Page 5 of Black Sheep

“All taken care of, boss.”

I snap my head to the side. Cici’s standing next to me. Her gaze slides over me from head to toe before it settles on my face. She’s wearing that special do me smile she’s worn since she started working here six weeks ago. I made the mistake of fucking her as part of her interview process. I shouldn’t have. I could pardon myself by making the excuse that her presence in my office that day coincided with the first call in three years from Ronan, my oldest brother.

Ronan. Daddy’s boy through and through, right down to the pansy-assed ring on his left pinkie.

Like one hundred percent of our interactions, that call hadn’t gone well. So I needed an outlet. It was either a fist through a wall or my cock in a pussy. I chose pussy. I refuse to make excuses for that choice. Because what’s the point of having a black soul, of making choices that leave your hands permanently soiled in evil, if you don’t fucking own it? But I do admit to a modicum of regret. She’s not the first employee I’ve fucked, but usually I’m a little more circumspect with my choices. My blinding rage prevented me from seeing that ill-disguised, you-fuck-me-I-own-you light in Cici’s eyes until it was too late.

Now, irritatingly, ever since our one encounter, the ever-growing stench of possessiveness clings to her every time she’s in my presence.

She sidles closer now. “Is there anything else you need?” she says in a low, intimate voice. “I couldn’t help but notice that both you and your friend are wound up tighter than a drum tonight. I…I can help relieve your stress…if you want?”

In the next minute, she’ll find an excuse to touch me. I’m slammed with the smell of cheap perfume and shameless arousal. Because my senses are wide open and raw, I take a deeper hit than I normally would. Which makes me direct more anger at her than I know is warranted.

“Cici?”

“Yes, boss?” she responds with a breathy eagerness.

“Fuck off and do your job,” I snarl.

She recoils with shame and turns red-faced toward the bar.

“Jesus, twice in one night. You’d think I have a disease or something,” she mutters under her breath as she busies herself collecting a drinks order from the bartender.

I feel no remorse when she walks away in a huff. I don’t give a shit what’s got her ass in a vise or who else she’s hit on tonight. Under normal circumstances, her feelings matter very little to me. Tonight, I care even less.

When she moves away, I exhale and glance at my watch. On Tuesday nights, the club shuts at three a.m. It’s almost one. Two more hours to go.

I brace myself before I raise my head.

It does absolutely nothing to buffer the potency of Cleo’s stare or the effect of the evil little smile I see playing at her lips when our eyes hook into each other.

She’s under my skin, where she’s lived for seventeen years. And she knows it.

Fifth Harmony’s “Work” blasts from the speakers. The hard beat and dirty lyrics produce a lusty sway of her hips. The look in her eyes and the movement of her body are almost dichotomous. Her eyes tell me she hates me. Her body beckons me with the promise of transcendental lust.

I should retreat to my office where I can watch her from the relative safety of security cameras. Or walk the other upper and lower floors, greet a few VIPs who would love a personal acknowledgement from me.

Fuck that.

I stay put and nod tersely at a few regulars who are brave enough to breach the no-fly zone around me. When my bartender slides a glass of Scotch to me, I pick it up and down it.

Cleo and I play the staring game until she reaches for her phone once more. She toys with it for a beat before her slender fingers fly over it.

My blood thrums harder as I take my phone out and read her message.

“Stop this, Axel. Be a man. Come over here and talk to me.”

My cheek twitches in an imitation of a smile. “You’re not senile, I hope, so you wouldn’t have forgotten that I don’t rise to dares. Or taunts.”

“Dammit. What do I have to do?”

Those six little words send all the blood fleeing from my heart. It turns harder than stone, and my vision blurs for several seconds. I cannot believe her gall. “You’re eight years too late with that question, sweetheart.”

Her head snaps up. She’s breathing hard. She shakes her head. I’m not sure if it’s denial, disbelief or a plea. It’s probably none of those things. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve attributed a benign sentiment to her actions only to be shown the true depths of her traitorous heart.

My phone buzzes again. This time there’s a single word on my screen.

“Axel.”

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