by Kat Addams
Is she seriously bringing up work right after we fucked like animals?
“Hey, I’m a great boss! Sara tells me so all the time.”
“Oh, yeah? I bet she does.” She snorted. “Mr. Beaumont, you are the most amazing man to walk on this earth. Here, hold my clipboard while I kiss your ass and order all your employees around like the mere peons that they are!” Her voice rose three octaves, and her nose stuck straight up into the air.
“You should be a comedian! I think you got that impression down! She is like that.”
We both laughed at Sara’s expense. Sara was the real ice queen but not to me. I could tell Sara to jump, and she would ask, How high? She probably thought that we would marry one day—not happening. Other than the whole stuck-up bitch attitude and the fake bless your hearts, she had a face like a bulldog—a rabid bulldog.
“What’s her problem anyway? Why does she treat everyone so terrible? Why does she walk around like she is pissed off all the time?”
“I have no idea. I guess it’s her way of thinking she can get things done. She sees me being authoritative, and maybe she is trying to follow in my footsteps. Except I’m not an asshole, and being like that only attracts the wrong people.” I shrug my shoulders like I’d just dropped some type of proverb.
“Not an asshole, eh?” She raised her brows.
“Would you have let an asshole touch you like I just touched you?” I shot her my best innocent grin.
“You see, that’s an asshole thing to say.”
“No, it’s not. And you’re avoiding the question.”
“No, I’m not. That was very asshole-ish of you to say.”
“Still avoiding.” I folded my arms across my chest.
If Samantha thought she could play hardball with me, she thought wrong.
“No, I wouldn’t let an asshole anywhere near me. Had I known you were Victor Beaumont, asshole-in-chief, I would have run the other way and maybe, just maybe, had clown sex with Malcolm.”
“Bullshit. You wouldn’t have given him the time of day either. Besides, he is the asshole, not me. Why do you think I’m an asshole?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The smirk you always have on your face in the media, the outrageous demands you make of everyone around you, the fact that you’re in your mid-thirties and still not married—that actually says a lot. Oh, and the company you keep, as in Sara and all of your snooty, regular partygoers. I’ve bumped into some major jackasses at your events.”
“Back up. You think because I’m not married, that makes me an asshole? How come?”
“Well, it only means that you are either too much of an asshole to marry or that you like playing the field. I think I’ve seen you called a playboy in more than one magazine.”
“Or maybe I just haven’t met the right woman.”
“Ha!”
“Fine. I do like playing the field, but only because I haven’t met anyone I could settle down with. You’re right; the company I keep is stuck up, snooty, and oh-so fake.” I groaned and reached for my mask.
“Then, why—” she started, but I had to cut her off.
As I said, I didn’t mix personal and business.
“Come on, kitty. Let’s get back to the party. I’m really sorry if I upset you. Also, sorry I ripped a hole in your pants … and about the bats and all the other asshole things you say I do.” I stepped aside and let her pass. “After you.”
“Okay …” She narrowed her eyes at me.
“What happens in the guest house—”
“I’m not telling anyone I fucked you,” she hissed, turning back around and scurrying toward the crowd.
Her cat tail swung in the air like a signal—a signal for me to fuck off.
I had somehow managed to not bump into Samantha for the rest of the night. I didn’t know if it was because I was hiding or she was hiding or both of us were hiding. But thankfully, there hadn’t been any awkwardness between us—yet. I’d even thought briefly—very briefly—that maybe I should hire a new event planner, but then that really would be an asshole move, and I firmly believed that I wasn’t an asshole. Not really. Not all the time.
The thing was, I had to be a bit pushy in my business—a family business that went back generations. My three brothers and I had all fought to get to the top and stay there. They had dared to step away from the family business and create something for themselves, much to my parents’ dismay. Josh was a superintendent over a vast school district a few hours away. Aaron was a very successful private pilot without a home base, and Malcolm—the clown—was a sleazy filmmaker. We weren’t allowed to talk about his X-rated business at the dinner table.
I was the only sucker who had stayed and carried on the legacy of Fleur-De-Lis. I was thankful that I had a job and a very successful one at that. I could buy pretty much anything I wanted, and I could bang pretty much any woman I wanted. But what I couldn’t do was reveal my true self. The mask I had worn for Halloween wasn’t my only mask. I practically wore a mask every day. I had to when I was surrounded by fake people who only cared about my money and what I could do for them. But that was exactly how I behaved too. Fake. Also, I didn’t care about any of those fake people. Most of them were clients and people I knew through business.
“Mr. Beaumont? Would you like me to package up the regular spiced blend with a thank-you to all the workers from the other night?” Sara poked her head in my office, clutching her clipboard to her chest. She tried to smile, but with Sara, the best she could do was sneer.
“I think I want to do something different this time.” I folded my hands behind my head and leaned back in my chair.
“Oh?” She stiffened her shoulders.
“Yes. They worked really hard. Let’s give them our best bottles and double their usual bonuses.”
“Really?” she gasped.
“I—well, yes.” I cleared my throat and straightened myself in my chair. “Also, that Ms. Masson woman … I heard she had a bad costume mishap with one of the party props. I’d like for you to pick up a gift card for me from the finest boutique store around, so I can replace her attire. I don’t know those places, but I figure you do. Can you do that for me?” I hid my smile, keeping my mask from slipping.
“What kind of accident?” Sara gnawed at the end of her pen.
“I’m not sure. Heard it through the grapevine. I’ll handwrite her thank-you card and package it up. Just put it on my desk as soon as you get it. The others, you can handle.” I pursed my lips, nodding in dismissal.
“Okay.” She clutched her clipboard tighter and slowly waddled off.
I scratched my head. I couldn’t stop smiling since that night in the guest house. I tried to hide it but to no avail. Samantha had known how to make me purr. If only she weren’t so … so uptight and frigid. But wasn’t that how Samantha saw me too? What was that she had said about me again? Asshole-in-chief? She’d thought that was why I wasn’t married yet.
I blew air out.
I would change her mind soon enough if she hadn’t done so already. I knew how to charm a woman. I only had to show them attention and cash, and they were all smiles and blow jobs. I was a red-blooded male; of course, I wouldn’t turn down a hummer. But a blow job from the ever-so-elegant Samantha Masson would be perfect. She would make sure of that. She was a perfectionist, and she knew I was too. Her head bobbing on my knob is something I would love to see if she wasn’t my damn employee.
I was sure that would break all sorts of laws, and the last thing I wanted to do was get legal involved with my personal life. So far, the only stain on the Beaumont name had come from Malcolm, who thankfully used an alias for his work. I was clean and a picture-perfect good boy. There might have been a time or eight when my last name and my bank account had gotten me out of a bit of trouble, but it wasn’t over anything serious, and I was maturer now—kind of.
I picked up a pen and fumbled around in my desk drawer for a thank-you card to practice on.
Dear Samantha …
/>
Dear Ms. Masson …
Hello …
Yo …
I crumbled up the card and threw it in the wastebasket. I had no idea how to talk to her. In all of my thirty-five years, this had never happened to me before. I tugged at my collar and got up to get a glass of water before settling back down to try again.
Ms. Masson,
I’m so sorry for ripping a hole to get to your hole. I liked the bats, but I liked your pussy(cat) more.
I ripped the card up and threw it into the trash. Fuck! I wiped my sweaty palms on my thighs and noticed my cock was hard. Just one thought of her, and my dick had woken up, stretched, and was looking around for its next meal.
“I’m sorry, dude. I can’t. She works for me. Plus, she’s a bit of a nag,” I told my crotch, looking down at it.
“Who the hell are you talking to?” Malcolm stood in the doorway to my office, glancing around the room.
“I was just singing under my breath. You know, that song about the nagging woman who’s been on the radio. Blah, blah. It’s been in my head.” I shuffled papers around on my desk and opened and closed a few drawers.
Not only did I know that I was an excellent charmer and smooth-talker, but I could also lie through my teeth. I didn’t like to bullshit very often—only when necessary. But when my douche-bag big brother caught me making conversation with my penis, I had to blow smoke up his ass.
“I only listen to talk radio, so, no, I have no idea what song you’re talking about.” He stepped inside my office and shut the door behind him. “So, who was that chick from the other night? The hot pussy … cat. Is that someone you’re banging or free game? Because I think she was into me before you stole her away. Is she a friend of yours?” He plopped himself down in a chair in front of me. His bony skeleton fingers rhythmically tapped against the edge of his seat as he leaned forward, waiting.
“Oh, well, thanks for asking this time, but she’s an employee of mine. Completely off the market for any Beaumonts—especially you.” I refused to break eye contact with him.
“By the hairs rising on the back of your neck, I’d say she isn’t off the market with all the Beaumonts, brother.” A smirk stretched across his face.
Malcolm, like the rest of my brothers, was an attractive man—except his features were more devilish than mine. I had the typical boy-next-door thing going for me. I had a warm smile and a soft-spoken voice. Malcolm had a snarly mouth and big, furrowed brows that rested on his forehead like a cat’s tail.
Cat’s tail … forehead. My mind drifted back to the way Samantha had ridden my face before Malcolm started his constant finger-tapping again and brought me back to the conversation.
“No. She’s off the market. With me and anyone else. End of story. Is that all you needed? I’ve got so much to do today.” I shuffled more papers around and flipped through a calendar.
“So, you’re banging the help. What does she do for you exactly?”
He wasn’t going to let this go.
“I’m not banging her, and stop saying the help. That’s degrading as hell. She’s the event planner. She throws all of our parties and does a damn fine job of it. I don’t need to lose her, so back off.” My voice caught in my throat as soon as I said lose her. “What I’m saying is, I can’t afford to lose her. She’s been a real big help with publicity, and with that comes sales, and then … well, you get it. She makes me money. That’s what she does for me. Besides, I’m not going down this road with you again. Is there anything else you need? I’m busy here.”
“I guess I won’t touch her then if she’s making Fleur-De-Lis money. Can’t mess with the family business. Can’t bang the help,” he sneered and got up to leave.
Malcolm was still bitter about not getting my position in the family business. My father wouldn’t allow so much as a speeding ticket to stain the business, let alone Malcolm’s porn hustle. If word got out that the owner of Fleur-De-Lis was also pretty much a pimp, my dad would stroke out.
We were above such scandal. We didn’t do crazy things like fuck strangers in guest houses while wearing masks. If we were ever to do anything wild, that was to be kept in our private lives. We did not mix personal and business—ever. That was the one rule I had drilled in me since I was a teenager, and I had to admit, so far, it’d worked. My business was successful, and I was successful—with money at least, not with women. I was successful in charming their pants off, but it never went past that.
“Hey, wait! Before you go, do you think I’m an asshole?” I didn’t know why Malcolm’s opinion of me mattered, but if I could count on anyone to be brutally honest with me, it would be him.
“Ha! Are you a Beaumont? We’re all assholes!” He shook his head and left.
I took out another thank-you card from my drawer and got back to work.
Dear Samantha,
I am so sorry about your wardrobe malfunction. I hope this gift card can help replace your ruined costume. Also, you’ll find that I added double bonuses to you and your vendors’ checks. It was an outstanding event, and I couldn’t have pulled it off without such a great team. I will be in touch soon for the upcoming holiday events. I’ll have Sara set up a lunch meeting with all of us soon.
Thanks again for everything.
Victor Beaumont
Asshole-in-Chief
Just because Samantha and the rest of the world thought I was an asshole didn’t mean that I was an asshole. I could be charming without an ulterior motive. After all, I was the one suffocating around all the fake people in my life. Maybe weeding them out for something—or someone—more authentic started with me. Perhaps I would have to start taking my mask off.
I shivered at the thought.
Nah, I wasn’t ready for that. Gift cards and bonus checks would have to do for now.
I was in Memphis on yet another business trip when I received the notification for the holiday event meeting. Sara had set it up for as soon as I arrived back into town, which would be exactly two days from now. She was confused, and it seemed she was also a little disheartened that I would be addressing Samantha and her team in person and not through her. I’d told her it had nothing to do with her and everything to do with me trying to be more hands-on. Which was true. I wanted to be hands-on with Samantha.
I couldn’t stop thinking about the way she had purred for me even though I knew my personal and business boundary was slipping. I hoped if I saw her again, her uptight personality would put a damper on my insatiable appetite. Surely, she would turn me off and send my dick back into hiding because, lately, the damn prick just wouldn’t go down. I was constantly hard—constantly. I hadn’t jerked off this much since I was in high school. I’d even had Sara pick up a big-ass box of tissue at Costco. Of course, I had told her to get it pronto because I felt a cold coming on. Lies. The only thing I had coming on was me coming on tissue while thinking about that sex kitten, Samantha. I guessed I was a bit of a bastard—but not an asshole.
Since Samantha had told me I was a big asshole, I’d been trying to be less assholey to everyone around me. I smiled more often, I’d upped my donations to charity, and I’d even helped an old lady across the street. Not really. Didn’t that only happen in the movies? If there had been an old lady for me to help, I would have helped her, but sadly, no old ladies had been in sight. Actually, no ladies were in sight at all. I hadn’t seen any potential dates in the last two weeks since Samantha—and that was not usual for me. There was always a willing woman to fill my lonely nights. But this time, I didn’t want just any woman.
Well, my dick wanted any woman, but my head, nope. It was still stuck on that ice queen, Samantha. I guessed calling her an ice queen wasn’t a fair assessment, though I didn’t think being called an asshole was an honest assessment on me. We’d only had contact through Sara, and she was a certified royal wanker. I was sure a lot was lost and added in translation. Sara wasn’t a fan of anyone, but I was pretty sure she was even less of a fan of Samantha. Not because Samantha was
a hard-ass, but because Samantha was supermodel gorgeous, and Sara had the face of a puckered butthole. Now, that was an asshole statement.
I took a sip of my drink and tried to think of any nice qualities that Sara might have to redeem my inner conscience. The business meeting I was supposed to be involved in had taken a turn in conversation to golf. Thankfully, my father was here to take over because I knew nothing about golf—or any sports for that matter. Anytime the topic of games came up, my mind would begin to drift, just like it had now.
“What’s wrong, Victor? Cat got your tongue?” my dad asked loudly over a table full of laughter.
The clients liked our rum a little too much.
I coughed, choking on my drink before I could respond. “What—what was that? Sorry, I must have missed it. My—I had a meeting invite pop up, distracted me for a moment. No cat. No tongue.” I bit my lip and put my mask back on. It must have been slipping by the way my dad was eyeballing me.
“That’s my boy, always on top of things with the business.” He clapped his hand on my back and squeezed my shoulder a little too hard before he turned back toward the clients and continued talking.
I really would need that meeting with Samantha and fast. Something had to shake me out of this spell she’d cast. If I couldn’t focus on my job, what could I do? My career was all I had. Most people my age had wives and kids and happy, cheerful homes. I had my job and a big, empty house. I still believed I was successful, but loneliness was creeping up on me out of nowhere. I had a restless feeling, as if I was finally waking up. I blamed it on middle age, a midlife crisis, or Samantha.
Three
Samantha
I sat on the edge of my bed and rolled my pantyhose up and over my knees. I chose to wear my best lady-boss attire today so that Victor Beaumont would know I meant business. I certainly wouldn’t be wearing the new leggings I’d bought with his whore money.
Did he think he could send me a gift card and pay me off to keep my mouth shut? Was he ashamed for anyone to know that he had screwed me, his employee?