Charles was talking a mile a minute into the phone. "I remember this one time we were all fucking loaded as shit. You shouted out, ‘I can move at the speed of sound,’ and you climbed on the banister of our fucking stairs, straddling the railing. Then I said, ‘You look like you're riding a motorcycle.’ And then you said, ‘A motorcycle that runs on fucking speed.’ Then I said, ‘Yeah, a speed motorcycle.’

“You laughed your fucking ass off, and then you said, ‘If I ever start my own company, I'm going to call it Speed Motorcycles,’ and I said, ‘Yeah, you should totally fucking do that, only I want half because it was my idea.’

“Well, guess what buddy? It's time to pay up my fucking half."

"You're out of your fucking mind. Good night, Charles," I said, feeling annoyed.

"No, I went to see a lawyer today after you threw me out of your office. He agrees, I've got a claim. We came up with the idea together. You owe me half the money from your company, but I'm willing to settle out of court. Give me a million even, and we'll call it fair."

"That's bullshit. You might have a lawyer, but that claim will never make it to court. Any judge will throw it out as being ridiculous, and if you can find one who will listen to you, I've got a team of lawyers that will bury you under 50 tons of paper. Forget the whole thing. Sober up, Charles. Get yourself into rehab."

"Fine. You might be able to keep a judge from hearing my story, but someone else will listen to it. I've got an appointment with Becky Wilson tomorrow."

"What are you talking about?" I tried to sound like I didn't give a shit, but suddenly, this asshole had my attention. Becky Wilson was a primetime anchor, well respected by the media. Any story she reported on went global.

"I've seen how they've been pushing you in interviews, trying to get you to say how you came up with the name of the company, and I know why you don't want to say. Now that you're a billionaire and the owner of this fancy company, you think you’re too good for us. You don't want the public to know you used to take speed for breakfast and that you were flying high that entire first year you built the company. You don't want anyone knowing what I know."

"Now hang on just a minute, Charles." My voice was stern as I struggled to hold in my anger.

"No, you hang on. I was the one who gave you your first hit. I've seen you when you were so fucking high, you didn't even know what planet you were on. I was there when you were so fucking low, you'd have done anything to score more speed."

"I'm not that guy anymore. I stopped using that shit a long time ago. When Gwyneth dumped me, it was a wake-up call. I went into rehab, and I haven't touched the stuff since. I've been clean 20 years."

"That will make an inspirational story for the newspapers then, won't it? I'll tell them all about how doped up you were taking huge doses of speed just to get high.

Gwyneth can back me up, confirming the story for the reporters. I bet the rehab center has records of your stay, too. The papers will pay me top dollar for dirt like that. I'll bet I can get six figures out of them, unless you'd like to top it."

"You're blackmailing me to keep this quiet? Fuck you." Now, I was really pissed.

"What do you think your investors at your company will think of the Ethan Colson the cokehead? How many advertisers will you lose? How many buyers will go someplace else? Once the story gets out, everyone will associate Speed Motorcycles with doing speed, and you know it. It will become a joke. You'll never be able to shake the stigma once it starts. You'll be laughed right out of business."

I knew he was right. All those motorcycles all across the country with my logo Speed emblazoned across the chassis will be mocked. No amount of P.R. will be able to fix it. My brand will be ruined and everything I'd worked my entire life for will be lost.

"Shit! Are you out of your fucking mind? You're trying to ruin me. Well, I won't let it happen. I'll destroy you first," I shouted into the phone. I was gripping it so hard, my hand hurt and I had to force myself to put it down. On the other end of line, I could hear Charles laughing.

"Meet me tomorrow outside my lawyer’s office. Give me a check for one million dollars, or I go inside and make up a contract to sell my story to the papers. Either they'll pay me, or you will. It makes no difference to me; either way, I'm getting what's mine."

The line went dead, and I slammed my phone down onto the counter so hard it shattered.

"Shit," I shouted out. That's when I saw Kayla standing in the doorway looking sexy as ever in nothing but a towel.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, putting her arms around me and kissing me tenderly. God, she tasted so good.

"It's just a problem at work I have to take care of tomorrow." It wasn't exactly a lie; it just wasn't exactly the truth.

"Well, let's go to bed then. You'll feel better with a good night's sleep," she said, running her manicured fingers through my hair soothingly. It made my dick hard and I grabbed her ass, squeezing her close to me.

"Actually, I think I need something else to make me feel better." I grinned at her with a horny leer.

"Ready so soon?" Her face brightened and I nodded.

"I'm always ready for you," I said. Holding Kayla in my arms, I kissed her passionately. The towel she was wrapped in fell to the floor, and her naked breasts pressed against my bare chest. In that moment, everything else was forgotten. I was no longer thinking about Charles Dorsey and his bullshit lawsuit or worried about if I should just pay him the blackmail bribe. Nothing else mattered when I was Kayla, except how good I wanted to make her feel.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Kayla

Ethan kissed me with such fiery passion, it stole my breath away. I could hardly believe he was ready to make love again so quickly, but feeling his erection pressing into my bare thigh through the fabric of his towel aroused me, too, and I let my towel drop to the floor.

Tags: Claire Adams Erotic
Source: readsnovelonline.net