by Nikki Chase
“Yes. She goes to The Lawrence School and she needs to be picked up half an hour from now. Just bring her here, and please hurry.”
Of course she goes to the most expensive private school in the whole state. Why wouldn’t she? Only the best for little Miss Hunter. I bet she’s an insufferable brat.
Mr. Hunter finally glances at me when he slides a scrap of paper across the glass surface of his big desk. “Here’s her phone number so you can find her.”
My heart races when those steel-blue eyes land on me. They’re so piercing, so perceptive. They scare me. They make me worry he’ll look at me a second too long and figure me out.
I guess it’s a good thing he’s not a big fan of eye contact, or much contact at all.
My heels click-clack on the reflective marble floor as I approach the desk, my heart pounding harder and harder the closer I get.
I avert my gaze, not daring to look directly at him. Maybe that makes me the rude one right now, but it feels too dangerous. I can’t blow my cover.
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Hunter.” I give him a quick smile as I take the scrap of paper.
As I turn around, I become hyper-aware that Mr. Hunter can see my ass wiggle in my tight pencil skirt as I walk away. The thought makes me quicken my pace, even though I wore it to get his attention in the first place.
But of course he’s not even looking. When I reach the door, I turn around and catch a glimpse of Mr. Hunter, his nose already buried in his folder.
A pang of disappointment ripples in my chest, and I feel stupid.
Of course he wouldn’t be checking me out. The man is a robot. Those angular facial features and sculpted body are wasted on someone like him.
Why would I want him to check my out anyway? He’s my enemy.
Megan
“Please wait here,” I say to the taxi driver as I step out onto the pavement, remembering to swing both my legs over to the side.
After seeing Britney Spears flash the paparazzi her hoo-ha, I could never forget the correct way to enter and exit a vehicle when wearing a skirt.
I wouldn’t be caught dead with such a vulgar picture of me being circulated for men to jerk off to. Not to mention, that particular guy who took the original snap must’ve made a ton of money off it.
Men are going to sexualize women. That’s just a fact. There’s no escaping it.
All I can do is make sure I stay classy. I wear conservative, office-appropriate dresses and blouse-and-skirt combos. Most of my skin is always covered, but that doesn’t mean I’m frumpy.
After all, I need to attract some male attention, just enough for me to get what I want from them.
Which is why I exercise and watch what I eat, so I look good in skin-tight clothes. That’s as much as I’ll ever reveal to people. If men are going to jerk off to me, they’ll have to use their imagination.
I’m not going to put out for any man. I’m not going to let anyone use me and discard me like men do.
That’s why I’m still a virgin, even though most girls my age are changing partners as often as they change their clothes. Their loss, I guess, if they want to trade in their dignity for some male attention.
As I make my way up the stairs into the school, it gets harder to maintain my balance, with how tight my pencil skirt is. I don’t usually have to deal with any stairs at the office. This is unfamiliar terrain.
I have to wonder why I bother at all, if Ethan Hunter—the one man I’m actually targeting—doesn’t even give me a second glance.
“Hi.” I wave and put on a friendly smile as I spot Penny Hunter on the bench where she said she’d be waiting.
She looks exactly like the pictures I Googled on the way here. Despite her youth, she has been featured on some business and gossip magazines. There are pictures of her being out and about with her dad.
She stares at me blankly. She has the same icy blue eyes as his father.
“Penny, right? I’m Megan. Your Dad told me to pick you up.” I keep the same smile plastered on my face. I may hate her dad, but she hasn’t done anything wrong to me.
“Hey,” she says flatly. Seriously, this whole family is horrible at greeting people. Is the lack of emotions a genetic thing or a rich-people thing?
“The cab’s waiting just outside.” I point toward the open double doors that lead outside, through which the yellow car is clearly visible.
“Okay.” Penny slings her bag over her shoulder and gets up.
We make our way into the cab wordlessly, which is fine. But once we’re inside, it gets too awkward to just sit in complete silence. Even the car stereo is turned off.
How do people talk to kids? I don’t get it.
Kids know nothing about anything I’m interested in, and that goes both ways. I have no idea what kids are into. I don’t know much about Pokémon or whatever.
Still, I have to say something.
“Have you been to the office before?” I ask the kid. She must be about ten, or maybe eleven. I don’t know. It’s probably obvious by now that I’m not really an expert on kids.
“Once or twice,” Penny says.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s an office.” She shrugs.
“Sorry your dad can’t pick you up today. That must suck.”
“No, it’s cool. He tries. Sometimes he just has other things to do.” For some reason, her answer surprises me. I was expecting her to be bratty and entitled, but she’s being pretty mature and understanding.
Maybe having a father like Ethan Hunter forces you to accommodate his schedule. Maybe she’s used to being pushed around. I wonder what he’s like at home.
“Yeah,” I say. “There’s a big meeting he has to attend this afternoon.”
“Yeah, he texted me. I don’t know why he acts like it’s the end of the world. He picks me up most days, and he misses one day. It’s okay. I’m not five.”
Ethan Hunter? Getting flustered over not being able to pick up his daughter? I wouldn’t have guessed.
I mean, of course he wouldn’t treat his daughter like he treats other people. Still, I never expected him to be such an involved parent.
“How old are you, Penny?” I ask.
“Almost eleven. My birthday is in two months.”
“I see.” My wild guess was correct after all.
And…that’s it. I’ve run out of topics to talk about. I could never find a common ground with kids. I’m just not a kid person.
“How old are you?” Penny asks, keeping the conversation going, to my relief.
“Twenty-one.”
“You’re almost twice older than me.”
“I’m almost twice your age,” I correct her without thinking about it.
“Yeah. You’re twice my age,” she replies without complaining, admitting her mistake and correcting herself.
“Do you like it when your dad picks you up?”
“Yeah.”
“It must be better riding that fancy car than this cab, huh?” I know Mr. Hunter is really fond of his black convertible Porsche. I stare at it with envy sometimes when I see it at the office.
“It’s okay,” she says in a casual tone that reminds me it’s a mundane, everyday thing for her to ride in a luxury car.
If it wasn’t for her father, maybe I’d have a car of my own. But instead I’m just barely scraping by, even though I take public transport everywhere.
“Sometimes he buys me ice cream after school and that’s nice,” she continues.
“When I was your age, I had to walk to the school and back myself every day.” Damn, I sound like an old grandma, talking about how good kids these days have it, compared to how it was back in my day.
“I used to do that, too,” Penny says.
“Nobody picked you up?” I frown. Surely, even if he’s busy, Ethan Hunter could hire someone to drive his daughter anywhere she wants.
“No.”
“How old were you at that time?”
“Six,” Pen
ny says.
“We’re here,” the taxi driver announces.
I look out and realize he’s right. I’ve been so focused on Penny I haven’t even been paying attention to where we are.
The steel-and-glass skyscraper that belongs to Penny’s dad looms just outside the cab, so high I can’t see the top from this angle.
I give the driver a couple of bills and tell him to keep the change. Ethan Hunter is many things, but he’s not cheap.
As his assistant, I get to use a company credit card and a monthly cash allowance. These things are for work expenses, of course. But there’s not much oversight and I can get away with using some of the money on myself.
I’ve never tried to do that, though. I’ve come too far to jeopardize things for just a few extra dollars. If I pull this mission off, I’m going to get a much better reward—and I’m not just talking about money.
“How far did you have to walk to get to school?” I ask as Penny and I wait for the elevator at the lobby.
“Like, a mile or two, I guess.”
As the elevator arrives to take us up to the eighty-seventh level, I wonder why Ethan Hunter would let a small kid traverse that distance on foot. That’s almost torture, considering how young Penny was, and how short her legs must’ve been.
I walk through the empty office and reach my desk, which is just outside Mr. Hunter’s office door. He likes his privacy, so he has set aside this whole floor for himself. Which is why I work alone and eat alone most days. I don’t really mind it, though. I enjoy solitude.
I take my usual seat at my desk and say, to Penny, “Sit wherever you like.”
I assumed she’d sit down on one of the designer couches in the waiting room. Like other things in this office, they look good but they’re pretty low on the comfort factor.
But instead, Penny tiptoes toward her dad’s office door and presses her ear against the wood.
“Penny!” I whisper loudly. “You’re not supposed to do that.”
If Mr. Hunter finds out I’m letting his daughter eavesdrop on his interview, I’ll get in trouble. And then all my hard work will amount to nothing.
Penny doesn’t budge, even though she’s staring right at me. I watch as her eyes widen and her skin grows pale. She looks alarmed.
“Oh, no,” she says softly, her voice shaking.
“What’s wrong?” I ask with concern.
Maybe she’s just being a brat and doing whatever she wants. Maybe I should just yank her off the door and tell her to behave.
But something tells me there’s more going on. She seems like a kid who has grown up before her time, like someone who’s more mature than her peers.
Maybe I’m just projecting, because that’s the way I used to feel myself, when I was a kid.
Whatever the reason, my heartbeat picks up as I wait for her response. I have a feeling this might be serious.
Penny’s eyes grow dark with conviction. When she opens her mouth, she says, “You have to do something.”
Ethan
I can’t help but stare at my assistant’s ass, her perky globes swaying from side to side, her movements exaggerated by her high heels. The staccato beats of her shoes on the floor echo as she walks away.
She’s a fucking distraction. And I can’t afford to have any distractions.
But she does decent work. She’s good at following instructions. And to be honest, maybe I enjoy that a little too much.
I love her nervous fidgeting when I look at her, the little bite of her bottom lip, the tucking of her blonde hair behind her ear. Not to mention the way she glances away as she loses her composure, or the way her chest rises and falls rapidly.
I love that I’m the one who makes her nervous, that I’m the one whose orders she follows. I wish I could pin her to the wall and have my way with her.
But I can’t do that. That would be irresponsible. And above all, I need to be responsible.
Besides, my reputation is already shot to shit. The last thing I need is a sexual harassment lawsuit from my personal assistant.
And trying to find a replacement would be hell. I can’t deal with the idiots in HR sending me one stupid airhead after another.
No, Megan makes for the perfect personal assistant, and that’s exactly why I need to keep my dirty paws off her, even if my cock is already stirring in my pants.
I tear my gaze off her sexy curves and focus on the document in front of me, a list of talking points prepared by my PR department to help me get ready for the interview.
I fucking hate doing all this publicity stuff. I told Eliza, the head of the PR department, that I wanted her to deal with the media, but she said it would seem insincere and impersonal.
Well, I’m a fucking businessman. Why the fuck do they want to get up close and personal? I’m not a celebrity, and I don’t want to be.
It’s not even just the business media anymore that talks about me, but also the gossip tabloids. My pictures next to the fucking Kardashians—imagine that.
My phone rings. I take a quick glance to check who’s calling.
Ashley.
Of course it’s her. The fucking root and source of all my problems. Of course she’d call me on a bad day, just to make it worse.
I silence the ringtone and let the call go to voicemail.
I try to concentrate on the talking points, but it’s the same old fucking lines.
Create jobs and spread wealth.
Share savings with the local communities.
Overall positive economic impact.
Conversations with elected officials and community leaders.
Co-exist with small and medium businesses.
Review our portfolio.
Constantly looking for new ways to be more helpful to the surrounding areas.
It’s the same corporate speak that has been rehashed to death. No journalist who actually cares about doing a good job would ever buy these answers. But do we even have any real journalists anymore?
Money can buy opinions in this day and age. I don’t even know whether that’s a good thing. I used to think it was, until my enemies started using the same PR tactics against me.
I throw the folder on my desk. It hasn’t helped at all. I just know that whoever’s coming to interview me won’t be interested in these sanitized, sterilized talking points.
I might as well listen to my voicemail. The one from Ashley, the fucking mother of my child.
“Hey, Ethan,” she greets in a sickeningly sweet voice. “How’s Penny doing? I miss her, and I’m sure she wants to see me, too.
“You can’t just keep us apart forever. Sooner or later they’re going to grant me custody. You know that, right? You can’t keep a mother away from her daughter.
“Anyway, Lucas says he’s working on something. So if I were you, I’d be fucking scared right now.” She cackles like the witch she is, then adds, “I was hoping to hear your reaction.
“But, oh well, we don’t always get what we want, right, honey? You’ve been the exception to that rule for too long. Soon, you’ll get what’s coming to you.
“Anyway, I gotta go. Talk soon!”
Fucking Ashley.
I put the phone down on my desk.
Hasn’t that woman done enough? I don’t know what else she wants from me.
When Ashley left me and took Penny with her, she should’ve known there was a possibility that I’d get custody, and taken that into consideration. It’s not my fault she wasn’t prepared for it.
“Mr. Hunter,” says Eliza as she knocks of my office door.
Great. Perfect timing.
I’ve just been terrorized by a nightmare from my past, and now I’m about to face yet another user who wants to take advantage of me.
Sure, this journalist doesn’t personally know me and it’s nothing personal. But she’s still looking to use me to further her career, selling me to her audience like I’m some kind of a product.
I don’t know why I expect anything diffe
rent from anybody.
I run my fingers through my hair and take a deep breath.
“Come in,” I say.
The door opens, and Eliza walks in, followed by a woman I don’t recognize.
“Mr. Hunter, this is Melanie Graham. She’s here for the interview,” Eliza says.
“Mr. Hunter, it’s an honor to finally meet you. I’m Melanie Graham from The Times.”
“Please, call me Ethan.” I smile and gesture for her to follow me to the sitting area.
I don’t like being too familiar with strangers, but Eliza tells me this is a trick to make myself seem more personable. I wouldn’t care if people thought I was the devil himself, but apparently that could hurt the bottom line, so I listen to her.
“And please call me Melanie,” she says as she meets me by the coffee table.
We shake hands and give each other a polite smile before we take our seats on the couches. A little showmanship to make her like me so she’ll write good things about me.
None of it means anything, of course. Just a ritualistic dance before any main event in this office.
“How’s your day going so far, Mr. Hunter? I’m sorry, I mean Ethan.” Melanie does a fake laugh intended to bring my defense down. Unfortunately for her, I’m not that naïve.
“It’s business as usual, Melanie. Thanks for asking. How’s your day so far?”
“It’s looking up, now that I’m interviewing someone who made the 40 Under 40 List.” Melanie smiles as she mentions the stupid, arbitrary article that some business magazine writes every year, about the top forty businessmen under the age of forty. She pulls out a little black gadget from her bag. “Mind if I record this interview?”
“Not at all,” I say.
Eliza sits on the sidelines, watching the interview, ready to interrupt or take over when the questions get too intrusive. She must be proud. Here I am, addressing the interviewer with her first name and being polite—friendly, even. I’m doing everything she told me to.
As we expected, Melanie starts with the easy questions. Where our newest shopping centers will be located, how many of our projects are going to be finished this year, and what our plans are for the next five years.