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“Oh, believe me, there is.”
Caroline plucks her Louis Vuitton purse from the corner of my desk, batting her too-long-to-be-remotely-real eyelash extensions at me as she struts over to the door to my office and opens it.
“I should know,” she smirks. “Since it’s me.”
“How the actual fuck did this happen!?”
I pace the floor of Gabriel’s office like a caged animal, my teeth bared, breathing hard. Across the room, Taylor stands looking over Gabriel’s shoulder as he peers at his laptop.
“He can’t hold a meeting, much less a vote, without us there.”
“We don’t technically have to be there, but yes, we do have to be invited to non-scheduled meetings,” Taylor mutters.
“Yeah, well, I seem to be missing my fucking invite?—”
“Goddammit,” Gabriel suddenly snaps. He points to his screen. “Okay, Charles did technically invite us to the meeting, thereby satisfying the requirement to give us the opportunity to attend. But the invite was sent to the three of us on a separate email, where he included the word “FREE” in all caps in the subject line together with about forty fucking emojis. It—as he hoped, I’m sure—went straight to our spam folders.”
“He can’t vote his fucking wife onto the board!”
“He can,” Gabriel mutters. “And he did. Ratified by a narrow margin this morning.”
Mother. Fucker.
“I need to vent,” I hiss. “I’m going downstairs.”
Gabriel and Taylor glance at each other. They know what that means.
“Try not to break your hand again.” Taylor frowns. “Looks terrible in court.”
The Crown and Black offices proper occupy the top three floors of the midtown building we’re in. But we also rent a giant space in the sub-basement to house old records, dead files, and anything else that would collect dust up in the main offices.
It’s a stuffy, sweaty, miserable place to spend much time in. But that means no one ever comes down here unless they need to get something. Which makes it perfect for me.
In a far corner of the maze of metal shelving, I keep a practice bag, for when I just need to hit something.
Right now, I really need to do that.
I go at it the second I get to the far corner. My snarls fill the silence, my grunts echo off the metal shelves. I lose my jacket as the heat of the sub-basement begins to cook me, together with my fury. I pause to roll up my sleeves before I attack the bag again.
Jab, jab. Dodge, weave, jab, elbow, knee. Fuck you, Charles.
Sweat begins to roll down the small of my back. I grunt, pausing again to yank my shirttails out of my pants and unbutton it all the way before I start to go at the bag again.
Something clatters to the floor behind me.
I whirl, my eyes blazing. My fists are still raised as my chest heaves. I peer into the dim light before I march over to one of the huge metal shelves groaning with Bankers boxes and storm around to the other side of it.
Eloise gasps, her spine snapping straight. Her hair clings to sides of her flushed face in the humid heat of the sub-basement. Her blazer is gone, along with her heels and her blouse, leaving her standing in front of me barefoot in just a skirt and a skin-tight tank top that clings to her every curve.
My eyes drop to the hard points of her nipples before dragging back up to her wide eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing down here?” I grunt.
She sets her jaw and scowls. “You sent me down here, dickhead. Remember?”
Shit. That does ring a bell. I vaguely remember telling Katerina this morning to send Eloise down here in search of some ancient files I may—but most likely will not—need for one of my cases.
I lift a brow at her. “Again, I feel the need to remind you that I am your boss.”
