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His words from the other night float to the forefront of my mind.That’s why I’m just going to handle the situation myself. At the time I didn’t understand what he could do or how much power he had. But now, I can see the man doesn’t stop until he gets what he wants. He doesn’t play by a different set of rules. No, that man makes up his own.
I take a deep breath and exhale loudly. “Son of a bitch.”
“It’ll all work out, Angie, don’t worry,” Mark soothes, rubbing his hand up and down my exposed arm.
I keep my emotions in check and vow to myself to relax until I am in the comfort of my own home.
Benjamin and Samson arrive together. They are dressed in suits and appear on a mission to discuss business.
I fiddle with my handbag and pull out lip gloss to moisturize my lips. However, I really am just trying to turn on the recording feature on my phone as discreetly as I can without drawing suspicion.
The men barely show me any attention throughout the appetizer and main courses. Nearly their entire conversation is in a blend of several foreign languages—which is again a huge red flag for me. Maybe Russian? Arabic? Mark periodically rubs my shoulder and refills my water glass, however, his focus is on business tonight. I play the dumb girl act and just smile and look as clueless as I can.
At the conclusion of dinner, awkward hugs and kisses on my cheeks are given despite my body language screaming “no, thank you.” I just suck it up and hope that my audio file is worth it in the end.
* * *
When I make it through the door of the house, I throw my coat and clutch on the couch in a heap. I dash up the stairs, pulling the pins out of my hair as I go. Once in the bedroom, I undress and toss the purple minidress over the chair.
I am so spitting mad over the Graham situation that I can barely see straight.
He cannot interfere with my work by overbidding and monopolizing my schedule. Why was I not given the opportunity to accept or reject his offer? The nerve of him! Oh, if the tech support department was full of females, then that would explain it. He can stuff his charm up his own ass and let it marinate there. He probably already did it to their asses to get his way.
What does he want from me that Sophia—or any other girl—can’t offer? Or perhaps this simply is just another way to get under Mark’s skin. There definitely is bad blood between those two. Am I a pawn in this corporate game of cat and mouse?
I scrub the makeup off my face—my skin tingling at the vigorous rubbing—and slip on a freshly washed set of comfy fleece pajamas. I have an hour until guests arrive for the Monday night reality show ritual. I grab my laptop and log in to my account. Although the dates appear to already be reserved, without my approval, I click on the money manager button and my fingers nearly knock the device on the floor.
What the actual hell?
“You have got to be kidding me,” I groan out loud. I look at the number that shows the current earnings from “accepting” the next five months’ worth of dates. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars.
My mind races with the idea of suddenly being out of debt. The thought of not having to worry about when my next paycheck would arrive and if it would be past the deadlines for the bills.
No. Absolutely not. This is not right!
I did not earn this money nor do I plan on earning it. The amount doesn’t even calculate to two hundred dollars an hour. I grab a calculator and start punching in the hours per day for each week and for the certain number of weeks. My mouth gapes at the per hour rate.
No. Freaking. Way.
This amount of money is more than just wanting my company. No, this goes deeper than that. This money is meant to dictate—to control me. It is a lockdown to keep me from networking and to ensure that I will be there to warm his bed, while figuratively slugging Mark in the balls.
Every ounce of me screams at how wrong this situation is becoming. I cannot do it. I race downstairs, nearly slipping on the steps in my fuzzy socks, and grab my phone out of my bag. I find the number for Graham’s cell in my list of contacts and click on “call.” I wave at Claire who enters the house with a fabric reusable grocery bag in hand.
“Well, hi there,” she says.
“Hey you. Chat later. On a mission,” I explain.
“Seems like it.”
I stomp back upstairs and flop down on my bed, pulling the quilt up to my chin. A shiver runs through me while I wait. The phone rings twice before a sultry male voice clouds my judgment from the other line. He has the tone meant for wicked phone sex. Perhaps he would make it big on one of those hotlines that they advertise on sleazy website ads.
“To what do I owe—”
“You bastard!”
“Hmm, you are extra feisty this evening, kitten,” he drawls. “It’s turning me on.”
“Shut up!” I feel like a loon but cannot seem to get myself under control. “Asshole!”
