Page 3 of Who Owns You?

“Well, since you are so pleased to be working with Scarlett, let’s get to the actual point of this meeting, shall we?” he asks with a jerk of his hips in my direction. “If you want to keep this little job of yours, you are going to need to stay later, much later, and attend to…special events on the weekends.” He gives a toothy smile that is all too white.

I fight the urge to gag as I shake my head.

“No? So you’re fine being fired, then? Have no desire to ever work in this industry again? My industry,” he growls and grabs at my shoulder, his spindly fingers digging into my flesh.

“Please let go of me. It’s not appropriate for you to touch me,” I plead numbly, bile rising up the back of my throat in a slow creep.

“I can touch you however the fuck I want. I own your ass as long as you’re employed here. If you want to keep your job and your stupid little cubicle, where you do work that leaves little impact on the world in comparison to mine, you will do what’s good for you. Pull my cock out and suck it,” he hisses, and I don’t know what comes over me.

I vomit.

I vomit all over his hideous suit and his shrimp dick that is way too close to my face.

His responding scream pierces my eardrums, but I can’t stop until my stomach is completely empty. Everything vile is purged from my stomach and seemingly my soul. I look up at him, feeling sunken in.

His face is beet red, and the fine hairs that he combs over the balding spot on his head are peeling up. “Get the fuck out! You’re fired, you fucking disgusting cow! You will never work in New York again! Get out!”

I lurch out of my seat, nearly knocking it onto the floor as I scramble out of his office, wiping the remnants of my sick from the corners of my mouth.

“Oh my fucking god!” Kennedy squeals, her feet actually kicking out because of her joy at this whole situation.

“My life being completely ruined is a big joke, huh?” I ask, but all the wind has already sputtered out of my sails.

I have to admit. It’s just a little funny that I puked all over my former boss’s boss.

“Your life isn’t ruined, don’t be such a fucking brat, Lottie,” my best friend and adoptive sister says with a snicker.

She grabs the handle of vodka sitting between us and pours herself another shot.

We’re teetering dangerously close to the middle of the bottle, but I’m feeling too good to care that much.

“I was born a brat and will die that way,” I say, sticking my tongue out at her.

She laughs so hard that she snorts and winces as a dribble of the alcohol runs out of her nose.

“Fuck! That burns, so bad, in my eyes.” She wheezes, fanning her face and trying to get herself to stop laughing.

I bite the inside of my lip so hard I taste blood, but I can’t stop myself from laughing. “I’ll get you some water.”

I shuffle into my small kitchen and pull open the fridge, ignoring the fact that two shelves are missing and that the one that is left only has two-day-old takeout and ketchup of unknown origin. I grab a small bottle of water and bring it back into the living room.

Kennedy is gasping like a fish as her hands flail out. She grabs the water and chugs the little bottle.

“That’s what you get for reveling in the loss of my livelihood,” I deadpan.

She chucks the empty container at me, and I just let it hit my tit instead of moving out of the way.

“You know they were never going to let you do what you wanted. You can get back into painting now, maybe actually sell some of those amazing pieces you make? How many do you havejust sitting in your hall closet?” she asks, arching a perfectly waxed brow.

My adoptive sister is perfect in a lot of ways that I’m not. If she wasn’t the best person I knew, maybe I’d be jealous of her golden blond hair, slim figure, and model-like features. She’s annoyingly perfect, inside and out, the loveable bitch.

“I don’t really think that’s what I want to do.” I lie through my teeth as easily as I breathe. “I need to get my foot back in the door somewhere. I think all the ad agencies in New York are out unless some brand-new CEO comes on the scene, not knowing the last few decades of things that Broadhurst has influenced,” I grumble.

“Or, and hear me out the whole way through”—she jabs her finger at me accusingly—“you move back in with Mom and Dad, they support you while you get your career off the ground, and then we live pretty off the millions you’ll make with your art.” She says it like she has it all figured out.

When we met in kindergarten, I didn’t know the volatile ball of sunshine would become my best friend, but she was persistent. She took me under her wing, drawn in by the shyness that radiated off little me in droves. I had just moved to New York with my parents from Boston, and it was so strange. Everyone was so pretty and bright, and everything was big and loud and smelled weird, but Kennedy took me under her wing and pecked the eyes out of anyone who tried to tell me I was anything other than the best. Needless to say, we remained friends through middle and high school too. When my parents died in my senior year, her family welcomed me with open arms and adopted me when I turned eighteen. So my best friend became my sister, and there has never been a moment of peace for either of us since.

“You’re such a brat,” I say, flicking her forehead as gently as humanly possible.

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