Pierced (Tall, Dark, and Handsome Book 2)

by JA Huss

  That last part is in reference to the way she’s looking at me. Which is with a dollop of skepticism topped with a soupçon of curiosity.

  “Why would you be taking over a new building?”

  “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Because the magazine continues to be in trouble, I thought. Which is why I’m in charge of this party for this special edition, and blah, blah, blah.”

  Fuck. I forgot all about that. Goddamn it. Women remember everything.

  “Whatever. Don’t worry about it. What’s that?” Now I’m referring to a piece of paper she’s holding in her hand. I just noticed it. It is the least interesting thing about her.

  “Oh,” she says, “This? This is what I’m here to see you about.”

  She… saunters? No. Myrtle doesn’t really saunter. Prowls is maybe more like it. She prowls over to my desk and takes a seat behind it.

  “You just gonna plop yourself in the CEO’s chair without asking?” I ask.

  “What’re you gonna do? Fire me?”

  “Touché. What’s the paper?”

  “Well,” she says, taking in a deep breath and adjusting her blazer over her unreasonably effervescent breasts. “Speaking of contracts… I have one for you to look over.”

  “Jesus. What now?” I stand from my throne and walk over to look. Before I can pick it up, she snatches it back.

  “This,” she says, withdrawing it from my view, “is how you can help make things right. You wanna make things right? You wanna be let off the hook? This is how you can do that.”

  She licks her lips, puts her finger to her teeth, checks the tip of her finger for lipstick, then lifts her chin, tips her head to the side, and looks at me with the eyes of a sleepy tiger. I’ve never actually seen a sleepy tiger, but I have no other way of describing it. Sleepy tigers are the most dangerous in my mind. They look docile but next thing you know they go all tiger. Goddamn sleepy tigers.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Well, you know the woman I had dinner with last night?”

  “Pepper?”

  “Pearl.”

  “Sure.”

  “Pearl and I were talking about something and it gave me an idea.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Who?”

  “Penny.”

  “Pearl.”

  “Whatever! You’ve got an idea that’ll make things right? What is it?” I ask with curiosity and more than a little anxiety.

  “This contract,” she says, placing it back on my desk and splaying her hand out across it, “is your key to being forgiven. You have asked what you can do that will make me forget and forgive what happened?” She points one long red nail down at the piece of paper. “The answer is on this page.”

  I shake my head slightly and then look around the room to find the goddamn hidden cameras. Because I feel completely confident that I’m being punked.

  “Okay,” I say, slowly. “May I see it? Please?”

  I really draw out the please. I want to make it a sincere question. I really do. I just don’t know how one does that. Oh, well.

  She gets a glint in her eye and then pushes the paper to the edge of the desk. My desk. I’m not sure how the tables got turned with her sitting in the boss’s chair and me asking her questions that conclude with ‘please,’ but here we are.

  I take the paper up, involuntarily making a smacking sound with my teeth and tongue as I do, and read. Here is what I see:

  In consideration of injurious wrongs committed against one Myrtle Astrid Rothschild as perpetrated by one Pierce Constantine Chevalier…

  I look away from the page to glance at Myrtle, who gives me a ‘go on’ look.

  Wrongs that so damaged her reputation and standing as to cause permanent harm…

  “Permanent harm? I gave you a promotion and a raise! How the fuck—”

  “Keep reading,” she says.

  I turn my attention back to the page once more.

  Mr. Chevalier agrees to make psychic reparations (“psychic reparations?”) in the form of personal subjugation at the hands of Ms. Rothschild.

  “What. The. Fuck?”

  She nods. “Go on.”

  And whereas Ms. Rothschild’s humiliation was a public affair, with respect to Mr. Chevalier’s own public profile, Ms. Rothschild agrees to maintain silence in regard to all activities executed in the privacy of Ms. Rothschild’s… “Dungeon? What the fuck are you—?”

  She rolls her index finger in a ‘keep reading’ gesture.

  In exchange for his agreement to assume the role of SUBMISSIVE TO MS. ROTHSCHILD…

  “This is fucking insane. Okay? Let’s just… This is fucking insane.”

  But, for whatever reason, I keep reading.

  … Mr. Chevalier will be pardoned and forgiven for all injuries inflicted and wrongs committed and at the conclusion of the endeavor, Ms. Rothschild agrees to never speak of it again. Agreed to and signed…

  I glance over the rest of the half-baked legalese, feeling my eyes grow wider with every word I read, and finally I place the paper back on the desk, take a deep breath, and say as calmly as I can, “Are you out of your fucking mind? What the fuck is this?”

  From over my shoulder, I hear the mousy voice of Valerie say, “Sir?”

  “Val—What do you want?”

  “Did you call for me?”

  “No! I didn’t! Will you please get the hell out?”

  She nods her head like she’s bowing in a Japanese tea house and ducks away. When I look back at Myrtle she’s sporting a full-on Cheshire Cat grin.

  “What,” I begin, slowly, “the fuck is this?”

  “Your penance,” she says. “You say you want forgiveness? You want to pay penance? Here’s your chance. I look at it like this,” she says, standing and rounding the desk to face me directly. “You publicly humiliated me.” I find myself backing up as she walks toward me, even though I don’t mean to. “You want to find a way for me to forgive you.” I’m bumping into my throne now. “I want to be able to feel like we’re even.” I fall into the seat, as she leans over me and whispers in my ear. “And this is a way for me to get what I want, you to get what you want, and nobody. Ever. Has. To know. And gee, won’t that be nice?”

  Her hot breath on my ear causes my dick to jump. Which takes me by surprise and causes me to jump. I leap out of the seat and march past her.

  “You’re fuckin’ bonkers, lady. You know that? You’re out of your goddamn tête!”

  She just lowers her chin and smirks. Again. “Pierce… honestly? I feel like you’re getting off easy. I’m offering to sign a legally binding contract that says no one will find out about what happens between us. That’s a far greater courtesy than you gave me.”

  “Jesus Christ. You really think you are Christian Grey, don’t you?”

  “Do I?”

  “Sure as fuck seems like it! I mean, this idea of yours is as bizarre, incoherent, ludicrous, and derivative as that Fifty Shades shit!”

  “Derivative?”

  “You took this idea from that book, and the woman who wrote it took the idea from those Twilight books, didn’t she?”

  “You really read Fifty Shades?”

  “Everybody read Fifty Shades!”

  This is insane. I find myself breathing heavily, in and out, through my nose. Stalking my office like a panther. Or a caged tiger. Or maybe a cheetah. I dunno which animal I feel like I am exactly, but it’s something dangerous and supple. That I feel certain of.

  And then, quite suddenly, I hear Andrew’s voice in my head. Telling me I need to prostrate myself. To lay myself at Myrtle’s feet. If that’s what I want. If I want her to forgive me. If I want to genuinely and truly apologize and make it right.

  And then I hear my father’s voice telling me to never supplicate myself. To maintain my power at all times. To always retain my dominance. And those two voices, competing in my brain, are giving me a fucking headache.

  I turn to say something
to her. I don’t know what exactly. Just something. To yell or to… I dunno. But when I spin and see her standing there…

  I’ve known her for seven years. For seven years she has been my one constant. The most important woman in my life. I’ve not had another woman enter my world for more than a few weeks. At most. But Myrtle has remained.

  And she still remains. She doesn’t have to be here. I’d like to pretend that it’s the money and the promotion, but I don’t think she cares about those things. Not really. I just don’t think it’s a guiding force for her.

  I know what is. I think I’ve always known.

  It’s her sense of self. Her sense of ownership over who she is. Pride in the person that she wants to be and that she unashamedly shows the world.

  And I stripped her of that. I tore that from her and no amount of money or promotions or even saying I’m sorry can make up for it. Can repay it.

  She is my rock. Like Andrew likes to talk about the mountains he climbs as sturdy, reliable, unshakable… that’s what Myrtle is to me.

  Fuck. Is this what people mean when they talk about having a “conscience?” Because if so, this blows.

  I breeze past her to the desk. I look at the paper there. Words jump off the page at me: Dominant. Submissive. Safe word. Ball gag.

  Ball gag? Oh, Pierce, what the fuck are you doing?

  Shit. I dunno. But I’m doing it.

  I pat my jacket. I normally have one on me, but I don’t just at present. And so, without looking back, I thrust my hand out behind me and say to Myrtle…

  “Gimme a pen.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN - MYRTLE

  I have no memory of walking out of Pierce’s office. I don’t know how I got back into my office. I don’t know how I got behind my desk, or sat in my chair, or any of it.

  Because all I know is that Pierce signed on the dotted line.

  I’m breathing heavy, I realize. My heart is racing, my pulse pounding in my head. My vision narrows down to a tunnel, my eyes fixed on the closed door of my office as I swallow hard, and for a second I think, Holy shit, something’s wrong with me. I have low blood sugar, or I’m gonna faint, or maybe I’m having a panic attack?

  Because it’s been years since my body reacted this way. Years.

  It’s unfamiliar and frightening, but neither of those feelings are altogether unwelcome.

  What am I doing?

  You’re getting even, the little voice in my head says. And Pierce is getting what he deserves.

  Yes, that part makes all the sense. It’s the other part that doesn’t.

  The part where I dress up in those boots and corset. The part where I put the blindfold over his eyes and hold the whip in my hand.

  I think I’m having a panic attack. Because my heart is fluttering like… like… like a girl who owns a whip, and a pair of latex boots, and dresses up in a corset.

  I suddenly have an urge to tell someone about this. I need to discuss it. I need a trusted friend to confide in. And not the typical trusted friend, either. The… lifestyle kind.

  And the really shitty thing about that realization is the fact that I don’t have anyone. Not one person.

  I moved away from the old me. Not the old, old me, who was also left behind. The last old me.

  Mistress Myrtle.

  I made a decision years ago to walk away. To walk out on all the people I’d normally turn to and so now, in the one moment when I need that support system, I’m left with no one.

  God, what am I doing?

  This time that inner voice doesn’t chime in. There’s no way to rationalize this. At all.

  I just offered my boss a sexual ultimatum.

  I’m insane. Totally insane. I’m going to get fired and probably sued.

  My desk phone rings, making me jump in my chair. I pick it up automatically and say, “Myrtle Rothschild, how can I help you?”

  “Oh, hey, Myrtle. It’s Larry down in maintenance.”

  “Yes,” I say, trying to breathe normally. “What can I do for you, Larry?”

  “Eden called this morning and told me you need the second floor for an event.”

  “Yes, the Halloween party. That’s right.”

  “OK, but she said the party is on a Saturday?”

  “Yes. Apparently Halloween parties don’t always happen on Halloween.”

  “Sure, sure,” he says. “I get it. But we gotta pay people to, you know, run it. So we need to invoice purchasing and—”

  “Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, I’m a little distracted. So we need—wait staff?”

  “Yup.

  “And security, I presume?”

  “Mandatory, since it’s off hours.”

  “What else? We’ve got an expense account to spend, Larry. Tell me what you need.”

  “Should I make a list and send it up to you?”

  “That would be great, thank you.” I purr out that last part, starting to feel more like my new self now. “And you’re invited, of course. So I hope you don’t have plans. I expect you to show up and have a good time.”

  “Oh,” he says, chuckling. I can almost picture him blushing. “Well, thank you, Myrtle. The wife and I would love to come to your… party.”

  “Wonderful,” I say. But what was that hesitation? It was weird, right? But he doesn’t offer up anything else, so I just say, “I’ll email you Maggie’s contact information. She’s my event planner. She’ll handle all the party details from here.”

  “Got it.”

  I set the phone down and look at the tall, skinny window next to my office door, then squeak out a small gasp in surprise. Because Pierce is peeking through it.

  “What are you doing?” I demand, standing up, walking over to the door, and pulling it open. “Why are you spying on me?”

  Pierce looks over his shoulder at Valerie, then back at me, then he pushes forward into my office—into me, actually, since I’m blocking his way—forcing me to step aside.

  “Anastasia, this is not appropriate behavior. You were not invited in.”

  “I’m the boss. I don’t need an invitation.” So he keeps going, walks around my desk, takes a seat in my chair, and props his feet right up next to my computer.

  “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

  “Close the door. We’re not done with this negotiation.”

  “Aren’t we?” I laugh.

  “Close. The door. Myrtle.”

  I look over at Valerie again. Is she taking notes? I close the door, turn, plant my hands on my hips, and glare at him with the appropriate amount of dissatisfaction. “So you’ve changed your mind. I knew you would.”

  And I kinda did, didn’t I? I mean, that has to be the reason I came up with this ridiculous plan in the first place, right? I knew he’d say no and then I wouldn’t have to do it.

  “No, I didn’t change my mind.” He takes his feet off my desk, leans forward, and whispers, “But I want an addendum to the contract, Ms. Grey.”

  I laugh again. It’s haughty this time. Slightly contemptuous.

  “I told you I read the book. I know there’s room for negotiation, so that’s what this is. Renegotiation.”

  I smile, even though I don’t want to give him the wrong impression. Because picturing Pierce reading the Ana-Christian sex contract negotiation is just fun. “So…” I say in my low, throaty Mistress Myrtle voice. I kinda missed that voice. I wonder if Andrew needs a new Sultry Siren? Because that’s what Mistress Myrtle sounds like and it’s a helluva lot better than the one he’s currently using. “You fancy yourself an expert.”

  “I am the boss,” he says. Is he using his Master Pierce voice on me? “So I could make the rules up as I go.”

  “Whoa,” I say, putting up a hand. “That’s not—”

  “But I won’t. I just want something of my own added to the contract.” He pulls the folded paper out of his inside suitcoat pocket and flattens it out on the desk.

  “Oh,” I say, getting it. “You’re afraid I’m going to sue you
for sexual harassment.”

  “What?” He screws up his face, like this was not what he was thinking at all. “No. I just want a date.”

  “A date?”

  “Yeah. A date. With you. One that doesn’t involve the Red Room of Pain.”

  “Pleasure,” I correct him. “My room is about pleasure.” I purr that last part so smooth, he blinks. And if that desk wasn’t hiding his groin, I’d probably see his cock jump.

  He clears his throat. “A date. A weekend, actually. We’re going to the mountains. The magazine owns a place up in Vail and—”

  “Hold on,” I say, putting up a hand. “You want to take me away for a ridiculous romantic weekend?”

  “That’s right. And it’s a deal-breaker. So if you say no, I say no. I’ll rip this contract up, walk out of this office, and have expectations, Myrtle. Job performance expectations.”

  “Oh.” I laugh again. It’s loud too. “Is that so?”

  “Yup. Take it or leave it.”

  “I don’t think you understand what this is.”

  “I understand,” Pierce says. “Perfectly. You want to humiliate me like I humiliated you.”

  “That’s not exactly it,” I say, feeling defensive.

  “Sure it is. And I’m fine with it. I probably deserve it. But it’s not going to be fun for me. So I want some perks. I want the new car and the new computer. I want the glider ride and the helicopter tour. I want you to work for it.”

  “Oh, my God. You really did read the book.” I have to cover my mouth to hide my smile.

  “So we’re going on a date to Vail and I’m gonna give you the Christian Grey experience.”

  “You’re not Christian,” I say. “I am. So technically I should be giving you the—”

  “Sign it,” he says, thrusting the paper at me.

  I glance down at the paper, which is filled with the red marks of new demands, and then reach for my glasses that hang on a chain around my neck, and put them on with one hand as I reach for the contract with my other.