Raw (10 page)

“What’s up your ass today?” asks Ling through narrowed eyes.

I barely spare her a glance and keep reading the newspaper without answering. But, Ling being Ling, she can’t help herself. “No, seriously, Twitch? Or should I drop the
t-w
and add a
b
instead?”
 

I hear the smile in her voice and I want to turn her over my knee. This wouldn’t be an unusual thing between us. In fact, most mornings lead to a hard and rough quickie. But my mind is on last night. In short, I’m not up to it.

More like my
cock
isn’t up to it. Ling is not the person
he
wants to play with.

I’m rethinking a lot of things since last night. I take a good look around me, at the rooms of my house that are visible from the dining table, and I think the view should make me happy. But today, it doesn’t.

What do you do when the goal you’ve been working toward your whole life goes up in a cloud of smoke?

Right. You find a new goal.

As of today, my new goal is set.

Lexi.

I smile cruelly into my paper.

I’m going to break her.

A week has passed.
 

A week of bad moods. A week of gut churning anxiety. A week of silent depression.

Sigh.

It’s been a hard week.

Why, you ask?

Well, that’s quite simple. Twitch has disappeared.
 

Throughout the week I’ve been keeping an eye out for him, hoping he’ll show. Make an appearance.
Something
. I normally feel his eyes on me before I even see him. Feel
something
. But, he’s just… gone.

Which leaves me with the following thoughts racing through my head:

Was the sex really
that
bad? So bad that your stalker dumped you? I know it was awkward, but it ended well…didn’t it?
 

Being dropped by your stalker is pretty bad. I mean he watches you week-in, week-out for almost a year, and then you have sex and he’s like ‘wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. We no longer require your position as victim. Don’t call us; we’ll call you. It’s not you…it’s me. We’re just at different stages of our stalker/stalkee relationship. I need space.’
 

How pathetic are you? You’re actually ticked off that your stalker is no longer skulking around in the shadows. That’s just…pitiful.

I know it’s weird, dammit! Which is part of the reason for my super bad mood. So when I settle at my desk, bring my coffee to my lips, and am I’m interrupted by a knock at the door, I growl. Yes. Actually growl out loud. “What is it?”

Charlie appears there, poking his sweet round face into my office, “Hey Lex, you got a minute?”

How could I ever be mad at Charlie? He’s always so polite and gentle when he speaks. I feel like a bitch for growling at him. He makes me feel even worse when his face shows worry and he asks quietly, “Lex, are you okay? You look a little down.”

Shit. Make me feel like a turd, why don’t you?!

Forcing a smile, I tell him, “Just a little headache is all. Nothing a few painkillers won’t fix.”

His worry doesn’t cease. “I can get someone else to do this. It’s not a big deal.”

Smiling harder, I slap my desk. “Lay it on me, Charles! What’s up?”

Seeming convinced I’m okay, he explains, “We’ve got a new sponsor. A plastics company who wants to make a yearly contribution for the next five years.”

That is awesome! Although we’re government funded, there are tons of non-profit organizations and charities out there who need money to keep doing what they’re doing. The government helps out where they can, but the funds are limited and most of them miss out. Which is truly sad. Services like women’s shelters, and homeless dinner drop-off and drop-in centers for street kids depend on private donations to stay afloat. And if we’re talking a five year commitment, we must be talking big money.

Containing my sudden excitement, I ask quietly, “How much per year?”

Charlie’s smile gleams, “Five-hundred-thousand.”

And I grip the edges on my desk to stop myself from sliding onto the floor in a clean swoon.

That is a
lot
of dough for one company to give. That’s two-point-five-million dollars over five years! That is incredible…amazing…astounding!
This
is an amount we can work with to make something big happen. Big money over a period of time means big projects.
 

I’m giddy!

Standing so quickly my head spins, I walk over to Charlie and place my hands on his forearms, gripping them in excitement. I open my mouth to convey my level of excitement…but nothing comes out. Charlie watches my mouth gape and chuckles softly. “
This
is why I wanted it to be you that took the details.” His eyes turn soft. “No one cares about people more than you do, Lex.”

Finding my voice, I smile my first genuine smile in a week. “Send them in.”

Charlies smile falters, “Okay. But Lex…” He drifts off and I raise my brows in question. But Charlie shakes his head slowly and utters, “Just…just remember our motto, yeah?”

Turning, he walks out of my office, leaving me confused and wary. Our motto.
 

Equality over stereotype.

In our field, we deal with all kinds of people from different backgrounds, races, and religions. There is no such thing as
normal
in our job. And the sad truth is that it’s easy to place a stereotype on a person you don’t know. One look at a person is all it takes for our minds to be made up on the type of person we
think
they are.
 

And ninety-nine percent of the time, we are wrong.

Well, now I’m a little nervous. Taking my coffee, I walk towards the door, when my heel catches. I wobble on the spot a moment and manage to steady myself, but not before spilling coffee down my arm and onto the floor.

Lifting my head in silent prayer, I breathe deeply, then walk around my desk, pulling a handful of napkins out of my drawer. Lifting my skirt an inch, I kneel down on the floor and start to mop up the mess.

Someone clears their throat. More specifically, a man.

A foot away from me, a pair of Italian leather dress shoes comes into focus. Nice. Working my way up the black slacks, which encase strong, thick and very male legs, my eyes pass over his crotch, up to his belt…

That belt.

My eyes widen.

That
belt
!

Skimming over his crisp white shirt, silk black tie, and classy black suit jacket, my eyes move up fast to meet a pair of hooded, soft brown ones.
 

My heart races.

What is happening here?

Searching his face as he looks down on me, my eyes drift over the small ‘13’ tattooed on his cheekbone, then down lower at the artistic swirls, color, and grey shading peeking out from under his shirt that decorate his neck. We spend a moment watching each other closely. Me, trying to figure out what the hell is going on, and him, trying to gauge my reaction to seeing him in a more…
professional
sense.

Taking a small step towards me, we’re impossibly close. My breast brushes his knee. His lips twitch, and he gestures to my position kneeling on the floor. Using one tattooed hand to adjust the opposite cufflink, his husky voice washes over me. “I feel we’ve been here before.”

Oh my fucking God.

This is not happening.

Goddamn.

Seeing the beautiful Alexa Ballentine on her knees in front of me was not how I assumed this meeting would start. And by the look on her stunned face, she didn’t think it would either. But here we are.

Her clear blue eyes drift down to my belt, and her pupils dilate as she inhales quickly.

Fuck, fuck, fuck!

She likes the belt.
No one
likes the belt. It’s a fucking choker for chrissakes. A growl escapes me and her head snaps upwards. She tries to avoid my gaze. I don’t like that.

Reaching forward, I cup her chin gently but firmly and lift her face. She has no choice but to make eye contact, and when our eyes meet, her face flushes and her lips thin in obvious frustration and annoyance. She whispers, “What are you doing here?”

Never one to make it easy on someone, I reply just as quietly, “You’re already wet, aren’t you, Alexa?”

Hissing in a breath, she closes her eyes. “You shouldn’t be here. I have an appointment.”

Gripping her chin tightly, I mutter in a bored tone, “I know. Falcon Plastics. Donation. Interview. All that jazz.”

Her eyes snap open. She stumbles on her words, “S-so you’re still watching me? I-I haven’t seen you around. Or even f-felt you around. I just assumed you were done—”

Cutting her off, I grip her arm and pull gently. She stands, lowering her skirt back over her knees, and I announce, “I own Falcon Plastics, Lexi.” Her wide-eyed, incredulous face is…priceless. I love this. Awkward tension fills the office. So thick you could cut it with a knife. This is what I like. It’s my favorite thing to do. Making people uncomfortable is fun. “I’m your appointment, babe.” I grin a little too happily.

What she says next makes my smile melt off my face.

“B-but I thought you were homeless,” she mumbles.

My blood boils.

Nope.
 

My pride…it doesn’t like that.

I’ve been homeless. Best years of my life. Not even a joke. When I was eight-years-old, I decided that being homeless was better than being a punching bag for some overweight, disgusting slob that deserved the death he got…eventually. And it
was
better. I found there were a lot of kids like me out there. Running from home. Running from certain death. Most people think of home as a safe place. A haven. Not me. My home was…horrifying. A fucking nightmare.

Taking two steps backwards, I slowly move my hand up to flick over the sign on the door. This room is now
In Use
. Taking my time shutting the door, when the latch clicks loudly, Lexi jumps in…fright? In anticipation? In want and need? I’m not sure. Women are complicated creatures.

Looking back, I reach for the string hanging by my side, unwind it, and watch the open blinds drop to the floor, leaving us in complete privacy.

Lexi’s face shows fear. But I know better. She isn’t scared of
me
. Oh no. She’s scared of herself. Of her own reaction to me.

I warned her. And I meant what I said. She will never want anyone else after I’m through with her.

And after I’m through with her. I’ll leave. And never look back.

Getting back to the matter at hand, my fingers move to my right cuff, popping out the cufflink. My voice hoarse, I say slowly, “As you can see, I’m most definitely not homeless.”
 

Not anymore. And I never will be again.
 

Stalking towards her, she backs up until the backs of her legs hit her desk with a soft thud. The fingers of my right hand work on the opposite cuff, and once it’s free, I remove my suit jacket, throwing it onto her desk, and roll up the sleeves of my shirt to the elbows. My mind – ever calculating – suggests that I play with my newest toy. Who am I to refuse myself simple pleasures? I can’t say no. She looks so flushed and meek right now. And I’m fully hard.