by Hannah Ford
On the stage, the woman is being laid over a bench, while the man circles her slowly.
I watch with a measure of revulsion and fascination.
“What is he going to do to her?” I ask before I can stop myself.
“Spank her.” The man next to me is looking at me, his eyes on mine so intensely that my pulse leaps and blood whooshes through my veins.
“Will it hurt?” I whisper.
“Yes. But she’ll like it.” His voice seems to slide over my skin, spreading a delicious warmth that makes me want to lean into him. I do, my body moving almost voluntarily toward his.
His hand moves higher up on my thigh, his fingers splayed across my skin.
My pussy aches with desire.
And then, images of another man flash bang against my brain.
My eyes squeeze shut as I try to block them out. But it’s no use.
Panic seizes me, tight and visceral.
I shake free and run for the door, ignoring Golden Eyes as he calls after me.
Chapter 4
CHLOE
“Do you have any shampoo?” Alanna’s voice comes floating over the separation between the shower stall I’m in and the one next to it. “I forgot mine.”
“Um, sure.” I toss it over the divider to Alanna, who’s showering next to me.
“Is this shampoo and conditioner in one?” she asks, sounding offended.
“Better hurry,” I say, ignoring her question and grabbing my towel from the hook and wrapping it around myself. “We’re going to be late.”
A few minutes later, Alanna steps out of her own stall. She’s wrapped in a fluffy white towel, a matching one wrapped around her hair in a perfect twist.
The towel around her body hits right above her knees. I guess she’s not worried about showing too much skin, even though the dorm we’re staying in is co-ed.
“You’re not, like, upset about last night, are you, Chlo?” she asks, shortening my name like we’re old friends, instead of what we really are. Classmates (Internmates?) who just met last night. “Because Poppy and I left?”
“No,” I lie. “Why would I be?”
“Good. It just seemed like you were hitting it off with that guy, and we didn’t want to intrude, you know?”
“Yeah.” Whatever.
We’re back in the hallway now, me in a bathrobe that covers me from head to toe, and her in her skimpy towel. A guy from another school walks by on his way to the men’s room, and gives her an appreciative look.
“So, what happened with you two, anyway?” Alanna asks suggestively.
“Um, nothing,” I say. But even as I’m saying it, I can’t help but remember the man from last night. His hand on my bare leg. The woman on stage, about to get spanked, completely submissive and on display. The pulsing between my legs. How I came home and got into my bed, unable to sleep, imagining the man doing those same things to me.
Which is completely fucked up after what I’ve been through.
“Nothing?” Alanna looks at me suspiciously, raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows doubtfully. “Come on. That guy was hot.” And then she tilts her head, looking at me, the side of her mouth quirking up. And then I get what she’s thinking. That maybe I’m telling the truth about what happened – nothing – because that guy could have had his pick of any of the women there, so why would he have wanted me?
I’m saved from having to answer any more questions, because Poppy’s rushing down the hallway toward us.
She’s wearing a fit and flare red dress, her dark hair pulled back from her face in a low bun. There’s red lipstick on her lips, black shoes on her feet, and she’s carrying a plate of muffins.
“You two aren’t dressed yet?” she asks, shaking her head. “You better hurry. The subway is going to be crazy at this time of day.” She holds the plate out to us. “Apple muffins. Try them.”
I take one obediently. Poppy told us last night at our orientation that her dream is to be on the Cooking Network as the host of her own show. She thinks having an MBA will help set her apart from everyone else.
Alanna wrinkles her nose. “Don’t you ever make anything that’s healthy? Everything you make is filled with carbs.”
“No,” Poppy says. “Because I actually need my food to taste good.” She rolls her eyes at Alanna and gives me an expectant look. “It’s good, right?”
It tastes like a piece of cardboard that’s been dipped in apple juice and then dried in the sun.
“Delicious,” I lie.
“Good,” she says. “Now hurry and get dressed. Gage Stratford is supposed to be a stickler for punctuality. I heard one of last year’s interns was late on their first day because they were in the emergency room with appendicitis, and even though they showed up that same day, Gage still fired them.”
“I doubt that,” I say.
“It’s true,” she says. “Gage Stratford is a brilliant asshole. Meet out here in twenty minutes?”
I nod and pick up my pace as I head back toward my room.
It’s probably not a true story. Who fires someone because of a medical emergency? But still. Probably best to not take any chances.
The Stratford Building rises high into the Manhattan sky, so magnificent that it seems like an actual living, breathing being. The whole thing is covered in seemingly endless mirrored windows -- so that everyone inside the building can see out, but no one can see in -- until finally tapering into a spire that towers over every other building in its vicinity.
Holy hell, I think, staring up at it in awe. Even the building is intimidating.
“Come on,” Alanna says impatiently, taking my arm and hauling me toward the heavy double doors.
A doorman in a navy blue suit and matching hat opens the door for us, and we slip inside. The lobby is all marble floors and mirrored walls, adding to the intimidation factor.
A curt security guard checks our names of on a ledger, takes our IDs and returns them along with printed out visitor badges.
They’re the kind that stick to your shirt, and Alanna rolls her eyes and shoves hers into her bag. Poppy follows suit, but I’m afraid that if I don’t wear the nametag, I’ll get kicked out of the building or something, so I press it against the crisp white blouse I’m wearing, hoping it’s not going to wreck the fabric.
We take the elevator up to the twenty-seventh floor, where we’re greeted by a young woman in a sleek gray dress.
Her hair is black and stick straight, parted in the middle and cut to her chin. You have to have a beautiful face to get away with a haircut like that, and she does. High cheekbones, slightly upturned nose, flawless skin.
“Interns?” she asks, as if we don’t have names.
“Yes, hello,” Alanna says, stepping forward. “I’m Alanna Miller.”
“Poppy Brown,” Poppy says.
“And I’m – ” I start.
“Chloe Cavanaugh,” the woman says, glancing at my nametag. “I can read.”
I feel heat rise on my cheeks, but if she notices I’m embarrassed, she doesn’t say anything.
“I’m Willow Cordano,” she says, as she starts down a long hallway. “I’m Mr. Stratford’s personal assistant.”
She opens the door at the end of the hall and ushers us into a conference room. “Mr. Stratford will meet with you in a moment,” she says. “And give you your instructions for the day. Then I’ll take you down to human resources so you can get your permanent ID badges.”
Thank God. I’m not sure, but I think her eyes flick back to the stick-in visitor badge I’m wearing. And then she’s out the door, disappearing in a fog of expensive-smelling floral perfume.
“Check this out,” Alanna says, sitting down at the conference table and spinning around in one of the chairs. “It’s real leather.”
“Be careful,” I say, slightly panicked at her cavalier attitude toward the furniture. “We don’t want to break anything.”
“Why would I break it?” Alanna asks, rolling her eyes. “It’s
designed to spin.”
“I know, but… still.”
“You know, you need to loosen up a little bit, Chlo.”
I grit my teeth. I hate being called Chlo, especially by someone who doesn’t know me.
“Seriously, Chloe,” Poppy pipes in helpfully. “You do need to relax a little bit. It’s an internship, it’s not a murder trial.”
My stomach twists at her words. It’s not a murder trial. If only she knew how well I know that. But she won’t. Ever. Because this is my fresh start.
I pick a seat near the head of the table, deciding that Gage Stratford will probably sit at the head of the table, and the closer I am to him, the better. It’s like sitting in the front row in class -- it shows you’re invested, that you’re taking things seriously.
The only problem is the chair I pick is cranked up high, so that the top of my thighs hit the bottom of the table. I grab the handle on the side and start to pump it up and down, lowering the seat to the ground.
At first, it goes down slowly, but then suddenly, there’s a loud popping noise as the seat drops to the floor.
I end up on the ground, my legs tangled, the chair on top of me.
And that is the moment that Gage Stratford decides to walk into the room, his assistant trailing behind him.
I notice two things at the same time.
One, that the lever on the side of the chair has scraped my skin, leaving a tiny scratch down the back of my leg.
And two, that Gage Stratford is the man from last night, the man who broke my phone and held my leg while we watched a woman get spanked on stage.
Chapter 5
CHLOE
He’s different today.
Gone is the stubble and the fitted baseball cap that’s pulled down low over his eyes. He’s clean-shaven, his hair cut into a crisp fade on the sides, the top short and perfectly mussed. The t-shirt he wore last night is replaced with a dark suit and grey tie, although his broad shoulders and intimidating frame are still there.
And those eyes.
Those same golden eyes from last night are trained on me as I scramble up from the floor.
“You seem to be having trouble with your chair,” he says, his voice devoid of any emotion except annoyance.
“Um, yes, well… I was trying to lower it, and the lever broke.”
“Get it out of here.” For a second, I think perhaps he’s talking about me. But then I realize he means the chair, and he’s addressing Willow, who whisks it away without asking questions.
I sit down in the chair next to the one I just broke, deciding not to roll it over to the place where the other one was, because being close to Gage Stratford is just…. Wow.
My heart is beating so loud I’m sure everyone in the room can hear it. I take my hands and wipe my palms on my skirt.
“Mr. Stratford – “ I start, not sure exactly how I’m supposed to address this situation. Should I bring up the fact that we met last night? That his hand was clamped tight on my knee? That I thought about him all last night while I laid in bed, confusing thoughts rolling through my head, the sheets a damp tangle around my ankles? No, of course I can’t say that last part. He’d think I’m some kind of psycho.
“Let’s try not to break anything else while we’re here. Does that sound like something that can be accomplished, Ms...” His eyes move down to where my dorky nametag sits pasted on my shirt. “Cavanaugh?”
“Yes, sir.” The ‘sir’ comes out of my mouth automatically, and I can’t be totally sure, but I think I see his golden eyes burn just a little brighter when I say it.
But then he’s looking away from me, sitting down in his chair, opening the binder he was carrying.
If he recognizes me, he doesn’t show it.
At all.
Is it possible he doesn’t he realize I’m the girl from last night? Is it possible that I’m that forgettable? Just another in a long line of women he’s had?
“Mr. Stratford,” Alanna says, clearing her throat. “I’m Alanna Miller. I’d like to start by saying how grateful I am for this opportunity.”
I look at her face carefully, then at Poppy’s. But neither of them seem to have a reaction to the fact that Gage Stratford is the man from Strict. Maybe they were too far away or too drunk last night to recognize him, or maybe he looks so different today that they don’t put two and two together.
Gage nods at her curtly, but doesn’t reply to Alanna’s obvious ass kissing. Instead, he says, “Willow is passing out binders to each of you. Inside, you will find overviews of companies we are considering investing in. Tomorrow I will expect a summary of which companies you think might be a good fit and why. We’re looking not just at the companies, but at the founders as well.”
Willow sets a black binder down in front of me, and I run my hand over the embossed letters on the front.
Stratford Investments and Holdings, Ltd.
I turn the page to the first company overview.
Genovin Technologies.
It starts with info about the founder.
“River McLeod graduated from MIT with a degree in engineering….”
But before I can read more, Gage Stratford reaches across the table and tilts the binder toward him so he can get a better look.
“How did Genovin get included in this?” he growls.
Willow’s face goes pale. “I don’t know, sir,” she says. “Maybe the –”
“I don’t want ‘I don’t knows’ and ‘maybes,” Gage says, his tone sending a shiver up my spine even though I’m not the one who’s in trouble. “Genovin should not be included in any of our overviews. I thought I made myself clear on that.”
“You did, sir,” Willow says. “I’ll take care of it immediately.”
I look at the page in front of me, wondering why he’s getting so worked up over a page in a binder.
I state down at the picture of the found of Genovin, River McLeod. He has short, cropped brown hair and a serious look on his face. He’s probably not supposed to smile in a picture like that, one that’s going to be passed out to potential investors or put in a press kit or whatever.
Probably he’s supposed to look like professional and like he’s –
Gage reaches over and grabs the page out of my binder, crinkling it up and tossing it on the floor like it’s a used tissue.
Yikes.
Willow rushes over to Poppy and Alanna and does the same with their binders, yanking the page on Genovin out and then rushing to where Gage has dropped his on the floor, picking it up and putting all three pages into the garbage can.
“Tonight we are hosting an event at my residence,” Gage says. “It is black tie, and I expect the three of you to be in attendance. The companies and people you find in this binder will be there, and you are expected to know them all. Willow will take you downstairs now to get your badges. After that, you may start your work in Conference Room C.”
He doesn’t ask if there are any questions. He doesn’t give us a history of his company or say how happy he is that we’re here. He doesn’t say what the expectations will be after today.
Instead, he nods at Willow, who opens the conference room door, as if we’re a group of cattle that needs to be herded out.
Okay.
So I guess this is how we’re going to play it.
Either he doesn’t recognize me, or he’s pretending not to, either one of which is fine with me. I’m more than willing to just forget about what happened last night, to put it behind me as a stupid mistake that won’t ever be repeated.
I gather my binder and head toward the door, wanting to get out of there as fast as possible.
But before I can, Gage Stratford speaks.
“Ms. Cavanaugh. I’d like to have a word with you, please.”
They file out the door, the three of them – Alanna, Poppy, and Willow. Alanna gives me a curious look over her shoulder, probably wondering why the hell Gage Stratford is making me stay, like I’m a student being kept after clas
s for her bad behavior.
“Shut the door.” Gage’s voice cuts through the silence that’s descended over the room, so strong and commanding that it makes me jump.
Literally jump.
Which makes no sense.
I’ve heard his voice before. I know what it sounds like. And yet every time he speaks, it’s like I’m hearing it for the first time, causing a shiver to skitter up my spine and a warmth to spread over my skin.
I get up and shut the conference room door, leaving me alone with Gage Stratford.
I start to head back to my seat, but instead, Gage stands up and closes the binder in front of him, then places it in his briefcase.
“I won’t waste your time or mine, Ms. Cavanaugh,” he says, but his tone somehow makes it clear that he’s really only worried about wasting his own time. “Obviously after what happened last night, it will be impossible for you to work for me. I will inform your university that you are no longer interning here. I wish you the best.”
My mouth drops open. “What?” I say before I can stop myself. Then I push my shoulders back and head back to my chair. “Mr. Stratford…” I trail off as he looks up at me, those golden eyes like lasers on my soul. I’m not sure exactly what my argument should be. “I understand that our … encounter last night might make things slightly awkward moving forward, but I assure you that I am extremely professional. I will work very hard for you, Mr. Stratford, and what happened last night will in no way affect the work I do here.”
“I find that very hard to believe, Ms. Cavanaugh.”
He’s locking his briefcase now, ready to dismiss me, and panic shoots through me.
“Why?”
“Well, for one, because you were very antagonistic toward me last night. You had a smart mouth and a bad attitude. That’s not exactly the kind of energy I want at my company.”
It takes me a second to internalize his words, because wow, could this guy me any more of an arrogant jerk?
“What about your attitude, Mr. Stratford?”