Perfect Drug

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Perfect Drug Page 2

by Melinda Owens


  “What are you going to—never mind. I don’t want to know anything.”

  “Goodbye.”

  Savage was whinier than most, but he would be okay. If he would just trust the process.

  Amelia Flores flattened the contract on her desk and ran her palms over it before grabbing a pen and signing it.

  He shifted his eyes to his laptop, pretending to reorganize some shipping schedules and open a bank account for a client, when Amelia knocked at his door. Not that she was far from his mind.

  Truth be told, he wasn’t organizing or opening anything. He was picturing destroying her innocence on a beach in the Cayman Islands.

  “Here you go,” she said brightly. Too brightly for where his mind was. “Where would you like me to start?”

  He pretended confusion. “You didn’t have time to read it.”

  “I read enough.” She clasped her hands behind her back, which only served to press her tits out. Like he hadn’t noticed them in the loud polka-dotted top she wore. It was one of those retro fifties things, and he supposed it went well with the pencil skirt she wore. But it was too damn tight. He could see a tempting flash of skin between the middle two buttons when she stood like that.

  He stood and walked around to the front of his desk, leaning on it and crossing his ankles.

  “I’ll need you to start by scanning in the files in those boxes.” He nodded to the store room. “Then I’ll need you to create files that have some semblance of organization on my server for them, and shred the hard copies. After that, I’d like some sort of lounge area. The kitchenette should suffice, but I’ll need a coffee pot and fridge and things of that nature. In the meantime, there is a trip to the Cayman Islands next week. We’ll be gone six days. You’ll need to shop accordingly.”

  He was making stuff up for her to do. He didn’t really need an assistant. Or a lounge, although a decent coffee maker would be nice. The only thing he needed was arm candy, because in his line of work, a single man didn’t always get the job done as efficiently as a married one. She’d caught his eye on her first day, her wide doe eyes seeing everything. Her innocence calling to him like a siren every morning when he came in to work.

  “You’ll have access to my budget,” he stated. “And give me your sizes. There are things I’ll need to procure for you.” He walked back around and sat, making a mental note to call the guy and get her a passport. “That is all.”

  “I can’t take a trip out of the country for six days.” Her words were quiet and as he looked at her, she saw her worrying her lip with her teeth.

  “You just signed the contract. You will take the trip. Make other arrangements for whatever you need to. I need a wife in the Cayman Islands, so we’ll be honeymooning. Appearing to honeymoon, of course.” Discussion closed, he bowed his head and made a shooing gesture with his hands.

  She was his now.

  “Okay.” She sighed. “But what exactly do you do?”

  What did he do? There were a lot of names for what he did, none of them very agreeable. It was what he’d been good at his entire life, and instead of rolling over and becoming the peacemaker of whatever social dynamic he was a part of, he’d managed to turn it into a position of power. From foster homes to adult life, he’d procured things for people, solved problems, and managed to make a tidy sum as well as a wealth of networking opportunities. In other words, blackmail when necessary.

  “I help people take care of things.” He made a quick list on his notepad, then handed her the paper. “Go shop at these places. I know the sales associates. And get some nicer clothes; that blouse is an eyesore.”

  With a small sigh, she turned and exited his office.

  Chapter Three

  A few days later, Amelia was getting on well. As well as could be expected anyway. She’d had to change things up with Gram, of course, to make allowances for the new schedule. After shopping the first day and discovering that Charlie Delmonico had a black credit card that worked at all the exclusive boutiques she’d never even been inside before, she’d showed up early to work, and stayed as late as he did, which was late.

  It had been weird for her. At the stores he’d listed for her to shop at, the saleswomen seemed to know she was coming, and fortified with her list, they’d piled her arms full of clothes she could never see herself ever wearing. Ball gowns, bathing suits, professional clothing well above the title of administrative assistant, and jeans that cost more than she was making, even at her new salary.

  So she owed him to be the best she could be for him. Besides, she’d been admiring him from afar for months. Now she was in the same office as he was and could watch him through his glass walls.

  He had a habit of leaning into his hands and ruffling his hair when he was bothered by something. He would roll up his shirt sleeves as soon as he got into the office, and while he sat at his desk and emailed and called people, he would run his hands through his hair and across his face almost constantly. But as soon as he was getting ready to leave his office, or if someone was coming in for an appointment, he had a procedure of rolling down his sleeves, fastening his cufflinks, and combing his hair. As easily as he rumpled himself to work, he straightened himself for display, oozing a put-together confidence she knew she needed to emulate.

  And she tried. In the short time she’d been here, she’d made sure her hair and makeup were straight. She’d been sure to have a manicure on the first day, and had kept it neat-looking, even though she couldn’t go for the fake red nails that Brooke had. But as little as he looked at her, Charlie still seemed to approve.

  She was scanning the files as he’d asked her to. It was pretty tedious work, and she skimmed them out of curiosity as she worked, but she didn’t really get anything. Just names and dates. Scant details. She still didn’t really understand what he did.

  Then one name caught her eye, and she paid closer attention.

  Scott Hidalgo. He was the shortstop for the local baseball team. He’d been in the news a few months ago with a stalker who had overdosed and died one night. It had all been very dramatic, the crazy woman dying in a car outside his house.

  Scott’s name was there with a date. Then a woman’s name and a date. She used her phone to google the woman, and yeah, she was the stalker.

  Amelia’s eyes went to Charlie’s office, and she saw him on the phone, looking at his computer screen. He was completely absorbed in his work. She read the article attached to the woman and saw the sensational words describing her death at the hand of too much cocaine.

  She was putting two and two together. Charlie Delmonico had told her he solved problems. A stalker would definitely be one of those problems. And he had killed her.

  She shook her head. Wow. She was getting a ton of exercise jumping to conclusions.

  Amelia let out a snort and continued working. But names kept flashing at her. Names connected to some sort of publicity she could remember. An abusive marriage to a rock star that had been all over the trash magazines last year, but he’d suddenly left her and his career had ended abruptly. A senator’s custody battle, another politician rumored of beating his wife, a local TV celebrity who had been stalked by a fan. The list went on and on.

  Now, she had a clear understanding of what he actually did for a living and why she was being paid so well. Not that any of this was definitive proof he’d actually done anything. It could just be a hobby of collecting information about gossip around town.

  Right. Because Charlie Delmonico seemed like just the sort to be obsessed with celebrity gossip, she thought sarcastically.

  She watched him again through the window, his strong forearms and rumpled hair. The lips he pursed as he listened to whoever was on the phone talking. The eyes that were looking at her, dark and dangerous.

  Wait. He was looking at her. And she was staring.

  She swallowed and looked back at her own computer screen, pressing some buttons to look like she was busy. Amelia needed to st
op reading and actually do some work.

  That’s what he was paying her to do. She wished she hadn’t gotten nosy. Amelia should be upset, but he was paying her enough not to be. That didn’t make any of this right, and she felt a little bit differently about him now.

  He was a killer. And his work didn’t look entirely legal.

  **

  That night, when he came out of his office, her desk was surrounded by boxes. He frowned at them as he left. She’d found more work to do than he’d realized. Maybe he needed to come up with an actual project for her to do. She was likely to learn something in those boxes that she wouldn’t like.

  He forced himself to focus on the present.

  He needed to go visit that punk and get back into the darkness where he was comfortable. Back in his car, Luther nodded in the rearview mirror at him.

  “That girl? I like her. She’s nice.” Luther had started driving Amelia to work after Charlie noticed she drove a beat-to-hell Taurus that had to be twenty years old. She probably wasn’t happy about it, but he needed her at work in one piece.

  “To Midtown. Drive around slowly,” Charlie cut him off before he could continue extolling Amelia’s qualities. The punk’s name had been Caleb, back when he was useful. Now he ran drugs for Bascom Forrester, who’d been around a while, and he went by the stupid moniker of Desert Eagle. He carried around a brass-plated monstrosity of a gun by the same name. It was too big to hide anywhere, so he kept it in a backpack. Charlie rolled his eyes just thinking about it.

  As they drove back into the city, Luther carefully maneuvered the car where Charlie had directed. As he drove up and down the streets of Midtown, Charlie kept his eyes peeled for the kid.

  “There. Pull over.”

  Luther complied, and Charlie rolled down his window, motioning for the kid to come over.

  “Get in. Let’s go for a drive. I have a proposition for you. One I think you’ll like.”

  Caleb got in, his eyes eager for the fix Charlie promised him, curiosity getting the best of him. Charlie actually liked these brushes with Caleb’s element. The stupidity that oozed from Caleb, aka Desert Eagle, served to boost Charlie’s confidence, his notion he had chosen the right path in life. The dark nights when he wondered who or what he was, he remembered times like this.

  “Who you partying with tonight?”

  “I’ve got a deal with some bigwigs in an hour over at The Dark House.” The kid’s eyes gleamed with excitement in the darkness, even as the bloodshot veins in the whites screamed he needed something.

  “Mayor?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You good to get it?”

  “Yeah.” He squirmed in the seat, his hand reaching out to rub the soft leather. Caleb was obviously trying to figure out how much money Charlie actually made.

  “I’ve got a favor to ask.” Charlie reached into the console next to him, and with a click it opened, and he withdrew two baggies of white powder. It was the last of this batch that he’d “fixed” six months ago. “One for him, and one for you.”

  The kid’s eyes squinted as Charlie held them out. “What’s the catch?”

  “You don’t use yours until you’ve given the other one to the mayor.” A sober person would ask what was wrong with the drugs, but this kid hadn’t been sober in a year. “After he gets his, go get yours.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yup. I want to spread a little love tonight. I’m feeling … charitable.”

  “Sweet.” The baggies disappeared into his pocket, and Caleb vanished out the door. Charlie took a deep breath of sweet air after he’d left.

  “We can go home now, Luther. Thank you.”

  Chapter Four

  Charlie spent the next few days reacquainting himself with his dick. He hadn’t masturbated since he was younger, and the ladies of the night he typically employed no longer held the appeal they once had. Granted, they’d actually become friends of his, and even Lola, his long-time go-to, knew something was up with him.

  Luther had a thing for her anyway. Charlie had figured that out recently and stopped using her. But tonight, even her best cohorts weren’t doing it for him. He tried to think of one woman who worked in Lola’s establishment that could get him off, and his best option was himself.

  Because he couldn’t stop thinking about Amelia.

  In his sterile bachelor pad, the penthouse apartment that someone else had decorated for him, he lay on his bed, shirtless, thinking about her. Wondering what her bedroom looked like. Imagining what she slept in. Picturing her doing things to herself.

  That wasn’t the best idea, but he couldn’t stop himself. He visualized her touching herself, twisting her nipples, slapping her clit.

  “Fuck,” he muttered to himself. Of course, he imagined her on silk sheets, because her skin was flawless and the complementary textures did something to him. He pictured her totally naked, because he could. In his mind’s eye, she rolled over on the bed, her tits squashing to either side, her ass in the air, the puckered virgin rosebud crying out to him. Her ass wanted him to destroy it, as only he could do.

  “Jesus Christ.” Charlie got out of bed, hating himself for thinking of her this way. It was a fantasy, and he was only making things worse for himself by bringing her up to his office. It was one thing to fuck one of his whores and think of her while he did it. It was another altogether to smell her scent filling his inner sanctuary while he tried to work.

  He stalked to the kitchen and filled a glass of ice-cold water, gulping it down as he stood at the counter, picturing her bent over it, crying out his name while he pounded into her.

  Charlie prowled around his apartment, seeing her everywhere. Splayed out on the black leather sofa, beseeching him with her eyes. She was in his workout room, bending at the waist to pick up dumbbells from the floor. Amelia was in his rarely used home office, spread-eagle on the desk, glistening pussy weeping with need for him.

  Amelia was everywhere in his empty space.

  He finally made it to his bathroom, where a shower was his only hope to get her out of his system enough to go to bed.

  Soaping up his dick, he stroked it from base to tip, giving in to his fantasies. His hands were too big, but he managed to suspend reality enough to pretend it was her stroking him, gripping his balls tight.

  When he came, he immediately wanted to do it again, but managed to suppress the urge. He’d gotten the edge off; surely he could sleep now.

  **

  Amelia checked on Gram while her coffee brewed. Her one luxury was a nice coffee pot in this tiny house. Everything else was secondhand or a relic of Gram’s past. The refrigerator and stove were avocado green; the kitchen furniture was all purchased when the house was new. The living room furniture the next year, covered in quilts and afghans that Gram had made over the years. The walls were covered in pictures Gram and her husband had taken of family vacations and stuff. Her grandmother hadn’t changed anything when she’d moved in after her divorce.

  But Amelia had insisted on a new coffee pot. Nobody else drank coffee. Gram heated water for her tea in the microwave, since Amelia unplugged the stove every morning before she left for work. Hell, most of the time, she didn’t plug it in when she came home, so the relic was rarely used.

  Amelia’s weakness was coffee. She loved the earthy flavors, and her monthly extravagant self-love purchases were at a coffee shop down the street from where she worked. They had a great Italian roast that she enjoyed for her early mornings, and another she liked for her café au lait on the weekends.

  Gram was still sleeping. That was fine. It was only six a.m. Amelia put a tray on her bedside table and turned on the lamp.

  “Time to wake up, Gram. I have to get ready to go to work. I’ve brought your tea.” It was toast and marmalade, a cup of tea with cream and sugar, and some butter cookies she’d found at the grocery store. Not a high tea by any stretch of the imagination, but it made Gram happy to have it.


  “I had the most wonderful dreams, but I can’t remember them.” Gram blinked sleepily.

  “Do you need me to change anything?” Amelia asked tentatively. One of her least favorite jobs was changing Gram’s sleeping diapers, but she was more than willing.

  “No dear. I can do it.” Gram managed to sit on the side of the bed while Amelia went to her room to change into work clothes—a skirt and jacket combo that was shorter than she would have liked, but looked better on her than she thought when she saw it on the hanger. The sales associate had made her try it on, and it was, in fact, perfect. And the color brought out her eyes and made her look …

  … vivacious.

  That wasn’t a word she had ever used on herself, but these new clothes gave her an energy she hadn’t had before. She felt more professional wearing them, and less like a child playing dress-up.

  Going back to check on Gram, she found her back in bed, wearing a different nightie. She sat up with her tray in her lap and a book to her side. Reclaimed by the Rake. She was set for the day. A short honk told her Luther was here. She rolled her eyes.

  “I left a sandwich in the ice box for you. I’ll see you tonight?”

  “Yes, dear. I hope you have a lovely engagement.”

  Amelia walked down the hallway, past the faded wallpaper and photos, wondering, not for the first time, if living somewhere different would take Gram out of the past. The woman lived in Regency England, and Amelia understood why. She eyeballed Gram’s wedding photo as she walked past it.

  Her husband had beaten her a lot before he died. Gram didn’t talk about it much, but the mean glint in his eyes was visible even on his wedding day, as if he couldn’t wait to get home and hurt his new wife.

  Amelia wondered if it was something in her genes that had attracted her to Jackson.

 

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