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“Get your shit together, Rory!” I scold myself, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure I don’t look like a girl who has just been fucked, but the woman looking back at me does. My eyes are hooded, and my cheeks are flushed. “God-fucking-dammit,” I grumble as I lift my car door and march into the building.
Keeping my chin raised and my shoulders back, I stride briskly to the far elevator and allow it to take me to the top floor. My hands begin to sweat and my heart thumps in my chest as I wonder if Maddox is already here, pondering how he’ll treat me.
Probably like nothing ever happened…
Prepared to either be embarrassed or disappointed, I hold my breath and walk through the elevator’s open doors and down the silent hallway. The only sound accompanying me is the clicking of my boots. I glance inside Maddox’s office and find it empty, then peek in Alistair’s and Rogan’s to find them both absent.
Intrigued, I hang my purse on the back of my chair and plop down on it. A note written on elegant stationery greets me. By the swooping calligraphy, I know it’s from Alistair.
Rory,
We’ve gone on a business trip, and we’ll be out of the office for a few days. Keep your phone beside you at all times in case we need you. Be sure to check your email every morning for a detailed list of our expectations for each day in and out of the office. We’ve got our eyes and ears on you. Don’t miss me too much, kitten.
Alistair
Relief floods me, and I lean back in my chair, exhaling with a puff through my lips. I don’t have to see them for a few days, and during that time, I can just keep my head down and get my job done. I don’t think I was prepared to see the heat in Maddox’s eyes—or worse yet, ice—or the knowing in Alistair’s and Rogan’s gazes. This gives me a break.
Knowing I have a respite from their heated, dominating stares, I head over to the coffee pot where I see a blaring, fluorescent Post-it note.
“Be good, pet.”
I snatch it off the pot with a smile and trace along the ink with my finger. Never thought being someone’s pet would make my heart pitter-patter like it does, but then the guilt of my reason for being here washes over me, and I crush the note in my palm before tossing it in the trash.
After my coffee is made just the way I like it, with sugar and creamer, I sit down on my chair and scoot into my desk. I pull the laptop from my bag and set it on the desk, then I lift the top to pull up my email. Surprisingly, today’s list is very small.
Check phone messages.
Stock inventory.
Answer any and all calls.
That’s it. I take a sip of my coffee and listen to the messages, taking detailed notes of who called, when, and what they wished to discuss. Leisurely, I finish my coffee and scroll through my newsfeed when I see an article that freezes the blood in my veins. The title reads,Murdered Motel Manager,and I just know right away this isn’t going to be good. The mouse hovers over the play button, and I debate closing the computer and walking away, but like a train wreck, I can’t not watch.
Clicking on the video feels like someone has stabbed me in the chest, my heart thrashing wildly against my ribs. My hands shake as I reach for my coffee cup, and I lie to myself, trying to believe it’s from caffeine and not my potent fear.
Bronson’s ugly face morphs into view. He’s standing behind a wooden podium, which has the Boston PD’s logo on the front. Bronson reaches up and adjusts the mic before he begins to speak. Most of his words are muffled to my ears, my thumping pulse overpowering the sound from the laptop, but I catch the phrase, “Subjects have been apprehended and are in custody.”
I know that’s a lie because I’m walking free. A small part of me feels hope that I won’t be caught, but then dread replaces that, knowing it’s under investigation. I wasn’t careful when I took that man’s life. I was desperate and careless as he threatened me and advanced. I didn’t think, I just reacted to protect myself, to save my own life.
But would the courts even care if I did get caught? Or would they just easily label a bottom-feeder like me as a murderer. My eyes burn with unshed tears as I slam the laptop closed and hang my head in my hands.
Sniffing, I punch my fists down on my desk hard enough to splash coffee from my mug. Needing a distraction, I push away from my desk and stand, deciding to snoop around. I start with Maddox’s office, but just like the man himself, his office is locked up tight. Every drawer resists my pull.
The only thing I find is an empty table, a comfortable yet masculine seating area, and a fridge filled with bottled water and an expensive bottle of champagne. I can’t even open the door to his bathroom, which makes me wonder what the fuck he hides in there.
Rogan’s office is much the same. His whiteboard still has coding scribbled all over it with my change in pink marker. I wonder why he hasn’t erased it yet. Memories surface of my first time here, how the three of them sat across from me on those leather couches and basically told me how, if I accepted this job, they’d control every part of my life.
And now they do exactly that, down to my orgasms.
Shaking my head, I leave Rogan’s office and move to Alistair’s. For a man who likes to present himself as immaculate, his office is kind of a mess.
Piles of papers are scattered on his desk. I rifle through them but find nothing of interest. Most are credit card statements which, in other circumstances, might pique my interest. Another is an invitation to some kind of club called El Buen Diablo, but I ignore them all and try his drawers. The first five resist me, and I’ve almost lost hope, but then the last drawer succumbs to my pull and slides open.
I gasp when I look inside and find a row of neatly kept files. Crouching down, I sift through them until I come to the last one. Instead of neatly typed labels, this one is scrawled in a black Sharpie.
Marvin.
My heart stutters… Marvin? Could this be the same man in the photos Bronson showed me? The man who was brutally tortured? Who was maimed and gutted in a very personal attack?
