Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 113272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 113272 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 566(@200wpm)___ 453(@250wpm)___ 378(@300wpm)
One disaster at a time. I had my stepmom to deal with today.
“Not anytime soon. Your staff’s been slacking off. I’m picking up the work you’ve left here.”
“Vicious,” he grated out through what sounded like clenched teeth.
Our six-year-old enterprise, Fiscal Heights Holdings, was so successful, we had four branches: New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, and London. Normally, Dean was in New York and I was in Los Angeles. Sergio and his stupid lawsuit had brought me here. I was the one who used my mouth for more than sweet-talking and licking ass. If we needed someone to soften a client, we sent Trent. But if shit got nasty and the situation called for intimidation or legal ruthlessness, I was the one on call.
Meanwhile, Dean was taking the opportunity to check on our Los Angeles branch. We did it from time to time, all four of us. Switched scenery, shook things up. As a token of our friendship, we stayed at each other’s places. The four of us co-owned all of our residences. We were a family, and in the upper class, nothing said family like mingled estates and funds.
Normally, I didn’t mind, even though I knew Trent and Dean would dip their sausages in every single honeypot within a twenty-mile radius of my condo. Those fuckers had probably bedded half of Los Angeles in my crib, but that’s what I had a maid for.
And a PA who made sure the sheets they used were thrown out—or better yet, burned—before we switched back.
This time, I especially didn’t mind Dean staying at my condo. I wasn’t prepared to drag my ass out of his apartment either.
Our New York branch was a mess, and I did need a personal assistant to sort it out. Sadly for Help, she was going to get dumped right after I was done with her. I couldn’t let her work for Dean.
Not that he would even want to see her fucking face ever again.
She was dead to him. From his point of view, deservingly so. Anyway, that was her problem, not mine.
“Wrap it up, Vic.” He called me by my nickname. Calling me Vicious in public had become professionally inconvenient in recent years, so now everyone just assumed Vic was short for Victor. “I want my apartment back. I want my office back. I want my fucking life back.”
“And I want to live in a place where you don’t have to give the taxi driver the exact fucking route like you work for them and not vice versa. Don’t worry, I won’t outstay my welcome.”
“Newsflash, douchebag.” He laughed again. “You already have.”
I could hear the woman beside him yawn loudly. “Hey, babe, can we go to sleep?”
“Can you sit on my face while we do?” Dean answered.
I rolled my eyes. “Have a nice day, shit-face.”
“Yeah, go eat a rotten ass. But not on my bed,” he said, then the line went dead.
Just in time, as I had a visitor.
“Good morning, Mr. Spencer! I brought you your coffee and breakfast. A three egg-white omelet on a slice of whole wheat toast with a side of freshly cut strawberries.”
I barely listened to the chirpy voice but turned around in my chair. “And you are?” I checked out the woman in front of me. Her hair was so blonde it was almost as white as her big smile. Taller and thinner than the national average. And her suit. St. John, a recent collection.
Maybe I wasn’t that far off with the outrageous salary I’d offered Help. Hey, it was New York after all.
“I’m Sue! Dean’s PA.” She was still bubbly. “I’ve been working for you for almost two weeks.” Her smile was still creepily intact.
Right. On second glance, she did look familiar.
“Nice to meet you, Sue. You’re fucking fired, Sue. Collect your shit and leave, Sue.”
Sue suddenly looked crestfallen. I was actually relieved for her. Until now, she’d looked like a bad plastic surgeon had sewn that eerie smile on her face.
Her cheeks paled under her heavy makeup, and her mouth fell open. “Sir, you can’t fire me.”
“I can’t?” I arched an eyebrow, feigning interest.
I woke up my Dell—fuck MacBook and fuck all the hipster posers who preferred Macs, Dean included—and double-clicked on the proposal I was working on. I was staging a hostile takeover, a surprise attack on a company that competed with one of our holdings, and fucking Sue was keeping me from finishing the last tweaks. My breakfast plate was still clutched between her French-manicured fingers, and I was hoping she could leave it on my desk before she left.
I clicked on the side comments I’d made on the Word doc last night, after I left Help’s, to make sure my proposal was airtight. My eyes never left the screen. “Give me one reason why not.”
“Because I’ve been working for Dean for two years now. I was employee of the month back in June. And, I have a contract. If I’ve done something wrong, you’re supposed to give me a written warning first. This is wrongful termination of my employment.”