Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 108489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108489 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 434(@250wpm)___ 362(@300wpm)
Jordan hadn’t missed a day of work in the week Lydia had been in the hospital. He even stayed late most evenings to catch up on work. The relationship between us had escalated to the point where I no longer pretended like he didn’t make me sick, and he no longer acted like he was indifferent toward me. We openly hated each other, and it dripped from every glance and encounter we’d shared.
I locked my office every single day. The unattended, full trash bin had already started smelling like leftover protein shakes and stale coffee, but at least the fucker didn’t have access to my shit when I wasn’t there.
“Speaking of Jordan…” Dean got up from his seat, walking over to the door, his bespoke blue suit so full of swag you’d think he was Conor McGregor. “Thought you should know, he is sniffing to buy one of us out, and he is offering the big bucks. He wants you gone, bro. Do you think he knows about you and Edie?”
Who the fuck knew? But the thing was, Jordan had wanted to get rid of me long before I drilled my cock into his daughter’s mouth, ass, and pussy. I tucked my hands into my pockets. “Probably not. He wouldn’t miss a chance making a scene or taunting his daughter.”
Dean gripped the door handle, swiveling to face me. “Well, watch your back.”
“When have I ever not?”
The rest of the afternoon was spent smoldering in my own wrath. I knew, logically, that my friends would never sell Jordan shit, which meant he was desperate, and I wondered—why? What the fuck had I done to deserve his hatred?
That day, I wasn’t The Mute. I was The Asshole, and I was holding that torch for dear fucking life. Even Vicious couldn’t take it from me. I yelled at Rina for bringing me the wrong sandwich for lunch—she’d been working with me for six months, what the fuck was so difficult to remember?—and fired an intern who’d accidentally sent a contract to the wrong client to sign. I fired her on the spot, without a hearing or even time to collect her things from her desk. I then proceeded to patrol the hallways, shooting ridiculous orders at random people, but it did nothing to soothe my anger.
Edie was still with her mother at the hospital. She said she might drop in to work, just to see me, but she didn’t.
At first, I thought it sucked. But then I looked at the bright side—with her gone, I could finally confront her piece-of-shit dad.
I knew I needed to play my cards right. I couldn’t saunter into his office and tear him another melon-sized asshole. So I waited.
At five o’clock, all the administrative staff tucked their things into their bags and left.
At six, the brokers followed suit.
At six thirty, Jaime, Vicious, and Dean met at the hallway where our offices faced one another.
Vicious knocked on my open door twice, poking his head in. “Shitface, are you coming or what?”
“I’m going to catch up on some crap.” I nodded toward my unlit computer. He couldn’t see it from this position, but he could still smell bullshit from miles away.
He flicked one eyebrow in acknowledgement. “If you’re going to murder Van Der Zee, please note that I don’t practice criminal law and will not be able to help you legally. But if you need someone to hide the body, I’m your guy.”
“How precious,” I commented dryly.
He shrugged, slapping the oak of the door, already spinning on his heel. “Well, you’re most-fucking-welcome, Rexroth.”
Six thirty.
Six thirty-five.
Six forty-five.
At seven, the cleaning staff walked in, talking amongst themselves. I lurked behind my computer—what the fuck was it about the Van Der Zees that brought out the stalker in me?—when I saw the maintenance people heading over to the other side of the floor, I stood up and strolled assertively toward the corner office next to mine. To the biggest, most luxurious room in the building. To where the man who’d hurt Edie and her brother tremendously, and was trying to do the same to me, was working. I expected him to be sitting at his computer and typing away as he always was, but the place was empty. It made no sense. Jordan rarely left the office before eight p.m. Working—making money—was his entire life. I whipped my head and caught a glimpse of him entering the elevator.
And that’s how I knew he was already one step ahead of me.
He’d realized I would corner him and had walked away before I could confront him. But he had another thing coming.
Quickly, I made my way to the emergency stairway and started down to the parking lot. I took the stairs two at a time, knowing I’d arrive before him. The elevator stopped on every fucking floor on its way down, because people in accounting and HR stayed way later than the fuckers on our floor.