Page 31 of Taint My Soul

Is that it? Is he going to pretend that he didn’t have me up against the steel wall three nights ago?

“Alright.” I inhale sharply and march out of his office mechanically, sitting on my chair once I’ve gotten to my desk.

I start my day by turning on the computer, and all of a sudden, the door clicks open ahead of me. Kurt. What does he want now? “Why haven’t you responded to my request?”

I take my hands off my keyboard and look at him. “You sent in your request on Saturday. I don’t work on the weekend.” I say simply.

“Really?” he frowns. I barely look at him as I start up my computer. “I need that shit sorted out in an hour.”

“It’ll take longer than that.” I shrug.

“I don’t care. You should be at my desk in an hour.”

“I said it’ll take longer than that. If you can’t wait, find someone else to do it. I’m not your personal assistant. I already have enough on my plate.” I assert and look at him one last time.

“And I said I need it now.” He bites out, grunting out of frustration, voice fraying at the edges.

I don’t respond or even look in his direction.

He lingers in front of my desk for some time before he retreats, leaving the ghost of his demands behind.

I go through my emails, sorting through messages and putting events into Saint’s calendar. After a while, I leave my office to take a break in the company’s cafeteria.

The cafeteria stretches across an entire floor. Open, bright with soft gray walls, floor-to-ceiling windows that bathe the space with the clean afternoon light, and long lines of marble-top tables, cozy seating pods lined with plush teal booths. Pendant lights hang low, warm and golden. Employees move in quiet streams. The air hums with low conversations and the whirr of espresso machines. I step onto the floor and make my way to the counter, placing my order with the bright, dark-skinned young man.

I take a seat and wait for a few minutes before he appears with my order. “Thank you.” I smile at him, and he nods before he returns to his post. I gorge through my meal quickly before I head back to the office. As I appear in the hallway, Kurt hunches over his desk, putting his stuff into a brown box.

My brow narrows in confusion, but I don’t say a word. Then one of the workers looks me dead in the eye and mouths, “Boss called him into the office some minutes ago. I think he was fired.”

And the day isn’t even over yet.

As I return to my desk, my thoughts run wild with questions. Did Kurt mishandle something important to the company? Saint hadn’t asked me to look into him, only his former assistant, who was leeching off the company’s money. Did he fire him because of the interaction we had earlier? If this is some protective shit, no thank you, I don’t need a bodyguard, especially from a man like him.

I lift my eyes and stare at him, but his gaze rests on his laptop screen with the focus of a marksman.

He doesn’t look or even breathe in my direction.

And I pretend not to care.

I have to remember that Saint’s no different from the men who have taken my freedom away. Even though he’d deny it. These stupid thoughts and little feelings don’t mean anything at all.

I’m here to get something damaging enough to destroy this man. Not even the kind gesture of letting me off easy, or his unwanted protective instinct will stop me from saving myself the only way I know I can.

As I stare at my laptop, my phone buzzes, and my gaze drops to the bright screen. It’s a message from Saint. He needs me tonight. A trembling sigh spills through my nostrils as the weight of what happened that night lodges in my chest.

My mind has forgotten, but my body hasn’t.

And he’ll put me through it again.

SAINT

The stairwell opens into a room carved out of stone. Smoke drifts in lazy coils from cigars in the hands of dangerous men who frequent this place. Red Horn Club had been a product of the alliance between my grandfather and the Bishop Empire. An alliance that no longer exists, although the club still pays returns to the Bishop family. We are not enemies with them, but we are not friends either. Father didn’t think it was wise to continue that alliance.

Leather chairs wrap around circular tables. Cards slap down in quick, confident flicks. A haze of cologne, whiskey, and sweat clings to the room, mixing with the bitter scent of tobacco. The floors are polished concrete, scuffed with the boots that frequent here.

High-rollers sit with their backs to the wall. Their watches gleam in the low light. Their are smiles thin. Their jackets hang low enough to hide weapons.

Two guards stand near the bar, massive and muscular in black tailored suits, with comms and guns.