by Nicole Fox
I laugh at this. “I guess that’s true. But still, I don’t want to bring my personal life into the office.”
Sergei takes a drink and holds out a hand to indicate that he can see I’m struggling with whatever all this paperwork is. He says, “Your husband has left you with a mess. That much I can see with my own eyes.”
I sigh. “He has, I suppose. A loan shark came to see me today, said Matt skipped out on three-hundred-thousand in loans. He intends to get his payment from me. Though I don’t have it. I don’t know what to do, and I feel sick about it.”
“Selena,” Sergei says, putting his wine on the table before turning to me. We are knee to knee. “I know you have not worked for me for very long, but surely you have realized I am a powerful man. A successful man. I can erase this for you. I can protect you from this nastiness. All you need do is ask.”
I shake my head. “You’re my employer,” I say. “It’s not appropriate. And I don’t know if I … feel comfortable … with the debt that this would incur.”
“Well, it is a simple debt to overcome. You’re a beautiful woman and I want to fuck you. It’s a simple proposition, an easy business deal.”
I suck in a breath at this, my eyes going wide at his boldness.
“Don’t act surprised,” Sergei says, sitting back against the couch cushion, manspreading, a picture of relaxation and confidence. “You came to me with absolutely nothing on your résumé. Why do you think I would hire a woman with no experience? I like beautiful things, especially when they can satisfy more than one of my needs.”
I’ve overheard people talking about Sergei’s non-business needs. Two men spoke plainly about him as they waited in the lobby the previous week. They said he often frequented an underground club that catered to very dark sexual fantasy. I’m not sure I could even begin to satisfy the needs of a man who likes that kind of sex.
When I don’t answer immediately, Sergei moves across the couch once more, pushing me down to the cushions, his hand up my skirt before I can say stop. His fingers rub against the silk of my panties.
“I’m offering you a way out, Selena,” he says in my ear, his breath hot, his tone one of desire. “Protection. Pleasure. There is no downside to this offer. Say the word and I’ll give you the world. This loan shark will be in a shallow grave by noon tomorrow.”
I’m stiff as a board as he strokes me. I manage to catch my breath, which I’ve been holding, and I come to reality. This is not something I want. I don’t want Sergei this way, no matter what kind of protection he thinks he can offer me.
Pushing against his chest, I say “No, Sergei. No. This isn’t what I want. You’re my boss and I …”
He kisses me. It’s a hard, relentless kiss of ownership, of power. It’s smothering. I keep pushing, managing to roll out from under him, I stumble a bit, holding out a hand as he stands, his eye s dark with lust. He smirks.
“Selena,” he says, shaking his head. “What I’m offering you is a good deal. I want your body. I want to taste your sweet cunt. I want to bury myself in you, put my seed inside you. I can give you everything for just the price of that luscious body.”
“No,” I say. “No. I don’t want this. I want you to leave.”
He doesn’t leave. He advances a step and I feel panic rising in my throat. Do I scream? Do I run? What do I do? Will my boss hurt me here, in my own home? What kind of man is Sergei Kovolov? Is he a man who doesn’t take no for an answer? Is he violent? Is he simply assertive?
“Come with me tonight, Selena,” Sergei says, taking another step forward as I take a step back. “Let me show you the life you could have with me. Let me shower you in baubles; let me show you pleasure. You can come willingly, or I can take you as you scream. I’ll get what I want either way.”
Question answered, then. I turn and run for it, heading for my bedroom. I can’t get the door shut and locked fast enough, though. He pushes through, and I scramble backward until my knees hit the bed.
I yell, “No! Stop this!” but he moves into my space, a smile that bears nothing but menace on his face.
I open my mouth to scream and he slaps me so hard that I taste blood in my cheek. His hand goes up my skirt again, pushing away the silk, shoving his fingers inside of me as he pushes me down, pinning me against the bed.
“I offered you protection,” Sergei says, his fingers moving in and out of me, my pussy dry as fear takes over. It hurts. Tears well in my eyes as he says, “I was kind. But no one says no to me. No one. So if you will not provide what I ask willingly, then I will take it from you.”
It’s only a loud knock at the door that stops him.
***
Finn
I decided to put on my kind face for once. It’s not just that Selena Russell is beautiful. I’ve met plenty of beautiful women, many of which were total bitches, who deserved everything they had coming. This one, though, she seems innocent. I feel it in my bones—she had no idea what specific brand of shitbag her husband was.
I still have a business to run, so I’ve got to get what I can out of this crap deal. I’ll find Matt Russell someday and I’ll beat his motherfucking face in. For now, though, I’ll play nice with his wife and get a down payment on this debt. Playing nice might also keep that douchebag Mafioso of a boss off my ass. It’s not like I haven’t ever dealt with the mob, but Sergei has a reputation and I’ve done my best to steer clear of him over the years.
When I knock on the door, it’s probably too loud, too aggressive. I tell myself to take it down a notch. I’m not trying to scare her. I’m playing good cop now.
But when she comes to the door, I can tell she’s scared. Her mascara is smudged down her cheeks. Her hair is a wild mess. Her skirt is hiked up near her hips. Selena Russell has bright green eyes and they are wet with tears and wide with fear.
Immediately, I go into military mode, taking in every entrance and exit, every possible scenario. I meet Selena’s gaze and mouth, “You okay?”
She shakes her head, almost imperceptibly, just as Kovolov comes stomping out, smoothing his hair with one hand, his other hand balled into a fist as he screams in Russian. He’s blind with anger, doesn’t even seem to see me as he barrels toward her. She puts up her hands, screams for him to stop, but he keeps coming, a predator fixated on his prey.
It’s pure instinct when I step in front of her, punching him in the face hard enough to make his nose crack and his head fly back. He falls to the ground, dazed long enough for me to grab Selena by the hand. We run from her apartment, out to my car. I open the door and shove her inside before running to the driver’s side. I’ve barely got the door shut when I see him come out. I start the engine and squeal away, blocks away before I even dare to take a breath.
Selena stares out the window the whole drive, shocked, I guess. It’s fine; gives me time to think about what a spectacularly stupid thing I just did. What the fuck? It’s none of my goddamned business what was going on between Kovolov and this woman. The only reason I even give two shits about her is because her husband owes me money. Fuck. I could have gone to her boss directly, worked something out. It’s obvious he wants her. Why wouldn’t I just let him have her, work out a payment from him, walk away?
This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, hands down. Not only do I now have this scared, naïve woman to deal with, but I’ve started a war with the fucking Russian mafia.
We pull down into the underground parking garage at my building having not said one word to each other the whole 30-minute drive from Brooklyn to Queens. When I get out, she stays in the car, either frozen with fear or shock, I don’t know. I open the passenger door and grab her by the arm, roughly pulling her out, to her feet, along with me.
My apartment’s nothing special. It’s a one-bedroom place in a building that looks like nothing. It suits me fine.
“Sit down,” I say. “I’ll get you a drink.”
Selena’s like a ghost as she makes her way to the oversized leather armchair. She sits on t
he edge, like she just can’t quite relax. Not that I blame her.
I pour us both a double of whisky, handing her the glass and sitting on the couch heavily. I feel weary all of the sudden.
“What am I gonna do with you?” I ask, more to myself than to her.
She sips her whisky, making a face as she swallows. Not a liquor drinker, I see.
“He was going to …” She takes another quick sip, grimacing. Tears leak down onto her cheeks. She looks a hot mess.
“Yeah,” I say, gruff. “He probably was.”
She’s quiet a long time. When she finally speaks again, she says, “I feel like I should thank you, but I’m honestly not sure I’m any safer here.”
“Fair enough,” I grunt.
We sit in silence for a long while, processing. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking but now I’ve got to live with my decision. It’s likely that Kovolov will have the girl’s apartment watched, so we can’t go back there right away. Anything of value in that place is now out of reach, so I’ve fucked up my own plan to get something out of this mess Matt Russell left behind. Fucking coward.
I know one thing for sure: I’ll beat that motherfucker’s face in when I catch him.
Chapter Four
Selena
Finnegan O’Hare is a big man. Muscular but also tall, he takes up a lot of space. And it’s not just his size. His presence is big. Even without his sheer size, his character would fill the room on its own. He’s terrifying.
But also … attractive. He’s got ruddy cheeks and blue eyes. His hair is reddish-brown, on the longer side, like he can’t be bothered to get a haircut. He wears jeans and work boots and a plaid button-down. He looks like an overgrown frat boy. His nose has been broken once or twice, from the way it’s set slightly to one side. He’s got a thin scar under his right eye. His hands are huge.
He doesn’t make me feel safe. That much I know. Just being around him makes my shoulders hurt, my toes tingle. I feel like running, but I know he’d overpower me before I could even get out of my chair. But he saved me from Sergei. If he hadn’t come, if he hadn’t done what he did, Sergei would have raped me. He would have ripped me apart and left me with nothing.
I assume Finnegan isn’t a rapist. Or at least not at the moment. He’s stewing over there, figuring out his options. I can feel him thinking. It’s oppressive.
If I were Finnegan O’Hare, what would I be thinking right now? He punched Sergei in the face—that can’t be good. Especially if Sergei is really in with the Russian mafia. Now he’s made an enemy, though I suppose he has plenty already. Finnegan doesn’t seem the kind of guy who’d be worried that someone hated him.
I open my mouth but shut it again, unsure what I actually mean to say. He looks at me, eyes narrowed.
“I … appreciate … what you did. But I still don’t have your money. And now I’m pretty sure I don’t even have a job since you punched my boss in the nose,” I say. My voice is shaky.
“Well, who wants to work for a rapist?” he asks. “Unless, maybe you like it rough like that?”
“I don’t … no,” I say. “My things are all at the apartment. I found a few things … a watch, a bracelet. I could give them to you. They won’t be worth what he owed you, but it’s something. And the car. I don’t know if it’s worth anything, but … well, I never wanted a car anyway. So you can take it. Get what you can for it.”
“That shit’s gone,” he says. “He’ll have someone watching. I took something he feels is his. You understand that? He set his mind to having you and he’ll want you back, even if it’s just to finish fucking you. Then he’ll kill you. The shit in that apartment doesn’t matter. You don’t live there anymore. You got that?”
I feel my chin wobble, the lump in my throat unavoidable as I realize my entire life is in shambles. I cry in earnest, huge, ugly sobs that have me nearly bent in half as I realize what Matt Russell has done to me. He’s left me with nothing. Not even a shred of clothing, because my dress is torn up the front, ruined from wrestling away from Sergei. My purse, my whole identity—all gone.
I literally have nothing but the unwanted attention of two very dangerous men.
It makes me angry. Who do these men think they are? Even Matt, who never wanted me to work, never wanted me to have a life outside of the one he curated for me. He wanted a trophy wife, a beautiful woman to be at his side at Wall Street events. He wanted me home, waiting for him, ready to be at his beck and call. All the while, he was spending money, gambling, taking loans he couldn’t possibly repay. And Sergei Kovolov, a powerful man, so nice to give me a job. Oh, but he wants between my legs. Wants me at his beck and call. The dirty secretary who blows him under his desk, no doubt. And finally, Finnegan O’Hare, the loan shark. The man who cares nothing about anything other than money. My knight in shining armor. Christ. Another man who will want to control me.
I’m fuming as I let these thoughts swirl in my head with the alcohol. I’m not a heavy drinker. I had two glasses of wine at dinner, one at home. Now a double of whiskey and my head is fuzzy. Rational thoughts are making way for irrational ones that include me getting up and raging on Finnegan O’Hare, my fists pummeling against his hard chest as I cry.
To his credit, he doesn’t get angry. He just grabs ahold of my wrists, his big hands easily encircling them, making me feel he could snap my bones with very little effort. He holds me in place and I meet his eyes. There is mostly willfulness there, but also some softness, some compassion as well.
“Look, you can work for me. Stay here. Pay off your debt. It’ll be safer. If I can get into the apartment to get you some things, I will. If not, we’ll get you what you need,” he says, somewhat resigned.
“You got me into this,” I say. “I can’t go home because of what you did.”
“That’s some kind of gratitude, lady,” he says with a dark laugh.
“Gratitude?” I say, teeth clenched as I try to wrestle my hands free from his grip. “What am I thanking you for? For helping me lose my job? For ensuring I can’t go to my own home? Fuck you. It isn’t even my debt!”
“Look,” he growls, his hands tight around my wrists, no matter how hard I fight, “I’m offering you the best I can offer. Stay here, be safe, work off your debts.”
“I’m just a secretary,” I say. “What could I possibly do for you that would get me even close to earning back money I don’t even owe? And don’t say I can fuck you or suck your cock or whatever, because I’m no whore.”
“Never said you were,” he answers, trying to hold back a smirk.
Obviously, he thinks this is some kind of joke. It pisses me off. I feel the scream of rage way down in my belly before it comes out of my throat.
***
Finn
I have to let go of one wrist in order to cover her mouth with my hand. I doubt there’s anyone within hearing range right now, but I don’t need the cops showing up to investigate screaming. Somehow, I manage to twist her around so she’s in my lap, one of my hands over her mouth, the other arm across her chest, holding both of her wrists. She squirms and while I’ve never gotten off on rape, I am not immune to the feel of a sexy ass against my cock.
I don’t know what to do with this woman. She can’t go home. She can’t just show up at her job tomorrow. I mean, I guess she could, technically. She could explain that I’m a shark, that I was after her on a loan her deadbeat husband skipped out on. She could play victim, get on her knees. She could give him what he wants and beg for his protection and forgiveness.
He’s vain as hell. And he might make her do some demeaning sexual thing before saying yes, but he’ll have what he wants—her body, power over her … he’ll have her right where he wants her. Will he pay off her husband’s debts? Probably. I could be out of this mess, out of this picture. She’ll just have one asshole to manage.
I saw her, though. She doesn’t want him. He was hurting her. Sending her back to him, no matter how many problems it fixes, will put her in fur
ther danger. She’ll be raped. Maybe worse. Can I live with that? Obviously not, since I punched him in the face for coming at her tonight.
Fuck. I’m so fucking stupid. I let myself get too involved. Now we’re both fucked.
“I’m going to let you go, Selena,” I say. “But don’t scream. If you scream, I’ll shove a gag in your mouth. Got it?”
She nods, whimpering a little. I let go slowly. She’s breathing heavily, sagging against my body. She stays there even after I drop my hands. It’s a smart move, because it gives me pause. It confuses me enough that she’s able to get up and off my lap and toward the door before I can grab her.
She’s not fast enough, though. I get to her just as she reaches out for the door handle. I grab her, flip her over my shoulder, and march toward the bedroom. I’ve got a slatted headboard that will work nicely for keeping dumbass women from running off into the street. There are zip ties in my nightstand. I work them onto her wrists, tying her to the headboard, assuring the ties are tight enough to hold her, loose enough that they don’t cut off her circulation.