by Lindsey Hart
“Alright. I’ll just have to fire…”
“Stop it!” Zoe’s hands ball into fists.
Maybe I was wrong about the fight instinct, and seeing her inner fire come to life is hot as fuck. Kind of literally, since my cock is throbbing again. It’s going to be a good half hour before I can safely leave this boardroom unless I use my bag and files and whatnot to cover my junk when I walk out. Even then, it would probably be pretty obvious what I was trying to hide, considering I’d have to hold it a foot away or risk damaging something. Mm, yeah, that’s not a risk I’m going to take. Ever.
“You’re such a prick,” she hisses. “Fine, I’ll come. I’ll come over,” she quickly clarifies, her face going scarlet. “Send me the address, and I better not have to go through any gates or security or whatever.”
“There are gates. I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”
“Of course you will. Of course there are gates. And an assistant.” Zoe gives me a dirty look, implying that, of course, I’ve also done dirty things with the said assistant.
If only she knew. Barb is sixty-two, and she’s going to retire in a few years. She has two children and six grandchildren, soon to be seven when her daughter has her baby next month.
I’m not such an asshole. I do know things about the people who work for me. And with me. I do care about their lives and jobs. I might not hesitate to absorb a struggling company or even pay top dollar for one I want, but that’s just good business. If other people want to see it as ruthless, well, I’m not going to argue pointlessly or try and change their minds. Semantics never really mattered to me because I work hard to be fair and treat people right. People can talk smack about me, and they can assume whatever they want, but I won’t tolerate people talking shit about my work ethics.
Because it is Zoe, and because I’ve purposely pissed her off, I let this one go. I can correct her later. And I did just invite her over to my house. What else is she supposed to assume?
I don’t know why I extended the invitation. Maybe it’s a combination of the fact that I don’t want to do the necessary catching up, bargain striking, convincing, or whatever in a place where anyone else can hear, and this was someone I once cut myself for—someone whose initial I still have inked—very badly and terribly—into my upper leg right near my hip.
I didn’t ask her over because I want to bang her.
Much.
Okay, so maybe my dick was doing a bit of the thinking there, but now that I put it out there, it’s not like I can actually back down.
“See you at six-thirty?”
“Fine.” Zoe blows out an angry breath.
She shakes her head, looks like she wants to say something, changes her mind, and storms out of the room. She almost—very comically—walks right into the glass door on the way out before she can get it fully open, but she dodges around and makes it out safely at the last second.
I watch her walk past the glassed-in room, completely captivated, mystified, and amazed. There are a thousand things I feel right now, things connected to the past and memories. So. Many. Memories. It’s all confusing and a little awe-inspiring. No, I never stopped thinking about Zoe and her dad. I never looked her up because I was too busy building my own life, trying to take care of my mom, and then too busy trying to run a company that made its first million just a few months in. It was overwhelming—all of it. All the struggles, trying to survive, and college. And all of a sudden just…just making it.
If never looking Zoe up makes me an asshole, then I guess I am an asshole. Just like I told her, I was always an overachiever. I don’t want to think about that or debate what exactly makes a person a total D-bag. I have something else, something very vital, to worry about. Zoe. In my house. Tomorrow night. I can’t fuck it up. Meaning, I will not make a pass at her because she works for me, because I don’t need to get slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit, because it’s not right, and lastly, because it’s technically kind of really gross since she’s my ex-stepsister.
I sit at the table in the empty boardroom for another forty-seven minutes while pretending to look at my laptop and pretending to read emails.
Although, really, that’s just how long it takes for my damn dick to obey my commands to calm the fuck down and stop making a tent in my pants so I can get the hell out of there.
CHAPTER 4
Zoe
Go over to his house. His. Freaking. Monstrosity. Of. A. House.
I don’t know if I believe Raiden’s threats about firing everyone if I don’t comply, and I’m also sure I have legal rights he’s stomping all over, but I know doing something about it could take months and months, if not years. I don’t know for sure if he’s bluffing or not, and I don’t think he’d actually fire anyone to make them pay for me quitting, but I can’t be sure. He isn’t the same Raiden that I used to know. Eighteen years is a long time.
After I drive through the black gates, which have actual pointy, medieval-looking spikes at the top, I start checking house numbers. I didn’t know Raiden’s house would be a monstrosity of a mansion, but I guessed as much based on the fact that he lives in a gated community. As it turns out, I was right. The other houses in the subdivision are giants. And I mean they’re at least five thousand square feet with statues on the front lawns, crazy stone pillars, stone lions at both sides of the front door, fake grass, expensive flower gardens, and a guaranteed pool in the back. Some of them are even three stories, and some of them have triple garages, which probably have elevators inside to fit all the hundred thousand dollar sports cars and whatnot.
Raiden’s house stands out from the rest—of course it does—because it’s black. Yeah, that’s right. Black. It’s on a corner lot too, which makes it look even bigger. It sprawls out with crazy rooflines peaking left and right, right then left, and there are what seems to be eight different rooflines. Why does one house need so many roofs? He has the typical three garage door deal before the front of the house even starts. There are huge silver numbers on the side, modern and sharp, and cedar trim accents under the windows.
If it were anyone else’s house, I’d think it was pretty cool. But seeing as it’s his, I grow a new hatred for ultra-modern architecture.
I park my eyesore of a car (it’s technically a nice sedan—an import I bought used and in immaculate condition) right in the middle of the driveway. I purposely do a haphazard park job that isn’t even close to being straight and hope all the neighbors see this wretched six-thousand-dollar car in the driveway and wonder about Raiden’s judgment. He’ll probably get a call about clearing the garbage out of the neighborhood. The thought fills me with delight.
As I walk up the immaculate concrete to the side walkway, which is also the same immaculate concrete, past a heck of a landscaping job consisting of different colors of crushed rock and a few trees in circles here and there, towards the front doorstep, I resolve to remain firm and hold tight to my anger. I’m completely justified in feeling every ounce of annoyance and rage that has wormed its way into my chest. This demand is basically bribery, and why the shit does Mr. Evil Cactus Poop want to bribe me to not quit? Doesn’t it usually work the other way?
I’ve decided the cactus poop thing fits Raiden perfectly. Cactus poops are the prickly kind. The kind that perforates and shreds when they come out. They are unmerciful and horrible. The worst of the worst on the poop scale. Evil and ruthless. I’ve read all about Ruthless Raiden, so it fits. It was Raiden who came up with the idea of a poop scale and to give the different kinds of poop terms and ratings, so don’t blame me. He did this to himself.
I notice right away that the doorbell is a camera deal, and it’s not branded with our company’s logo. I hope Raiden changes that up as there’s no point in supporting the sub-par competition. It unnerves me to think about Raiden watching me on the cameras he undoubtedly has as I pulled up. I just barely resist the urge to adjust the green dress I’m wearing, which I bought on a whim. I’m not sure why, because I don’t
have much of a social life. And even if I did, it’s too fancy for any diner or bar. All my girlfriends are already married so that discounts weddings. With the way the dress fits the butt, rides just a little too high above my knee, and pushes up my breasts, it’s a total no-go for work. It might be so tight that I can barely walk, but it also looks killer, and I have to admit I’m not above wanting to slay, even if the thing only cost me forty bucks.
I want to rub it in Raiden’s face that I might be thirty and single and have the worst luck with men, but I have a few other things going for me. I work out, I eat right, and I look damn good. Well, I guess. Kind of. God. Normally, I’m not self-centered or vain. I don’t usually think about any of that, and I’m a little ashamed to say I’m trying to rub it in someone else’s face that I think I’ve done alright for myself, at least in the looks and body department.
I have to admit that anything I might have going on was a product of half hard work and half genetics. My dad is on the tall, thin side, and even though I didn’t get his height, I did get his shocking greenish-blue eyes and slim build. I inherited my curvy bottom and ample breasts from my mom. She left my dad and I when I was just a baby. She’s never been in my life, but I guess she did at least do that much for me.
Raiden must have been watching me from the security system because the door opens like magic before I even knock or ring the bell. There he is, wearing the shit-eating grin I expected, a pair of worn-in jeans, and a tight-fitting T-shirt.
Fracker on a cracker, I did not just think about his tight abs. Or other tight things. Or how tall and filled out and deliciously athletic he looks.
Stop.
Stop noticing. Stop looking. Stop throbbing. Stop the awakening in all those areas that haven’t seen much action for at least six months, unless my index finger counts. Stop. Stop all of it. And that means you, lady va-jay. Frick. I’m staring. Now he’s noticing. Why does he keep grinning at me like that? Smug Prickly Dickhead.
“You came.”
I ignore how those words sound dirty, or at least how they make me think dirty things. Things. Namely, Raiden out of his clothes. Those kinds of things. Or at least what he’d look like without that t-shirt on. He probably has bronzed skin because this is Orlando, and you don’t live here unless you love the sun. He likely also has chiseled abs and tight pecs. Why? Why, body, do you have to do this to me? Why, brain?
Except it’s not my brain doing the thinking. This is new to me. I don’t generally have a surge of hormones or a va-jay who wants to rip off her ‘bra’, demanding to be heard.
“I…I’m here,” I clarify. “For ten minutes. So you better say what you have to say, which I doubt is anything. You’re just on some weird power trip.”
“Or maybe I really do want to hear what you’ve been doing for the past eighteen years, how your dad is, how life is going for you, and all about your job and your opinion of the company I just bought.”
“You should have done your research ahead of time. It’s a little late now, don’t you think?”
Raiden’s lips (god, why do his lips have to look so good!?) twitch. He makes no effort to hide the spark of amusement in his eyes; eyes that are so blue, they’d put any body of water or the sky to shame. I remember, as kids, I used to be completely fascinated with his eye color. But I wasn’t the only one. People used to literally stop us on the street to comment on his unusual eyes.
“What I think is we shouldn’t start arguing for at least ten minutes. By then, hopefully, I’ll be able to convince you to have a drink or two, which will wash all the hate you have flowing through your veins for me, right out of your system.”
“That doesn’t even make sense. And I’m not having a drink. You’d probably put something in it.”
Raiden shakes his head. “I’m disappointed. Every single woman I’ve ever been with has been with me willingly. Very. Willingly.” He leaves with that, his voice all deep and husky, and turns to walk back into the house. He leaves the door open, and as I step inside because I basically have no choice, and I’m already here after driving for an hour and a half through traffic, I get a stellar view of a stellar ass.
Raiden’s ass looks so good in those jeans that I think he might have gone to whatever high-end store made just for billionaires that he shops at and asked for the best ‘ass cupping, perfectly worn around the cheeks, buttery soft, crawl up the crack just a little, titanium defining’ pair they had.
Even in jeans and a t-shirt, which are the clothing of the common man, the mere mortals, and not the gods, Raiden still manages to make me feel very aware that I curled my hair myself- hair that hasn’t seen the inside of a salon in six months, and that I got this dress off the bargain rack. All my confidence ebbs away as I step through the front door like the house is sucking it away from me.
When I shut the heavy wood door, which is cedar to match the house’s accents, Raiden pivots around. “Were you really serious about not wanting a drink? I can offer more than just alcohol.”
Why does that sound sexual? And why do those jeans make me want to drink him? Raiden was once a member of my family. He might not have been my real brother, but we were like best friends. It might have been nearly two decades since we were those kids, but it hasn’t erased the weirdness I feel at actually being attracted to him.
I’m no longer in self-denial. I know it’s true, if even just on a basic biological level. I have eyes. I have ovaries. I have hormones. I have lady parts, and they’re all functioning at the optimum level. Basic biology says that if someone has good genetics (symmetry, athleticism, and absurd general hotness) and could be a good provider (the fact that Raiden is worth billions), they’re a good potential mate. This is real science, I think. Or something like that. It totally explains why the black lace thong I wore, which is the only pair of thongs I own, is suddenly damp. Alright, so it’s closer to being soaked.
Science never was my friend. I barely passed grade twelve biology and physics.
“Fine,” I squeak. I swallow hard to get my voice back under control. “I’ll have a drink.”
“Wine, beer, coolers, slushy blend, something mixed, bloody—”
“Whisky.”
“With soda?” Raiden at least tries to hide his amusement.
I’m not trying to be cute here. My dad taught me how to drink when I turned twenty-one. He said a few shots of whisky go a long way, and so do a couple of glasses of water, knowing when to stop, and always calling a cab. To this day, I’ve never had a hangover, I’ve never been so drunk I couldn’t trust my own judgment, and I’ve never been in one of those situations I can’t undo.
“Straight up.”
Raiden can’t even contain his glee. His shit-eating, smug, billion-dollar, white-toothed grin is back. I’m torn between wanting to punch him in the teeth and trying to lick them. Biology? It’s a bitch.
“Perfect. Coming right up. Have a seat in the living room.”
I hate that he issues orders and then casually walks away like he just dropped some inside joke I’m not a part of and never will be, although it’s something I will still bust my lady balls trying to figure out.
I comply with his demands and enter the massive room immediately off the entrance. It’s literally the size of four of my small, one-bedroom apartment put together. There are two super expensive-looking, sleek, black leather couches in there. They’re four-seaters, and they look weird. Most probably custom made. One side is just filled with impressive floor to strangely sloped ceiling windows, and there’s a huge painting on the far side of the wall that is completely black with a white slash of paint across it.
I bet it cost a million dollars or some atrocious amount.
There’s no coffee table or TV, rug, chairs, or toss cushions. It’s just this massive room with the two sofas, the painting, and the windows. It kind of freaks me out.
I sit down carefully on the sofa, not because I don’t want to wreck anything, but because I didn’t take my black heels off at the door, and be
tween them and the tight dress that I’m worried about splitting when I sit, I’m at an awkward height and angle. I have to keep my legs jammed together to keep from revealing the aforementioned black lace thong, and even with my knees jammed up painfully, I still feel like it’s showing.
While I wait for Raiden to reappear, a plan comes to me.
It’s sinister, evil, and dirty in more than one way. It might even be underhanded, depending on what kind of underhanded we’re talking about.
Raiden made me come here. This is just an exercise in control for him. He’s a shithead because he can be. Because for him—a guy who has everything—it’s fun to torture those who are weaker and smaller. He doesn’t give a shit about what I do at the company. He probably doesn’t even care about the company except for what it can do for him and how much money it will make him. He didn’t ask me here because he cares or wants to know about my past.
He’s called Ruthless Raiden for a reason.
The guy dates models, artists, and actresses, and he cycles through them faster than you can microwave a damn hot dog, which was something we used to do all the time when we were kids. Especially when our parents were too busy fighting to worry their kids hadn’t had anything to eat all day.
Damn it. I will not think about that. I will not.
What I will think about is getting the heck out of here. I will quit, and it will not endanger anyone else’s jobs. I will not let Raiden get away with it or make me feel guilty. I will leave, and I will get as far away from him as I can, and I will do everything in my power to help whatever competition out there in whatever way I can. He brought me here because he thought he could toy with me, and it pisses me off.
It pisses me off so bad—and I’m already steaming from the fact that my body betrays me in every way possible as soon as I even get a glimpse of Raiden in person—I’m even willing to entertain devious thoughts that the nice, honest, and easygoing me would never, ever consider.