Page 21 of Gluttony

“Where the fuck are you going, Bo? Get over here, we’re not finished.” I don’t look back as I walk down the hallway. I don’t look back when I get inside the elevator. And I definitely don’t go back on my decision when I look in the mirror and see the tender bruising fully forming on my cheek.

I can’t believe he did that.

The return trip is a blur, save from a middle aged woman who looked at me on the train like she knew exactly what had just happened. Like she’d lived that shit one too many times.

I want to tell her that it’s not what she thinks, that this is the first and only time, but I say nothing because I’m too shocked. And just beneath the surface, I’m too pissed off.

By the time I reach my apartment door, I’ve already rationalized this whole evening.

Mickey was stressed. He was angry. I pushed him too far. I’m the one who insulted him. He’s been under a lot of pressure to make sure my story holds up, spending endless hours in front of his computer screens anticipating every action and movement.

So lost in my thoughts that as I turn the key in my door, I almost step on the little object on my welcome mat.

A blood-red origami rabbit. And when I say blood red, I don’t just mean the color.

Chapter Ten

Hayes

For the last two weeks, the new executive assistant has done everything we’ve asked of her. The only hiccup being last weekend when she forgot my dress shoes. And I know my focus should be on business and making sure my twin keeps his habit to a minimum, but she’s stealing it all. Every corner of my mind is filled with thoughts about her, trying to figure out the thing that’s off. Because I know, deep in my bones, that somethingisoff.

I’ve been avoiding her, with the exception of the small meeting on Wednesday, and Crosby has noticed. The little shit gave me sass about it this morning when he brought in the coffee and scone Bowie delivers to his desk every day.

“I know I said I wanted to work out more this year, but I didn’t think you’d take it upon yourself to enforce it. I think I’ve walked an extra five miles this week from just bringing you everything from your executive assistant.” His glossy smirk and perfectly drawn raised brow were the last things I saw as he spun and walked out of my office with a chuckle.

Just to shut him up, I’ve asked him to let Bowie in when she arrives with my week’s dry cleaning. We used to get Abby to deliver it to the building manager of our apartment on a Friday afternoon, but she had earned that much. Bowie hasn’t earned a thing.

Hersimplelies set her back a few thousand paces. The fact that she had her plump lips around Orion’s cock a few months ago set her back a few thousand more because who wants to work for someone that practically threw them out of their limo?

“Mr. Beckett, Miss Jones is on her way in.” Crosby’s voice sounds clear through the speaker, then there’s a click that says he’s finished.

I push the button to reply because my mum always taught me to use my manners. “Thank you, Crosby.”

There’s a light knock on the door before Bowie walks in with her hands full of dry cleaning bags.

“You can hang everything up in the closet, Miss Jones.” I nod toward the door in the corner of the room without looking up from my desk. It’s not a huge space inside, but big enough to hang a few shirts and suits until I take them home this evening.

“Yes, Sir.”

Goddamnit.Why does that word, from her, affect me so much?

A growl rumbles from my throat as I exhale, close my eyes, and silently begin counting to ten.

“Will that be everything, Sir?”

I don’t get to ten.

Why is the universe punishing me with her presence? I allowed her to deliver the dry cleaning…she was supposed to just fuck right off again when she was finished. Not speak to me, call me sir, and linger like a bad fucking smell.

With a deep inhale, I look up at her, but for once it isn’t the way her curves are accentuated by the perfect cut of her suit, orthe way her bouncy waves hang over her shoulders that catches my attention. My gaze zones in on the small cut on her cheek, just below her eye, surrounded by a bruise that looks a couple of days old.

That wasn’t there on Wednesday afternoon at the meeting, and it’s not fresh enough to have happened yesterday or today. I can pinpoint when this happened. I just can’t pinpoint why.

“What happened to your face?” Her answer will tell me more than she thinks because I’m watching for any and every inflection in her voice or body language.

Her eyes widen briefly, quickly, and I wouldn’t have noticed if I wasn’t paying attention. Then she brings a hand up to her cheek and strokes her fingertips over the cut.

“This? This is nothing. I dropped my phone on my face in bed. Silly, really.” She shrugs and shakes her head before bringing her hand back down. “Anyway, is there anything else you need or shall I take my instruction via email and Crosby for the rest of the day?”

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