Vicious: Chapter 17

I HAD IT COMING.

Literally and figuratively, I’d created this mess.

Honestly, I was beginning to suspect I simply had a thing for jerks. Or at least this particular one. Case in point: Dean had been charming, nice, and polite to me, and I’d dumped him not once, but twice. Vicious was hot and cold, brutal and rude, yet I’d jumped into bed with him. Four times in six hours. And some of those times weren’t even a bed, which was a definite first for me.

What was wrong with me, allowing him to nail me against his office door?

I saw the way everyone looked at me when I left his office to get his lunch. Patty followed me with her gaze and cocked one eyebrow as I made my way to the elevator, rearranging my dress with one hand and flattening my messy hair with the other.

Then I grabbed Vicious his stupid sandwich.

If I was honest with myself, though, I had to confess I did almost come when he invited me to relocate to Los Angeles. Not because I would entertain the idea of ever moving there—this was a matter of principal; he’d kicked me out and had no right to order me back—but because he’d wanted me around.

I swirled the coffee in my Styrofoam cup with my chewed-on pen and watched him through the glass wall from across the vast reception where I hung out with Patty. The place was dead, but he still insisted that we work the full day.

Vicious was pacing in his office, talking on the phone, which was on speaker, always on speaker, though we couldn’t hear a word from outside.

Patty asked if I could go into his office real quick and see if she could leave early, because she needed to start preparing food for Christmas Eve tomorrow.

“Come on, doll,” she prompted. “My grandchildren need their nana’s shortbread. They don’t like the stuff you buy at the grocery store. We all know it’s crap.”

“Why don’t you go ask him yourself?” I frowned. The answer was obvious, but I knew she mistakenly assumed he’d be nicer to me.

“Please?” She was sitting in her chair, clasping her hands together, her eyes begging me from behind her thick reading glasses. “I just want to see the smile on their faces when I surprise them. Their mother is going through a nasty divorce right now. They’re really looking forward to this dinner with me.”

I remembered long ago Christmases where I’d baked with my own grandmother.

“Fine. I will, when he finishes his call.”

Patty turned her computer screen around for me to see. It was already three o’clock. “I’m not going to beat rush hour as it is. The subway will be packed. Please,” she said again.

I heaved a sigh and approached Vicious’s office on heavy feet, like I was on death row. I knocked on the door, and he turned to scowl at me, which I figured was his version of an invitation to come in. Despite the fact we had just had sex against the very door that now divided us, I didn’t feel comfortable walking into his domain. He was still talking on the phone, his hands on his waist, oozing power and manhood.

I reluctantly walked in.

“Well, did she steal your dick while you were asleep?” Vicious spat into the phone, motioning for me to take a seat in front of him with his finger.

I obliged, throwing a look behind my shoulder and seeing Patty toss her hands in the air, exasperated.

“No,” I heard a male voice grumbling from the intercom.

“Did she rape you?” he continued, his face twisting impatiently.

“Well…no.” The guy he was talking to sighed.

“Did she milk your cock with a juicer, slip your balls into her purse, steal your semen, and run away?”

“No, no, no!” the guy shouted, annoyed.

“Then I’m sorry, Trent, but she didn’t trick you into shit. You willingly fucked her without a condom, and now she’s fucking you legally. I know it’s not what you wanna hear, bro, but if the baby is yours, you’re done.”

My heart pumped hard in my chest. Trent had gotten someone pregnant, and apparently he wasn’t too happy about it. Vicious glanced at me before punching a remote. The blinds in his office automatically closed and the room darkened.

Crap. Patty probably wanted to kill both of us.

I opened my mouth to tell him why I came in, but he waved me off.

“She wants five hundred thousand dollars to get an abortion,” Trent grumbled.

My mouth almost fell to the floor, and Vicious walked around his desk, tilting my chin up and pressing my lips together with a wink. He didn’t seem too worried about his friend.

“Well,” Vicious said. “I’m not the guy for moral advice, but everything about this offer screams fuck no to me.”

“I can afford it,” Trent said, but he groaned.

“I know.” Vicious placed one of his knees between my thighs and spread them apart, bending down to where I sat, and fingering the hem of my dress, watching my panties intently, like he’d never seen them before. “Question is—do you want to?”

“What, you think I should let her have the baby? Should I remind you that she’s a stripper with a weakness for coke?” Trent sounded like he was seething.

Vicious flipped my dress up completely, exposing my panties, and lowered himself so his face was pressed against my sex. My hands squeezed the armrest of the chair as he inhaled deeply with a wolfish grin and kissed my underwear.

“Sounds like a catch.” He bit my clit gently through my boyfriend shorts and slowly dragged his teeth across me, his hooded eyes on me the whole time, watching me squirm in pleasure. “So what did you call me for, exactly?”

He was losing his interest in Trent’s problems, his attention shifting to the spot between my legs.

“Legal advice.”

“I’m not a family law attorney, but my best advice to you as a friend is to use a condom next time and try fucking chicks who are more or less in your tax bracket. Best way to avoid getting dragged into baby-mama drama. Now, excuse me, but my snack for the afternoon has just arrived. Merry Christmas, bro.” With this, he snaked his hand behind him to his desk, lifted the receiver of his office phone and slammed it, his head moving back between my legs.

“I’m not in your tax bracket.” My brows raised and curved.

He flashed me a devilish grin. “You hate me too much to ever want to have my baby. There’s no better contraception than a woman who wants nothing to do with your sperm.”

I rolled my eyes and smoothed his dress shirt. “Listen, Patty wants to leave early to get a head start on the Christmas Eve meal she has to prepare.”

“Okay. Who the fuck is Patty?” he asked, in all seriousness.

My nostrils flared. “Your receptionist.”

“No one leaves early,” he snapped, resolute. He lowered himself back to my groin.

“Vic…” I dragged him by his tie to me and pressed my lips against his. He immediately reciprocated, sucking on my lip and licking every corner of my mouth. Our lips broke apart in a wet pop.

“Mmm?”

“Please. A little Christmas spirit wouldn’t kill you.”

“But going soft on my employees just might kill my company.”

“It’s not even your branch,” I argued. “She’s Dean’s employee, and not for long. She’s retiring next month.”

He pulled away and looked at me. That seemed to pacify him.

“Why are you so good?” His thumb rubbed my clit through my panties absentmindedly.

“Why are you so bad?” I retorted, teeth chattering with pleasure.

“Because it’s fun.”

“You should try being nice. It’s even more fun.”

“Doubt it.”

He was still rubbing me. I hoped he was going to let me come or stop talking, because I couldn’t have this conversation while he played with my body like it was his favorite toy.

“So can I let Patty know she can go?”

“Only if you let me fuck you in my Jacuzzi tonight.”

“That sounds like blackmail.” I bit my lower lip to suppress a moan.

“No. It sounds like fun.”

It was futile to try and sway him against the idea. I wanted it just as bad as he did, if not more. I had nothing to do when I got back home. It was the night before Christmas Eve, and it wouldn’t be difficult to abandon my original plans for the evening, which consisted of making myself Ramen noodles and painting until I passed out.

“I’ll tell Patty you wish her a Merry Christmas.” I got up while he did the same with a groan.

He leaned against his desk, his hard-as-granite cock pointing at me through his dress pants.

I swiveled my head one last time, my hand on the doorknob, and grinned. “You do realize everybody is going to look at me funny because you closed the blinds on us?”

“You realize I’ve never given two shits about what people think, and I’m not about to start now just because Patty and Floyd need something to talk about besides stuffing recipes.” He waved me off impatiently, going back behind his desk and plopping down in his chair. “Oh, and Emilia?”

“Yeah?”

“Make me another fucking cup of coffee.”

We broke his bed.

I don’t know how it happened, but we did. It was after we ordered a pizza and polished off two bottles of wine. I was tipsy, happy and giggly when I climbed on top of him. I thought his bed could take it. It was solid oak, after all. The bed cracked and the mattress sank to one side. We followed. He caught me by the waist and jerked me to his chest so I wouldn’t roll to the floor, but it still made my heart beat ten times faster.

“Even your bed wants us to stop.” I laughed, pushing myself off of him by flattening my palms against his scarred bare chest. This time he didn’t even twitch when I ran my fingertips over the long pink bumps.

I got up and strode to his bathroom. The door to the master bathroom was open, and the mirror in front of us revealed that he was propped on one hand, his eyes on my naked rear as I made my way to the shower.

“I told you we should’ve done it in the Jacuzzi.”

“And I told you two times was enough. I was getting prune skin. Hey, Vic?”

“What?”

I turned around and met his eyes. He smiled a real smile, and my heart fluttered because from him, these kinds of smiles had to be earned.

I basked in it for a few seconds, then took a risk. “Would you like to…come down for dinner tomorrow evening? It’s not a date,” I hurried to stress, my cheeks flushing. “I just figured we’ll both be alone here in New York, and I didn’t want…I mean, I thought maybe—”

“Sure,” he cut me off. “Seven sound good?”

“Sounds great.” I licked my lips, feeling oddly happy.

He turned away, grabbing his phone from his nightstand, probably checking his emails. His eyes were on the screen when he said, “I don’t eat mushrooms or any type of fish.”

“Duly noted.” I started running the water in the shower, waiting for it to get warm and padded back to get a fresh towel from the linen closet by the door.

“It can be a date,” he muttered from the bedroom, and my head swung toward him.

“What did you say?” I hated that it made my body feel like I’d just gotten off a rollercoaster.

“I said it can be a date if you want it to be.” He still stared at his phone hard.

I shook my head, smiling, and closed the door behind me. After I finished my shower, he wasn’t there. I padded my way to the kitchen, still wrapped in nothing but a towel, but he wasn’t there either. The apartment was big, too big for one person. I started peeking into rooms, looking for him. He couldn’t have gone out. I’d only spent ten minutes in the bathroom, and he looked tired and very much naked when I left him in bed.

Feeling wary, I got dressed before I started calling out his nickname around the house and dialing his number on my cell. Every call ended with his voicemail. What the hell was going on?

Finally, when I was about to give up and head back to my apartment, I spotted him behind the couch. On a plush silver rug, lying on the floor, fast asleep.

He was wearing his black briefs and nothing else, his thick lashes fanning his cheeks. He looked like a kid. A beautiful, lost, exhausted boy.

Oh, Vicious.

I wanted to help him into his bed. But I had a feeling he hadn’t told me the truth about his insomnia, and if I woke him up, he wouldn’t fall asleep again. I gathered blankets and pillows and covered him from head to toe. After I tucked him in, I hesitated, but the last thing I needed was for him to wake up and find me staring at him like a groupie while he slept.

Not that I didn’t want to. And that was an even bigger problem.

By the time I walked into my living room downstairs, it was three o’clock in the morning. The easel stared at me from across the room, a half-finished painting of a laughing woman with flowers in her hair, demanding my attention. Instead, I walked to my bedroom, pulled out an empty frame and a staple gun, and stretched a canvas before positioning it on the easel. I changed into my painting tee, tied my hair in an elastic, and stared at the white fabric.

And stared.

And stared.

And stared.

By the time I finally started working on it, it was morning. I didn’t stop painting until the early afternoon. I didn’t sleep. I didn’t eat. I barely breathed. And with every tick of the clock that passed without him around, I started thinking more and more about what we were. Who we were. He’d treated me horribly in the past, but right now…he brought color into my life.

Acrylic? Oil? It didn’t even matter. He always thought of himself as blackness, but the truth was, he injected so many different pigments into my existence.

To have dinner with him on Christmas Eve, it felt important somehow. Not so casual like the rest of the things we did.

Vicious was right. I was a liar.

Because I told myself I could do casual.

When there was nothing casual about what I felt for him. Not even one bit.

It was a hassle to go shopping on Christmas Eve, but I wanted to get him something. Anything, really.

Vicious was big on music, I remembered that from when we were teenagers. In fact, the only thing we’d seemed to have in common was our mutual love for punk rock and grunge. Maybe that’s why I smiled like a fool as I strutted my way from the record shop with a Sex Pistols album tucked under my forearm. I knew he was going to get the joke. Sid Vicious.

They actually had a few things in common. Their white skin against their black hair, their flippant attitude, and their zero-fucks-given approach. I just hoped Vic being Vicious didn’t make me his Nancy.

As I prepared the essential DVDs to watch after dinner (it wasn’t Christmas without It’s A Wonderful Life playing in the background as you struggled your way through a food coma), I thought about Vicious as a child. What Christmases must’ve been like for him. I didn’t have his money, or his power, but I did have a family who loved me. Who catered to my every emotional need when I was a kid.

I only celebrated one Christmas in Todos Santos, but I remembered his dad and Jo had spent it on a Caribbean vacation. He went to Trent’s on Christmas Eve, but I think he’d spent Christmas Day at home. Alone.

Even then, Vicious was too proud to be a charity case. But he wasn’t too proud to know what pain felt like, and it couldn’t have been easy for him to see us from across the property. Our laughter carried all the way to his house, surely. Mama and Daddy were loud on the rare occasions they had a few drinks, and

Christmas was when Rosie and I always had our Christmas carol contest. Our house was full, while his was empty. Same with our hearts.

Mine overflowed.

His echoed.

Oh, Vicious.

It took me an hour and a half to muster up the courage to go upstairs to the penthouse and knock on his door. Before that, I just sat in front of a table full of the yummy dishes I’d spent what was left of the afternoon preparing. I’d made mac and cheese, Cornish hens, a green bean casserole, and my mama’s cornbread dressing recipe. I’d even bought an eggnog cake. Nothing with mushrooms. Nothing with fish.

But he hadn’t arrived.

I sat in front of the table and waited like an idiot because I was too anxious to watch TV, but also too proud to go check on him. Then I remembered that last time I saw him, he was completely out of it, sleeping on the floor, and guilt washed through me. I should’ve stayed with him. I should’ve made sure he was all right.

On my way to his penthouse, in the elevator, I cleared my throat several times because I didn’t want my voice to break when I spoke to him. Somehow, I still didn’t want him to see how affected I was by him. I knocked on his door three times and rang the doorbell twice, but nothing happened. I turned around, about to walk away, when one of the building’s receptionists walked out of the elevator with a wrapped gift and flowers. She headed straight to his apartment door. A set of keys jingled between her fingers.

She greeted me with a polite smile. “Happy Holidays.”

“Thank the Lord you’re here.” I almost threw myself at her. “I think something’s wrong with him. Can you open the door? We need to see if he’s okay.”

“Who, Mr. Cole?” Her brow furrowed.

What?

“No.” My voice chilled significantly. “Vic…Mr. Spencer.”

“Oh. Him.” Her lips pinched as she pushed the key into the hole. “I saw Mr. Spencer leave very early this morning with a suitcase. He’s probably flying back to LA. He’s already stayed in Dean’s apartment for much longer than usual.”

“Dean?”

She blushed. “I mean Mr. Cole. I deliver his packages for him when he’s not around. He gave me a key.”

My mouth dried and I blinked. “This is Dean Cole’s apartment?” I confirmed, feeling dumb. Not only about the question. About everything.

The girl nodded, her smile still wide. “Sure is.” She sauntered past me and just before the door closed in my face, she said, “Again, Happy Holidays, Miss LeBlanc. Hope you have a good one.”

But it was too late. It was already a horrible Christmas. The worst I’d ever had.

I was about to take the stairs back down to the apartment. There was no way I was waiting around for the elevator, and I didn’t want to get in with the receptionist because I feared I’d cry in front of her. I felt pathetic enough without adding the cry-in-front-of-a-stranger humiliation into this mess.

My steps toward the door leading to the stairway stopped when I heard my phone singing in my back pocket. I fished it out, my heart slamming against my chest, wanting out, out, out.

I begged for it to be him. Begged for him to have an explanation. Begged for all of this to be a mistake. He couldn’t have been so vicious. There was no way.

Staring at the screen for a second, disappointment gripped every ounce of me when I saw Rosie’s name, before the feeling was replaced with shame.

Vicious was a no one. Rosie was my family.

“Merry Christmas!” Rosie, Mama, and Daddy greeted in unison when I pressed the phone to my ear. I smiled despite the pressure in my nose. I was crying, but I didn’t want them to hear.

“Hey y’all! I miss you so much! Merry Christmas!”

“Millie!” Mama shouted in the background. “Please tell me your sister is not dating a biker named Rat!”

I did my best to sound like I was laughing, even though the emptiness spreading in my gut was numbing every emotion in me, even the pain.

“Rosie,” I scolded. “Stop messing with Mama’s feelings.”

We talked for about ten minutes, me still standing on the edge of the stairway, before Rosie took the phone to her room and dropped her voice to a whisper.

“Millie,” she said, “I thought you should know something about Vicious.”

It seemed like my heart stopped beating when she said his name. Hope and dread filled me in equal measure.

“Yeah?”

“Baron Senior died.”

I dropped my phone to the floor, my mouth falling open.

Jo.

The will.

His father.

Everything clicked like a gun hammer, and the invisible weapon was pointed at my temple. It was show time for Vicious.

But was I about to become his prop?