Chapter 9: Taming Mr. Walker: Chapter 9

Charlie

I get a guilty message from Suze with three kisses, saying she’s waiting in Starbucks a few doors down. As the cold air outside hits me, I’ve never felt so happy to live in a country with shite weather.

I walk into Starbucks to see her enjoying a Grande latte with cream on top and a large carrot cake.

“I’m so sorry, Charlie.” She has the good sense to look guilty. “Are you mad at me? I couldn’t breathe. I thought I was having a heart attack. I thought the walls were closing in. I just had to get out of there. I was drowning in my own sweat.”

“Tell me about it.” I shoot her a filthy look. “You had ten whole minutes. I had to endure ninety minutes of sweat going into cracks where sweat shouldn’t be. Not just my sweat either.”

Suze screws up her face as I lean over the table. “I wouldn’t have minded waiting for you to take a shower. You look absolutely drenched. Your hair—”

Seeing my expression, she trails off. I know how my hair looks. It’s like a soaking floor mop stuck to my forehead.

“The shower queue was too long,” I reply, gritting my teeth. “Now I’m going to have to sneak into work like this and shower there.”

“Oh.” She chews on her lip nervously. “Did it get easier?”

“No. It was horrific. I’d prefer to stick chillies in my eyes.”

“So, you didn’t enjoy it?”

My eyes narrow.

“No. Did you enjoy Starbucks?”

“Ah come on, Charl,” she whimpers. “I’m sorry. If I could physically stay in there, I would have. I’m like a big heat sponge. And I’d eaten an omelette before I came out. My poor bowel was quivering.”

“You aren’t going to make any progress if you only stick at it for ten minutes,” I snap and immediately regret my harsh words.

“Perhaps next time, try it without the heat first,” I offer more softly.

“Uh-huh.” She nods. “You wanna share a muffin?”

I shake my head. “I need to shower before the Starbucks staff throw me out.”

***

I sneak in through the office doors at 7:45 a.m., getting some sideways glances from the security guards.

Thankfully at this time of the morning, few people will be in the office, except for the hardcore developers who don’t sleep.

The showers are on the lower ground floor, meaning it’s unlikely I’ll be spotted.

My shorts and T-shirt are moulded to me like a wet T-shirt competition. My shorts are offensively short. Porno short. They were never supposed to be worn outside of a gym.

I look like a prostitute who has swum in a river.

I fumble around in my bag between my work clothes and laptop.

Shit! I don’t have my towel.

How the hell did I forget that? Now I have to go up to the fourth floor and get my spare.

Stealthily, I enter the elevator at the lower ground reception. So far, so good. There’s no life around yet except for the security guards.

My reflection hits me in the elevator mirror. It’s worse than I thought.

I’m soaking.

My shorts and T-shirt cling to every bone and bump in my body. There’s a full outline of my bra and pants.

The elevator pings open, and I run to my desk, bending my knees to stay low.

A few developers sit with headphones in their ears, eyes glued to the screens. They don’t acknowledge me. It would take a hurricane to distract a coder.

I make it to my desk and hunker down to open my drawer. Yes! The blue towel is still here from when I brought it in last year.

There’s a slow whistle behind me. I jump and bang my head on the desk.

My eyes snap up to find Dylan Anderson smirking at me. As he evaluates my outfit or lack thereof, his eyes balloon. Dirty Dylan, we call him for his lechering on anyone with a pair of ovaries.

“Aren’t I glad I came in early this morning? That is one glorious sight.”

I cross my arms over my chest as his eyes move from breast to breast. “Piss off, Dylan.”

“Come on, Kane, you don’t walk around the office like that without expecting a little attention.”

“I’m not after your bloody attention,” I spit out the words. “If I could spoon out your dirty little eyes, I would. Go and slide back under the stone you crawled out from under. I’m just here to get a towel.”

He leans in and places a hand on my sticky arm. “If you need a hand scrubbing your back … Oh shit …”

He jerks away, his eyes popping.

I flip around to see what has distracted him.

Danny Walker storms towards us, eyes blazing.

I recall Tristan saying he did a few years in the military when he was younger, and now I can see why. He approaches like a tank, ready to go into combat with his enemies.

His intense eyes lock with mine.

“Mr. Walker,” Dylan stammers, retreating backward.

Danny

Ten minutes earlier.

“How do we stop it from getting to press?” I bark down the speaker-phone.

There’s hesitation on the other end. “I’ve made all the calls I can, bro, but they want to run this article. It’s too hot to pull.”

I run my hands through my hair and scan the article again in disgust. I’ve had many smear campaigns against me these past few years, but this is beyond scandalous.

Sam Lynden.

The prick that took me to the cleaners for shoving him when he was threatening his girlfriend, my own employee.

It was nothing more than a jostle. Of course, she backed his side, left the company, and they both went skipping into the sunset with a big lump of cash.

Now they’re back for more. The article talks about how I sleazed over his girlfriend and tried to force her to sleep with me, then how I attacked her boyfriend when he confronted me.

It’s a crock of lies, but the public won’t question the evidence. Because it fits my ruthless sleazy businessman image, I am guilty de facto.

“Danny?” Karl prompts. There are sirens in the background, and I can tell he’s on his way home from a bar. “Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“It’ll hit the papers tomorrow,” he says firmly. “We need to do damage control. The lawyers are prepped and ready to hit him with a libel defamation case.”

I eye my scotch glasses in the drinks cabinet. No, I need to wait until at least midday.

“Fine.” I exhale hard, half-listening as he explains the plan.

I glance through the floor-to-ceiling glass walls of the office. I’m probably shouting so loudly; the story has already broken in the press.

What the …?

“I have to go, Karl.” I slam down the phone.

She has got to be joking.

She’s bent over her desk in tiny shorts and a T-shirt giving some guy an eyeful of her rear. Her T-shirt is sticking to her, exposing the curve of her breasts. There’s a clear outline of her nipples.

Despite my rage, my cock unhelpfully springs to life.

My company, my office, isn’t a strip club. What’s she playing at? Wearing tiny shorts so that everyone can eye-fuck her?

Is that what she wants, this geezer’s eyes crawling over her skin, her curves?

Is she deliberately trying to get a rise out of me?

Is she trying to fucking seduce me?

The moron at her desk slides his hand up and down her arm.

I fire open the glass door, banging it against the wall. My fists ball up like angry stones as I pace down the centre aisle of the fourth floor.

“You, get the fuck back to your desk,” I snarl to the guy when I’m still at least four metres from them.

My blood pressure is off the scale.

He scuttles off like the rat he is.

Her eyes grow large as I storm towards her, stopping inches away from her face.

“What are you playing at?”

Sweat is beaded everywhere on her body, between the crevices of her breasts, on her forehead, down her legs, there between her legs.

I try not to get hard. Focus, Walker.

My eyes snap back up to her face.

“What?” With a horrified look on her face, she steps backwards.

“You flirt on your own time, not my time,” I growl down at her. “Do you think this is appropriate office attire?”

She stares up at me like I’m insane.

Then she snaps.

“How dare you talk to me like that,” she shrieks, pushing me in the chest. “I’m sorry that my sweaty body brings such offense to the office. You see, I forgot to bring my nun’s habit to Bikram Yoga. I’m sorry I forgot my towel and subjected poor Dylan to the torment of seeing my damp skin. I’m sorry that it caused him such distress he felt the need to offer a helping hand in the shower. I’m so sorry I’m forcing that on him.”

Her jade green eyes flicker with fury.

“In my office, you don’t walk around dressed like a stripper,” I snarl back, struggling to control my breathing.

She blinks. “Are you calling me a stripper?” Her hands flap at her side, and I wonder if she’s going to slap me.

“I’m saying you’re dressed like one.”

Our eyes lock, neither of us backing down.

She waves her hands around the isolated office. A few coders bang keys on keyboards with their heads down. None of them look up, despite the commotion.

That’s coders for you.

“There’s no-one here! It’s not like I’m going to sit in my own sweat all day. I’m grabbing a towel and running to the shower. In fact, I would be done by now if you hadn’t ambushed me. What is your problem?” Her eyes thin into slits. “You think you can dictate where I work, now how I dress? Jackie wears short skirts to the office every day!”

What is my problem?

My problem is that I’m out of control. What am I playing at? We’re a tech company, not a library. I let my staff wear whatever they want. Many of the developers wear jeans with holes in them and frayed T-shirts.

Why do I care what she wears?

She stares at me, demanding an answer.

I need to reign it in. I’m 6’4 and ranting at a girl over a decade younger than me and at least a head shorter. If HR saw me now, they’d be calling in the lawyers. Again.

I clear my throat. “Look, wear what you want, but you can’t just strut around with barely more than a bikini on.”

Hurt flashes across her face. “Excuse me,” she says, her lips in a fine line. “I’m going to take a cold shower.”

She turns on her heels, giving me a view of that glorious backside and those toned legs.

I’m going to need a cold shower too. And anger management classes.