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“Yep. I’ve got you.”
And Margaret, my mind whispers.
But Margaret isn’t mine. No amount of alcohol can change that fact. Besides, she’s afraid of me. It’s as if she knows I’m no good whenever I show up at Baines Corp. Some primitive part of her mind senses that I’m a bad man, and she keeps her eyes down when I walk in. Even though I’m dressed like the other men, say the right things, wear the right watch--she still knows I don’t fit.
But I know she doesn’t fit, either. Margaret should never have taken a job as Mr. Baines’ personal assistant. She’s everything he’s not. Young, bright, pleasant. On top of that, she is absolutely beautiful. Dangerous curves, big hazel eyes, and hair that curls perfectly around my fingers.
“Can’t have her.” I shake my head in overdone, admittedly drunk, fashion. She’s meant for some soft executive with a trust fund and family house in the Hamptons. I’m too filthy. My soul is black. Hers gleams white from any angle. The picture of perfect innocence, sweetness, and somehow sin. Because when I see her, my thoughts always turn to what I’d like to do to her. How many times I could make her come. How I could ruin her for that soft executive trust fund brat in her future. How I could make her crave me, andonlyme.
But it’s not to be.
I see her every few months when I go in to see her boss. Her cheeks turn a cute pink as she leads me into his office, and her hips always have a tantalizing sway as she walks me to his thick double doors.
“Mr. Black,” she breathes. Eyes down, hair falling around her shoulders, cheeks an even brighter pink.
Would she address me as “Mr. Black” if I bent her over her desk and buried my face in her pussy from the back?
I lift my bottle in a toast. “I’ll drink to that.”
My phone vibrates again and again.
I keep drinking.
Bernie keeps snoozing.
The sun sets.
Then it rises.
Sets again.
Then someone bangs on my door.
“Fuck.” I blink, trying to determine if I’m awake and this is hell. The pounding in my head promises me I’m still here, still breathing, still being a part-time drunk.
Bernie jumps off the bed and skitters toward the bathroom, his tail twitching.
I rise, close my eyes tight, and feel my way down the hall, past the expensive art I don’t understand and across the rug that cost more than most people’s cars.
When I get to the door, I pull the pistol I have strapped to the wall beside it and press the barrel to the wood.
“Who is it?” I call. But it’s more of a croak.
“Mr. Baines has been calling.”
I know that voice. I hate it. Todd. As if I didn’t have enough reasons to hate Mr. Baines’ sniveling son-in-law, his fucking name is another addition to the list.
“The fuck you want?” I consider pulling the trigger for shits and giggles.
“A situation has developed. Mr. Baines has a job for you. One that must be executed immediately.”
“I just got back.”
“Do you think that matters to him?” His voice rises to almost soprano levels.
My head pounds, and my trigger finger is itchy.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten your debt to--”
