TITAN
I SIT BEHIND my desk, the dark curtains pulled closed to block out the early morning rays of the Las Vegas skyline. Taking a sip of my black coffee, I look up at the five women standing in my office. “Strip down to your bra and underwear,” I order.
Four of them begin undressing without hesitation. They do this for a living, though it’s usually under flashing lights, fog machines, and thundering music. And don’t forget the money that comes with selling your body. But still, they’re not shy. The last one on the right watches the others with wide green eyes as she nibbles on her bottom lip.
“Problem?” I ask.
She looks at me and swallows. “I … uh, I didn’t know … I didn’t wear a—”
“You don’t have anything I haven’t already seen,” I interrupt her rambling.
“Here,” Sandy chirps. “You can wear mine.” She unclasps her black lace bra and holds it out to the blonde. Her rather new and perky looking paid for DDs are now fully on display.
“My boobs are too small for that!” the girl shrieks in horror.
Sandy drops it to the floor and shrugs. She slaps her palms down on her bare thighs and does a little hop in her six-inch heels.
Fuck! It’s too early for this shit. I’m not a cheer coach gearing them up for a game. Rubbing my temples, I stare down at their paperwork that covers my black desk. “Megan, you didn’t list your limits,” I announce, glaring up at her through my lashes.
Her eyes drop to the floor, and I don’t miss the fact she’s still dressed. Her arms now hugging her small chest. “I didn’t understand …”
“What a limit is?” I bark out.
She flinches and whispers, “I’ve never done anal …”
Jesus!
The other girls laugh. “It’s more than just that,” Sandy tells her with a smile on her face.
“What else could there be?” Megan asks wide-eyed.
Fuck me! This girl is sheltered, and I should have stayed in bed.
“Are you willing to do bondage?” Sandy fills her in, placing her hands on her wide hips. “And if so, do you mind being gagged, flogged?” Megan gasps. “If you enjoy being tied up, do you prefer rope, handcuffs, chains.” The girl begins to tremble. “There’s also fisting …”
Just then, my office door swings open, and the only woman I don’t mind seeing enters the room.
I stand. “Ladies, this is GiGi. Think of her as your … house mom.” Good enough. “She will take your measurements and record them for your files.” The four half-naked women nod with excitement. “Once the fitting is over, Dr. Lane will see you.”
“Doctor?” Megan swallows.
“Yes.” Growling, I look at her. Has she not listened to a damn thing I’ve said? “All Queens are required to be on birth control. Ninety-five percent of our clients already have wives and children. They want to be guaranteed that there won’t be any surprise babies or a Queen trying to get knocked up for blackmail money.” We guarantee our clients’ satisfaction. And unplanned pregnancies are not going to obtain that. And I’m not about to trust any woman with my reputation and dedication with my clients.
They all turn and bounce out. “Megan, have a seat.” I stop her.
She falls into one of the black leather chairs across from my desk and looks up at me. Jesus, she has tears in her eyes.
I walk around my desk and lean up against it. “Why are you here?” I ask. Crossing my arms over my chest, I glare down at her.
She picks at a piece of nonexistent lint on her jeans. Her dirty blond hair shields her face from me. “I need money.”
No surprise there. “What do you need money for?”
She heaves a heavy sigh, unable to meet my eyes. “My father is a druggie. My mother left us a year ago. Went to the store to buy a pack of cigarettes and never returned.” She swallows. “I have a younger brother who’s three. I want to get him away from our father, but I don’t have that kind of cash. Not to give him what he needs.”
“Your application stated that you’re twenty-one.”
“I lied,” she whispers.
I already knew that. And I’m pretty sure she’s a goddamn virgin. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“Attending high school?”
She shakes her head. “I dropped out when my brother was born. I needed to stay home with him.”
I run a hand down my face, that headache intensifying. “Being a Queen isn’t a good fit for you.” That’s as nicely as I can put it.
Her head snaps up. Her green eyes narrow on me before she averts them and slumps her shoulders. “I know. I don’t know what I was thinking.” She pushes her hair behind her ear.
All types of women come and go from my office, and I can tell when someone is being neglected. Her cheeks are sunken in. Her eyes have circles under them. Her tank top keeps falling off her shoulders, and her collarbones are prominent. She probably makes sure her brother is fed before herself, and I respect that. “Are you quick on your feet?”
She nods once. “And I’m a fast learner.”
“Have you ever been a waitress?”
“No.”
I sigh. Just let her leave …
“But I can do it.” She sits up straighter, eyes wide with hope. She doesn’t wanna take her clothes off, but she’s willing to carry drinks around in a tight mini skirt and halter top. Doesn’t matter how you dress it up, sex equals money. The more you show, the more you’ll make.
Maybe it’s my fucking headache, or maybe I’m just in a giving mood. Doubtful, but I say, “Go to this address and give this to Mitch.” I walk around my desk and sit down in my chair. I write as I speak. “Tell him I sent you, and he’ll get you on the schedule.” I tear off the Post-it and reach across the mahogany surface. She can’t work in Kingdom. In the state of Nevada, you have to be at least twenty-one to even serve drinks. But I have hookups all over this town, including restaurants.
She grabs the note. “Thank you, Titan. Thank you so much.”
I nod and hold up the paperwork. “I’ll tear this up except for the NDA.” She nods quickly. “What happened up here does not leave this room.”
“Yes, sir.”
I point at the door. “Get going.”
She runs out of my office much faster than she had entered.
Opening the bottom drawer in my desk, I pop the top off the pill bottle and toss a couple into my mouth before washing them down with my coffee.
The girls re-enter my office with GiGi. “All done, Titan.” The sixty-five-year-old lady smiles at me. She wears her bleach-blond hair up in a tight bun. It’s not even eight a.m., and she has a full face of makeup topped off with fake eyelashes and red painted lips. She’s always well put together and in a good mood.
The girls giggle, and Sandy picks up her bra and places her tits back in it.
“Thanks, GiGi. Send Dr. Lane in, will ya?”
She nods.
Sitting back in my chair, I fold my inked arms over my chest and look at the four women who stand before me.
The Queens of Kingdom.
Three of my best friends and I own a hotel and casino in the heart of Las Vegas. I oversee the Queens, our secret service. I have a list of men a mile long who want our girls. A couple of senators, a handful of movie stars, and even more rock stars. CEOs and some blue-collar hardworking dads who just want to blow off some steam before going home to their nagging wife and screaming kids. They fly in from all around the world.
They want a date for a work event, they call me. They want a woman to take on a trip to Maui, they call me. They want a woman for the night in one of our exclusive suites here at Kingdom, they call me.
I pull four cells out of my top drawer. “Here are your phones.” I place them on the desk.
They had to hand them over when they arrived earlier. “I downloaded the Queens app on them. If at any time you feel uncomfortable or think it’s getting out of hand, make the call. It calls me directly.”
The brunette who hasn’t said much over the past two hours looks at me. Her name on the NDA she signed says Maggie. She came with Sandy. “Do you have to end a date early often?”
I shake my head. “No. Our clients understand how it works, but I understand that sometimes things can go too far. You have too many drinks. He decides he wants more than what he pays for. You call me, and I’ll take care of it.”
“Have you had to do it before?”
I nod.
“And?” she asks.
“And I ended it.” Simple as that. A girl has never been raped or beaten while on the clock. My clients understand what they sign up for when they request a girl. If they so much as break any rule on the contract, I will break their fucking necks. But I understand I can’t be there with them a hundred percent of the time, so we make sure all bases are covered.
For the most part, everything always goes smoothly. The girls get to keep sixty percent of what I charge, and some have never even taken their clothes off. Getting naked and sucking dick aren’t requirements to be a queen, but if that’s what they want to do, then by all means. Plus, they keep a hundred percent of their tips off the books. That’s between the client and the Queen to negotiate.
The cheerful blonde who answered every question on her application with hearts over her i’s steps forward. Her name is Whitney. She places her hands on my desk and smiles down at me. I already know where this is going to go. “Do you sample the product? You know, rate it for your clients?”
“No.” I don’t shit where I work. The Kings and I have enough problems as it is. I don’t need to add pussy to the mix.
She pushes her bottom lip out as her dark eyes roam over my inked arms. “That’s too bad.”
My door swings open so hard it hits the interior wall, and one of my best friends and business partners enters my office. His blue eyes are narrowed, and his chest bowed. He’s pissed about something. And if I had to guess, I’d say it’s regarding his brother, Grave, who is another friend of mine and business partner.
“Have you seen this?” he demands, storming over to my desk. He slaps a piece of paper on the surface. “This is bullshit!” He points at the headline. Bones is the only guy I know who will see an article on the internet and print it off to read over and over.
Instead of reading it, I watch Whitney stare at Bones like her next meal. I’m forgotten. She’s already moved on. I smile to myself. I’m not going to tell her that she has better odds winning the lottery. Bones doesn’t touch anyone associated with Kingdom. He flies out of the state to get his dick wet. His current flavor of the month is a five-foot-eleven runway model who lives in a six-thousand-square-foot penthouse in New York. She’s already planning their wedding. He’s just using her. Like we all do. Men like us don’t fall in love. Not every King needs a Queen.
“Hi.” She has her tits pushed up in the air.
Placing my elbow on the desk, I watch in amusement as she tries to seduce him. Like she has that skill.
“I’m Whitney.” She jumps in front of him.
He ignores her as he begins to pace. “Titan!” he snaps.
“What?” I glance up at him.
His jaw is set in a hard line. He stops pacing and places his tatted knuckles on my desk. Leaning over, he speaks quietly to me. “Did you know about this?”
“And who are you?” Whitney asks, still going on.
He turns his head to look over at her, and her eyes widen as she takes a step back. Bones can have that effect on you. His fuck you attitude can turn anyone away.
I stand from behind my desk, grab her upper arm, and shove her out of the room as she protests. “Everyone out!” I order to the other three, who exit without argument. Slamming the door shut, I go back to my desk.
I pick up the paper and read over it. And sure enough, it’s about Grave. Kingdom heir arrested for DUI. And then it shows his mugshot. “No surprise there,” I say, tossing it back down.
Bones pushes off my desk. “I’m going to fucking kill him myself.”
I wouldn’t put it past him.
“We need to do something. I will not let him throw away his life.” He shakes his head. “Not like …”
“As much as I hate it, there’s nothing you can do,” I tell him regretfully.
His younger brother has a death wish. Been that way since we were kids. And the man isn’t going to change now. He loves the drugs, the women, and the booze. Not to mention his addiction to fighting and gambling. “He’s an adult—”
“I don’t care what he is,” he interrupts me. “What I care is how he drags Kingdom’s name through the mud.” He sighs. “One day, I’m gonna get a call to identify his body.”
“In Grave’s defense, that could happen to any of us.” The four of us are not careful with our lives. One of our best friends is Luca Bianchi—the son of a Don and head of the mafia here in Vegas. We recently helped him kill and bury several bodies.
“Really?” he snaps at me. “When was the last time you were arrested?”
“Let me talk to him,” I offer, ignoring his question.
He snorts.
I sit back down in my seat. “Seriously. I’ll take him out this weekend. Just feel him out.” I gesture at the paper on my desk. “You know how reporters lie about shit. Maybe what is written and what actually happened are two different things.” Doubtful, but it was worth a try. I’ll have to ask Cross if he was there with him. And if he wasn’t, then that’s who Grave would have called to bail him out.
He snatches the paper off my desk. Wads it up and tosses it into my trash. “Fine. But if you don’t talk some sense into him, my fists are going to.”
My cell rings, and I pick it up. “Hello?” I ask as Bones plops down in the chair across from my desk, letting out an annoyed sigh.
“Titan. I have something you might want to know,” the man says in greeting.
“What is it?” I ask, closing my eyes, wishing this damn day was over. The bitch just started.
“Nick York passed away.”
They pop open. “When?” I demand, and Bones sits up straight, noticing the change in my voice.
“Last week. Heart attack.”
I hang up.
“What was that about?” he asks.
I set my phone on the desk and lean back in my seat. “Nick York passed away. Heart attack.”
His brows rise. “Interesting.”
That is interesting, considering that Bones used to fuck his only daughter. And the fact that his business partner owes us five hundred thousand dollars.
That is very interesting. I pick up my phone and make another call.
EMILEE
Standing at the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the Las Vegas Strip, I don’t see the casinos or tourists that walk the streets with their phones out, taking picture after picture. Instead, all I see are my blue puffy eyes and runny nose. I quickly wipe the tears away that silently continue to come no matter how much I try to stop them.
My body is heavy. My chest tight, and my heart is shattered.
Two months ago, I found out that my mother was sick. She is going to die; the doctor had said. There is nothing we can do, he had added. I’ve spent the past two months trying to prepare myself to tell her goodbye. To find a way to be at peace that her suffering will end, and she will no longer be in pain.
But I could have never prepared myself for this.
Two days ago
Sitting on the floor in the middle of my Chicago apartment with boxes surrounding me, I have one open between my legs. I’m shoving scarfs into it when I hear my phone ring in the other room.
I let out a long breath, blowing the loose strands from my ponytail off my face as I debate whether I want to answer it or not.
I’ve been avoiding my friends and their endless questions that will come when I answer. I went home to Vegas a couple of months ago and was told that my mother is dying. My time is limited. I had to come back to get a few things in order and pack up my apartment while putting it up for sale. While I was there, one of my best friends, Jasmine, had called me, and I told her what happened. I should have kept my mouth shut, but it was like vomit. I was unable to hold in the emotions that flooded me. I told her. I know she’s spoken to our other best friend Haven by now. She’s been blowing up my phone, but I just don’t have the words. I don’t have the energy to talk about it.
It quits, and I feel relieved. But then it immediately starts up again. Getting to my feet, I step over a few tubs full of clothes and make my way down the hallway to my bedroom at the end. I pick up my phone off my queen-size bed and frown when I see the number.
It’s my father’s business partner. “Hello?” I answer.
“Emilee …” He sighs, and my heart begins to pound.
“Is my mom okay?” I rush out. Maybe my father had to take her to the hospital, and that’s why he didn’t call me himself.
“It’s not her,” he says quietly, and a knot forms in my throat. “You need to get home. Something has happened.”
My father had died.
That was the something. In the middle of a meeting, he stood from his chair and fell to his knees, then went down face-first from a massive heart attack.
“Emilee?”
I jump back from the glass and drop my phone. “Yes?” I sniff, wiping my face once again. Turning around, I see my father’s assistant standing before me. She can’t even give me a smile to comfort me. What little makeup she wore today is smeared across her face. She has worked for my father for over twenty-five years. She took the news as bad as I did because he was like a brother to her.
“He’s ready for you,” she says before turning her back to me and walks over to her desk.
“Thank you,” I mumble so low I’m not even sure if she can hear me. I kneel, picking up my phone off the white marble floor where I had dropped it and bite my bottom lip, trying to calm my breathing. Nervously, I run my hands over my hair. I have it up in a tight bun, and my stomach growls as a result of not eating since … I don’t know when. Food has been the last thing on my mind. And what little I have eaten; I can’t keep down. My nerves keep getting the best of me.
The fear.
The sadness.
The deep fucking hole in my chest.
It’s all too much.
I’m not a stranger to death. My mother’s mom died when I was eight, and I remember her service. How my mom was too weak to stand. My father had to practically carry her back to our car. She couldn’t get out of bed for weeks.
Nanny’s death crippled our family. Literally. My grandpa died three months later, and my mother swore it was from a broken heart. And it put her back in bed for longer than when she lost her mother. Both of her parents were gone, and she had no one else. She was an only child. Nanny and Pappa had her when they were in their mid-forties, so all her aunts and uncles were already gone. All she had left was my dad and me. But at times, I didn’t think we were enough. She never seemed to have recovered from the loss.
The older I got, the more family members passed away. My father’s parents died when I was sixteen in a fiery car crash. But he didn’t crumple like my mother did when she lost her parents. No, he didn’t miss a beat. He went on with his life as though nothing ever happened. He was strong; the exact opposite of my mother and me.
“Emilee?” Mrs. Williams asks, noticing my hesitation.
Nodding, I turn, walking down the long hallway past the photos of my father and his business partner that hang on the wall. They own a construction company and have built more structures than I can count over the years here in Las Vegas.
I try to calm my heavy breathing as my heels clap on the floor. Pulling my shoulders back, I grab the door handle and push it open. Stepping into the office, I pause. It’s empty. “I thought you said he was waiting for me?” I manage to get out, poking my head out of the room.
“He is.” I hear her voice travel to me from the front. “He’s in your father’s office.”
My head whips around. “He’s what?” This time, she doesn’t respond.
Shutting the door, I walk to the next one and shove it open. “Why are you …?”
“Here she is.” George stands from my father’s seat, and my heart stops to see him there.
My father wanted this office for the view. He loved Las Vegas. It’s on the corner of the building, on the thirty-fifth floor. Fifty percent of the large room has floor-to-ceiling windows. He said there was not a better view in Nevada. When he would have to work late, my mother would bring him dinner. We’d have a picnic on his office floor as we watched the city light up the sky, and he would show us where his next project was going to be.
This was his space. His home away from home. And now George is going to take it over as if it were always his.
That’s what makes me so nervous about this meeting. George insisted that I come here after the service. He said he needed to see me, and that it was important. “Mr. Yan, this is Emilee York.” He introduces me to my father’s attorney.
The man stands from his chair and reaches out his right hand, and I take it in mine. “I’m sorry we have to meet under these circumstances,” he offers. His dark eyes seem saddened by the situation, but I don’t trust him.
I had just met him at the funeral. We didn’t speak, but I knew who he was because George had pointed him out to me. I didn’t pay much attention to him then, but now, as I take in his Armani suit and welcoming smile, I don’t like him. If he’s my father’s attorney, why am I just now meeting him?
I give him the weakest smile I can muster and take the seat across from the desk, pushing my black dress farther down my legs. It’s not short by any means. It falls just to my knees in this position, but sitting here with both of them makes me uncomfortable. Too exposed. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m in this room, knowing my father won’t be walking in anytime soon. To hug me. To hold me. To love me.
I do a quick scan of his desk and see all his pictures of my mom and me are gone. The few boxes over in the corner give me an idea of what happened to them.
I blink, trying to hold the tears that sting my tired eyes at bay.
George’s creamy brown eyes look over my face, lingering on my lips, and I shuffle in my seat. Wanting to get the hell out of here, I clear my throat. “You needed to see me?”
Yan hands me a piece of paper, and I read it over. It’s all bullshit words that I can’t even pronounce let alone know the meaning of. It’s in fucking attorney lingo. I blink. “I don’t understand.”
George sits back in his seat. “It’s simple, Emilee. Your father had a will. Well, a trust.”
I nod. “Okay.” I’m not surprised. My father was always preparing for the unexpected, and he understood that death was a part of life. He wanted my mother and me to be taken care of. “Are we going to have a get-together for a reading of the will?” That’s what we did when my father’s parents passed. They were billionaires and had two kids, my father and my uncle Jack. We had to fly to Texas and meet with their attorney, and he named off every asset that they had left to their children. It did not go over well. They left my father over seventy-five percent of their fortune. My uncle was pissed. I haven’t seen him since.
“That’s what this is.” George points at the papers that I still hold.
“I don’t understand.” I look back down at it. I don’t see my mom or me mentioned anywhere on it.
“He has made me the executor,” George announces.
“And?” I lick my dry lips.
“And I’m in charge of everything.”
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. “What do you mean? Everything?”
“We were fifty-fifty partners in York and Wilton Construction. We started it together right out of college,” he rambles.
Yeah, with my father’s money. He acts like I don’t know him. “The house?” That’s what I care about. Making sure my mother has a place to stay is the most important part.
George looks over at Mr. Yan and then back at me. “Also mine.”
I stand. “I don’t see how it can be yours,” I growl, getting pissy. “It’s in my father’s name.” He built her that house five years ago. It was exactly what she always wanted. She designed everything from the mosaic tiles and the crystal chandeliers to the color of paint in the closets. She had rugs flown in from Paris that she designed, for God’s sake.
“No. It’s in the company’s name.” He opens a desk drawer and pulls out an envelope. “And your father and I had an agreement.”
“What kind of agreement?” I ask, trying to catch my breath.
He slides it across the surface, but I make no move to pick it up.
Sitting back, he crosses his arms over his chest. “If one of us passes, the remaining partner has first dibs at their shares of the company for a pre-determined amount.” He nods at Yan. “It’s stated in that document. Black and white.”
I pick up the envelope and hold it in my hand. The room falls silent as I gently pull the tab back and look inside with shaky hands. “It’s a dollar.” I look up at him.
He nods. “That’s what we agreed upon.”
I put it back on the desk and rub a hand down my face, releasing a long breath. “What about my mother? She is his wife. She is legally entitled to what was his.” Not like my mother would want fifty percent of the company—she never showed any interest—but she could sell my father’s shares and that money could take care of what little time she has left.
Mr. Yan and George exchange a look.
Slamming my hands on the desk, I stand. “Quit bullshitting me.” I may not be an attorney, but I’m not an idiot. He can’t possibly take the house just because it’s written in a trust. It may be in the company’s name, but it should go to my mother. His wife.
George opens up the desk drawer again and hands me a black folder.
“What the hell is this?” I ask, mentally tired. He doesn’t respond. I fall into the chair and rip it open. Pulling the papers out, I read over them, and my heart begins to pound in my chest. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Emilee.” George speaks. “They wanted to tell you …”
“I don’t believe it.” I shake my head as tears prick my eyes. Divorce. They got a divorce. “Two years ago?” I read both of their signatures and dates. “But …” I want to say that I’ve seen them together, but I haven’t. Not since I graduated college and moved to Chicago. But wouldn’t they have told me? That’s fucking important. “This is bullshit!”
“They didn’t want to burden you with their differences,” Mr. Yan adds. “But unfortunately, when they got a divorce, she was no longer covered under the company’s health insurance.”
I let out a rough laugh because this is a joke. It has to be.
“Mr. Wilton will continue to pay for her care.”
“So, that’s what this is about?” Growling, I stand and begin to pace the room, my heels sinking into the thick rug. Now he’s going to take care of her? At what cost? Is the first thought that comes to mind. But a part of me already knows that answer, so I refuse to ask it out loud. I won’t give him that satisfaction. “This can’t be happening.” I sigh.
The attorney reaches into his folder and hands me another piece of paper, forcing me to stop. “He had a separate policy for you.”
I try to scan it over, but I don’t really know half the shit it’s saying until I get to three million dollars. Then my eyes read the next part. “Thirty-five?” I ask, looking at him.
He nods. “At thirty-five, you will receive access to your inheritance.”
That’s eleven more years. “Are you the executor?” I snap at George.
He gives me that snake-like smile and shakes his head. “No.”
I throw the papers to the floor.
My father is dead.
My parents are divorced.
And George controls fucking everything.
This is a nightmare I just need to wake up from.
Yan stands. “Until then, Mr. Wilton has controlling interest over the company and estate. You two can talk amongst yourself and figure the rest out.” He gathers up his things, and George stands, walking him to the door and seeing him out.
Figure the rest out? What kind of attorney says that? The moment I leave this office, I’m going to hire my own.
George comes back and sits down at the desk. I look at him, and he sighs heavily. “This is not the situation I wanted, Emilee.”
“Then hand it over to me,” I challenge him.
He smiles softly. “That is not what your father wanted.”
I look away. “The house? Give me the house.” It’s paid for. I know this because my father built the house for my mother. He was so proud of it, and she cherished it. He could hand it over to me, and I could borrow against it. That will be enough for me to cover my mother’s medical expenses on my own. I don’t want to owe this man a single dollar.
“It’s in the company’s name,” he repeats. “I am the company.”
I feel tears sting my eyes. Is that even possible? “So are you gonna kick us out?” I ask, and my throat tightens at the words. Make me pay rent? My mom spends a lot of time at the hospital. She’s seeking treatment even though we all know it won’t do her any good. She’s going to die. The clock has started ticking. And as much as I hate losing her, I need to accept it and spend what little time she has left with her.
I look back at him, and my brows pull together. Why does he have this shit-eating grin on his face?
I’ve been away from Las Vegas two years now. I haven’t come home enough. I know that now. So much was happening that I didn’t even know of. I wish I could go back and spend more time with them, but it’s too late. He’s gone. She’s fading. And I’m going to be left here with this sorry piece of shit.
He leans forward, placing his forearms on the desk. “Do you want to stay?” My heart beats faster at his words before his eyes drop to my chest. “In the house, that is?”
I look down at my hands fisted in my lap as the tears blur my vision. I knew it.
He’s always been a fucking perv. My father chose him as a business partner because they were best friends, but that doesn’t make him a good human being. There’s a reason snakes hide in the grass.
“What do you want?” I ask even though I already know. I can’t move my mom to Chicago when all of her doctors are here. I won’t do that to her. She would want to stay here in her house to live out what remaining time she has left. Plus, my apartment is on the third floor. She would never be able to get up and down the floors easily. Even if she did take the elevator.
“It’s simple really.” He gets up, and I stiffen, keeping my head down.
My body begins to shake. I hear him behind me, but I don’t turn around. Seconds later, he comes back to sit at the desk in my father’s seat and pours a glass of scotch. He slides it to me and pours another one for himself. But I’m surprised when he slides that one to me as well. “You want your mother taken care of. And I want you.”
He watches the tear run down my cheek and smiles. I stand. “No,” I say and turn to walk toward the door. I’ll find a way …
“She needs healthcare.” My hand pauses on the doorknob. “You can’t cover her under yours because you no longer have one after quitting your job. You could try to get her, her own policy now, but I doubt anyone would touch her. They don’t like to dish out money for terminally ill patients. Do you make millions of dollars a year, Emilee? Do you make enough to pay for her treatment out of pocket?”
I close my eyes, and my shoulders fall. We both know I can’t.
“She’s got maybe four months left.” He adds. “Even if the treatment doesn’t work, don’t you want her to be comfortable?”
I spin around, and my eyes glare at him. “You’re a sorry bastard.”
He gives me a smirk. “Your father put you in this position. Not me, honey.”
“You’re taking advantage of it,” I snap. But I don’t believe him. My father would not do this to me. To my mother. He loved us. He would have taken care of us. No matter what.
He shrugs. “Take it or leave it, Emilee.” Then he dismisses me, turning to the computer.
Storming over to my father’s desk, I smack my hands down on it. He looks up at me. “I won’t …”
“Careful, Emilee. Think long and hard before you answer. I’m the man of the house now.”
I scoff. “You may have a dick and balls, but you’re not a fucking man.”
He slaps me across the face so hard it has my entire body whipping around, and I fall flat on my face. Pain explodes in my cheek, and my breath is taken away from the impact to the hard floor. My eyes sting, and my cheek throbs. I close my eyes, biting my lip to keep from making a sound when I want to scream from the pain.
He sighs heavily from above me.
I sit up and look down to my legs and notice my dress has ridden up. I grab the hem and shove it down quickly, trying to cover myself up.
His dark chuckle fills the large office.
The door opens, and my head whips up to see a woman about my age walk in with several pieces of paper in her hand. She doesn’t acknowledge me in any way. “Here are the papers for Miss Lee, sir.”
That’s my mom’s maiden name.
He takes them from her, saying nothing, and she leaves just as quickly as she entered.
He tosses one to the floor in front of me, and I pick it up. I read over it, and it’s a medical bill. Twenty-five thousand dollars and thirty cents. I swallow the lump that starts to suffocate me.
I look up to meet his eyes and they are on my legs. I try to push my dress down farther, but it’s pulled too tight. I stand. What if he forces me …?
“I’m not gonna rape you, Emilee,” he says as if reading my mind, and my breathing picks up.
Then his eyes run up my body, hovering on my chest before finally meeting mine. “No, you’re going to open those pretty legs of yours and allow me to fuck that pussy all on your own.”
My entire body goes rigid, and a coldness sets in my bones. His words sound so final as though my future is already decided. He knows he has me at a disadvantage. I don’t have the kind of money for my mom’s care, and I don’t have any way to make that much, that fast. And I won’t allow her to go without the best care money can buy.
It’s extortion. But what can I do? How do I prove that?
He picks up the scotch he poured and hands it to me, saying nothing.
I hold it in my hand and look at the amber liquid. It’s like he’s offering me a present. Something that can dull the pain, but it won’t be enough. I’m a cheap drunk, but I’m not a whore. I don’t sleep around. I don’t spread my legs for any guy who looks my way.
He reaches out, and I stiffen when I feel his hand on my thigh. I swallow the bile and spin around quickly to face him and throw the drink in his face. “I will not let you do this to me or my mother.”
“You little bitch.” He reaches for me, but I run for the door and yank it open, hitting him in the face. He falls onto his ass at the impact.
I run like hell down the hall.
“Emilee?” my father’s assistant calls out my name, but I ignore her as I take the emergency exit, not even bothering to wait for the elevator.
