SIR

by R. J. Lewis

  I glance at him, at the amusement in his expression. “Are you trying to annoy me?”

  “Are you trying to dismiss me by staring at Edgar Allen Poe?” he quips back. “I can just go if you want me to. It’s just…you said you weren’t uncomfortable by my undress.”

  This guy.

  I mimic his stance, resting the side of my body against the shelves to face him. “I am not uncomfortable by it.”

  “Then you’re enjoying it.”

  “I’m not enjoying it, either.”

  “I don’t do it for you?”

  “Nope.”

  “You lie.”

  I quick a brow. “Do you often have the tendency to edit your reality?”

  “Do you often blush every time you lie? Because if so, it’s a serious tell, Turbo.”

  “I’m not blushing. I’m hot.”

  “For me?”

  “No!”

  “Come on,” he urges, looking me over now with heated eyes. “I’m irresistible, and you know it.”

  My eyes narrow at him as I retort very slowly, “You’re also a little too much like your older brother, Mr West.”

  How could I not have known this was Alexander West when I bumped into him last night? He is a spitting image of Aidan. Even his personality is similar to Aidan’s—well, Aidan from before.

  And okay, it didn’t occur to me this was his brother because for some wild reason, I assumed Alex was a gangly teenager that was running off the rails, but after doing the math real quick, he’s eight years younger than Aidan, and by no means a gangly teenager with an emo haircut and all about the rebel side of life. No, no, instead this dude is a man. A fucking man. Mind blown.

  I brush past him, unsurprised that he trails behind me, chuckling. “You didn’t seem so sure who I was last night, Ivy Montcalm.”

  My shoulders tighten when I hear my name on his tongue. I spin around, stopping. “And you knew exactly who I was.”

  He stops in front of me. “Oh, I know everything about you. Hard not to with Steven drilling about you in my ear every five seconds.”

  My lips part in surprise. “So, you know why I’m here then.”

  His smile is soft now as he regards me. “I know why you’re here.” And then he adds quickly, “I don’t agree with it, though.”

  I give him a look. “Why?”

  I wonder if he thinks I don’t deserve to be here. If he hates me like Aidan must have before his crash. The thought makes my stomach twist.

  “Because you’re not going to bring him back,” he answers instead.

  My heart beats painfully now. “How can you be sure?”

  “Ruth is dead, he lost his company, and he’s back to drinking his anger away. The Aidan you’re trying to carve out of him will not be the man from before because you can’t replicate that same path, and even if you did, you can’t nurture growth in the direction you want.” He moves closer, dropping his head to say quietly, “We are unpredictable creatures.”

  Now it’s his turn to brush past me. I turn, following his movements. “So why are you here then, Alex?”

  He turns to look at me, stopping mid-step. “I’m here to pick up the pieces.”

  My mouth thins. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He smiles softly, appearing sympathetic now as he responds, “It means you should lean on me from here on out, Turbo. You’re going to need a shoulder to cry on, and you will be doing lots of that. I love my brother, but he is in prick mode, and he will hurt you.”

  He already has.

  I look at Alex strangely, my brows coming together because… “You’re a lot more introspective than I thought you’d be.”

  His smile turns lazy. “Heard about me, Ivy?”

  “A time or two.”

  “Hmm.” He’s not even curious to know. He simply turns away and raises his hand in a wave. “Well, time to get to know me firsthand, I’d say.”

  Then he’s gone.

  Eight

  Ivy

  With Alex’s words running through my head, I sit in my claustrophobic office and take pictures of everything. It’s a lengthy process. Steven’s helping so much, so I know he’s breaking his back right now over this too, which is why I haven’t even bothered to tell him I’ve bumped into Aidan’s brother.

  I can’t stop thinking about that guy. Ugh. I shake my head a few times, pushing away the warmth I feel at those cocky smiles he shot me. They’re too much like Aidan’s were, and it’s not sitting right to think of his younger brother like this.

  I’m so confused with myself.

  After a while, I start to know what to look out for. I check debt to equity ratios. Steven ran me through it quickly in a message. I check net income verses business evaluation. There’s a company in this pile earning a fortune selling hockey pucks. What the ever-loving fuck? This is how I know with unwavering persistence you can make it in life selling anything.

  I curse Aidan off under my breath. He’s been so cold to me.

  “I won’t even call him by his name,” I mumble angrily. “Because he’s not my Aidan. It’s Mr fucking West from here on out, and West can suck it.”

  I sort of don’t mean that, of course. I’m venting because this sucks.

  He doesn’t poke his head in to check how I am. I don’t even know what he’s doing. The whole purpose of being his assistant was for us to go through this together.

  By the time I’m done, it’s ten minutes to 5. I have two piles on the desk. A big pile for businesses that suck ballsacks, and another that look promising. I’m exhausted. I’ve been sitting in a hard wooden chair, and my eyes are shot to shit because the lighting in here is oppressive. All that’s missing from this room is a cauldron and a crazy ass witch. I think I prefer her to Aidan right now.

  I rub my head, wondering if I have to go to him. I have a feeling he’s going to arrogantly stride in the room at exactly 5. He probably thinks I’ve failed miserably. I grind my teeth just imagining it. He’ll look smug and take great satisfaction seeing me like this. He’ll presume I’m going home. Like it isn’t enough he must think I’m a tabloid hungry ho for knowing all about Nina fucking Hamilton, he has to know I suck at this job, too.

  I stand up and run my hands over my clothes, ironing it out. I tuck my hair behind my ears and stand in front of the desk, leaning my butt back so it’s resting along the edge. Then I cross my arms and wait. I refuse to let him see me broken. Hell no is he going to see me come apart. I won’t give him that satisfaction.

  I stare at the door, and a few minutes later, like I predicted, I hear his footsteps approach. He whips the door open and steps in. He pauses a step when he sees me standing there, looking bored.

  “Mr West,” I say, calmly. “I was beginning to think you weren’t going to show.”

  He appears surprised. It’s a welcoming feeling seeing it. Just as quickly, the expression drops and he moves around me, looking over the piles.

  “You went through it all?” he wonders.

  “Every single paper,” I respond with certainty.

  “And you calculated monthly revenue?”

  “From start of tax year to the end.”

  “Does that include looking over the dates?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a pile of businesses worth looking into?”

  “I do.”

  Now he looks at me. “I find that hard to believe, Miss Montcalm.”

  I look back at him, feeling heat rush to my cheeks because he’s closer to me, and I keep thinking of that kiss. I raise my chin up, keeping steady. “I did what you asked.”

  “I asked you to look for businesses worth looking into.”

  “And I did.”

  “You didn’t.” He looks me at with so much arrogance. “None of these investments are worth looking into, Miss Montcalm, because they’ve all gone bust.”

  I feel like I’ve been slapped. I turn away, staring down at the two piles. “What?”

  “The most logical f
irst step of looking into any business is applying a public record check to make sure it’s still running. Don’t you think, Miss Montcalm?” He then prods, tilting his head, watching me closely. “That it would be the most logical thing to do before expending precious hours?”

  I’m too dazed to respond. I didn’t even think to do that. Neither did Steven.

  “Businesses are like people,” he continues. “They leave behind a paper trail that are easy to find. Public records that are easy to obtain by one simple search. I didn’t think this was too out of the box, even for someone like you, Miss Montcalm.”

  I slowly turn my gaze to him, feeling my pulse quicken. “You tricked me.” And he looks so smug about it, too.

  “Tricked you?”

  “You wanted me to fail.”

  “Regardless of what I wanted, you did fail, Miss Montcalm.”

  He rounds the desk and grabs the pile of papers. He begins tossing them into the bin on the floor. All that hard work and he’s throwing it out before my eyes. I watch him, pulse still thrumming. So, this is the assholery they were speaking of. It comes across like an indirect sort of cruelty, but I know better.

  I think…I think he was giving me a dead-end errand so he could have the day to himself…

  Spots dance before my vision.

  “Congratulations for wasting my time,” I mutter emptily.

  He pauses to glare at me. “Wasting your time?” he repeats, sounding incredulous.

  I don’t back down. “You did. You wasted my fucking time, Mr West.”

  His face twists, and the expression he wears unsettles me. “What do you know of wasted time, Miss Montcalm?” he growls. “Did you wake up one day and forget three years of your life? Are you surrounded by people you’re certain have fucked you over, but you can’t prove it? Do you know if they’re laughing at you, taking advantage of you, waiting for you to fall?” He rounds the desk, eyes narrowing as he repeats slowly, “What the fuck do you know about wasted time?”

  I stand my ground, staring back at him. I sense the pain buried in him. He’s fighting to hide it. You can’t hear it in his voice as menacing as he sounds, but I know Aidan’s tones. He’s fighting to control himself, but he doesn’t know how to.

  That look punctures through my anger, deflating it like a popped balloon.

  My voice is softer now as I look him over, gently answering, “I know that after you’ve wasted your time, it’s the perfect moment to start over.”

  He doesn’t respond. He watches me closely, eyes pinned to my mouth, and I’m forced to relive that kiss from last night. He must remember it, as drunk as he was, but I have no guts to bring it up.

  “Don’t you think, sir?”

  His eyes flare just like they did last night. He presses his lips down hard as his brows furrow. He looks confused. Curious even. I think he’s being pulled to me, and he doesn’t understand why.

  “I also think,” I speak slowly, searching his eyes, “letting me go so soon would be an impulsive response to a problem that really wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  “If you can’t catch obvious mistakes, then how am I to trust your work ethic going forward?”

  “To be fair, working under these conditions had an effect.”

  He raises a brow. “What conditions?”

  “The lighting leaves much to be desired. I am suffering from serious eye strain, which I believe may have been to blame for overlooking those dates. I mean, I think the font size on those documents was like 7…Maybe 7.5.”

  “Better lighting would have helped you?”

  I nod solemnly. “I truly believe so.”

  He just stares at me, seeing straight through my bullshit. I’m really trying here to stick this out, to convince him not to send me home. My eyes are wide, maybe even pleading, and he’s not looking away.

  I feel heat between us.

  The same heat from before, the one that slowly simmered and burned, its flame growing stronger with every encounter. He looks over my face, his gaze always seeming to linger on my mouth.

  Then a strange look crosses him, like he’s suddenly catching himself. He immediately steps back and blinks away, breaking the moment.

  “Bin the files,” he tells me, sounding flat. “We’ll start again tomorrow, Miss Montcalm.”

  I hide my relief. “I look forward to a fresh start, Mr West.”

  He glances at me once. I see that heat in his gaze as it travels over me, taking me in quickly yet thoroughly. My cheeks burn as I see a flicker of something familiar in his gaze. Hunger…

  He peers at me, chest moving slower. Then he says in a quiet voice, “Going forward, it would be a wise move if you were to wear a longer skirt, Miss Montcalm.”

  My heart climbs up my throat. “I didn’t know you were looking, sir.”

  He doesn’t smirk like I expect. In fact, he looks painfully serious when he declares, “No man with a pulse could resist a pair of legs like yours. For both our sakes, let’s stick to longer skirts. Am I clear?”

  That’s just so wildly inappropriate of him to say, and yet…

  I swallow. “You’re clear.”

  “If you’re trying to convince me you’ve ever been a personal assistant, you’ll need to step up your game,” he warns, that cool face returning. “Otherwise, your hours here are numbered. Waste anymore of my time, intrude on anymore private matters that aren’t your business, and you’ll find yourself fucking back off to where you came from.”

  Fucking savage.

  I resist shuddering at the final look he gives me, loaded with suspicion, like he can see straight through my front. Then he leaves, and I practically collapse into the nearest chair. My heart is thumping from the terror of being scrutinized by him, and my body is about to combust because of the heated way he looked at me. I look down at my legs and give them a thumbs up. “Nicely done.” I think these puppies saved me from getting fired. God bless.

  After I bin the papers, I go back to my nest. I cough out another web going through the door, but that’s fine, Philotes can kiss my ass. I collapse into my sad little couch and stare about my sad little room. I’m starving, but I haven’t done a grocery shop. I don’t know how many dozens of busses I would need to take to get to the nearest one.

  As if Tilda read my mind, I glance at the kitchen and spot a bag. I go to it and peer inside. I fish out a note.

  Hi Ivy,

  Mr West sent me on an errand earlier today to get you some groceries. I don’t know what you eat, so I got you some eggs, fruit and meats. I figure it is enough to tide you over until tomorrow, and by then you can write me a proper list.

  -Tilda

  I look up, brows coming together. West sent her to do this? West, who pranced about threatening to fire me for being useless, knew I’d be sticking around when 5 o’clock struck. Which means that whole interaction was for nothing.

  Hope is dangerous. It really is. I won’t allow it to grow inside me. Not yet. Not when I had to walk in on that heartbreaking sight this morning and I don’t know if I have to do it again with some other bitch in the bitch hive he obviously pulls them out of.

  But this is good. So long as I don’t think about Alex’s words from this morning, this is…promising.

  I make myself dinner with the few ingredients I have, and then I write in my journal.

  Misery is watching the man you love be stroked by another. Misery is watching him stare at you without the passion you took for granted. Misery is knowing the love you shared with him is now a flicker of a past he’s forgotten.

  Misery is remembering everything in painstaking detail.

  Misery is also watching shadows of Philotes on the bedroom ceiling. He’s watching me and I can’t sleep under these conditions, so up I go.

  I make a quick phone call to Ana, and then I start to unpack my shit.

  Nine

  Aidan

  Plane seats…

  Salon chairs, fingers running through my hair…

  A body in my bed�
��

  A picture on my phone…

  Ruth telling me to let go…

  *

  “Yes, sir.”

  I can’t fucking sleep.

  “Please, sir.”

  I search my mind in the quiet, questioning my sanity as fragments I’m not sure I invented barrel through my brain.

  “Fuck me, sir.”

  I slip out of bed.

  I’m going mad, mad, mad.

  I’ve never heard Ivy’s voice in my head before now, but suddenly that fucking voice is invading me, pleading for me to fuck her, calling me sir like she’s done so a thousand times before. It’s going straight to my cock, that dormant fucking organ that hasn’t responded to touch of any kind.

  I storm down the stairs and to the kitchen. I stand in front of her door. There’s light glowing at the bottom. That infuriating woman is still awake. How am I to get better if the person who is supposed to assist me is staying up so fucking late in the night? What the fuck is she doing in there, anyway? The suite is primitive and crumbling and there’s no way she’s talking to anyone.

  Would she be talking to anyone if she could?

  I don’t know why the thought of it gnaws at me.

  I don’t like her. In my chest, I feel nothing but pure resentment of her mere presence. It’s like I’m pissed at her for some reason. It’s infuriating because at the same time, my being keeps recounting her voice in my head saying imaginary things like, sir, fuck me; I can hear her moans, can feel her tongue gliding across my cock, even.

  No, I know this girl.

  I fucking know her.

  I fucked her. I enjoyed it, too. My body is responding even while my brain is confused as fuck.

  Those words in my head are real, aren’t they? They must be.

  But then again, I wouldn’t have allowed a woman in my life long after we used each other. Confusion fills me, questions I don’t have answers to roar through me.

  My chest is moving rapidly as I stare at the light under that door, wondering what she’s doing. Is she in those silly little shorts, not wearing a bra, and fuck, I can still see the outline of her tits through that wet shirt—the same kind of shirt I wear, and I’m suddenly aware it must be mine.