Mr. CEO (20 page)

* * *

R
ed
. He likes red. I chose this dress carefully, making sure to pick one that would be both classy and slutty at the same time. The fabric is skintight, and I can't wear anything underneath except for a G-string. I can't even wear a bra, and he'll notice for sure. Jackson always notices a woman's breasts. Mine aren't the biggest, but that's okay. He has a thing for nipples, and I've been told mine are perfect.

Next come the silk thigh highs. The dress has a slit that goes almost all the way up my right leg, revealing a lot of thigh. He'll notice the lace top, and the fact that I'm wearing something other than pantyhose will draw his attention. I put less care into selecting the heels I'll be wearing. We'll be in a car for most of what I have planned for him, so they're what I'd consider reasonable. They're just meant to draw attention to my calves, so they're only three inch heels. I like my calves. They're pure muscle, and extremely defined from all the training I do.

Now is the hard part, the wig. I don't want Jackson recognizing who I am at first, so securing my naturally brown hair underneath this platinum blonde wig is vital. I want this hair to look like it really belongs to me. It's why I spent nearly as much money on the wig as I did on the dress, and I've practiced multiple times with the spirit gum to make sure it all looks natural. My eyes... well, blue eyes go with blonde hair all the time, but the false eyelashes I'm wearing can partially hide my eye color for a while. A little bit of makeup will help soften my jawline. I've increased my food intake over the past few days, trying to add a little bit of body fat—at least enough that you can't see my jaw muscles flexing when I chew. I don't give a shit, since I like my body the way it is, but Jackson likes women with a little more meat on their bones. I'm glad at least I keep my hair short, not quite butch short, but it's still considered short for a woman. I don't have time to deal with that shit... I've got other issues to deal with besides worrying about my looks.

Okay. Dress, stockings, shoes by the door, hair... check. As for makeup, I'm going with sultry and dark eye makeup to help my eyes look larger, more doe-eyed. I made sure to spend extra time on my eyeliner, because when I make my big reveal, I want Jackson to know exactly who I am as he stares into my eyes. And I know he remembers my eyes. The lipstick I'm wearing matches my dress, and makes my lips look plump and pouty. Everything I'm wearing practically screams, 'Fuck me, Jackson DeLaCoeur!'.

I look at myself critically in the mirror. The woman staring back at me isn't Katrina Grammercy, the twenty-two-year-old orphan whose parents were ripped from her by a car bomb a decade ago. She isn't the Katrina Grammercy who did nothing but sob for weeks, living in a haze for months. That woman never heard the rumors, never had to learn that her best friend's father, Peter DeLaCoeur, had orchestrated the whole thing. I stare at my reflection, and I don't see any traces of the woman who swore vengeance on the DeLaCoeurs, the woman who no longer goes by Katrina, just Kat.

Instead, all I see is exactly what I want Jackson to see. He might have been my best friend ten years ago, but a lot can happen in ten years. The Jack DeLaCoeur I knew is gone. Jackson has followed in his criminal father's footsteps—partying, fucking, and ruining people's lives. While Jackson may not have had anything to do with my parents' death, this is the only way to put my plan in motion. Besides, I'm leaving him alive. That's better than what his father did to my parents.

Thinking about the bombing, the way the fireball rolled across the concrete ceiling and stained the parking garage by the convention center, singeing my hair even though I was fifty feet away, the smell of everything burning... knowing my parents were trapped inside, and I couldn't do anything but watch helplessly...

I shake my head. I can't let the blackness overtake me, not right now. I can't afford it. Before it sinks its eagle claws into my brain again, I go over to my dresser to retrieve a small plastic bottle. This isn't on any medical directory in the world, but this special concoction my herbalist connection makes for me works wonders. It's got GABA, a little THC extract, and some Chinese shit I can't even pronounce. Unscrewing the top of the bottle, I shake out four capsules. They look like rabbit food—little pellets of grass trimmings and yellow pollen sitting in my hand. I down them with a glass of water, then grimace. They taste like rabbit food, too. I lie down on my bed, the cheap springs creaking in complaint despite the fact I only weigh one hundred and twenty-five pounds. The bed's a piece of shit, but it's all the bed I need.

I made sure to leave myself enough time for this next part, and I close my eyes, starting my meditations.

It takes me fifteen minutes exactly to run through my meditations until I'm calm and my pills kick in. I sit up and double-check my outfit, noting that everything's still in place. Good. My training is still strong. I am still strong.

I go to my dresser again and pick up my work phone. It's a cheap prepaid burner, and I make sure to switch out the SIM cards every four days on a rotating basis. I take a deep breath, then punch in the number to reach Domino. That's not his real name of course, but he lets me call him that. He understands my need for secrecy, as well as the meaning behind the nickname I've given him. Once I tip him over, the domino effect starts.

“Domino? Yeah... yeah, it's me, Mercy. You still want those pics of Jackson DeLaCoeur, right? Come on, Domino. You know once you break a scandal on the Big Easy's biggest playboy, you'll have a ton of website hits, and that's just the minimum. You know you can even sell some print copies if you work the angle right... Yeah, okay, I'm not gonna tell you how to do your fucking job, but I'll do mine. So you gonna be there, or not? If not, I can always call up Vicki at the Picayune. No? You know if you aren't there, I'm gonna come after you next... okay. That's right, Riverwalk, the event tonight. Don't sweat it, he'll be there. You'll get your money's worth and then some.”

I hang up with Domino and place a second call, this time to Vicki. She's probably going to be there anyway, but it doesn't hurt to make sure that she's cued in. Domino's going to be expecting it anyway, and I'll let them jockey for the best position for the pics themselves. They're both vultures, but at least they're useful vultures.

I swap out the SIM card on my burner and slide it into my tiny clutch along with a few other essentials. I also make sure to grab a pair of sunglasses for my getaway. Putting on my shoes, I check myself one more time in the mirror, then nod. “I hope you're ready, Jackson. Because tonight... I start to get my vengeance.”

* * *

S
he's moaning
, her caramel-kissed skin dotted with sweat in the muggy New Orleans afternoon heat, begging me to fuck her, fuck her harder... give it to her the way she needs it.

“Oh Jacky, oh God baby, you're going to make me... Jackkkkkyyy...”

Her pussy tightens around my cock, and she's not faking it. I can tell that for sure. I've been pounding her like a machine for I don't know how many minutes, and she's barely coherent at this point. It's easier now to detect the syrupy accent of her native Acadian Creole, but I'm already bored with her. She might be beautiful, and she might be a student at Tulane, but this girl just isn't a good fuck. Besides, I hate being called Jacky. Jack—I guess that's okay, even though that's what I went by as a kid. Jackson's better. But never Jacky.

I speed up a little more, closing my eyes and letting my fantasies push me over the edge so I can come. All glove, of course. I wouldn't give her the gift of my come even if I believed her story about being on the pill. I can't take that chance.

She collapses on the bed next to her friend. The other girl's been passed out for a good ten minutes by my estimate—I played with her for a while, but she didn't have my stamina. They never do. I pull out and slide the condom off before taking it to the bathroom. I make sure to rinse it out in the sink before I flush it down the toilet. I'm not taking any risks. I don't need some gold digger saying I knocked her up or any stupid shit like that.

I splash some cool water on my face and look in the mirror. My last shave's still holding up, so I'm not looking too bad. I can probably get by with just rinsing off quickly before I need to get ready for the charity event. But not here. This bathroom fucking sucks.

I go back into the bedroom and see both of the girls sprawled out across the bed, completely passed out. Earlier I'd considered taking one of them with me to be my arm candy for tonight's event, but looking at them now... that's a hard nope. I grab the bed sheet from the floor and cover them up. When they wake up, the house staff will see to them and show them out.

I leave the spare bedroom, walking down the hallway toward my room when I hear a disgusted cough behind me. “For fuck's sake,
niichan
, can you at least put on a robe after you get done?”

I turn around and see my half-sister Andrea behind me. Her almond-shaped eyes betray her mother's Japanese heritage, although her eyes are the characteristic DeLaCoeur sapphire blue. “Why, Andi? It's not like you haven't seen it before.” I smirk.

“So? That doesn't mean that I
want
to see it,” she says crossly. Andrea hates it when I call her Andi. She wrinkles her nose. “Besides, it's not that big.”

“Bullshit,” I brag, looking down. “I know your exes, Andrea. And none of them have what I've got.”

“What's that, an ego bigger than your dick?” she retorts. “Seriously Jackson, you can swing that meat around me all you want, but I'm not interested. Even if you weren't my half-brother, I would never be interested.”

“Riiight,” I reply, turning around to head for my room and giving her a nice view of my ass along the way. I'm not seriously interested in Andrea. Even if we weren't related, her personality really turns me off. We've butted heads for far too long. Still, it's fun to needle her every once in a while.

I shower in my own bathroom quickly before I start to get ready. Running my hand along my jaw and feeling the stubble there, I decide to shave a bit after all. A quick trim with my electric razor, some aftershave, and I'm good to go.

I go back out into my bedroom and start to get dressed. I throw on a pair of boxer briefs and decide on a moisture-wicking undershirt since the humidity here in New Orleans is no joke. After buttoning up a white dress shirt, I'm ready for my tux now. It's a Gucci with a shawl collar, but in a lighter fabric appropriate for the climate. I'm skipping a cummerbund today. I don't need that fussy bullshit. Plus, it's just more that some lucky girl will have to take off later tonight. I take the time to put on a silk bow tie though. That's definitely classier than some damn cummerbund.

I check my shoes and head out after slipping my billfold into my jacket pocket. I go downstairs and ring for Mike, my chauffeur. “Yo Mike, I'm ready.”

“And the young ladies, sir?” Mike's from Boston, so there's a hint of Southie in his speech, but he's actually been trained in England. It sounds impressive, but what it really means is that he has all the stuffiness you'd expect from a driver born and bred in London. He's worked for my family since I was in elementary school though, so I don't know why he won't just unclench his asshole around me already. “Are they not coming with us?” he asks politely.

“Oh, they came all right, but they’re not joining me this evening,” I reply. “Back to the Watering Hole.”

Mike frowns slightly, and I already know what he's going to say even before he opens his mouth. “Sir, I understand that you want some female... companionship for the evening, but do you really think it is wise to be picking up easy women from the Watering Hole? Think of your reputation, and that of your family's.”

I glare at Mike. My eyes have a tendency to change color when I'm pissed, and right now I'm sure they're an icy blue instead of the sexy sapphire I'm known for. “That'll be enough on that from you, Mike. You work for my family, and your job is to drive me around, not tell me what's wise and what isn't. I'm going back to the Watering Hole, then you're going to drive me to the charity event, and that's all there is to it. If you have a fucking problem with that, you can talk to Pops or Nathan.”

Mike presses his lips into a thin line, but he just nods before walking to the limo and opening the door for me. “And will Miss Andrea be joining you tonight, sir?” he asks dispassionately.

“She's taking a pass on this one,” I inform him as I get in. He shuts the door, and I watch him through the nearly opaque windows as he gets into the driver's seat. I wait until he's inside the limo, and then I deliberately engage the divider. I don't want to talk to him, and I sure as fuck don't need him telling me what to do. I sit back, trying to cool off a little. My family's reputation? What the fuck does Mike know about my family's reputation? On the surface, I'm sure we look great. We go to events like the one tonight, handing out charitable donations and glad-handing every motherfucker with a cause plus the sob story to go along with it.