by LP Lovell
It’s Friday, and I feel like I could do a touchdown dance. One week. It’s been one week since I was first introduced to Landon and I’m a woman on the edge. I must have fantasised at least a hundred times about bending him over and ploughing him with The Destroyer, just to make him my bitch. He has me on the ropes, and I’m sure he knows it. Luckily for me, he’s gone to handle some business in Birmingham today. Good. I can actually get on with some work.
I have a more productive day than I’ve had all week, but by the end of it, I am more than ready for the weekend. I need to regroup, find my resolve and strategise.
As soon as I get home, I strip out of my pencil skirt and blouse, dumping them in the wash basket before I get in the shower. I let the hot water pummel my back, easing the knots formed by days of tension. When I’m done, I throw on a white dress with holes cut out of the sides. I would never normally wear something so risqué, but tonight I need to blow off steam. I curl my blonde hair until it falls loosely around my shoulders and put my make-up on, finishing it with some bright red lipstick.
I meet Quinn and Eva at Ice, because yes, she asked if she could come, and honestly, I like her. I wouldn’t usually socialize with someone I work so closely with, but I trust her. She’s different to the usual cut throat bitches in this industry.
We take a cab to The Mayfair Bar, and now the fun really begins.
The Mayfair Bar is a private club as such, not quite as private as Masque, but it requires a membership to get in. It sits in a basement below Q, one of the most exclusive nightclubs in the city. Basically, around here, you have to be someone or know someone, or you aren’t getting in anywhere.
The door to The Mayfair club isn’t signed or marked in any way. You have to know it’s there, and to the unsuspecting eye, the bouncer outside looks like he’s guarding a back entrance to Q.
The bouncer could double up as a butler, wearing his immaculate black suit and tie. He eyes Quinn and Eva as we approach the door.
“They’re with me.” I say, typing the code into the door. It beeps, and the small light on the keypad turns green.
We step inside and descend the short flight of stairs, lit with LED’s on each step.
“Holy shit, is this some freaky sex club or something?” Eva asks, causing Quinn and me to exchange glances.
“No, that’s later.” Quinn says, making Eva laugh. Little does she know.
As soon as we step inside the bar, we move over to one of the seating booths. The club is always dark; the bar lit only by the up-lighting that showcases the wall of top shelf liquors behind the bar. The seating is comprised of little round booths set back into the walls, each one with a sheer black curtain that pulls across, giving the illusion of privacy. Even the chandeliers that hang over each booth are covered in black netting, dimming the light.
A waiter comes and takes our order before bustling away. The Mayfair Club is a good place to come when you don’t want to put on a show and deal with the advances of jumped up city boys. The guys that come here are the high rollers, the top of the food chain as it were. I should know. One of my clients actually got me the membership here as a thank you for turning an extra three percent on his forecast.
The waiter comes back and pops a Martini and a short glass of Russian vodka in front of me, as well as a Cosmo and another vodka in front of Quinn. Eva just went with two vodkas. I hand him three fifties, making eye contact with him as I do. He nods and shoves his hand in the pocket of his blazer, producing three small bags of white powder. Mexy. The very reason that Quinn and I can out-play the boys so well. It counteracts the effects of alcohol, stops you from becoming drunk and sloppy, as well as sharpening the senses.
Rule number four: You must be above reproach. Getting drunk is not how we do things, but not drinking is simply not an option, not if I’m going to keep my sanity. I give you Mexy, a legal high. The emphasis being on legal. It costs about the same as Cocaine, but gone are the days when merchant bankers could live on blow, make shit-tonnes of money and expect the boss to turn a blind eye. I pick up the short glass of vodka, the outside of the glass misted from the ice cold liquid in it, and neck the shot, swallowing heavily as I wince against the burning sensation.
“I’ll be right back.” I say, pushing up from the table.
I go to the bathroom, clutching the little bag of white powder in my palm. As much as I’m in the mood to get completely smashed, it’s never a good move. Party as hard as you like, but never get messy, because no matter how hard they play, no one likes a messy, slurring bitch. I pull the small mirror from my clutch and set out a line of the white powder. I place a rolled up fifty to my nose and snort it, pinching my nostrils as I tip my head back. It instantly sharpens my senses, chasing away any lingering effects from the three Martinis and the shot of vodka I’ve already had tonight. I swipe a tissue under my nose, just in case, check my reflection and leave the bathroom. I’m halfway back to my table when I hear a rumble of laughter from a nearby table. I glance to the side and spot a table of four men, all in expensive suits, glasses of whisky in front of them and a bottle in the middle of the table. Their faces are shrouded in shadow, and two of them are smoking cigars, the clouds of smoke lingering in the air heavily. Gangsters come to mind. A couple of them glance at me as I move past, a few feet away from their booth. It’s very much like predators sizing each other up, trying to work out just how much of a power player the other is.
“Georgia?” One of them asks. I pause, closing my eyes and praying that my ears are deceiving me, and it’s not his voice.
I turn back around squinting through the shadows at Landon as three other sets of curious eyes watch us. I try to escape him, come out to unwind and of course, I bump into him, in the very bar that I frequent to ensure I don’t run into any unwanted friends.
“Landon.” He’s sat in the circular booth; his forearms braced on the table. His usual jacket is missing, and the sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing his muscular forearms. I tear my eyes from his arms and up to his face. His gaze slams into mine and for a second my chest actually feels paralysed, as the breath is physically stuck in my lungs. He tilts his head in that way of his like he’s sizing up his prey.
“Why don’t you join us, sweetheart?” One of the guys asks. I glance at him briefly. Wealthy, entitled and sleazy—and friends with my boss. I really did not want this shit tonight.
“That’s kind of you, but I’m here with someone.” I paint a fake smile on my face.
“Well bring them on over.” He insists, flicking his eyes to my cleavage.
I sigh and pray for a little patience. Do not tell him to fuck off, I repeat in my mind like a mantra. I’m starting to think that I have some very real issues with tolerance.
I’m about to come up with another bullshit excuse when Landon chips in. “She doesn’t want to suck your dick, Bennett.”
“She might.” He sneers, clearly feeling as though his balls are enormous while he’s sat with his friends.
“I assure you I really don’t.” I see the tell tale signs of a bruised male ego as the smile slowly slips from his lips. “I’m not into cock.”
His eyebrows shoot up, and the smile returns. “Is that so?” Well, technically I’m not into sucking dick, now putting a dick in him…that I would do.
I can feel Landon’s eyes on me as I turn away. “Have a good night boys.” I throw over my shoulder as a parting comment. Quinn has finished her drink and is tapping her foot impatiently when I get back. Eva is on her phone.
“Sorry. Bumped into some guys who were trying their luck.”
“Okay. We’ll be back.” She says, scooping up her clutch bag and leaving the table with Eva in tow. I drum my fingers over the table as agitation crawls over me. I don’t know what it is. I always keep my cool. Always. And suddenly I hate everything. I want to go dancing, have a night of wild sex, something, anything. A figure moves from the shadows beside the table and drops into the seat that Quinn just vacated. Landon.
I narrow my eyes at him. “It’s legal and therefore none of your business.”
I can tell he’s fighting a smile. “Just a passing comment.”
“Okay, I’m going to propose something.” I tell him.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “I’m listening.”
“You are my boss. I am your employee. That’s it. Let's not pretend we want to socialise or have a conversation, and let's not make passing comments.” The buzz racing through my veins is making me brave, but weirdly I don’t feel like I’m walking a fine line saying this to him. I might not like him, but he’s not the kind of guy who would reprimand honesty.
“Well, I would agree to it if it were true.” He says.
I frown. “What?”
“You say we don’t want to socialise or have a conversation, and it’s not true. I’m very interested in having a conversation with you, Georgia. You really only have yourself to blame. One minute you’re the appeasing model employee and the next the real you comes out to play with her claws out.”
“You bring out the worst in me.”
He huffs a laugh. “No, I just dig a little deeper than the bullshit front you put on.”
His eyes burn into mine, and I can feel my temper rising like an angry snake. “There is no front, and this isn’t a game. This is my job, my life. Do you have any idea how hard I have worked to get where I am?”
He presses his lips together. “I can imagine.”
I laugh, because, really? “No, you can’t. Every step I have taken to get here is carefully orchestrated. You wanted to know why I left Elite. Collins hit on me. Got drunk and cornered me in the bathroom at the office party.” I have no idea why I’m telling him this. “I don’t want to be the woman who takes home a good wage; I want to be the best. I can’t be the best under a boss who sees me as something to sink his dick in now, can I?” I’m not even talking about him, or maybe I am, but something shifts in his eyes that makes me think that suddenly we are.
His eyes lock with mine. “Angus doesn’t want to sink his dick in you.” The implication of his words hang unfinished in the air. But I do. Or maybe it’s just wishful thinking from my ovaries again.
“Angus isn’t my only boss.” I say boldly, too boldly. The words hang in the air.
He leans forward, propping his elbows on the table, and I find myself doing the same as if we’re negotiating a business meeting. “You ask a lot, kitten.” I don’t know what that even means. I ask for nothing. I want nothing.
“I ask for respect.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You have it, and believe me when I say that not many can say the same.”
I open my mouth to respond when Quinn appears with Eva right beside her. His eyes hold mine, his expression serious as he nods and pushes to his feet.
“Have a good evening, ladies.” He says, smiling briefly at Quinn and Eva before he departs.
As always, I have to release the breath I’ve been holding when he leaves.
Quinn watches him go, before sitting down and turning her wide eyes on me. “That is Landon Banks?” She asks with a squeak. I nod. “Holy fuck.” She starts fanning herself.
“I know, right?” Eva joins in. “I wish I was his assistant.” She says. “Oh, no offence, G, but you know, you’re kind of lacking some of his appeal.”
I ignore them both, watching as Landon moves through the shadows of the bar. I fight with myself for long moments, and then I’m pushing to my feet and striding across the room. He’s almost at his table when I call his name.
He turns to face me, and I jerk my head in the direction of the back of the bar. He follows me to a hallway that leads to a fire exit, tucked away beside the lift. I stop and pivot on my heel, crossing my arms over my chest as I face him. He watches me carefully, his expression blank.
“I don’t like you.” I tell him.
He laughs as he folds his arms over his chest, mimicking my stance. “Say how you really feel why don’t you.”
“And you don’t like me.” I continue.
He holds up a finger. “Actually, I like you. I don’t like the shit you put on for everyone else.”
I huff, but really I want to scream. “I don’t put on anything. I’m just nice to other people. This needs to stop, this…issue …that we have.” I gesture between us. “Angus is noticing.”
He closes the short distance between us, a wicked smile curving his lips. I swallow heavily, dropping my gaze to his chest in an attempt to avoid looking at him. “I’m not the one whose worried about my precious image.”
I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Landon, please.”
I feel his finger nudge beneath my chin, and I freeze as he tilts my face up, bringing my gaze to his. I hold my breath as long seconds pass. He takes a deep breath before he drops his hand, making me immediately miss his touch. “Fine, I’ll stop on one condition.”
“What?”
“Cut the bullshit. It irritates me, you know it does.” I want to slap him, but instead, I bite my tongue.
“Okay, I will ensure that to you, I unleash my inner bitch at all times.”
He huffs a laugh. “Good, then we have a truce.” He holds out his hand to me, and I take it. Fingers crossed this works.
On Monday when I walk into the enormous office on the top floor, Landon is nowhere to be seen. Angus sits at his desk looking worse for wear. He has dark circles under his eyes and is sipping on what smells like very strong coffee.
“Good morning.” I say.
He looks up, as though only just realising my presence, and a smile breaks across his face. “Morning. Sorry, I’m miles away.” He drags a hand through his messy hair as he leans back in his chair.
“Are you okay?” I ask, taking a seat across from him.
He leans forward again, bracing his elbows on the desk and rubbing his hand over his face. “Yeah, it was a late one last night. Only bloody Landon would decide to hit a strip bar on a Sunday night.” He shakes his head. I don’t really have an opinion on the whole strip bar thing other than the fact that it’s so cliché. Rich guys shoving wads of cash into strippers g-string’s just seems so desperate to me.
“Okay, well, here are this morning's figures.” I drop them on the desk and slide the piece of paper in front of him. “I’ll save you having to listen to me talk and leave you to it.” I say, standing up.
“Thanks.” He rasps. God, he really does look and sound like shit.
It’s not until the lift doors slide open, and I step in that I bump into Landon. Literally. I’m reading over an email on the phone in my hand when I walk into a solid chest. His scent assaults me, the smell of his aftershave wrapping around me. Honestly, I’d probably fuck a man just for that smell alone. I throw my hand out against him, to stop myself falling face first into the wall of muscle. He’s wearing a shirt, no jacket, and the heat from his skin seeps through the thin material and into my palm. My touch lingers just a fraction too long to be appropriate before I realise what I’m doing and snatch my hand away, fisting my fingers tightly at my side as if hiding them in shame. I drag my eyes up his broad chest until I meet his face.
“Ms Roberts.”
I clear my throat. “Mr Banks.”
I see a flash of humour in his eyes and then it’s gone and in its place, the hardened indifference that I saw when I first met him.
He strides out of the lift without sparing me another glance, his jacket thrown over his shoulder and I slam my hand on the button, watching as the doors glide shut, cutting off the view of his retreating back.
Good. He’s being professional. Even if I’m not. Shit.
The next week is quiet, non-eventful. I barely see Landon and my life returns to the way it was before he disrupted it. I fall back into my usual routine: morning workout, work, play, sleep and repeat.
My email pings, and it’s from Giles. I scan over the document detailing some new Middle East investment, which probabl
y involves oil. There’s no such thing as a sure thing when it comes to investments, but oil is as close as it gets. Every broker has a list of companies it deals with, though, and that’s Landon’s thing, so he’ll have to approve it. I hit Google, and research the details, putting together a folder.
When I step out of the lift for the boys’ office, the secretary is gone. She’s never gone. Hell, I was starting to doubt whether the woman ever went home. I frown as I move past her empty desk and knock on the door to the office. Nothing. Silence. I push the door open and slip inside, walking to Landon’s desk, the folder clutched against my chest. I drop it on the carnage that is his desk, and I want to walk away, but my OCD can’t cope. I mean, shit, I leave stuff on my desk, in a neat pile, organised. This just looks like something exploded in here.
I sigh and start picking up the loose papers that are scattered everywhere. I gather the separate pieces of a document, scanning the print and putting them in order.
Something touches my shoulder. I jump and squeal, whirling around and staggering into Landon. My nose brushes against the material of his jacket and papers fly everywhere. The only thing saving me from face planting his chest are the hands he wraps firmly around my waist.
“Shit. You scared me!” I squeak.
A low chuckle escapes his throat, and I shiver, tilting my head back so I can look up at him.
He cocks a brow. “Sorry.”
I’m caught off guard, and my breath hitches violently, my heart rate speeding, anticipating…something. Anything. I can feel his breath on my face, smell the intoxicating scent of his aftershave, feel the heat of his body pressed against mine, his palms burning through my dress in a way that makes me feel branded. It all comes flooding in like a tidal wave, my senses becoming overwhelmed with him, craving him like a junkie craves a long lost fix.
His eyes flash with something dark and dangerous before they drop to my lips, and unlike every other time he’s looked at me since we called our strange truce, he doesn’t immediately tear them away, instead focusing on them completely. My pulse starts to hammer so hard it’s like a drum beat in my ears, the rhythmic pounding getting faster and faster. The space between us becomes suddenly charged.