Page 101 of Sexting the Bratva Beast
“Want to play rough, Emmett, huh?” She tries to bat my nose with her fingertip and realizes a beat too late, that her arms are being restrained. The pout is back.
“I want you to come with me and get some water.” I lead her towards the bar like a disobedient puppy.
She rises to the role, dragging her six-inch heels and twisting her ankle, catapulting herself into my arms. I can smell the alcohol on her breath, see the runny mascara under her eyes, and the lipstick that almost managed to stick inside the outline of her lips.
“Why don’t we go—” she hiccups on cue “—somewhere quiet?”
I stand back, keeping her at arm’s length, and order a large glass of water from the bartender. “This is my party,” I remind her. “The boss can’t be the first to leave.”
Bonnie peers all around, swaying on those fuck-me heels, the room full of people slowly coming into focus. “No one will even notice you’ve gone,” she whines like a child who has just been told it’s too late to go to the park.
Thanks for that.
The bartender slides the glass of water towards me, and I prop her upright with one arm while I raise the drink to her lips. “Drink this, wouldja. Slowly now!” I have visions of the cocktails she has been downing all evening ending up on my shoes.
Her large brown eyes hold mine while she slurps water and swallows. Her expression crumples into a grimace of disgust. “What are you trying to do to me?”
“Sober you up before you do something you regret.”
The comment is missed as the sloppy smile reappears and she cocks a finger at me, clutching the bar for support. “Don’t answer that. Yet. Save it for when we’re alone.”
I glance around for my driver, Dave, who is standing strategically by the door in his customary black suit. I don’t even have to signal—the domino effect happens all on its own.
“I’ve been waiting for you to call me, Em.” Bonnie is still talking, her voice rising a notch. I hate being called Em. “You said you would call me…”
A security guard appears from nowhere. He grips Bonnie’s arm, and she glares at him, trying to wriggle free. “Come on, ma’am. A car is waiting outside to take you home.”
“Home?”
She looks at him as though he just suggested she strip naked and perform a pole dance on the bar. Although Bonnie would probably enjoy that.
“Emmett? Em? Tell him…”
“Go home, Bonnie.” I turn back to the bartender who slides a champagne flute my way.
The guard leads her towards the exit, but she somehow manages to wrench her arm free and stumbles back towards me. “Tell him that we hooked up, Emmett. Tell him.” Her eyes grow large with tears.
The thing is, sober-Bonnie is one of the sexiest women in the building. Blond, curves in all the right places, clothes that leave little to the imagination, and a J-Lo butt to complete the picture, but drunk-Bonnie…
I don’t need this tonight.
“Yeah, that’s right.We. Hooked. Up.” She drawls the words to anyone who will listen as the guard herds her towards the exit and the elevator down to the lobby.
I keep my eyes on the champagne glass and sip ice-cold soda. The office is closed for the holidays, and I’m flying home to Ireland tomorrow. I haven’t seen my mom in a year. I need to be clear-headed to avoid the when-are-you-going-to-meet-a-nice-girl-and-settle-down discussions that will inevitably dominate the entire visit.
And there’s still the little matter of one final job that needs to be settled tonight.
“Emmett O’Hara, you don’t get rid of me this easily!” Bonnie shrieks from outside the room.
I don’t look around. I know that everyone will be staring at my back, storing up the drama to be recounted via text messages and WhatsApp chats tomorrow when they’ve shrugged off their Christmas party hangovers. But what’s new? Bonnie wasn’t the first, and she certainly won’t be the last.
I turn around and catch several pairs of eyes widening before the owners pretend to be deep in conversation.
We hold the Christmas party on the top floor of O’Hara Developers every year. It’s a huge open-plan space. With the bar taking up the length of one wall, tables laden with canapés on the opposite side of the room, and a DJ set up in one corner, lights flashing along in time with the bass beat, there’s ample space to accommodate the staff. No partners invited. We do this as a company, or we don’t do it at all.
I’ll be forced to sit through a bunch of cheesy Christmas movies by my mom, cousins, and aunties when I get home, without having to watch my employees getting all fake-merry because, hey, it’s the most wonderful time of the year, dontcha know?
Don’t get me wrong. I’m no Grinch. I just don’t understand why people can’t be jolly all year round instead of saving it for when the advertising companies say they should be happy spending all their hard-earned money on shit no one wants.
