Dirty Ties

by Pam Godwin

  “Sit. Down.” His command thundered through the boardroom and wobbled my knees. The same tone he’d used when he caught his son in bed with me and another man.

  I dropped in the chair and looked to my mother, hoping for the miracle of all miracles that some kind of maternal instinct would spark inside her frozen heart.

  She paused in the doorway, her sapphire eyes a colder reflection of mine. They lowered to my featherweight wool dress, and her over-plumped lips tipped down at the corners. “If you want to succeed, start with the way you dress.”

  The fuck? I fingered the square neckline at my collarbone, brushed a hand down the unwrinkled indigo fabric, and tugged at the knee-length hem. I was wearing a modest Armani classic for Christ’s sake.

  The door clicked behind her, and the automatic lock engaged, shutting me in with the last man I wanted to share air with…alone.

  He stood, one hand in the pocket of his designer gray slacks, and approached with a nonchalance that ratcheted my shoulders to my ears. He trailed his fingers over each chair back he passed, his sharp hazel eyes laser-locked on mine.

  My nerves caught fire, and my fingernails dug into my palms. It was shameful how easily he reduced me to the little girl who’d always fumbled in his presence, like when I’d spilled punch on his white carpet and chipped Collin’s tooth with a badly-aimed tennis racket. Like when I walked in on Trent banging the nanny.

  When he reached my side, my ribs compressed as panic expanded my lungs, but I kept my breaths quiet and steady.

  He lowered in a crouch and swiveled my chair to face him. “How are things with my son?” His knuckle grazed my knee. I jerked away, but he caught my thigh beneath the hem of the skirt, his fingers clenching in a bruising grip. “Is he…satisfying you?”

  My stomach roiled at his taunting tone. I grabbed his wrist and shoved, but my strength was no match for his. He was a physically fit, youthful-looking sixty-five-year-old, with thick blond hair, polished skin, and barely a crinkle fanning from the corners of his yellow eyes. He must’ve spent a fortune on cosmetic surgery, hair plugs, and personal trainers.

  I wanted to look away from him because his proximity made me sick. But he did this thing with his eyes, flickering them in a stare down meant to intimidate, to make me vulnerable. He thought he’d shackled me in a sexless marriage and assumed, in my desperation, I could be seduced by his vile attractiveness.

  Acid simmered in the back of my throat. I’d been deflecting his inappropriate touches since the first buds of breasts swelled on my chest, and I liked to think I could continue to stave him off.

  But his advances were growing bolder, becoming more frequent and making me hyper-vigilant, jittery, and fucking terrified to come to work.

  I shoved harder against his hand, but the more I resisted, the higher his fingers climbed. He wanted a struggle—I could see it glimmering in his eyes—and I refused to play his sick games.

  Funny that, seeing how the contract forbid me to cheat on Collin, the initiator of the whole damned arrangement encouraged me to break it.

  I released my grip on his wrist. I’d avoided him as much as I could over the years, but he was part of my family, my employer, and he was malicious enough to hurt me, or kill me, if I refused a direct order.

  Still, I had my limits. I would never willingly spread my legs for this man. It was the unwilling part, however, that corkscrewed my stomach every time he cornered me. I had threatened on multiple occasions that I would file charges if he assaulted me.

  How long would that threat ward him off? Would anything stop him? Certainly not my parents. Their allegiance was, and always would be, with Trent Anderson and Trenchant Media. As if they were part of a feudalist system, where lords and ladies offered their daughter in marriage in return for the king’s protection and power.

  As his thumb stroked the crease between my clenched knees, graphic thoughts of castration strengthened my backbone and raised my chin. “If you want Collin to make changes to tonight’s segment, tell him yourself.”

  “That’s what I have you for, darling.” His other hand joined the first, his palms inching up my thighs and taking the skirt with it. “He listens to you, and you listen to me.”

  I pressed against the seat back and squeezed my legs even tighter as sweat gathered between my breasts. “If you don’t remove your hands, you’ll regret it.” It was a hollow threat, but I would not give him the sobbing kind of fight he wanted.

  His quiet chuckle prickled goosebumps across my arms. “Naïve girl. You forget who I am. Who my friends are.”

  He was wrong about that. His powerful friends were the reason I hadn’t followed through on my murderous imaginings. And to call them powerful was an understatement. Often, I eavesdropped on snippets of conversations between Trent and my father in the den after dinner. Supposedly, he and my father met up with their secret fraternity of prominent CEOs, former U.S. presidents, oil barons, and royal families. They gathered in an undisclosed location to partake in heavy drinking, collared sex slaves, and bizarre rituals while hashing out their plans for the future of the world.

  Rumors. Fucking hearsay without evidence or verification. I knew better than to entertain that shit.

  With a deep breath, I clenched and relaxed my fingers. Me against whatever egos stood behind Trent would not keep Collin out of prison. Nor would it stop our parents from manipulating his show.

  I closed my eyes and bit out the words he was waiting for. “I’ll speak to Collin about tonight’s segment.”

  His hands retreated, straightening my skirt. “I know you will.” He rose and towered over me, an embodiment of antediluvian cloaks and secret guilds, dressed to deceive in modern Gucci threads. “There’s another matter I need you to handle.”

  I met his cold gaze, holding my face as passive as possible, while my insides trembled with dread. These behind-closed-door requests prodded me to resist, flee, do something that didn’t make me feel like his accomplice. But the consequences chained me to the chair.

  “I want you to obtain access to that underground racing network. Find out everything you can on the racers, the dates, and the maps of each race, and report back to me.”

  What? Why would he—? Oh God, did he know about my involvement? My feet itched to move. I fought it, digging my heels into the carpet. “I…I don’t—” Stop stuttering, dumbass. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

  What were the signs of lying? I held my head still and kept my eyes on his, blinking slowly and naturally.

  He pivoted and strolled along the length of the table. “You have the resources on your payroll. Use them.”

  I swallowed quickly and schooled my breath while his back was turned. “Who cares about a gang of irresponsible bikers?”

  Grabbing his phone from the table, he shifted to face me and swiped the screen. Swipe. Swipe. Tap. He stared at the screen and swiped again.

  Good grief, was he already bored with this conversation? I folded my arms over my chest, my neck aching with tension.

  His finger stilled. “The police chief cares.”

  An undercurrent of suspicion sifted through me, not an unusual reaction to the cryptic shit that fell from his mouth.

  I chewed the inside of my cheek. I could give him everything he wanted on the races right now, tell him I had the information because I was running an undercover story. It was only a matter of time before he got what he wanted anyway.

  My insides cringed at the thought. A foolish reaction, but I felt more loyalty for an outlaw biker I’d never met than I did for our parents. “Why don’t you just call one of your friends to dig up the info? They’re probably VIP investors on the network.”

  He didn’t lift his head from his phone, but his eyes rolled up and locked on mine. “My friends don’t engage in the primitive interests of commoners.”

  Did he really just say that? I bit my tongue. Considering my primitive interest in Evader, maybe I should’ve been offended. But hey, if I died knowing I was no
thing like Trent Anderson, I’d consider his comment a fucking compliment.

  He dropped the phone in his pocket. “If you want that promotion, you’ll adhere to the contract and do as you’re told.” He hit a button beneath the table to unlock the doors and ambled out without a look in my direction.

  Dismissed like a menial office worker.

  He vanished around the corner, and I released a heavy breath. My career was far from menial. Next week, I would be the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. If Collin and I continued to comply with their demands, remained married, and didn’t commit adultery. I sighed. If we didn’t get caught.

  God, I needed that promotion, the title I’d busted my ass for. MBA in leadership and organizational development from Yale. Certified public accountant with a BA in accounting and economics from Georgetown. Twelve-hour workdays and not a single vacation in fifteen years. Damn right, I’d earned it.

  Next week, Trent would hand off his CEO position to me. Then I would have control of the entire conglomerate. Transforming our families’ company from a self-fulfilling entity into an unbiased, trustworthy news source was an aspiration bigger than myself. I could do it, but that wasn’t why I needed it.

  What ruled my every breath was the legally binding contract Collin and I had been forced to sign. And that contract had a loophole.

  See, the CEO of Trenchant Media also reigned as the chairman of the board, and the chairman had the voting power to appoint and remove board members. Trent had thought of that and included a clause in our original twenty-one page contract that nullified this policy.

  He must’ve thought I was a fucking moron or that I was too spineless to try to deceive him, because the pompous prick never checked the final draft of the contract. Never noticed I’d rephrased that clause, only slightly but just enough. Enough to slant its meaning into vague nothingness.

  I needed the CEO position to appoint myself head of the board. So I could remove him. All of them. Strip their rights the way they’d stolen mine. Without their power base at Trenchant, Collin and I could fight them, maybe get our freedom back. Marry who we wanted. Just thinking about it made my heart thump.

  Until then, I had to play along with their demands and fill the role of dutiful daughter.

  I tugged my phone from my purse on the way out, dialing as I walked down the hall toward my office.

  “Morning, love.” Collin’s voice brushed against my ear like silk. “Everything okay?”

  He knew about his father’s threat, about the purchased evidence that placed him at the scene of an unsolved murder. He had no alibi, no proof of innocence, and no defense. Outside of that, he was in the dark about what I did for our parents, what I planned to do.

  I hated keeping things from him, but I didn’t do it to betray his trust. If Trenchant found itself caught in a scandal for its unethical business practices, his ignorance would protect him. That was what my dishonesty gave him. Blissful ignorance.

  “Yeah.” I tried to put a smile in my voice. “Everything’s fine. I was just thinking about your police brutality segment tonight. Do you remember Dave O’Neil?”

  “Leon, dammit, where are you going? Hang on, Kaci.” The phone muffled. “Why didn’t you turn back there? We’re going to get caught in traffic—”

  Judging by the sudden silence, he’d covered the mouthpiece to yell at the limo driver. I grinned. God, he was a horrible backseat driver.

  Scratching sounded through the speaker, and he said, “Dave O’Neil? Was that the cop who escorted you undetected from a race a few months back?”

  I’d been pulled over that night. Trying to flee the scene at 150 miles per hour. Detained by Officer O’Neil, who I’d paid off to let me go without mentioning my name in a report. “Yeah. I kind of owe him, and I know he’d shit himself to be on the Anderson Angle.”

  “You want me to interview him instead of Daniel Wyatt?” His voice lowered, his words drawn out with reservation.

  “I’m sure the makeup crew could give him a real-looking mustache.” I strode into my office and shut the door.

  “Funny.” He sighed. “I don’t know, Kaci. I don’t know anything about the guy, and I only have a few hours to write the script.”

  I’d had Officer O’Neil investigated after that night to cover my tracks. Five kids, clean record, never shot a man while on duty. Exactly the kind of officer my mother’s right-wing supporters would approve of. “A five minute phone call with him, and the great Collin Anderson will be able to infer what toothpaste he uses and what his favorite sports team is.”

  He groaned, but ten minutes later, I’d convinced him to switch the interviewees. I ended the call and lowered into the chair behind my desk. My insides felt hard and cold, foreign yet becoming more and more familiar. I’d manipulated my best friend. Again.

  Every time I did this—deceived him, managed him, gave into our parents—something broke inside me, and another piece of who I was fell away, altering me into something, someone, I despised.

  The difference was I loved Collin. Hard to believe his parents shared that sentiment. What kind of people would sentence their own son to prison? Their only child? The heir to their empire? These were the same people who nurtured his career, granted him a celebrity position within the company, and elevated him higher and higher to ensure the success of his career.

  It came down to control. They controlled him the same way they controlled me.

  The phone on my desk buzzed, and Reception displayed on the ID. I hit the speaker button. “Jenna?”

  “Your nine o’clock meeting is about to start.”

  I released a breath. “I’ll be right out.” I gathered my laptop and cell phone and treaded toward the door.

  Thirteen hours later, I dragged my aching feet through the condo and down the hall to my bedroom, stripping my clothes as I walked. Nude and exhausted, I freed my hair and stared at the empty sheets on the bed.

  Just like that, the cold feeling inside me returned. I was terrified to be alone, to spend the rest of my life alone. I was terrified to not be alone, to fall for a man, knowing my situation didn’t allow that. I was terrified to fall for a man who fell for me, because I wanted that more than anything.

  As I stared at the bed, swaying with fatigue, I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t climb into the lonely void and tell myself everything was okay. Not tonight. I needed something…real. A hug? A warm body? Collin.

  I pivoted and headed to the other side of the condo, my gait quickening along the unlit hall to his suite, my bare skin prickling against the chill in the air.

  He was probably asleep. I would just sneak under his covers and wrap my arms around him. Maybe entwine our legs. He liked his space, but he’d hold me. Collin never turned me away.

  The door stood open, his bedroom dimly lit by the cityscape beyond the wall of windows. I crept to the bed and stopped, straining my eyes through the dark.

  The blankets rose over a wide man-sized mountain in the center of the mattress. Two dark heads rested on the pillow, bodies twisted together, and breaths whispering in steady rhythms of sleep.

  My eyes burned and tears rose up. Why the fucking tears? I swiped at my cheeks and backed out of the room. I caught myself on the doorjamb, my knees wobbling.

  What was my problem? Was it shock? He’d never had a man stay the night. Neither of us had. But I’d told him to pursue a relationship, and I was happy for him. I was. My best friend had a real chance at…something more.

  Then why did it feel like there were claws in my chest, scratching and digging and hollowing out my insides?

  I forced myself to stand taller, face the room, and accept the view before me. The claws in my chest dug, dug, dug, swelling a burning lump in my throat. Maybe this was jealousy? Not of Seth but of Collin, of what he had. A man to hold, to cuddle, to wake up with.

  God, I was a selfish, wretched friend.

  Heat coiled up my spine, chasing the climb of release. Pert, round ass spread over the bike. I reached for it, my balls
drawing closer to my body with each pump. Blonde braid around my fist. Another drive of my hips. Ahhhh! I exploded in a muscle-gripping orgasm. Semen burst from my cock, and my thrusts slowed, my back bowing. A groan ripped from my throat as tremors coursed over my skin.

  My cock twitched in my fist. I leaned a shoulder against the shower wall and reached for the faucet to adjust the temperature. Cool water pelted my overheated body, diffusing the riot of sensations, the peak of pleasure gone as quickly as it had come.

  I wanted a do-over. Hell, I wanted the real thing.

  It had only been two days since I got laid. Didn’t matter. The faceless woman I’d met at the bar hadn’t been her. My body was singularly focused on silver leather painted over hourglass curves, my mind refusing to move past it. Until I discovered who she was. Until I fucked her.

  It should’ve annoyed me, this unreasonable fixation, but I didn’t care. The next race was a week away. If she showed, I’d confront her. I was done waiting. I needed to fuck her out of my head because, God help me, I had more important things to concentrate on.

  I finished showering, carefully washing around the one-day-old stitches on my thigh, and slipped on a pair of jeans, a t-shirt, and black Converse. Then I strode through the yawning space of my sanctuary, the glow of the indirect lighting leading the way to the kitchen area.

  The usual chill brushed my skin as I walked the length of the functional, uninviting space. Red brick deadened the walls. Steel beams reinforced the cathedral ceiling. When I’d converted the hundred-year-old church into livable space, I’d left it as one open room, adding only a bed, a couch, kitchen counters and appliances in the corner, and an enclosed bathroom.

  I designed it to be spacious enough to hold all sixteen of my motorcycles, if I ever had a need to move them from the basement.

  The simple lines and hard surfaces conformed to an industrial aesthetic that said, Don’t sit down. Don’t get comfortable. There’s work to do. But the absence of windows and neighbors was why I chose this structure. Privacy was, in my case, freedom.