Page 133 of The Penalty

Maybe I’ve been sticking my head in the sand about this too fucking long.

We take the elevator to the top floor. Seventy-three fucking floors up with sprawling three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the city, the Hudson, and even Jersey. When we walk in, Oliver paces the massive office, looking the most disheveled I’ve ever seen him.

He gestures for us to sit. “Can I get either of you a drink?”

“Coffee.” Owen asks and looks at me.

“Sure, I’ll take a tea..”

Oliver hits a button on his phone. “Can you bring my brothers coffee and tea?”

“Of course, sir.” A man on the other end replies.

Oliver takes a seat with us. “Did you speak to him?”

“I did,” Owen pauses before asking, “Does Isaac know your assistant is a guy?”

“He’s forty-six and a professional. I thought it was a better look than all the young women who applied.”

“But is he hot?” Owen asks.

Oliver rolls his eyes. “He’s hardly my type but I would keep Colin away from him if I were you.”

Owen narrows his eyes. “Why?”

Oliver hits the button on the phone on the coffee table in front of us. How many phones are there in this office? “Frank, can you bring the drinks in here instead of having one of the assistants do it?”

“Sure,” Frank says, then walks in a moment later—the embodiment of a leather daddy—he even has a mustache. He sets the tray of drinks down on the table, giving a great view of an ass you can bounce a quarter off of.

I fake a cough to cover my laugh.

“Yes, sir?” Frank says with a huge smile.

“I just wanted you to meet my brothers,” Oliver says with a knowing smirk.

“Fuck you,” Owen says to Oliver before turning to Frank and holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Frank. We’ve spoken on the phone a lot.”

“I recognize the voice.” Frank shakes Owen’s hand then offers me his.

I take it. “Nice to meet you, Frank. I’m Rhys.”

“The pleasure is all mine. Is that all, sir?” Frank asks Oliver, after giving me a quick smile.

“Yes, thank you, Frank.” Oliver takes his coffee, sitting back while crossing an ankle over his knee. “And?”

“And what?” Owen asks, adding a ton of sugar to his coffee.

I add a packet and then some milk to my tea, happy not to have to explain myself.

“Please refrain from the games. I don’t have the mental energy for it.”

Owen shrugs. “I don’t know how he feels about it. All I did was explain. You’re going to have to ask him yourself.”

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“I’m not getting in between you two. This is like a hostage situation and I’m not the fucking trained negotiator. I’d shoot you both or myself.” Owen holds up his hands.

I laugh.

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