own company as he did at my age, as I’m supposed to take over his!
It’s a destiny I accepted long ago. My path in life is a concreted one-way road with glaring streetlights and Kearney Security Solutions the only destination.
The company is no longer the small Dublin-based business my dad started when he was twenty-six, two years younger than I am now – it’s grown with an international customer base, offering security for anything from private dwellings to large office buildings, conferences and sporting events.
It’s actually quite an interesting company.
I was excited after finishing my business degree when Dad arranged for me to get experience working for other international companies in preparation for eventually climbing the corporate ladder at Kearney Security Solutions.
And when he said climbing the KSS corporate ladder…
“Feck this,” I mutter.
The lift finally arrives. I step in and stab the button for my floor.
Then another three stabs for good measure.
Maybe it will short-circuit the lift and keep me stuck in here for a few hours. The solitude sounds a hell of a lot better than the boring work waiting for me down below.
My shoulders slump and I lean back against the metal wall.
Dad called me home to Dublin six months ago after four years abroad, saying he now had a fitting position for me in KSS.
What a load of shite. Dad gave me the responsibility of a small, unimportant branch, expecting me to work my way to the top.
I’m overqualified, in fact, I would have never accepted it, let alone applied for it, in any other company.
But I don’t have a choice.
I’ve been bored with this job from day one.
The four years I spent abroad, I worked in top-end companies in Europe, America and Asia.
In those jobs I had real responsibilities, complex decisions to make and deals to close.
I know I’ll eventually find that same thrill and excitement here, but in my current position, there’s hardly any money involved, no big decisions or major risks to consider.
Just small Dublin business contracts that need yearly reviews.
Flirting with my co-workers is the only form of entertainment in this dull job.
I huff. It seems the women in the office compete in showing off the lowest cut tops and shortest skirts in their attempts to catch the owner’s son’s attention.
Practically everyone has been throwing themselves at me, except for ice queen Catriona Taylor.
Not only does she show no interest in flirting with me, but she takes every opportunity to put me down, point out when I’m wrong and disagree with me.
The fact that she is good at her job doesn’t help either.
Always on time, always thorough, always discreet, always planning ahead, always so fecking perfect and fecking boring.
And even more annoyingly, her blonde hair is always tied back in a tight bun instead of flowing down her back.
Her button-down blouses, covered by suit jackets, don’t show the slightest glimpse of cleavage.
She wears flat shoes. Seriously, flat shoes!
What modern woman doesn’t wear heels at work?
And to top it off, she wears them with boot-cut suit trousers.
Whoever invented boot-cut trousers should be publicly flogged for treason against all men – robbing us of the pleasure of enjoying the curves of a woman’s backside and thighs.
Her face is sweet enough, with sky blue eyes, a straight nose and lips with a bit of plumpness.
Well, it would be a sweet face if it wasn’t for her expression that never seems to warm when looking at me.
I’d seriously love to spank that glare off her face.
In fact, I have a library full of ways I’ve punished Catriona in my dreams. I close my eyes, picturing her on her hands and knees, balancing awkwardly with red rope tied tightly from her wrists up her arms, criss-crossed over her back and down her legs, artfully framing her arse.
It’s jutting up, the cheeks glowing from being paddled.
My nostrils flare as I imagine her looking over her shoulder, her swollen lips parted and tears hanging from her lashes, begging for mercy. Or more.
The sound of the lift arriving on my floor brings me out of my daydream.
I discreetly adjust my cock before entering the office for the second time in the last thirty minutes.
I stride purposefully through the open office to Catriona’s desk.
Deep in concentration, she’s chewing her pink lip while typing on her laptop.
Unceremoniously, I drop the O’Toole contract on her desk.
She startles and her clear blue eyes snap up to meet mine.
Quickly, she hides her surprise behind her usual stern mask.
“You forgot to include potential upsells,” I say, and walk off.