My virginity, which would always belong to him.
I thought of Brenton—the largest cock that I'd ever had inside of me—filling me up like a Boston crème and carrying me through the kind of orgasm that most girls have to fake.
I thought of him as my fingers trembled weakly between my thighs and bursts of a million solar flares shot through my mind with the voracity of a nuclear bomb.
The phone rang.
Torn from the immaculate machinations of my mind—it was suddenly over. The pain of how quickly it'd all come crashing down was oddly reminiscent of the very time I'd been fondly reveling in.
Brenton Fox. The only man who'd ever made me cum hard enough to bite off just a bit of my tongue and sleep through a day.
My greatest lover.
My greatest mistake.
I turned off the running water and let the last of droplets fall from my hair before forcing myself out of the shower and off to my bedroom—where my cellphone had been shaking like a full magnitude earthquake.
It was my boss. My, soon to be, former boss. Luthor Greene. MossCorp's founder and ultimate undoing.
He'd gotten into the habit of calling me during the late hours—hoping to rekindle our short-lived affair. Hoping to spread my legs and give me the same kind satisfaction that I had once often given to him.
Hoping to win my heart—so that I could continue to be his fool.
No more. I thought as the words popped up on my cellphone screen: NEW VOICEMAIL.
I shuddered at the thought of hearing his request.
Somehow, I knew that it'd be nothing good.
No better than the previous calls had been.
"Vicky, hey. It's me. I know that you're probably asleep—even though we've talked about what happens when you don't answer my calls."
There are few things in this life that I'd wished the universe would snatch out of my world without so much as a goodbye. Luthor Greene was one of those things. Most days, he was the only thing.
"...I need you to make a drop for me before you head into work tomorrow. If you check your account, you'll see a new balance. Take a quarter of that for yourself and you know what to do with the rest. I'll see you in the morning."
They always told me that the devil would arrive on a white horse wearing a prince's armor—with a voice as silky as milk chocolate.
They told me that he'd be a man. A man that was harder to resist than taking a breath under water or staring directly at the sun.
"I'm counting on you, Vicky. Remember, if I go down, you go down with me. DON'T FUCK THIS UP..."
They were right.
"...End of new messages..."
3
Brenton
We'd been on our final approach to LAX around midnight (PST)—hoping that we could catch the last few hours of my going away party. I'd taken it upon myself to rent out one of the lesser used terminals, and have it ready for our arrival. It cost a pretty penny, but I'd had plenty to spare.
"You ready?" Ian asked as I leaned my head against the window of my private jet and wrapped up, what had to have been, my twentieth sudoku puzzle. Between that and a few drunken naps, I was raring to go and firmly snapped out of my inebriated daze.
"Tell him to do another loop around..." I said. I wasn't the party-type. Not anymore. Those days had long been behind me and my new focus was to create an empire that I could share with my family.
My new focus—was having a family at all.
"You got it," Ian said and just as quickly disappeared back into the cock-pit—where he'd been taking pseudo-flying lessons with the sexy Latina pilot that he'd begged me to hire.
Ian Brice, like myself, had spent the better part of his post-college life building a digital empire that we'd dubbed, SplitWire.
I'd come up with the name shortly after an incident in college that left me with split-hair breaks and a wired jaw. I figured, what better way to get back at the asshole, that had nearly beaten me to death with a lead pipe, than to name a company after the result.
I'd run into him years later—he'd become a heroin addict.
As a thank you for the inspiration, I gave him ten-grand—knowing that he'd shoot it right up his arm.
I don't feel guilty.
I paid for his funeral.
There weren't many in attendance, but I'd made it a point to be there to clear up whatever damage his death had caused. His wife was in shambles and thanked me for helping "an old friend". In return for her kindness, I set up a college fund for their children...and gave her the best orgasm of her life. I hadn't been back to Albany since.
"She said we're low on gas..." Ian hollered from the cockpit—likely hoping that I wouldn't notice the two of them toying with each other behind the jet's master board. Good for him, I thought.
"Alright. Take us down," I answered and our descent followed soon after he'd put his dick back in his pants. Who could blame him?
She was a fiery little thing.
I'd had her already.
We had a bad habit of passing women back and forth until we'd gotten bored with them. Lately, his fetish had been the brainy-type. Mine however, was a bit more specific. Despite the differences, I'd considered Ian to be my closest friend and ally—bonded through trauma.
We'd met in the hospital—during my six-week stay. Ian had been there for a cancer that had nearly taken his life along with his hair. At the time, he was a bald, scrawny near-corpse and I hadn't looked that much better. He'd taken to calling me "tangerine"—due to the complexion of my wounded skin.
I called him "sickness".
Both were better than the nicknames our enemies had and would give us.
We had a few good laughs about it. We had promised each other once it'd all been over, we'd never let anything take us that deeply into the abyss again. Even when I'd discharged, I visited the hospital often—scared shitless that my best friend in this world was on his way trip to the gates of heaven.
SplitWire was born from a hatred of that fear. The doctors say that it may have saved his life. We prefer to think that the cancer was where his life had finally started.
With a few hard-earned medical breakthroughs, he'd been on the path to remission. By the time we'd been adorned on the covers of papers and magazines, he'd been right as rain.
While we both healed, we came up with a plan that would make us two of the wealthiest men in the country before the age of twenty-five. With SplitWire established and thriving, our new mission was to expand. To grow. To take over.
MossCorp was number one on my list.
I'd spent two months bouncing around New York City—looking to buy some real estate. I'd recently purchased a majority of MossCorp's company shares and thought it'd be best to relocate from California for a while to oversee their operations and ensure a smooth transition of power.
In my line of work, you learn to be distrusting of hearsay and speculation. In my line of work, it doesn't take long to understand that a ruthless nature often wins out over kind gestures and pleasant words. The business may have crept into my personality a bit. My vindictive streak was both rampant and wholly satisfying—if not, then entirely apparent.
I'm a monster. Monsters eat monsters. My system of belief boils down to just that.
The pilot's voice boomed its sultry tones over the intercom as I packed away my things and lifted the shade to watch us melt into the city lights from the starlit sky.
"Attention, my handsome men...We have begun our decent into LAX—where the local time is a quarter past midnight. Please remain seated until we've completed our landing...And Brenton..." I loved her little shout-outs.
It was one of the few innocent things that still made me smile.
"Please try to keep yourself out of trouble."
No promises, I thought.
I had a private limo pick us up right from the jet's exit door. It's not necessarily something that any airport allows—but as you'd learn in my position—there isn't much that money can't buy. There
aren't many people that money can't persuade.
Sometimes, I'd do it just to make the passengers on commercial lines watch me thrive. In my mind, they were the same assholes that'd made my younger years such a living hell. I let them watch and giggle all the way back to my superior life. I'd always hoped that it might have changed a few outcomes.
"Man...this is going to be one hell of a fucking party," Ian said, as he scrolled through the real-time pictures on his Twitter feed. "Is that Drake!" He cried like a school girl.
It was. I'd helped him with some investments, and in return, he'd told everyone, worth telling, about my plans for the company. With that little endorsement, Ian and I had been allotted the freedom to do whatever the hell we wanted—pertaining to our expansion.
There was very little push back.
A few resignations.
Post-mutiny, my life had become a field of exponential success and more pussy than a basket of kittens. It helped that the expansion plan itself was all but bullet-proof. And my investors loved the idea of me being "hands-on". When they elected me as CEO of MossCorp, it was unanimous.
Yes, I'd whip them into shape but I wanted more than just MossCorp’s market dominance and brand notoriety. I'd had other intentions than simply babysitting a board of men old enough to be my grandfather.
She was there. I'd been looking for her.
"So, who’s the chick?" Ian asked as he popped open a bottle of champagne and handed me a glass. "I've never known you to be the kind of guy to chase a lady down."
The truth was, I wasn't. For the previous handful of years, I'd paid special attention to ensure that my heart had never been enamored with the business of my loins.
To make up for the lost time, I'd blown through a litany of models, actresses, tough corporate women, and a widow. Never at all had I so much had given any of them a second thought—once they'd wriggled their tired bodies out of my bedroom.
Never at all. Until then.
"Just someone from my past." I took the filled glass of champagne and hurled it down my throat—ready for another (and as many more as it would take). As much as I hated the idea of lingering on old things, I couldn't seem to shake her from the more longing parts of my cerebellum. She was like an ear-wig—burrowing into my skull and making a home out of the little emotion I had left.
A curse, I thought.
That woman was a curse to me. Yet, memories of our time together had made me as erect as the Eiffel Tower—and not a sight less.
"Hmm..." Ian grunted as he filled my glass and then his own. "You sure about that?"
"Yeah," I shot and did the same to my second glass as I had to the first—lowering it at a tilt to let him know that that had been my plan for the evening. "Just another failed conquest, is all."
A snicker.
"I've never known you to be in the business of failing. What's so special about chubby Anne Hathaway?"
"Watch your fucking mouth," I shot as if he'd called my mother a whore. It was this odd protective instinct that had risen from the smoldering ashes of my gullet and been primed to burn down any and all offenders.
But it was unwarranted, I figured—calming my mind down from the host draconian punishments that consumed me. I didn’t know what the hell was happening to me.
"Whoa...Dude?" Ian shirked and shrunk into his seat—spilling a bit of champagne on his freshly pressed shirt.
"I'm sorry...I just..." I didn't have an answer and Ian was the last person in the world that I could've lied to with any permanence. "She's just..." The expression on my face must've said it all. In my mind, I imagined that I'd looked like weary executioner.
Just then, an epiphany overcame Ian like a tidal wave—his eyes wide, his jaw slacked open, and pale flush beneath his skin.
Please don't say it, I thought. Please don't fucking expose me. Not here. Not now. Not when things are going so well.
"It's her, isn't it?" Ian asked—likely sure of the answer before I'd spoken. "The same bimbo that had you put in the hospital..."
A pause.
"Yes..." I said.
"So..." Ian's spine corrected itself at a stiff upright as he returned to pouring our drinks. "You knew she'd be there?"
"Can we please not talk about this?"
"No! Fuck you!" Ian bolstered—more confidently than I'd been known to tolerate. "...You think that you're the only one with shit riding on this? We're in the middle of a fucking acquisition and you're concerned with banging an old flame?"
"I was thinking about it."
"No," he said again and jabbed me in the chest with the, now empty, bottle. "Cut the shit, man! We fuck up here or lose focus, there won't be any coming back for us. The board will send us packing quicker than a Mexican at the fucking border. What are you thinking?"
I didn't know what I was thinking. At that point, I wasn't even sure how much I was willing to admit. I couldn't lie to Ian. On the other hand, if he'd had any idea of my plans, he may very well have ousted me for my own good...and I couldn't blame him if he did.
It's never an intelligent move to mix business with vengeance.
But, I'd already come too far.
I knew that Victoria would be there—sipping slow on her Long Island Iced Tea while the world around her closed in and strangled her with her own resolve. I knew because I'd had her tracked down and all the while planned how I'd reintroduce the new me.
I knew that, like any person whose job had been on the line, she feared for her livelihood.
I basked in the fantasy of inviting her into my office and firing her—only to watch her beg for mercy. Then, I'd chew her up and spit her out—just like she'd done to me all those years ago.
In that thought, I'd held steady.
It was a fantasy that I'd strived to manifest.
So, I answered him.
"I was thinking, that if you had the chance to take revenge on your cancer...wouldn't you?"
His face morphed to stone as he leered at me like the petulant child I'd been acting like. It was an odd combination of sympathy and disappointment. Stunted understanding.
"My life, is my revenge," he said with the firm tone of a priest at an exorcism.
Maybe that's enough for you, old friend, I thought.
But, it wasn't enough for me.
4
Brenton
We arrived at my Malibu estate an hour later—drunk enough to warrant sleep and a couple of pain-killers. I'd had my staff open up my home for guests around ten. I assumed that three hours of drinking and socializing would curb any conversation too in depth for my liking.
I don't like be questioned.
Never have. Never will.
The drinks would see to it that, even the most flamboyant, inquisitor would watch themselves and their words with discriminant care. This night wasn't about the acquisition—though that's what the invitation had read. More so, it was crowning glory. The final steeple in the alter that Los Angeles had become—peasants at the feet of their gracious king.
If only the student body could have seen me then.
"Looks lively..." Ian said.
The car dropped us off around the back gate—where a small walkway had led to the outdoor pool. Celebrities. Musicians. Reporters. Anyone that you could imagine (that had maintained any modicum of influence in that town) had been there—sloppy drunk and wanting nothing more than to thank me for my contributions.
To this day, I wonder how many children owe their lives to me and my little shin-digs.
"It does," I answered, closing the car door behind me and flapping the wrinkles out of my shirt. "You think they've missed me?"
"Hmm..." Ian chuckled. "When don't they?"
The large Malibu estate was one of several that I'd owned in the area. It always made sense to me to move around. Once you're rich enough that it's reported, it's better if no one knows where to find you.
Plenty have tried and failed to make like bandits with my fortune. It's part of the reason I'd transformed my bod
y into a force of nature. A weapon—courtesy of years in the octagon and several more honing what I'd learned. Ju-jit-su is harder than it looks.
Like all of my properties, I'd given this one a nickname. The Captain's Mantle. It was the first piece of property that I'd purchased after SplitWire went public. As of then, it'd also acted as my base of operations. Ian promised to keep an eye on it while I was gone.
It was a modern set-up—nothing too fancy and sat just short of the beach—where I'd take my morning runs. I'd miss that place while I was gone, but the hope was that when I'd returned, it'd be as a whole man—less in angst and having met the satisfaction of karmic balance.
"You don't tell me what to fucking do!" The drunken voice slurred to a fever pitch before dying out a rasp.
The cry was quickly followed by the white-noise of murmurs and frightened gasps. Ian and I had just been turning the corner and, due to the commotion, were able to slip in without so much as a request for a picture. I wouldn't have minded my erratic guest, if this had been anyone else's home.
I'd had investors, new and old, in attendance as well. I didn't take kindly to the disrespect.
"Get your fucking hands off of me..." The man screamed again as the pretty woman, who'd I assumed was his date, attempted to quell his irrational shouts and threatening pose. As she laced an arm over his shoulder, he looked as if he'd been readying his fist to aim squarely for her jaw.
I snapped.
"Brenton! Don't!" Ian's pleas may as well have been a whisper from a flea. Before he could convince me otherwise, I'd charged to the opposite end of the pool—where the man had been clenching his fist and yanked him backward by his suit collar.
"Hey!" He protested as his wobbly legs fought for balance. "Who the fuck do you think you are!" He said.
There's a saying around my dojo about patience.
I couldn't remember it in that moment. Eyeing his clenched fist and watch his sloppy positioning, I knew what he'd planned to do. Unfortunately, he had no idea what was coming. "You want a piece of me!" He roared.
Take Me Over: A Protector Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 3