I could drink from the tap, too, if I got thirsty. No more parched throat for me. Oh, yeah, I had the five-star treatment going for me.
“It's the little victories, right, Becca?” I said, and choked back a sob.
Her name was always on my mind, always on the tip of my tongue. They say twins have a special connection, and Rebecca and I were the perfect example of such.
We fell for the same guys in high school, bought the same outfits without the other knowing, and even came down with the measles on the same day.
The only difference between us was my leaning toward the tomboy theme, while she favored the more girly approach.
Rebecca and I graduated from college, with the same big question mark regarding our future. With business degrees in our pockets, we had no idea where to go from there.
Rebecca had ideas and I had Rebecca, so we went about it the same way we went about everything. We paired up. Of the two of us, Rebecca was always the one with the practical brain. While I'd minored in sports with a heavy emphasis on gym, she spent her extra curricular hours studying startups and small business. She was the more outgoing and popular one, to be sure, and while I certainly was no slouch – she had the blessing of self-confidence I sometimes felt short on.
We'd been at a party with some college pals, including Mark Daltry. Mark had a thing for Rebecca, and while she denied it, she wasn't above using his infatuation to her advantage.
Mark came from money; a manufacturing company on the east side that made children's furniture. He was joining the family business after graduation, and making no effort to hide the fact that he was already buying his first house, had zero college debt, and a corner office.
Rebecca and I came from far more meager beginnings. Our father worked as a park ranger and our mom taught art at the Boys and Girls Club.
We got through college on student loans that we never quite got the chance to shake. We knew that we had to find something, and that we had to do it quickly. Going into business for ourselves seemed the logical solution. What niche we could fill we didn't know, until Rebecca came up with the notion to cater to people like us. Young entrepreneurs in need of brands, logos, and a hungry marketing force.
The concept was great, sound, and easy to implement. All we needed was some funding, and that's where Mark came in. Rebecca cornered him at the party, and winked at me when they left together. The next day, we had our financing, and R&R Cooperatives was born.
We rented a small office in a respectable building with the option to rent nearby warehouse space. We started small, canvassing our fellow alumnus for their business needs.
In short, Rebecca's vision was marvelously successful. So much so that we were copied by others all over the country.
Then came Reliant Securities.
Reliant was an insurance company that catered to small companies. Members were able to combine auto and business policies to get extremely reasonable rates, as the subscribers were considered low-risk, young people.
They were intrigued by the new-millennium approach that was ours, and a few weeks after their initial contact, we all signed on the dotted lines.
That was when Rebecca met Larry, an Army veteran whose 'can do' attitude attracted her. He was the alpha to her alpha and together they were the perfect couple.
I stood for her at their wedding (Dad had passed on, three weeks to the day after Mom died) and I was there the day Leslie was born.
My niece came into this world two months premature, and the doctors were less than optimistic about her survival. She was released from the hospital just before Christmas – a regular miracle – but her health issues came, too.
Tiny and frail, she seemed to catch every virus that came along. Eventually, we built a nursery in the office so Leslie wouldn't have to be left with a sitter, or exposed to other children and their potentially fatal day-care germs. Larry, as Army-strong as he was, apparently wasn't able to deal with his own daughter's fragility. So stay-at-home Daddy wasn't in his future.
At the age of two, Leslie was diagnosed with leukemia. She wasn't strong enough for conventional treatments, so she was enrolled in a pediatric experimental study. It was expensive and not covered by insurance.
We sold everything we could to pay for it and it was up to me to make the business grow fast enough to make up the rest. Since Larry had filed for divorce, Rebecca had her hands full to say the least. She was crumbling, and while I did everything I could for her, I could see her slowly begin to disintegrate before my eyes.
Then came the news that Reliant Securities had been sold. Reliant's profitability had caught the attention of investors and they were swept away overnight. The owner of the new parent company was Maddox Petersen and his partner, Martin Stiller.
The new owners were interested in maintaining the relationship with us, but without all our other small companies – in order to offset their risk. Petersen & Stiller demanded we release those contracts. Rebecca was unapproachable by this point, so I signed for both of us. RNR Limited went exclusive to Petersen & Stiller and its child, Reliant Securities.
Something was off, though. Something was fishy. I not only smelled a rat, but an entire colony of them.
Rebecca and I only met with the exalted Misters Petersen and Stiller once, over Skype, and I was always hesitant when it came to them. Dad always used to say never sign anything without a handshake. I don't think cyber-handshakes counted.
In any event, one day the registered letter arrived that spelled the end for R&R. Reliant Securities weren't as secure as they claimed, and their profits had taken a nose dive. They ended up being a failed investment for Petersen & Stiller, and once Reliant was swallowed whole by United Insurance, International, RNR Limited became – for lack of a fancy term – a squatter. Our contract was terminated.
Rebecca went into a deep, dark place from which I couldn't pull her out. The meager health care Leslie did have was canceled entirely. Within three months, she died. Two months later, Rebecca took her own life, and I entered a hell I could not ever have imagined.
I remember the night I made my decision. It was the night following Rebecca's funeral. It was well attended, former customers and shareholders. Family I didn't know or recognize. Larry wasn't there because he was a gold-plated dickhead, and when they lowered my sister into the ground, beside her daughter, it occurred to me.
There should be another grave.
One with Maddox's body stuffed in it.
Murder was a big word, however, Maddox Petersen had no business walking around in his billion dollar lifestyle while my sister and niece lay in cold graves as a result of his greed.
Martin Stiller was on my fantasy to-be-axed list, as well, but it was when I was sitting on my couch, still in my black dress, clicking through the television channels like some sort of lobotomized zombie when I determined to focus my efforts on ending prince Petersen's life.
His smug, hatefully handsome face appeared on the screen, Bloomberg's stock ticker crawling beneath him. If I'd had a gun at that point I'd have pulled an Elvis and shot it. Instead, I turned up the volume.
A reporter had asked him about their endeavors with the now-defunct RNR, and if he knew that one of the two founders had killed herself.
He shook his head in mock remorse, and used the time as an impromptu commercial.
“We regret to hear of her passing, but, we must continue to live in the moment, with an eye on the future,” he said, his eyes locked on the teleprompter.
That was my line. My fucking line. I'd come up with that, along with the image of a lone, elderly woman with a bittersweet smile gazing out at the ocean. At sunset. Petersen & Stiller had passed on it for their proposed advertising campaign, or so I was told.
A week after my words left his mouth, the feel-good slogan about eying the future while living in the moment (the elderly woman replaced by a super model with big tits and perfect hair) hit the airwaves. Petersen & Stiller stock rose fifteen points.
I t
ook the last of my inheritance, and bought a gun.
Martin Stiller was off my hit list. I couldn't be bothered with Maddox's crony. Besides, one of the sympathy cards I received had his signature on it.
I spent an exorbitant amount of time studying Maddox's movements, his schedule, scoping his building and doing online research at the local coffee house. Barney's Beans had free WiFi, and since my service had been cut off, my laptop and I took our clandestine operative there.
And for all my research, all my pain, all the sweet, sweet revenge I was going to take…
I looked down at my hands, bound together with Maddox Petersen's god damn fucking tie. It was the same tie he wore at his Bloomberg press conference.
I got up off the toilet, and went to the mirror.
The reflection staring back at me was my sister's.
Chapter Five
MADDOX
“What the hell happened to your face?”
“Don't start with me, Martin. Just don't,” I said, making my way toward the desk. It was too early, I didn't sleep at all, and my cheek was burning.
I ripped open the top drawer, pulled out a bottle of ibuprofen, and swallowed three of them. I didn't feel like sitting, so I crossed the room, moving over to the window and stared down at the city. Five floors above me, the crazy bandita was still locked in my bathroom, probably trying to think of ways to successfully kill me.
Martin took a long draw from his coffee, and stared at my cheek. “No means no, bro,” he said.
“It's not what you're thinking. Forget what you're thinking, alright? I tripped. Cracked my face on the dresser, so just shut the fuck up.”
“You don't want me to shut up, Maddox. I have so much to tell you,” he winked, sat across from my desk, and crossed one leg over the other. He wasn't wearing any socks and his ankles looked like a glowing porcupine poking out.
“That's disgusting,” I said, pointing to his feet. “Nobody wants to see your stupid, hairy ankles, Martin.”
“Shanna Ryan would tell you different, partner. We had lots and lots to talk about after your little performance last night.”
He didn't know shit about my performance last night. The one in the penthouse, anyway.
I touched the cut on my cheek, thinking I really should have had stitches, but it was too late for that now. Enough ointment and with luck, this thing would heal right up. Well, that’s if I could bother with ointment. There was hardly anything I could focus on that didn’t involve the English speaking Latina. I can't believe she faked a fucking seizure. Moreover, I couldn't believe I fell for it. I don't fall for anything.
Martin swirled his coffee around, and I just knew he was looking at me with that self-satisfied smirk.
“As per usual, I apologized for your behavior. Told her your mother was going through cancer treatments and you were operating on thirty six hours of no sleep.”
Well, at least that last part was partially true. There was no way I could get an ounce of shut eye with the alleged 'Sofia' sitting nearly buck naked in my bathroom. She kept fucking with the bidet, all night long, too. Spritz, spritz, spritz. Like some psychotic cat who found a particularly intriguing bouncy toy.
I was going to tell her to knock it the fuck off, but I knew that would just make her do it more.
“Shanna said she understood. She had an aunt who got some sort of rare ass leukemia thing a few years ago. I don't know what kind, I wasn't paying attention. She also said she knew you were a bastard, and is willing to let what happened slide. Give you another chance, so to speak.”
I spun around, and yes his grin was self-satisfied, and it didn't change a lick when I went off on his latest bit of information.
“Are you fucking with me, Martin? Shanna Ryan is giving me another chance? Is she high? I don't need her god damn condescension. For the love of fuck. I made up my mind, Drixoll can kiss my ever loving ass, and no means no, Martin. Jesus Christ.”
My head ached. Not only had I not slept, I hadn't eaten. There was a bowl of fruit in my penthouse, but it was all wax. A gift from my mother which I totally hated and kept forgetting to throw away. The only thing I did have was a granola bar, that I slid underneath the bathroom door for Sofia to hopefully choke on.
Martin just continued to smirk.
“Someone's cranky,” he said. “But there's money to be made, Maddox. Lots of money. Serious money. Big pharma equals big bucks. I'm surprised I have to tell you that.”
“You don't have to tell me shit. I've got it all, Stiller. I don't need Drixoll's bullshit. There are some lines that aren't going to be crossed, and I'm surprised I have to tell you that. You want to go in the medicinal industries, you go right the fuck ahead. Go to New Zealand, open an empire there. They're the only other country on the planet that advertises pills to their population, so aloha.”
Martin nodded, pulled out his phone. “Would next Tuesday work for you? Despite your 'catch and release' allegory,” he shook his head, tsk, tsking me. “Drixoll's still keeping an open mind.”
I slumped into my chair, ready to take Martin's phone and stuff it in his ass. To say he was getting under my skin would be the understatement of all understatements. Friend or no friend, business partner or not, if he kept pushing my buttons, he was going to regret it. Come to think of it, there was no reason not to make him regret it now.
I pushed Phyllis' button.
“Good morning, Mister Petersen,” she sang.
“Phyllis, how does my Tuesday look?”
“Um, well… you've got a ten o'clock with–”
“Cancel it. As a matter of fact, cancel everything.” I looked Martin straight in the eye. “In fact, clear my schedule for the next two weeks.”
That smug expression finally fell off my partner's face.
“Mister Petersen, if I may? There are a few appointments that won't–”
I didn’t let her finish.
“Just do it, Phyllis,” I snapped and hung up on her. I clasped my hands together and waited for Martin to blow a gasket.
Which he didn't do. He just looked at me.
“Do you want a sandwich or something?” he asked. “You really shouldn't make any decisions, especially bad decisions, on an empty stomach.”
She was upstairs. Upstairs, eating a granola bar. There was water in the sink should she get thirsty. And I had an incision on my cheek thanks to her escape attempts.
As I told her, I could easily call the authorities, have her taken away. But what was the fun in that?
“I want you to leave, Martin.”
“Dude. What in the fuck is going on with you?”
“You're always saying I should take a vacation, aren't you? I'm going to do just that. Haven't had one in… Well, I don't really know how long and that's just sad, isn’t it?”
“What the hell, Maddox?! You can't take a vacation now. What about Drixoll? What about–”
“I'll send you a post card.”
Martin shot up from the chair, almost spilling his coffee.
Coffee.
God, I needed coffee.
“You've gone off the deep end, man. I knew it was coming for a while, but now? Now? You've really lost your shit.”
Maybe Drixoll has a cure for that, I thought. But nobody had a cure for what ailed me. What ailed me was padding around my bathroom, hands tied, trying to figure out ways to either get out, or crack me across the head again.
I shifted in my chair. The thought of her was making my crotch warm. The thought of her ulterior motives, her hellfire stare and the way she wanted me dead made me glad I was sitting behind my desk. I didn't need Martin's comments about my loins.
“I trust you'll hold down the fort. Partner.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Martin shut the door behind him. Loudly. I don’t know why. I already knew he was pissed off, so slamming the door had no impact at all.
I took a deep breath. Centered myself. Or tried to. I wanted to jerk off right here, right now. But I had rules. I had to have se
lf-imposed rules.
No masturbating at my desk in the office. That was one rule.
Actually, it was the only rule.
I counted to ten, inhaling and exhaling at each beat, then I pushed Phyllis' button again. That was enough time for Martin's ears to have cleared the area. He wasn’t exactly the one to snoop on a conversation. But, truth be told, after the interaction we just had, I wouldn’t blame him if he did.
“Yes, Mister Petersen?”
“Are you alone, Phyllis?”
“Yes, sir.”
“First things first, Phyllis. What's the name of our security company?”
She paused. “Jericho Armored.”
“Great. Tell them we're done. Contract's scrubbed. They have failed in my expectations, shouldn't be a problem. If there is, send it to legal. All their videos, their surveillance footage? Surrendered and delivered to my office, this office, by the close of business today.”
“Yes, sir.”
If I was capable of loving someone, I could love Phyllis. She never argued with me. She did what she was told, always in a timely fashion. And she did it with no questions asked.
“Next. Sofia. Is that familiar?”
“Do you want me to come in to your office, sir? Take notes?”
“Is it familiar, Phyllis?”
I heard her tapping her eraser on the legal pad. A moment, later, the tapping stopped. “No, sir. I can't say that it is.”
“Third. Book me on Boca Raton. No other passengers. I want it to myself.”
One of these days I really should invest in my own jet. Boca Raton was a premier charter service, though, used to dealing with fat cats like me, and I quite appreciated their don't-ask-don't-tell policy. Damn nice planes, too. Flight attendants with the tightest asses, the biggest tits, serving the best brandy. Paradise at ten thousand feet.
“Departure time?”
“Noon. Today.” I tugged at my slacks.
“Destination?”
“Nassau.” I pulled the fabric away from my groin. There should be some sort of slacks out there that would… conform to the special needs of a man. Especially this man.
Forbidden Sensations: A Dark Romance Page 6