Seven
Authors: Amy Marie
Copyright © 2016 by Amy Marie
Self-publishing
[email protected]
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages for review purposes only.
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Design: Sara Eirew Photographer
Editing by Jacquelyn Ayres
Formatting by Angel’s Indie Formatting
This book is dedicated to Karma, because, well, she is a bitch, and I like to be on her good side.
It’s also dedicated to chocolate. I love chocolate.
My skin flinches from the cold tile of the bathroom floor. My neck, aching from the pull of it falling forward in disgust. My stomach is twisted in knots, and my chest is constricted. Black tears fall to my bare legs and I lift my hands to wipe them away, but it’s no use. The flow of them will never stop.
What the hell have I done?
From the outside looking in, it may seem like I’m any normal twenty-eight-year-old woman who has her shit together. I have a job that allows me to own my own condo. I pay my bills on time, work out almost every day, and drive a red Mercedes C-Class Coupe. But, looks can be deceiving, and I’m as deceitful as they come. Each and every move I’ve made in my adult life has been meticulously planned out to bring me to where I am today—bent over my boss’s desk at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon.
“Goddamn it, Embyr,” he grunts behind me, sweating profusely. “You have to stop wearing these fucking skirts to work.”
He relentlessly pounds into me, his front meeting my ass, and I moan his name out, faking my way through each thrust. “Yes, Patrick. Yes. Pull my hair,” I command. I much prefer the pain of him grasping my tresses. It takes away from being present for another lousy fuck.
My body will never succumb to him. I won’t allow him the privilege of making me come. I never do. I just moan and scream, allowing him to believe that his amateur screwing can make me fall apart.
Fucking asshole.
His head falls to my bare shoulder and I can feel the disgusting slime that is radiating out of his pores. When he grips my hair hard between his fingers, I rear back on him, egging him on, so he can hurry up and get the fuck out of me.
I push my ass against him harder. The sounds, coming out of his mouth, can be closely described as what, I assume, an elephant sounds like when he finally shoots his load. I call out his name, huffing and puffing, making it seem as though this is the best lay I have ever had.
When he finally pulls his micro penis out of me and walks to his personal adjoining bathroom, slamming the door behind him, I slip my skirt back over my ass, and rush to his computer. My fingers type rapidly as I bring up his bank website and type in his password to move just a little bit more of his client’s money into the secret Swiss bank account he thought he’d hidden. But, not from me; I’d come across this bad boy months ago.
The toilet flushes, and my fingers ache as I furiously finish up the transaction and jump away just in time. He walks back into the office, eyeing me as I sweetly sit on the couch along the large glass windows looking out towards the Chicago skyline. His early balding and already graying brown hair makes me sick just to look at him which is why I always make him fuck me from behind. “You can go back to work now,” Patrick says, fidgeting with his belt, dismissing me.
I don’t get upset like some lovesick girl who wants her married boss to leave his wife.
No.
I pick myself up and stride confidently out of the room, smirking to myself at how easily he is played.
Bypassing my desk, I take the long, bland hallway of Strickland Consulting to the ladies bathroom. After using the toilet, attempting to wipe the stickiness off my thighs, and washing my hands, I take a long look in the mirror.
Not a hair out of place. That man couldn’t rough up a paper bag.
I shake my head and pull my lip gloss out of my bra. As I glide the light pink over my lips and rub it in, I can’t help but laugh at how easy this all has been so far.
He hasn’t recognized me. Not from the moment he interviewed me. It’s amazing how dropping thirty pounds and dying your hair from a mousey-blonde to auburn can fool one of your high school tormentors into allowing you to pull his strings like a tiny, little puppet. It was a constant battle to keep my mouth shut in high school about their hazing; the threat of them ruining my life, altogether, loomed over me. I’ll have them all by the balls soon, and they don’t even know it yet.
But my lousy fuck of a boss will by the end of the day.
Patrick Strickland was the ring leader in high school. He controlled the PITCREW, as they so lovingly called themselves. The letters stood for each of their names.
P
atrick.
I
an.
T
had.
C
asen.
R
eece.
E
van.
W
esley.
Their sole purpose in high school was to work on the cars that their mommies and daddies paid for, every chance they got. All of them—rich. All of them—good looking. All of them—popular. All of them . . . complete and total assholes.
Each of the seven could have any girl they wanted in school, and they did, but in their free time, they chose to torture me every day for what they had done . . . what
I
had done. Using it over my head to keep my mouth shut.
They knew my mother was mentally unstable and could slit her wrists at any moment. They also knew I would never want my daddy’s career ruined because of his daughter: the “slut.” I spent the rest of my high school career catering to them and their “needs.” Whatever they wanted, I got for them or gave to them. They drained me physically and emotionally.
But things changed. I’ve changed.
I was never a sweet girl. I never claimed to be, but someone, somewhere, labeled me as nice with a fucking cherry on top. If they only knew the thoughts that ran through my mind, they would run screaming from their cozy spots on
Oblivious Island
. A decade ago, they hurt me. A decade later, they will pay.
I no longer have any family. My mom lived up to the rumors and took her life just a month before I graduated high school, and my father was killed in the line of duty just two months later. I have no friends from back then and, even if I did, I left them all to put myself through a metamorphosis that any butterfly would be jealous of.
