by Meghan March
They each grab their own glass. None of them seem to notice Temperance doesn’t. While I’ve been sipping on whiskey like mother’s milk for almost thirty years, she barely drinks at all. I tease her about being a cheap date.
Each man raises a glass, and we clink the rims together.
“Sláinte,” I say as a burst of vibration unleashes between my legs, and I nearly drop my drink.
The men tip back their whiskey, not noticing that I’m struggling to lift mine to my lips because of the waves of pleasure tearing through me.
I chug the drink, needing it now more than ever, and shift in my chair, praying this is going to stop as quickly as the last one.
The assistant GM leans forward, his eyes not on mine, but on the deep V cut of my blouse.
“So, Keira. I understand you’ve been doing a bang-up job with the distillery since you took the helm from your dad.”
I’m too distracted by the vibrations between my legs to decide if he’s giving me a compliment or mocking me.
“The last few months have been a little trying, but like my ancestors, I push forward.” I have no idea where that response comes from, and force my lips to curve into a smile as an orgasm builds in my core. “Tenacity and the Irish go hand in . . . hand.” I struggle to get the last word out.
I’m in serious danger of coming when the vibrations suddenly stop. I don’t know if I want to kill the man with the remote or kiss him for not making me embarrass myself in public.
Kiss him? Are you freaking insane, Keira?
The pleasure recedes as quickly as it started.
Never. I’ll be like freaking Julia Roberts before she stupidly fell for Richard Gere in Pretty Woman. No kissing on the mouth. Ever. I’m making it a rule.
“Tenacious, indeed. Must go along with that red hair of yours. Do you have the temper to match?”
Again, the assistant GM’s eyes are on my cleavage, and I can’t help but look down in response.
Oh. Fuck.
My nipples, in the sheer bra Mount picked, are on high beams. They clearly haven’t gotten the memo that there’s no longer an orgasm coming.
I return my glass to the table harder than necessary, and the thwack of glass against metal causes his eyes to jerk up to my face.
“I don’t have a temper. That’s a redhead myth.” I smile as I lie, something I’m entirely too good at today for comfort. “Now, let’s discuss the amazing package we’ve put together for you.”
Thankfully, Temperance takes this as her cue to jump in. “As you’ve requested and we briefly discussed, we’ve come up with a perfect solution to any PR issues with our valet parking—”
“I still think you’re insane if you think these guys will take it well when you won’t hand their keys back at the end of the night,” the PR director says, interrupting her.
The event coordinator looks at him. “You deal with the bullshit these assholes pull more than anyone, and I agree with you.”
All three men look across the table, their gazes shifting between Temperance and me, and she takes the lead. “We’ll spin it as a complimentary black-car service. They can have as much fun as they want. Indulge and then be delivered home without a single worry.”
The GM huffs. “Maybe if you put a hooker in each car, then you’d tempt some of them.”
The vibrator springs to life again, but this time only for an instant. Long enough for my nipples to have zero hope of disappearing from view through my blouse.
I grip the edge of the table, and words I never intended to say spring from my lips. “If that’s what it takes . . .”
All three men zero in on my face. A smug smile drifts over the assistant GM’s lips, and the toy comes to life again.
I’m going to kill Mount.
“You are a sassy redhead. I like it. The team, of course, couldn’t condone such a practice or pay for it, but damned if it wouldn’t be a hell of an idea.”
The vibrations don’t quit, which means I have to brazen this out. “I’m joking, gentlemen. Of course, we couldn’t have anything to do with something like that. We might be in the business of sin, but not that kind.”
Carlie chooses that perfect moment to serve the appetizers, and another server, Dena, holds the second flight of whiskey.
I have no idea how I manage to speak, but my voice rises to a higher octave, and I pretend it’s from the excitement of the food. “Oh, perfect! Thank you, ladies!”
Temperance looks at me strangely, no doubt noticing that I have one hand fisted on my skirt as I fight the waves of desire driving through me.
I’m going to kill him, I think again.
Temperance takes over the conversation, explaining what the appetizers are and that they’re in line with the original budget. I squeeze my eyes closed as the men gorge on the food.
My assistant leans over and whispers in my ear. “Are you okay? Seriously, you’re acting weird.”
“Migraine. Just hit me. I’m powering through.”
Her face morphs into an expression of sympathy. “Do you need to go?”
Yes, I want to scream, but the vibrator stops.
“No. I’m fine. Not a problem.”
None of the men notice anything beyond the incredible food and even better whiskey we ply them with for the next hour.
By the time we finish, the signed contract is on the table, including the upcharge for the black-car service and the food.
I rise from my seat and step out from behind the table, and they follow suit.
“It’s going to be a fabulous event, gentlemen. You won’t regret your choice, and with an open bar featuring not only our incredible whiskey but every other brand of top-shelf liquor, your fundraiser is going to be a massive success.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” The assistant GM reaches out to shake my hand, and again, his eye contact is lacking.
As soon as our palms meet, the vibrator comes to life, and I squeeze his hand and drop it just as quickly. I get the same buzz, almost like a warning with each handshake.
Oh, you motherfucker. Where are you? The question burns in my brain, but I keep my businesslike smile pasted on my face as Temperance leads them to the elevator.
“I need to speak with Odile, so I’ll be down in a few. Have a wonderful day, gentlemen.”
As soon as the metal doors slide shut, I spin around on my stilettos from last night and survey the restaurant. We had a small lunch crowd, but the man at the top of my list of people who need killing is absent.
Would he have given the remote to one of his employees to control? The thought repulses me, spawning another disgusting thought. Am I just a toy to be handed off and played with by anyone? Is he really set on making me a whore?
I scan the restaurant, and some of the people meet my gaze and smile politely, but there’s no one who stands out with a flashing red beacon that says I work for Lachlan Mount and I’m fucking with your life.
I wait for the elevator to return to the top floor, eager to get back to my basement where I can—
What? What can I do? I have no power here.
“Don’t let him walk all over you.” That was Magnolia’s advice.
Not letting him walk all over me would mean stepping into the ladies’ room and taking this thing out of me right now and throwing it in the trash.
“Don’t you dare take it out without my approval. I promise you won’t enjoy the punishment if you do.” Mount’s warning is burned into my brain.
I don’t even want to think about what punishment he’d come up with, but then again, I can’t let him call all the shots.
It’s one thing for him to mess with my head while I’m in his territory, but it’s something completely different when I’m trying to do business. It was one of my stipulations—one he obviously didn’t care about hearing because he disappeared.
Screw him and his punishments. Bring it on, Mount.
I turn to head for the ladies’ room, but another vibration buzzes against my leg.
/> It’s not the toy this time. It’s my phone.
As I release a long breath, I reach into the pocket of the pencil skirt and pull it out, half expecting to see Mount’s name on the screen. But it’s not, thankfully, and seeing a picture of my mom’s smiling face on my phone helps bring me back to center and remind me why I’m doing this.
I answer with the first genuine smile I’ve had in days, and duck into a corner alcove of the hall that leads to the guest restrooms. “Hey, Mom, how are you? How’s Dad?”
“We’re good! Great, really. My golf game has improved immeasurably, but that’s not important. I’m calling to see how you’re holding up.”
Her mention of golf reminds me of the picture I was given as a warning.
“I’m fine. Everything’s great.” I hope my tone is convincing, but when she replies, I know it’s not.
“Sweetie . . . have you reached out to that counselor yet? I really think you need to talk to someone about all of this. Burying those conflicting feelings about Brett’s death isn’t coping. You need to talk it out. Express your anger.”
I think of all the rage I’ve felt since Mount appeared in my office.
My mom continues. “And your grief too. Even though you were going to divorce him, that’s like a death in itself.”
“I’m fine, Mom. Really. I am. If it makes you feel better, I’ll join a kickboxing class to express my anger.”
As soon as the words come out, I remember that I no longer have control of those kinds of decisions in my life. I’ll be picked up and returned to my cell at the end of the day.
“Sweetheart, it’s not the same. It doesn’t make you weak to ask for help.”
If she only knew how much help I need right now . . . But she can never know.
“Look, we both know that this conversation is going to end with me telling you that the best therapy for me is burying myself in work and fixing all the things Brett screwed up before he . . . passed.” I fumble on the last word because it’s still hard to talk about. I was so angry, but at one time, I thought I loved him, and thinking of the horrific way he died . . . I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
The long-suffering sigh that I swear all mothers have perfected comes through my phone. “Lord knows I want to argue with you, but your father would say the same thing.”
“How is Dad?”
Part of the reason my dad finally relinquished control of the company to me was because his doctor warned him that he was a perfect case of someone waiting until sixty-five to retire, only to die at sixty-six because he overworked himself for years. My mother wouldn’t allow such a thing, so she forced him to retire. I want to think he would have gotten there eventually on his own, but knowing my father, it’s highly doubtful.
“He’s doing great. The most stressful thing in his life is his golf handicap, and his last physical came back with better numbers than we’ve seen in years.” The relief is clear in my mom’s tone.
“And probably whether or not he gets his payment from me every month,” I can’t help but add.
“Keira, stop. He knows you’re more passionate about that old distillery than either of your sisters, and would die before you’d let it fail. He believes in you, even if he doesn’t say it often enough. We’re both so proud of you.”
She doesn’t realize how badly I need to hear those words right now. Then again, how proud would my parents be if they knew I’ve whored myself out to keep the legacy alive?
Shame slithers through my soul for what I’m doing.
I have no choice.
But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Thank you, Mom. I love you both. I’m glad Dad’s finally learning to chill out.”
“Oh, honey. I didn’t say that. He’s already president of the condo association and trying to institute some kind of rules about the golf carts. The man is incapable of being anything but exactly what he is—a CEO. But that’s why I love him. His drive. His fire. He had me from day one. No doubt about it.”
Knowing that she’s about to launch into the story of their first date for quite possibly the six hundredth time in my life, I interject. “I know, and someday I hope I find out what that’s like.”
I don’t really mean it, though. Brett’s death and betrayal are still too fresh for me to even consider wanting to get married again. Maybe ever. But my parents are proof that sometimes it truly can last.
My mom makes a sound of approval. “You have no idea how happy that makes me. I want nothing more than for you to move forward with your life and find someone who will love you like you were always meant to be loved. That’s what I want for all my girls. Someone to treat you all like queens.”
Lachlan Mount may be the king of New Orleans’ underworld, but he sure as hell will never treat me like a queen. And that’s not even an option, so why the hell would I even think such a thing? It’s my mother. Her pep talks cause temporary insanity on occasion.
“I have a meeting coming up, so I have to let you go. But I love you, and it’s so good to hear your voice. I miss you both,” I tell her.
“You know I’ll be there on the first flight if you need me, honey. I’m due for a real beignet soon.”
The thought of having my mother in the same town as Mount is even more of a nightmare than my life is currently. I couldn’t even begin to explain or lie to cover this up.
“We’re so busy right now with this big event coming up, and you know if you come, Dad will want to. We both know he’ll be right back in the thick of things, stressing out about all the details, and neither of us wants that for him.”
My mom sighs. “And he’d be stepping on your toes. I know. I know. But soon. You’ll have to come visit us when you can get away for a few days.”
Get away has a whole new meaning now that I spent a night in captivity.
“I will. I promise. As soon as I can.” To myself, I add silently, Or as soon as I happen upon an extra half million dollars, because that would solve all my problems.
“Okay, sweetheart. Talk soon.”
“Tell Imogen and Jury I said hi,” I add, knowing she’s going down the list of daughters to call and check on.
“Absolutely. One of these days, I’ll have you all together again for a happy occasion. It’s going to happen. One of y’all is gonna have to get married and have babies sometime soon.”
“Bye, Mom.” I disconnect the call, hating how much of that conversation was made up of lies.
My sisters and I couldn’t have less in common, and I haven’t seen either of them since Brett’s funeral. It actually shocked me they both showed up.
Imogen has buried herself in her dissertation, determined to land an incredible postdoc position that will launch her fantastic career. She’s the overachiever of the family, but was truly sympathetic at the funeral, some of the only true emotion I’ve seen from her in years. She’s not a typical middle child. She doesn’t act out. She keeps all of her emotions locked down.
Then there’s Jury, who gallivants around the globe, shaking her ass on bars for money. She was a total bitch at the funeral. I believe her exact words were, “Couldn’t have picked a better end for that bastard myself.”
I slapped her across the face and walked away while Imogen gasped and ordered her to have some respect for once in her life.
Jury showed no remorse. Cheaters apparently deserve no sympathy in her book, which makes me wonder who cheated on her in the past, but we don’t have that kind of relationship. I know as much about my sisters’ lives right now as they do about mine, and for once in my life, I’m thankful for that. This isn’t something I want them anywhere near.
I tuck my phone into my pocket and take a step in the direction of the elevator, only for the toy to come to life again.
I shuffle toward the steel doors like a little girl who’s about to pee her pants, and punch the call button with my finger. With a glance skyward, I force myself to think about anything but the buzzing between my legs.
J
ust stop. Please stop.
Once I’m in the elevator, I watch the numbers as it heads for the basement, desperate to get into my office before I spontaneously combust.
I’m going to come.
There’s no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
I shoulder open the office door and burst inside, ready to moan with my release—and the toy shuts off.
My desk lamp is on, and just like he had once before, Mount sprawls in my desk chair like a king on his throne.
“You son of a bitch! Where were you? In the restaurant? Watching my meeting? Trying to screw this up for me? Do you want me to fail? Is that the whole point of this? Because I won’t. You can try to fuck with my head all you want, but I won’t let you take down my business too.”
He leans forward, resting his forearms on my desk. His black-and-diamond cufflinks wink in the desk-lamp light. “Lock the door.”
My chest, heaving with all the righteous indignation pent up from my speech, stills immediately. “This is my office. You don’t control things here.” I’m proud my voice doesn’t waver.
Mount spreads his hands and presses both facedown on my desk as he rises halfway out of his chair. “You still don’t get it.” His tone takes on an amused quality for a moment before it turns sharp. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Keira.”
When I don’t move, he stands to his full height, his hands at his sides. “Lock the fucking door.”
The order is delivered with such quiet menace, I have no option but obedience. I reach back without looking behind me and flip the lock. In the muted light, his shadowed expression is unreadable, but I can’t imagine it means anything good for me.
“I watched you. I watched them watch you.”
“How? You weren’t there.”
He doesn’t answer my question. “They wanted to fuck you. Did you feel it?”
I recall the way the men stared at my chest and my embarrassingly hard nipples. “Only because of what you made me wear.”
He steps out from behind my desk. “Wrong. You don’t see it. You’re totally fucking clueless about what men think when they look at you. Except today. Today, you felt it.”