“Young man,” one of the older board members says, “I don’t appreciate your tone.”
“I’m not here to sell you my tone. I’m here to save you from her.”
They all look at Eve. She shrinks just a little into her chair, her eyes wide. When Eve gets mad, her eyes go wide and she tucks her bottom lip under her teeth. She does that now, and her hands go white as she grips the arms of her chair. Whiter, anyway. She’s furious.
Good.
“The details are in the papers I’ve provided. Bottom line is this. I want thirty percent of the common stock, for which I am prepared to pay generously.”
“With what?” Evelyn snaps. “What do they pay you in prison, a dollar a day to stamp license plates?”
“Miss Ross,” Thorpe says, a hint of warning in his voice.
All the color, such as it is, drains from Evelyn’s face. It’s been a long time since anyone but her father has taken that kind of tone with her. I can read it plain as day in her face.
“I’ve provided all the necessary information for your due diligence. My plan is a more hands off approach than Eve’s. I’m not here to eat your company alive, I’m here to keep it afloat. The union and your creditors will get what they want. In addition to market price for the stock, the group I represent will extend an interest-free line of credit to cover Thorpe’s liabilities for the next two years.”
“This is absurdly generous,” another of them says. “What’s in it for you?”
“It’ll pay off when I triple the price of your stock, and I will.”
“How?”
“I’d rather not say in front of the competition, but look at the terms. If the stock price does not in fact triple by the one year anniversary of the day you sign the papers, all the stock I purchase reverts back to you. I’m going to bet with my money that we can turn this around.”
“Who’s we?” the old man says. “Ross has a point. Did you dig out of your prison cell with a spoon and find a treasure chest?”
I smile at him where Eve would wither him with a look.
“No, but my father’s name used to mean something in the financial world and I want it to mean something again. I called a lot of friends, all of whom have been burned by what used to be my father’s company. Again, all the information you need to make an informed decision is in the packet I passed out. Look, I know I’m asking you to do homework on a Friday…”
Four of them chuckle softly.
Gotcha.
“…but it’s me or her. Do I need to tell you what happens if you hand over the reins to her? My plan involves bringing in consultants. Her plan involves removing your entire management staff and replacing them with her cronies. She’ll increase your efficiency, alright. She’ll fire the union workers, close down the plant and hire scabs somewhere else. She’ll cancel contracts with your suppliers and start using substandard product from suppliers she controls. She’ll stick knives in your backs from a dozen directions and squeeze out as much profit from the company as she can until the reputation of the brand is ruined, and when it’s not making money anymore she’ll exercise her rights to tear it all apart and sell everything off to pay off the company’s creditors, which if you research the matter, you will find all belong to her. She’s already got you in her jaws. When you sign her papers she’ll shake you and snap your neck. My plan is a way out. If we fail, you’ll be no worse off than if you sign on with her and go under the Amsel umbrella. If you say no she’ll start the wheels on a hostile takeover. She probably already has.”
Evelyn is staring daggers into me.
“This is a lot to consider,” Thorpe says.
Evelyn looks at him, then at me. She rises abruptly from her seat and leaves her assistant to frantically gather their materials. I look around the room.
“Questions?”
“We’ll reach a decision soon, I think,” says Thorpe.
“I’ll be waiting.”
I give them a winning smile, grab my attache and stride out.
Evelyn is in the hallway.
“You son of a bitch,” she hisses. “How dare you-“
Before I can think, before I can plan, my hand lashes out and I seize the collar of her blouse. Her feet barely touch the floor as I drag her out of the hall into another conference room. She rakes her nails over the back of my first and I let go. She looks at me, looks at the door, and goes for it. She doesn’t make it halfway before I drag her back by the arm and yank the door shut and twist the lock. She rounds on me with a savage backhand that actually flashes my lights. I taste blood in my mouth from a split lip.
“Fucking let go of me,” she snaps. “I’ll scream.”
“You promise?”
“Let go!”
“Eve, listen to me.”
“I don’t want to hear your lies. Get your hands off me, Victor. I loved your mother. That’s the only reason I’m not going to have you back in prison today. Only if you let go of my arm.”
I give her a little shake. Her eyes burn into me, and as my throat clenches with fury I feel my cock stiffen. God, she’s beautiful.
“Let. Go,” she repeats.
“No.”
“Get off of-“
Before she finishes the sentence I have her up against the wall, my lips crushed against hers. It’s been so goddamn long, almost five years since I’ve touched a woman. Hell, for five years I didn’t even smell a woman. If you told me maybe ten years ago I’d go five years without a good lay I’d tell you I’d be fucking everything that moves when I was done.
All I want is her.
There’s not even a moment of resistance. She kisses me back hard, hungrily, so hot. It’s like swallowing a warm spoonful of honey. Whoever called her the ice queen was dead wrong. Her skin burns under my hands. I slip my arms under her jacket, feel her heat under her silk blouse. The feeling reminds me of slipping under a blanket with her, feeling her warmth against me as we lay intertwined.
One hand moves up her stomach and I squeeze her breast through blouse and bra, and she moans softly in to my mouth. Her hands stop pulling at my blazer and instead start hiking up her skirt, up over her hips. Jesus, there’s already a wet spot on her underwear. She starts pushing them down, I pull them down, rip them to her knees and slide my hand between her legs. Her arousal is slick on my fingers, but I just hold her, cup my hand against her sex. A soft sound escapes her lips and she bucks and rolls her hips, grinding on my hand. I push her into the wall and slip my arm around her as her arms wrap around my neck.
My cock is raging, iron hard. I want to fuck her so bad. I could fuck her right here on the floor, I don’t care. I want to explode inside her, feel her quiver around me as I make her cum. My finger slides inside her and it comes back to me, like muscle memory. I know exactly where and how to touch her to get the reaction I want, sliding my finger against just the right spot while I move my palm against her clit. She hugs me tighter and pushes her chin in to my shoulder, trembling. Her leg lifts up. All I have to do is get these pants down and get inside her. I have never been this hard.
I want to fuck her but I want to taste her more. I drop to my knees and she knots her fingers in my hair, pushes me forward as her hips cant towards me, and I suck on her clit as I slip a second finger into her body and start pumping, finger fucking her while I eat her pussy. She never makes a sound, no louder than a squeak or a sharp inhalation, but she’s so fucking wet I think I might need to roll up my sleeve, a silly thought in the absurd joy of her taste. She tastes and smells just like I remember and I pull my hand away to clamp down on her hips with both hands and bury my face in her hot, sopping wet cunt. I want to get my tongue inside her. She’s shaking now, barely in control of herself, and claps one hand over her mouth. Her other is twisting my hair so hard it hurts.
Just like old times. She used to pull my hair, scratch my back until I bed and beg me more, more. A few times she even bit me.
“Please,” she pleads in a breathy voice, before pressing her hand to
her mouth.
Her eyes are wide open.
I ease off. No, not yet. She’s not allowed to cum until I want her to. My fingers enter her again as I stand up, yank her hand away and she kisses me as I pin her to the wall and very, very slowly slide my fingers forward and back, curling them just a little to make her knees shake. I swallow her moans as my tongue invades her mouth. I make her taste her pussy while I pleasure her. Her legs are shaking like leaves now, her stomach trembles, and her nails dig into my arms.
Cum. Cum for me you fucking bitch.
Her pussy squeezes my fingers. I just hold them there, feeling the heat and pulses and wetness. She never makes a peep, but her body goes rigid, softens a little, goes rigid again in spasms as her eyes unfocus, look past me. I hold her against me.
It’s not fucking fair. Just let me love you, God damn it. Why can’t I? Why did this have to happen?
“Vic,” she purrs, trying to side her arms around me. “Victor…”
“I didn’t do it,” I bark at her, my voice strained. Christ, I’m a grown man on the verge of tears. “Eve, please believe me…”
She gives me a hard shove and I step away from her as she struggles to keep her feet, skirt hike dup over her ass, her sodden underwear quivering between her bowed knees.
“You son of a bitch, why did you bring it up?”
“Eve-“
“Beg my forgiveness,” she snaps, standing to her full height, such as it is. “Beg me to forgive you, Victor.”
My hand falls to my side.
“You’re the one that should be begging my forgiveness,” I snarl. “I never touched that girl. I never did any of it. All I ever wanted…”
“Liar,” she says, coldly. “You’re a filthy fucking liar, and I hate you. Don’t ever touch me again.”
She stumbles away, and suddenly I feel embarrassed to see her like this as she yanks her underwear up and pulls her skirt down.
“I hate you,” she says, as I open the door.
Blackbird is available now!
A selection from Paradise Falls, a serial by Abigail Graham
Scar Tissue
Chapter Eleven
There were heavy footsteps in the kitchen. Jennifer switched on the light, then swung the bedroom door shut and gently twisted the lock, wincing at the sound. The landline phone on her nightstand offered a quiet hiss. Frantic, she turned on the light and looked for her cell phone. Panic throbbed in her temples, ice cold. There was no way out. She needed to call for help and she needed her gun.
Her cell phone and revolver were in her purse.
The purse was in the living room.
The big Amish dresser didn’t want to move, until it started to slide across the floor. Frustration coiled hot in her muscles and Jennifer gave it one great shove, and it finally started to slide. She stopped pushing the dresser when it fully blocked the door, and listened for any sound beyond her own panting. The footsteps resumed downstairs, but this time, they were heavy thumps on the living room carpet. Why didn’t she carry her purse upstairs?
Idiot, think.
There was no use in hiding. Her only hope was her neighbor. She pounded the wall with her fist. “Mrs. Carmody! Call the police!”
No answer. The old woman’s television babbled through the wall. Jennifer banged the heels of both hands against the wall and called Mrs. Carmody’s name repeatedly. The heavy footsteps pounded up the stairs, and shook the floor. The bedroom door shook like a leaf when it a meaty fist pounded the hollow wood.
“Open up.”
Jennifer felt a tight clutch of panic in her chest. Grayson Carlyle. He hit the door hard enough to make the hinges creak. The old door splintered around the doorknob, and banged against the back of her dresser.
“I’ve called the cops!” she shouted. “Get out of here!”
The closet was full of clothes but it was also full of Franklin’s stuff. After shoving the racks of old shirts out of the way, she felt along the back of the closet for his old Louisville Slugger, tucked in the corner. The kid’s size bat was almost three feet of solid ash, unbelievably hard even before age turned it nearly to stone. Covered in dirt and scuff marks, the end of the bat was worn striking a ball so many times.
The carpeting bunched up behind the dresser enough to slow its movement. Grayson shouldered the door. The dresser held. Briefly. It skidded across the bare floor until it hit the throw rug, and the rug bunched up. The door was open maybe six inches, and Grayson peered through it.
“Open the fucking door. You’re coming with me.”
“Get away,” Jennifer said. “I’ve got a baseball bat.”
Grayson snorted, and shoved. The dresser caught on the bunched rug, and tipped. The drawers came open, spilling out everything inside, and the whole thing tipped over with a crash.
Jennifer gripped the bat tightly in her hands and edged towards the door, fighting every instinct, screaming at her to run, but there was nowhere to go.
Grayson peered through the opening. He was dressed head to toe in black, a watch cap pulled low over his thick brows. He pulled back for a running start, and then the former linebacker crashed into the door like a freight train. The door snapped with a hollow crack, where it hit the fallen dresser. Grayson grabbed the broken door in his big hands and shoved it into the room. It broke into pieces and ripped right off the hinges. With one big slab of a foot, he kicked the dresser back and squeezed through the opening.
Jennifer edged away, until he stood to his full height in her bedroom.
A surge of cold anger tore through her. He was in her house.
Her lips pulled back, her eyes widened, and she tightened every muscle in her body. The rough handle of the bat dug into her palms, and she tested its weight.
“Get out!” Jennifer shrieked. “Get out of my house!”
“Put the bat down, bitch.”
She moved the bat in slow circles, like she’d seen players do when they were waiting for the pitch. She tilted her head down, clenched her jaw, and blew out a breath.
Grayson stepped over the broken door and fallen dresser, then came at her. Jennifer swung with all her might, twisting at the waist and pivoting her feet while ignoring the flare of pain in her ankle. The bat whipped through the air, right at his head.
He was too fast, and the bat too short. He caught it with a grunt, stopping the swing by catching it just above her hands, and seized the end in his other hand. With a turn of his arms, the bat tore free from her hands. Jennifer screamed again and jumped back. She almost fell when she hit the nightstand. She crawled over the bed and headed for the door. Grayson’s ham-sized hand clamped down on her ankle, sending a teeth-gritting flash of red pain up her leg as he dragged her back.
The panic surging in her chest turned to ice and crushed the air out of her lungs as she remembered another bedroom, another man pinning her to a bed. Shrieking and contorting herself with a hidden, frantic strength, she drew her leg up and kicked him right in the jaw. Grayson’s head snapped back, and let go. He thumped against the wall. Blood poured from his mashed-in nose, and he stared at the wet streak on his hand, naked shock widening his beady eyes. Raging, he came at her again, teeth clenched.
Jennifer went for the door, crawling over the dresser, and again she was too slow.
He got both her legs this time, pulled, and dragged her around, away from the door. She landed on her backside, her back hit the wall, and her head cracked against the plaster. A blinding white flash consumed her vision. Grayson dug fingers into her arm to pull her around, then wrapped his arms around her from behind in a bear hug. She screamed until the strength of his massive arms crushed all the air out of her. He lifted her flailing body from the floor. She kicked her feet against the wall, her grippy socks catching on the smooth plaster.
He pushed her towards the wall, but her feet were planted. She let them bend, and then with a wordless scream pushed with all her might. Muscle from riding, muscle from leaping and spinning, muscle she carried in her legs
and grew and grew since she was twelve years old coiled with power like steel bands. She pushed against the wall in a single explosive motion. Grayson lurched backwards, losing his footing as. He let out a throaty grunt as he crashed into the air conditioner, and his arms opened enough for her to wriggle loose.
Jennifer slammed onto the hardwood floor and went rigid. Pain lanced up from her tailbone, too intense and hot to muster a scream. Her lungs filled with air that wouldn’t go back out. She choked and sputtered as she rolled away from him. As Grayson drew back from the window, the wreckage of the air conditioner scraped down the roof, hitting the sidewalk below with a crunch.
The window!
If she could get out the window, then she could climb onto the porch roof and slide down to the street. She could run, or at least get to her bike. The window wasn’t far. It took all she had to ignore the pain in her tailbone and flaring ankle to drag herself towards the window. She had her hand on the windowsill, she just had to grab it and pull herself up.
Almost there.
With a grunt of effort, she pulled and the hot, humid night air met her face. Another second.
Grayson’s hand twisted around in her hair.
Jennifer’s shriek burned her throat. Her scalp burned as Grayson yanked her back into the room. His other hand closed around her throat. Wrenched to her feet, Grayson shoved her onto the bed hard enough to push the mattress off the box spring. He was on top of her. His knee pinned her back, and his fist ripped hair from her scalp as he pushed her face down into the bed.
The comforter smothered all the air. She couldn’t breathe, but she couldn’t stop screaming. It felt like her lungs would burn themselves up and burst out of her throat. Her heart beat so fast it was just a buzz in her chest. It felt like dying, like an ice pick was ramming through her chest.
“Shut up, you goddamn bitch,” Grayson snarled. “Hold still.”
Go with him. Cooperate. If he took her outside, then someone would see or hear them. She could get loose and run away. He pulled her onto her feet and backhanded her. Pain exploded from her jaw and the world went all tilty-turny again and he pulled her towards the broken door by the hair.
Thrall (A Vampire Romance) Page 17