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Authors: Skye Callahan
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want to imagine what Ross had in mind for the night. It was always a show with him. It had to be. After seven years of working with him in one capacity or another, I still didn’t understand how his mind worked. And I didn’t want to.
At least I had some kind of excuse for my perversions—a weak one at best—but an excuse didn’t exist for him. He was a rich socialite who’d had everything handed to him on a silver platter. Although, maybe that was the best excuse of all. His parents were real estate moguls who made their millions making—and sometimes breaking—high-dollar deals in business real estate. Thanks to them, he had a sense of entitlement that made Texas look puny. Unfortunately, he hadn’t developed any business sense in the entire charade. He was headstrong, set in every idiotic decision he set his mind to and completely oblivious to the potential consequence, but usually, his shallow understanding of business made him easier to manipulate if I played my cards right.
I dressed in black for the evening—slacks and a long-sleeved button down shirt—boring, but fitting for the situation. I had no desire to participate in Ross’s theatrics, but playing to his whims kept me on his good side. And I’d need that side if I wanted to convince him to let me restructure the security team. I’d had enough of their insolence, and Drake’s failure to protect Alley in the Commons was only the topping on the cake.
Once dressed, I sat down on the edge of the bed, stretching my legs out and folding my hands behind my head to rest against the wall. I needed someone on the security team to help me crackdown—someone who cared more about security than getting his rocks off. Maybe someone who’d been castrated.
Alley peeked through the doorway, and I dropped my legs to the floor. Her hair now fell around her face in a long asymmetrical pixie cut that fell to her jaw in front and grew shorter and more layered in the back.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
She paused, clutching the front of the thick black robe I’d had delivered.
Beautiful. It’d probably been a lifetime since she’d heard that word and longer since she’d believed it.
“I look like an eyebrow-less freak,” she muttered.
I waved my hand toward the dressing table. “You work more magic like you did on your hair, and no one will be the wiser.”
“My mom was a hair stylist, not a magician. I loved watching her cut hair.” She sighed and sat down at the table, tracing her finger along the engraved wood that trimmed the surface.
When I thought of this place in terms of mothers, daughters, or sisters, I felt sick to my stomach. It didn’t matter how long I’d been doing it. Or that I’d continued. I wasn’t a complete heartless monster, but sometimes, I wished I could be.
Like I almost had been. The years I’d let the rage dominate. The slaves I took it out on. Every night I’d see my mother’s face. She haunted me. Fueled the hatred. Until one day I realized that I was having exactly the reaction she would have hated. And then, I faced down two options—get the fuck out of the life and disappear, or use my new found position within the organization to do as much as I could to protect the slaves.
I didn’t even give a serious thought to the grandiose idea of setting them all free. That pie in the sky thinking didn’t bode well with my overinflated sense of reality. Between all of Milo’s clubs, retreats, whatever they might be called, he owned thousands of slaves in more than a hundred locations. He had more power and influence than the pope and more friends in low places than a cockroach. We’d never be free. None of us. Not his employees and sure as hell not the slaves. Following that line of thought merely became an exercise in futility and a path to depression.
I stood and popped my back, then walked over to stand behind Alley at the table. She’d already drawn on a couple of fairly believable eyebrows and had begun
At least I had some kind of excuse for my perversions—a weak one at best—but an excuse didn’t exist for him. He was a rich socialite who’d had everything handed to him on a silver platter. Although, maybe that was the best excuse of all. His parents were real estate moguls who made their millions making—and sometimes breaking—high-dollar deals in business real estate. Thanks to them, he had a sense of entitlement that made Texas look puny. Unfortunately, he hadn’t developed any business sense in the entire charade. He was headstrong, set in every idiotic decision he set his mind to and completely oblivious to the potential consequence, but usually, his shallow understanding of business made him easier to manipulate if I played my cards right.
I dressed in black for the evening—slacks and a long-sleeved button down shirt—boring, but fitting for the situation. I had no desire to participate in Ross’s theatrics, but playing to his whims kept me on his good side. And I’d need that side if I wanted to convince him to let me restructure the security team. I’d had enough of their insolence, and Drake’s failure to protect Alley in the Commons was only the topping on the cake.
Once dressed, I sat down on the edge of the bed, stretching my legs out and folding my hands behind my head to rest against the wall. I needed someone on the security team to help me crackdown—someone who cared more about security than getting his rocks off. Maybe someone who’d been castrated.
Alley peeked through the doorway, and I dropped my legs to the floor. Her hair now fell around her face in a long asymmetrical pixie cut that fell to her jaw in front and grew shorter and more layered in the back.
“You look beautiful,” I said.
She paused, clutching the front of the thick black robe I’d had delivered.
Beautiful. It’d probably been a lifetime since she’d heard that word and longer since she’d believed it.
“I look like an eyebrow-less freak,” she muttered.
I waved my hand toward the dressing table. “You work more magic like you did on your hair, and no one will be the wiser.”
“My mom was a hair stylist, not a magician. I loved watching her cut hair.” She sighed and sat down at the table, tracing her finger along the engraved wood that trimmed the surface.
When I thought of this place in terms of mothers, daughters, or sisters, I felt sick to my stomach. It didn’t matter how long I’d been doing it. Or that I’d continued. I wasn’t a complete heartless monster, but sometimes, I wished I could be.
Like I almost had been. The years I’d let the rage dominate. The slaves I took it out on. Every night I’d see my mother’s face. She haunted me. Fueled the hatred. Until one day I realized that I was having exactly the reaction she would have hated. And then, I faced down two options—get the fuck out of the life and disappear, or use my new found position within the organization to do as much as I could to protect the slaves.
I didn’t even give a serious thought to the grandiose idea of setting them all free. That pie in the sky thinking didn’t bode well with my overinflated sense of reality. Between all of Milo’s clubs, retreats, whatever they might be called, he owned thousands of slaves in more than a hundred locations. He had more power and influence than the pope and more friends in low places than a cockroach. We’d never be free. None of us. Not his employees and sure as hell not the slaves. Following that line of thought merely became an exercise in futility and a path to depression.
I stood and popped my back, then walked over to stand behind Alley at the table. She’d already drawn on a couple of fairly believable eyebrows and had begun
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