Hearing a loud snap, he knew he had broken another pencil. Throwing the pieces into the trash to join the others, Stephen knew he had to get his emotions under control before his meeting with Sable, but the memories of the past kept fighting for a place in his future, boxing at the walls of protection he had carefully erected around himself.
They were kicking at his concentration, his focus, his determinations, and sometimes they won forcing him to face them, his past, his fears; they refused to be ignored, oftentimes leaving him weak, exhausted, and unable to defend himself against the assaults of the attacks on his mind.
The memories. The dark memories of a tremulous past refused to let go of him without a fight. The stark pictures of years gone by played in his mind like a horror movie, especially written to drive him to the brink of hopelessness, but he fought back with hard work and a ravenous desire for revenge.
At first, he felt so out of control, that it was like spiraling head down through a black funnel filled with false imageries of stability, watching everything he tried to grab onto slipping through his fingers like water running and not anchoring him.
Until he finally grabbed on to the anger and the rage within him with a grip so strong, he sometimes ached. Ached for the loss of his parents, ached from betrayal, ached for feeling helpless, but mostly ached because he was caught between two vices, good and evil, right and wrong.
Knowing what he should do, but doing what he felt needed to be done was not giving him peace; the anger and rage though giving him anchor were unstable. So he fought for control. He fought hard. He fought for years.
Now he had finally gotten the opportunity to pay back the one man that caused the death of his father and the death of his mother, and changed his life, he felt forever.
In an effort to shut out the pain that was sometimes still so fresh for him, he squeezed his eyes tightly, took a deep breath, got up from his chair, and went to stand at his office window.
He had a beautiful view of the city, one he could not appreciate because he looked out of his window with jaded eyes. The tall buildings reminded him of all the obstacles he had to knock down to get to this point.
The multitude of cars on the street, and the congested traffic only served to remind him of the many times in college that he fought to stay on the football team, though he was the best. Being the best at something did not always mean that you got what you deserved. Sometimes, it made others who did not fight, or work as hard, want to hold you back even more.
The pencil he once used to beat against his forehead snapped in half, consciously between his fingers; he was painfully aware of that as well.
Allowing his eyes to roam even further, seeing the smog, the smoke, and the exhaust, he was reminded of the years that he felt he was in darkness. He could not see where he was going, or what he was doing. He was driven to get anywhere other than where he was, and he did.
Stephen had a plan, and yes, he had a beautiful view of the city. The tall buildings—obstacles. The cars—obstacles. The smog—obstacles. All Stephen Hart had ever seen in his life, after the death of his parents, were obstacles.
The voice in his head told him that was all he wanted to see, but he wouldn’t listen to it, because anger and rage anchored him, and for so many years, he would not allow himself to appreciate, much less acknowledge all the beauty around him.
He had to focus, and focus he did. Now he had the perfect opportunity, the perfect plan in place and nothing and no one would get in his way. Taking another deep breath, he calmed himself. He had a meeting to prepare for, and this meeting was very important; so important that he had convinced himself that he would risk anything and everything to see that his plans, the revenge of his parents’ deaths and the downfall of an enemy came true. Even if it cost him everything.
All was going as planned. He had waited years for this opportunity and now he had to make sure that there would be no mistakes. That greedy bastard was the cause of his father’s death. The pain was still fresh in his soul as if his father’s death had just happened a moment ago, and the death of his mother soon after was like a knife in his throat.
He stared out at the world from a window, if not this one, the ones at home. He had to stay focused. So much was riding on his next step. Sable Van Cleef. His thoughts were interrupted by the intercom.
“Yes, Barbara.” Barbara was the best secretary in the world. The woman was so efficient it was scary. She never left the office before him, and was always here in the morning with coffee ready. Shaking his head, he wondered if she slept here.
Barbara’s voice came over the intercom with smooth professionalism, “Ms. Van Cleef is here to see you, sir.”
Smiling slightly, maybe she does, he thought, “Please send her in.” Time to put another phase of his plan into action. When Sable walked into his office, Stephen turned from the window; his eyes swept her from head to toe.
“You’re late,” saying it with more anger than he intended. She was gorgeous, he thought, taking in every inch of her from her head to her toes again just to irritate her for irritating the hell out of him. He did not need or want her kind of distraction.
Pausing. Turning to close his office door, she briefly made eye contact with Barbara, who well aware of her boss’s many moods simply continued to smile while inquiring if she would like a cup of coffee; upon her refusal she gently closed the door leaving her alone with Stephen.
Volatile emotions swirled around the room like the wind and permeated the silence in the office. Neither moved from their positions. Stephen was still at the window, behind his desk, arms folded across his chest, legs slightly apart as if bracing himself for battle.
Sable, at his office door, entertained how gratifying it would be to slap his face. Stephen’s right eyebrow raised and a tiny smile formed on his lips, a silent challenge as if he’d just read her mind.
Sensing the tension radiating from his body like a beacon, she remembered she was a professional, her father’s warning at a young age ringing in her head, kept her from acting on impulse.
Walking further into his office, her steps were extremely slow, deliberate and calculating, to ensure that when she got near him the urge to slap his face had passed.
Stephen’s smile grew and this time it reached his eyes. She was fuming inside. They continued to stare at each other for several seconds, “We didn’t have an appointment.” Her voice was sharp.
She silently congratulated herself for not losing control and maintaining a level of professionalism, after all he was senior management over all building projects and this was business, though she still wanted to slap his face.
Tension left his body, like blood oozing from a tiny wound, Stephen sat behind his desk, thankful of its size; it put enough space between him and Sable. “Please Ms. Van Cleef,” he said calmly, “have a seat.”
She continued to stand, glaring at him for a few seconds. Oh its Ms. Van Cleef now, she thought, this morning it was Sable. Deliberately folding herself into the chair across from his desk, allowing her body to relax, she rolled her head in circles with her eyes closed, then proceeded to roll her shoulders backwards, visualizing relief with each roll. Opening her eyes, her voice was eerily calm.
“What do you want?” she asked softly.
Despite himself, he smiled; damn, he thought, this is not going to be easy, but it was necessary. “Ms. Van Cleef, when I request an employee’s presence, I expect promptness.” His soft reprimand was at odds with the look in his eyes. Her eyes narrowed.
It was over two hours ago since he told Barbara he wanted Sable in his office. Part of him was anticipating seeing her again. She had kept him waiting and he didn’t like it. He was being an ass and he knew it, but he had to put up a wall with this woman, everything was riding on the next move. He couldn’t make any mistakes. No, he corrected himself, he wouldn’t.
“Who the hell do you think you are?” Her tone was quiet, but he did not miss the venom. She was furious. And rightly so, he kn
ew. He should have not used that tone with her. Too late now.
She spoke through clenched teeth. Spacing each word as if he was incapable of understanding plain English. “We…did…not…have…an… appointment, nor was I told it had to be ASAP.” Her voice was sugar sweet. Stephen watched as her anger made her eyes flash fire at him.
“I won’t argue with you,” he paused. Inhaling to bring his self under control, “nor is this matter debatable.”
He was angrier with himself than with her. He hated having Van Cleef’s daughter working with him. Why couldn’t she be bucked-tooth and cross-eyed? As angry as he was with himself and with her, darn if his body didn’t have ideas of its own. His desire for her was growing despite his resolve to keep his distance.
He sat silently looking at her through narrowed eyes. He was frowning again, and this time he did not try to hide it. When this was over, he hoped he could repair the damage done.
“Are you going to sit there staring at me like an idiot? Or are you going to tell me what this is all about?” Asking sweetly through clenched teeth, she was furious. He sat for a few more seconds in silence, telling himself that she had every right to call him an idiot, but not for the reasons she thought.
Slowly passing a file to her across the desk, sitting back in his chair, interlacing his fingers behind his head, he wondered if he should just make love to her right there now and get it over with. The look in her eyes answered that question. If he so much as tried touching her in any way right now, she’d make him a eunuch.
Looking at the file with distaste, she flung it back on his desk. “What? It’s the Chadwicks’ projects. What’s this have to do with me?” she softly demanded. Tension was still humming between them.
“From this day forth, you handle all aspects to completion,” lifting his hands to halt her response, and to release the tension in his fingers, because now he wanted to strangle her for practically hitting him with the file.
Stephen stated in a voice soft with authority. “This isn’t debatable either. Nicolas Butler isn’t incompetent.” Appearing to consider his words, he said with finality, “I know you’ll do a better job.” Gently pushing the file back to her, his eyes daring her to throw it back at him, and he was smiling.
She could not believe it! “But he’s been working on this from the beginning; you just can’t undermine him this way.” She was standing now, both hands leaning on his desk, a look of fury on her face. She really wanted to hit him.
“I’ve explained it to him,” he said calmly, leaning back in his chair again. It was best not to get too close to her, for both their sakes.
“Damn it, Stephen, you can’t do this.” There was a pleading sound to her voice, and she hated it. She wanted nothing to do with the Chadwicks, nothing.
“It’s done,” he quietly said, with eyes boring into hers. She knew there would be no changing his mind.
“Why?”
“You’re the best.”
“Nick is good too,” she had to make him see.
“You’re better.” He got up and came around his desk. She moved away a few steps, not wanting to get close to him for more reasons than this one.
Stephen sat on the edge of his desk. “You’ll do it. Nick’s okay with it and even if he wasn’t this is business. His ego will survive, and your father doesn’t have a problem with it.”
“You talked to my father about this?” she was hoping he had not; she was going to ask him to intervene even though she hated doing it.
“Yes. Did you think I wouldn’t?” he inquired softly, already knowing that she would seek his intervention though she hated to do it. She disliked, no hated, the Chadwicks more than he did, and wanted nothing to do with them. She said nothing.
“Sable?” Her head snapped up. “Please…I need you to finish this. You’re the best.”
He said please, she thought. The arrogant jerk was breaking through her defenses without trying. It was a long moment before she said anything. He could see her mind ticking. “I don’t like this.”
“I know.”
“Nick gets full credit.”
Before he could say anything, “I mean it, Stephen, he gets full credit.” The look on her face said that if he didn’t agree, she would not finish the project and all else be damned.
“Okay, he gets full credit.” Agreeing, he stood up, walked to her. They stood staring at each other for a few moments. “I’m sorry, Sable. I really am.” He couldn’t let it end like this.
Walking around him, she snatched the folder off his desk. She would not look at him, she thought, walking out of his office, slamming the door behind her.
Stephen sighed heavily feeling as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders. “Well, it is done,” he said quietly to himself. Then he went back to the window, regret in his heart overflowing to a point of despair. I have to revenge my parents, Sable, he thought. I have to.
Turning, he looked at the door and wondered if he just lost the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. He hoped not.
The soul becomes dyed with the color of its thoughts.
-Marcus Aurelius
Chapter 7
When Lorna rushed though the door of the photo set like a strong wind, she was greeted with cold eerie silence. She was late. She was scared. Rorlo, not looking up from the magazine he flipped through, said in a chilling voice, “You’re late.” Then, closing the magazine slowly, deliberately allowing it to fall to the floor from his unclenching fingers. It sounded like fierce thunder, as it slap the floor.
Lorna jumped at the sound, visibly shaking as if cold. Rorlo, pinning her with eyes empty of all emotions, dared her to take another step. She did not. She could not. She was frozen in fear like everyone else on the set.
“I know…I know, Rorlo.” Her breath, coming out in hushed whispers, because she wanted to explain that she had no control over the stalled traffic, but thought it was best to hurry into the dressing room and change clothes. He did not look as if he wanted an explanation, but to remind her of how he punished anyone who crossed him.
As she hurried toward the changing rooms on shaky legs, his arms whipped out with the speed of a deadly cobra wrapping her in the cocoon of his rigid body. She could not move an inch. She felt the cold metal of the zipper on his jacket as it pressed gently into her back with every breath he took as his chest rhythmically rose from his controlled breathing. Lorna knew he had no control; she had seen this side of him many times in the past, just never directed at her.
“My instruction was same time, same place.” He whispered into her ear, the warmth of his breath on her skin making her shiver. His fingers were biting into her sides. He was furious. When she did not show up with everyone else, he started to panic.
Biting the tip of her ear, tears began to swell in her eyes. Tasting blood, Rorlo licked the spot tenderly. “You didn’t tell anyone about our secret, did you?” he asked sweetly as his arms tightened, squeezing her even harder. Tears flowed down Lorna’s cheeks like syrup, tasting bitter on her lips.
“No,” her voice barely above a whisper. Slowly shaking her head from side to side, “No…I…I had to work a little late that’s all.” Her eyes were blinking rapidly from the fear as the tears continued to flow.
He held her for a few seconds trying to gage if she was telling the truth, as his eyes slowly roamed the set and everyone in it. Shoving her away from him, she fell to one knee, no one moved to help her stand up.
“Go get dressed,” he said softly with unblinking cold eyes.
As she hurried toward the dressing room, he never took his eyes off her. Thinking, if the slut talked, he’d kill her and that would be waste of good talent. After all, he discovered her and was not through with her. He had plans, but plans change, he reasoned.
The studio was as silent as a tomb. No one said a word. Glaring at the others, “What are you all looking at? Get ready. I don’t have all night,” Rorlo demanded, his voice deceptively sweet. No one was fooled.
Dan and Jeff hurriedly got the equipment ready for the photo shoot. Tiffany, eyes wide with fear, rushed after Lorna, glad to be out of the same room with Rorlo. Her face still bearing the beating she received from him the day before.
Lorna, hands trembling from fear, began to undress, taking no notice of the buttons flying across the room, as she took off her business suit and started putting on the sheer negligee. She always wanted to be a model.
When she got the chance to model for the Mons Pubis, the most popular sex magazine around, black market anyway, she could not turn down the chance. Lorna needed the money, and it would only be for a little while, at least until she made it big and saved up enough money for her dream. She wanted her own bouquet.
It was a dream of hers since childhood. Mons Pubis is the Playboy of the millennium for those who required a bit more kink, and the world was kinky, downright freaky.
The clothes she wore for photo shoots, she would not be caught dead in, like Amber, she thought sadly. Shaking off the thought, she continued to dress.
The poses were obscene to say the least. Most of the time, she posed with women, but it was the shots she did with men or animals that sold the most copies.
As she continued dressing, pulling lace nylons up her thighs, she sadly remembered how she got started, tears silently streaming down her face. She heard Tiffany’s frantic pleas for her to stop crying, as she kept looking over her shoulder, afraid Rorlo was going to come walking through the doors in any minute. Lorna was ruining her makeup.
She had come to New York on all hopes of becoming a successful model and putting her past, especially her childhood, behind her. But soon she learned the hard-core reality of life in the big city; being from Lexington she was not prepared.
One day after having every door in town slammed in her face, Rorlo spotted her, sitting on the park bench looking totally frustrated. He walked up to her, and told her he could help. He was a photographer looking for a fresh new face, and hers was not only fresh, but also pretty.
Mirror, Mirror on the Wall Page 4