Page 37 of Gluttony

“Christ, Bowie. What the fuck are you doing here?” Okay, that robot just sounded an awful lot like Hayes, and even though I’ve been trying for weeks to get to this place, the tone in his voice does not bode well for me.

Slowly, and with my mind reeling from the ridiculous position I find myself in, I turn my head so I can look over my shoulder. As expected, my boss and full-time hater of everything Bowie Jones related—also known as Hayes Beckett—is standing behind me with his hands firmly in the pockets of his dark-gray slacks.

I don’t miss the fact that his eyes are trained straight at my cum-covered ass, and no, I won’t be telling him to look away because that would be admitting I’m in a compromising position. Instead, I clear my throat and try for casual.

“Evening, Sir. Would you mind cutting this tape so I can, um, be on my way?” That was pretty good. Sounds a fuck load better than, “Sorry I’m half naked and dripping with your twin brother’s cum.” Just the thought of what Hadley did to me has me rubbing my thighs together all over again, and by the way Hayes’s eyes just narrowed in on the exact spot my thighs meet my pussy, I’m guessing he knows exactly what’s happening with my libido.

Judging by the way his nostrils are flaring, he’s either pissed off that all of this fuckery is going down or he’s turned on beyond what he estimates is normal for this type of scenario. And I use the term “normal” in the loosest of forms.

“So let me get this straight, sweetheart. You thought you could waltz in here, tight skirt and sexy loose hair and just what? Get us to fall in love with you?” Well, when he puts it like that, it does sound ridiculous. Wait.

“You think my hair is sexy? You know, all through childhood and middle school…” I tug on my wrists as I tell him my woe-is-me story, still hoping this shit will give way. It doesn’t and I wonder then if Hadley special orders unbreakable tape. “Andlet me tell you, middle school kids here in the U.S. are fucking awful…” By this point, it’s clear I’m rubbing on the last nerve he’s got left when he rounds me, making sure he doesn’t even come close to touching me, and opens a drawer to my right. When he takes the steak knife out, I have two immediate thoughts.

First, if he kills me, will anyone report me missing? Two weeks ago, the answer to that question would have been a resounding yes, what with Mickey looking out for me. Right now? I’m not so sure.

Second and most importantly, how far can you press a knife to a person’s throat before it becomes dangerous? Yeah, yeah, I know. Unless it’s in self-defense, a blade has no business being anywhere near my vital body parts.

Except…what if that thought just turned me the fuck on?

It’s official, there’s something fundamentally wrong with me.

At the sound of Hayes clearing his throat, I realize I’ve been staring at the knife and he’s been standing there, at my side, still as a fucking slab of concrete.

“You’re playing with fire, Bowie. This isn’t a fucking game. You get that, right?” His tone is so fucking low, dangerous even, that my gaze darts to his ocean-blue eyes and gets lost in them.

Am I playing a game? Not really. I’m working. It may not be society’s version of a good job but it pays the bills, and then some.

Technically, it’s stealing, but tomayto…

“Can you say tomato?” The spell is severed in the split of a second, which prompts Hayes to slash the tip of the knife through the tape in one swift movement of his wrist. And yes, the way his tendons dance beneath his skin is hot as fuck but I’m not telling him that.

“Go home, Bowie, and don’t fucking come back here.” When he points the blade right between my eyes, he cuts me without drawing an ounce of blood. “If you think Hadley’s brand offucking is reserved for only you then you’re more delusional than I thought. He goes through condoms faster than the Backstreet Boys at an orgy.”

Ouch.

Also, the Backstreet Boys sound like fun. Not my style music wise—our foster parents were the prime example of Gen X music buffs—but I can’t deny that the idea of all the three guys in my bed hasn’t escaped my fantasies.

Again, I’m not smart mouthing Hayes, he doesn’t sound the least bit amused about a damn thing. I’m not dense, I know when I’m not wanted. And yet…

“We didn’t fuck, by the way.” I get myself together, shimmy my skirt down, and perk up my tits before looking around for my shoes. When I find them, I make a beeline for the door but stop just at the entrance to the open plan kitchen. Without turning completely around to face Hayes, I leave him with the answer to his original question. “No.”

“What are you on about, now?” He sounds exasperated but for once I’m not putting on a façade or playing a role. I’m as real as I’ve ever been.

“You asked if I thought I’d show up and make you fall in love with me. The answer is no. I came to give Orion documents to sign and what happened with Hadley was as much a surprise to me as it was to you.”

“I’m not surprised, Bowie.”

“Well, I was shocked.” I turn back to face the door and add, “But I don’t regret a single second of it.”

With those parting words, I open the door with flourish, feeling more than a little proud of myself, and step out like a fucking queen.

Then smack my face right into a hard, thick chest, sandalwood wafting up my nostrils and making me weak in the knees.

And the trinity is complete.

Where Hadley was horny and Hayes was annoyed, Orion is looking me up and down like I’m covered in shit. Okay, maybe not that angry, but he physically recoiled when I walked into him.

“The hell?”

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