by Alexis Angel
"I can't believe that you're here offering your help to me right now," I tell her, eyeing her offer.
On paper, it's not a bad deal. Lorna comes on board in a new role as Chief Counsel to the CEO and advises on all investment matters. But she also invests several hundred million of her own money into new products that we're launching. The presence of some outside capital then goes along and stabilizes the fucking shareholders because they start thinking that the company is now being run and managed by people who don't go around waving their dick around on camera.
The Board of Directors is made comfortable because they can rest easy that Lorna will keep me in check. And clients see a safer company to park their cash and they invest in our products and we all make lots of money.
It's all about inspiring confidence that we know what the fuck we're doing. Confidence from shareholders, the clients, and the employees. Even if we have no fucking clue which way to go, we always have to project that air of confidence. That's the number one rule of Wall Street, Gorgeous. When in doubt, never say you need help or ask for fucking directions. On Wall Street, it makes you less of a fucking man.
"So you get the higher profile and your face in the newspapers out of this deal?" I ask Lorna, eyeing her reaction. "In private I don't have to fucking look at you, right?"
She's holding her emotions in pretty good check, because she doesn't flinch at my obvious hatred.
"Well, I'll have a higher profile, dear, that's for sure," she says. "But I think you'll probably have to see me quite a bit more."
"You can do this role by simply emailing me and talking on the phone, you know," I tell her. "It's just for show basically. You're not really going to be setting any policy at this company."
Don't tell me to calm the fuck down, okay?
You're going to say no need to create all this anger on both sides. Just give her what she wants, take her money, and be done with it, right?
But no, Gorgeous.
I want you to understand just one thing.
There is no way in hell I'm letting my company go the way of what she did to her father's company.
None.
"If you really want to have a say as to whether or not I set any policy here, Mason, then you'll do what I say," Lorna says and I see her fangs come out. "Because otherwise I'll go to the Board and tell them that when I tried to help with this proposal you shot me down. Maybe even made a pass at me. And then you'll really be unfit to lead."
I just stare at her. I'm not fucking surprised at this.
"Fine," I tell her. "You fucking win. We'll do it your way."
Lorna smiles. "There's one last condition that isn't on the contractual paperwork yet, dear," she tells me and I see her eyes twinkle evilly as I look at her.
"What's that?" I ask, wondering if this is what it was all leading up to.
"Sure, my profile will be high enough to get appointed to the Chief Counsel position," she says to me. "But I want just one more title in addition to that."
"What title do you want?" I ask her, rolling my eyes. "Last I checked, Wall Street banks didn't have a title for Chief Bitch Officer."
Lorna smiles at me sweetly and gets up off her chair, walking toward me. "No, silly, that's not the title I want," she says as she walks around my desk to stand inches in front of me. "I want my other title to be Mrs. Mason Kane."
Holy fucking shit.
She can't be serious.
But her eyes tell me she's deadly fucking serious.
"That's right Mason," she says to me. "In order for me to rescue you out of your latest trouble, I'm going to have to be your wife."
Fuck my life.
Actually, Lorna is already doing that. She's fucking me up the ass with a barbed wire dildo.
And there's nothing I can do about it right now.
5
Becca
Ok, listen. I realize that I shouldn't complain about my childhood. On the surface, I had everything—nice gated condo, new luxury cars, a butler, gourmet meals, piano lessons, private school, a math tutor—typical things that kids take for granted when they grow up with money. But before you get all judgmental and think I'm just another spoiled-rotten 21-year-old, you should know that I didn't have it all. There were voids.
I didn't grow up with a father, and my mother, well… let’s just say that she went through men faster than kids go through a bag of Halloween candy. She was actually my stepmother because my biological mother died in childbirth. And then my Dad married her before he apparently left. That left Lorna taking care of me and she had a new flavor of man every year, and sometimes even quicker than that—I think the record was two weeks, and believe me, there have been more flavors than I can count. I stopped keeping score.
She fucked them over each and every time.
Like Duke, a master dive instructor from Fiji—or was it Tahiti?—whose skin felt almost leathery from being in saltwater a good majority of his life. Mom managed to pick him up on one of her so-called "work" events although I doubt much work was happening, and while I admit he wasn't terribly bad on the eyes, his personality was lacking—maybe all that saltwater pickled his brain—and it quickly became apparent that he couldn't handle the pace of city life.
Then there was Ben, the epitome of big city living. He was a Wall Street guy with a penchant for talking above everyone in a room—literally, his voice drowned out anything around it as if he was perpetually screaming. He could never get off of his phone either.
I swear, we'd be eating and he'd take the call with a mouth full of food. He'd be talking and I'd watch in disgust as bits of ravioli, or buttery flakes of crab leg meat—or whatever it was that we were eating—dangled from his lips. He's the kind of guy you'd find "manspreading" on a crowded subway, where men feel like they can spread their legs wide open and take two seats instead of one. Like they were born to do it. What did mom ever see in that guy? What did she see in any of them really?
They were like playthings for her. For her, the thrill was in the hunt, and once she had them … and got what she needed from them … I'd watch as that spark slowly faded from her eyes. It was all so predictable. Needless to say, she got bored easily. You could always tell when she started to get bored with a guy—her heels got flatter and the hemline of her dresses grew longer.
I guess none of that matters, except to say that when it comes to my mom, I've always felt invisible. She was too busy chasing men to do the things that normal mothers do, like go to their kids' school functions, or pack a lunch with one of those cute little hand-written notes on a napkin that say something like, "Have a great day, sweetie, Love, Mom."
Honestly, that's the last thing my mom would ever do. But whatever, I'm sure you're bored to tears hearing about all of this, so I'll spare you.
I walk up the steps leading to my mother's townhouse. The front door is red—the "perfect accent" she calls it. I fumble through the pockets of my purse and realize that I must've left my keys back at the office by mistake, so I take a deep breath and I knock.
I instantly hear the click of my mother's heels against the fancy hardwood floor of the foyer. By the rapid sound of her steps, she seems to be in one of her moods that can only be described as a hyper Chihuahua. Did you know that Chihuahuas are one of the most vicious dogs on the planet? You're laughing, but it's true. They may be small and full of nervous energy, but they've got a whole lot of bite. That sort of sums up my mother. While she's petite—and men always want to pet her—she has enough energy to fill a room, or scare the shit out of it.
"It's about time," she says, opening the door and looking at me with her hands on her hips. Her eyes are judging me from all angles. She's wearing a black dress with a particularly short hemline and I wonder what new man she's chasing.
"It's nice to see you too mom," I say. See? I told you. There's no warmth from that woman. Ever.
"Don't give me that look, Becca. Dinner is scheduled for 7, and you're late."
I look at my watch. I'm literal
ly late by three minutes. Honestly, it's such a negligible difference that it's not worth arguing with her about, and she wouldn't care to hear about how busy I was at Kane Price, so I drop it and try to lighten the mood.
"The table looks nice," I say, walking into our formal dinning room. And I mean it. She's managed to set up an extravagant flower arrangement in the center. "What are those, orchids? Are they real?"
"Yes, don't touch them. They're also rare."
She's such a spaz sometimes. I wasn't even considering touching them, so I don't know why she even bothered saying that. I realize what the orchids remind me of. They're the color of unripe bananas—not quite yellow, but not quite green either. I have to say, they definitely make a statement by how unusual they look.
"If only you gave everything as much attention as you do to your flower arrangements," I say with the roll of my eyes.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks. "Oh, don't tell me you want to go down that road again—complaining about what kind of mother I've been. Poor mistreated Becca, is it? Well, I hate to break it to you, but you had a fairytale childhood."
"If you mean the kind of fairytale where the princess is locked in a gilded cage, then sure," I shrug. Does she really not understand that all I ever wanted was her undivided attention? I didn't want to always compete with Joe Fabulous, her flavor of the month.
Just then, our Butler Carl walks into the dinning room, which freezes our hostile banter. "It's good to see you tonight, Becca," he smiles.
At least someone exudes some warmth around here.
He's carrying in the night's appetizers, a basket of warm dinner rolls with Rosemary browned butter. I try to stay away from butter, generally speaking, but this is to die for. It's that good. He's also bringing in Pancetta crisps with crumbled goat cheese and pear chutney.
Eating at home can be a decadent affair. Let me tell you.
"You should really watch your posture," my mom says, tapping me on the back and breaking my food trance. Was I slouching? My mom is never short on criticism. That's for sure.
"I'm fine mom," I snap. I'm in no mood to let her give me shit all night long. My patience only goes so far. I'm not a kid anymore.
Before she can say anything further, we hear the doorbell ring. "I'll get it," I offer. I walk over, unlatch the lock, and open the door.
At first, my eyes have to adjust to the darkness. And it takes my mind a minute to realize who's standing in front of me. There's no doubt that it's a man. A big strong one at that.
He's tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a perfectly tailored suit.
And he has cobalt blue eyes.
That piercing gaze could only belong to one man … from one night not too long ago.
What the fuck is he doing here?
"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to stand there all night?" he asks with an open-mouthed smirk. His perfect white teeth seem to glow in the darkness.
For a moment I wonder if an ego that big will fit through the door.
Because standing in front of me is a guy I’ll never forget.
The guy who gave me the best sex of my 21-year old life.
Mason Kane, in the flesh.
6
Mason
She's staring at me like she's some fucking deer in headlights, and honestly, I'm just as surprised as she is. What are the chances of running into the woman I fucked in a bathroom stall the other day at a bar? Especially here at Lorna's house.
I'll admit; she looks good in that tight skirt she's wearing and I'm reminded why I decided to fuck her in the first place, but I can't afford to get distracted right now.
"Are you going to invite me in, or are you going to stand there all night?" I ask.
I don't have time for the awkward gawking. It is what it is.
I don't want to be here, so it's best to get this all over with as quickly as possible.
She steps back and motions for me to step inside, but still hasn't said a word. This should be an interesting dinner.
I walk inside and look around the place. It's not bad. Lorna has an eye for decorating, and there's certainly a level of opulence. I'll give her that, but that's the only good thing you'll ever hear me say about that fucking woman.
"Welcome, Mason," Lorna says. There's a chill to her voice. Instead of her normal pantsuit attire, she's wearing a black dress that ends well above the knee and a pair of 5-inch black heels. "Please, have a seat." She waves her hand toward the dining room.
She walks over to the long dining room table and motions for me to sit in a chair adjacent to her own, which makes me feel like I'm trapped in a real-world game of chess where she's the queen capable of any move, and I'm just one of her pawns.
If you think that somehow sounds exciting, you're wrong, Gorgeous.
"I'd like to introduce you to my daughter, Becca," Lorna says. I try to stifle my surprise. What the fuck? This is Lorna's daughter? Given our impending marriage, will this now make Becca my stepdaughter? If that's true, then I've fucked my own stepdaughter and the thought of that throws my brain for a loop.
"A Pancetta crisp, sir?" her butler asks me, breaking my train of thought. I smile and nod, and take one. I place it in my mouth and realize it's better than what I was expecting—sweet, salty, and crisp, like bacon, but better, and it's topped with goat cheese and pears, and the sweetness cuts through the salt in all the right ways.
Maybe dinner won't be entirely bad. At least I'll get a good meal out of it.
The butler comes back and begins pouring me a glass of bubbly Chenin Blanc, and when I take a sip, the crackly carbonation matches the crisp Pancetta in a way that makes me smile despite the fact that I'm sitting next to a snake thinly-disguised as a woman in a skin-tight black dress.
"Now that we're all here, I'd like to make an announcement," Lorna says, tapping her wine glass with the edge of her silver spoon making a tinkling sound that breaks our silence. Becca and I both look up. I'm dreading what's about to tumble out of her mouth. It could fucking be anything.
She continues, "Mason and I have gotten engaged."
The sound of someone choking comes from across the table and I see that Becca is having a hard time swallowing her dinner roll. I wonder if I'm gonna have to perform CPR, but she recovers by gulping down her entire glass of wine.
I can tell she's trying hard to contain her surprise, but she's clearly floored by this news. The same thought that crept into my mind has now probably made it into hers.
"You are full of surprises mother," she says. "Shall I say congratulations, or would that be too soon? Maybe I should wait and see if this marriage lasts longer than all the ones before it?"
Lorna bristles at her comment. "Instead of being a bitch, I think you should try and show your mother a little respect."
"Respect?" Becca asks. "Is that what you call this? That's hilarious."
"Careful, Becca. I'd hold that tongue of yours," Lorna says, and her chilly words bring a renewed silence. The kind of deep silence that accompanies a winter storm.
I don't know what's going on between these two, but I'd say they don't have the healthiest of relationships. But can anyone really have a healthy relationship with this devil in disguise? Even I know that anyone who gets close to this bitch gets burned. Just look at what happened to her father.
Their butler, Carl, enters the dining room again, this time bringing us plates of steak. I eagerly cut into it with my knife and see right away that it's a "black and blue" steak, which seems to sum up the way my bruised confidence is feeling right now. It's seared on the outside—almost burned really—but when I drag my knife through it, I see a mixture of blue and red on the inside, and I don't just mean a little rare, but fucking raw. It's blue and bloody, and while I rarely shy away from a good, thick steak, I'm not sure I can stomach this one.
Don't give me that look Gorgeous. You think true meat connoisseurs should enjoy their steaks raw? Well, have you ever eaten a "black and blue" steak? It's a fucking obsc
ene and violent way to eat a slab of meat, and in my opinion, it's a fucking red flag when it comes to sexual partners, and maybe that's why Lorna chose it. Mark my words. Run for the hills.
The problem for me is that even though every fucking alarm bell is going off in my brain, I can't run for the hills. I'm fucking stuck.
I find myself pushing pieces of the steak around my plate when Lorna's cell phone starts vibrating.
"Excuse me, dear," she says, placing her hand on top of mine as she pushes her chair back from the table. "I need to take this call."
Dear? That word from her mouth makes my stomach lurch even more than it already is.
As soon as she's gone, Becca turns to me and says, "You're an asshole. You could've told me. You could've given me some sort of a heads up that a freight train of fucked up news was going to plow into me."
"It's not what you think," I say.
"Is that so? It all looks pretty obvious to me. Do you get off on 'stepdad-stepdaughter' role-playing or something? Is that why you fucked me? Or maybe that isn't it. Are you after my mother's wealth or something? I'm just trying to wrap my head around all of this," she says. "What's in it for you?"
"Look, slow down. First, I had no idea who you were that day at the bar," I say. "I had no idea that you were Lorna Lowell's daughter. And second, I have enough wealth without your mother's. I haven't been called the King of Wall Street for nothing."
"So what is it then? Are her tits that impressive? Has the head of your cock swollen so much that your brain has lost all ability to reason?"
This is a side of Becca I've never seen before. I have to say, she looks kind of hot all riled up like this. This girl has spunk.
"None of the above," I reply. "This has to do with my position with the board."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she asks, tucking her blonde hair behind one ear.
I'm really not in the mood to re-count the whole story to Becca, but I figure this may be my only opportunity. I need to set the record straight.