Never Say Forever

As Aimee clears her throat pointedly, I look. It’s obvious how she got a job straight out of a Bronx high school in what was once the most prestigious building in midtown Manhattan. My grandfather probably had her in his sights, adding poor and pretty to the labels he liked. But I like to think she’d have nailed him in the nuts because Aimee Morales is nobody’s fool.

I’m sure it looked like kindness or altruism or maybe madness when she was the only person on the executive floor who kept her job after he died. Once I’d cleared out the sycophants, that is, which seemed okay with the board at the time.

The board. Those poor bastards didn’t know whether they were coming of going considering dear old grandaddy left me the controlling share. I find myself smiling as I recall my short reign of havoc. Until I remember Aimee’s presence and note the quizzical look she’s giving me.

But the fact Aimee still works for me has a little to do with my expectations of her at that time, which isn’t a compliment, I expect, to either of us. She was so far down the totem pole, I thought in promoting her to my executive assistant, her inexperience would only help me fuck things up. Fuck up his legacy. It’s probably weird that a part of me takes pride in the fact that she’s a hell of a lot more competent than I gave her credit for. Competent. Ambitious. Even a little bit scary to some.

Fucking over Hayes Industries was the original plan, selling it off piecemeal until the company was nothing but dust. That was pure and unadulterated hate, brought on by finding out what kind of man he truly was. But it didn’t take me long to realise that the cost of my rage wasn’t rained down on only my name. Other people were suffering, Hayes employees. Thousands of livelihoods worldwide. His workforce was now my workforce. Men and women with families to feed and bills to pay are those without the kind of independent wealth that can make an asshole out of a man.

Yeah, I’ll admit I was an asshole about inheriting. But I swallowed it all down and took my revenge elsewhere because I’m not a fucking ogre. I’m just the man who happens to have ogre-sized anal beads that his assistant is eyeing on his desk.

“Is there a problem, Emmie?”

Her eyes dart to mine before returning to the ripstarter. “I, er, no. That is . . .”

“I know it looks like something that might tow a boat, but I’m not thinking about buying a yacht.” Been there, done that, bought the self-indulgent T-shirt. “They’re actually anal beads, if you’re wondering.” Her expression suffuses with pink as I pick them up by the end, relegating the unholy rosary to the deepest drawer of my desk. “They came in the mail.” I sigh. “Maybe a joke?”

“Yes, right. Okay. I see.” So many affirmatives, though she doesn’t look at all convinced.

“Or maybe someone’s idea of telling me I’m a colossal asshole.” The colour in her cheeks suddenly fades. “You didn’t happen to send them, did you?” Narrowing my eyes, I point finger guns her way.

“I wouldn’t even know where to buy such a thing.”

“You don’t surf the dark web in your spare time?”

“No more than you hang around dingy sex shops. Besides, if I was going to send you an insult, I want to be sure you knew it was from me. And I wouldn’t be addressing it to kinky nobody.”

I’ve always found there’s something about sex toys that feel a little . . . prescribed. Pedestrian. If you’ve got an imagination, you should use it. Same goes for fingers and a tongue. There is nothing sexy about pulling out a bright pink piece of plastic. Or worse still, the kind of pink that’s flesh-toned. Actually, why are most sex toys so strange?

“You’d probably send me a chocolate dick to choke on, right?”

“I’m not that generous.”

“All right.” With a sigh, I hold out my hand for the paperwork. “Give it to me.”

She cocks a brow as she drops the folder to the desk, springing back as though it’s contaminated.

“As far as I know, anal isn’t catching.”

“It’s his desk that I’m avoiding. Why can’t you get new furniture?”

“Superstitious, Emmie?”

“No, but my abuela is tired of bringing me holy water to douse it with. I’m gonna start charging you on my expenses for sage I use to smudge the office, too.”

“You’re sure your God would agree with you flirting with pagan rituals?”

“I like to cover all bases,” she says, pressing her forefinger to the middle of her glasses to raise the frames. “Besides, me and God? We have an understanding.”

Since when has Aimee worn glasses? And why did I find that whole movement hot?