||Vicious||

Chapter 7

The Present

"IT'S OPEN."

Help waltzed in, and holy fuck, what the hell was she wearing?

She looked like she'd gotten lost in Keith Richards's closet and barely survived to tell the tale. She wore leopard leggings, ripped at the knees, a black Justice tee (the band, not the philosophical theory), a checked raincoat, and cowboy boots. Her lavender hair was mostly covered by a beanie, and she held two Starbucks coffees, taking a sip from one. She looked like the PA of the CEO of a multi-million-dollar financial company like I looked like a prima ballerina. If this was another way to show me she didn't give a shit, it worked.

"Hey." She slid one of the Starbucks cups across my desk. It bumped into my forearm.

I glanced at it without touching it, returning my eyes to my laptop screen. "What the fuck is this?" I wasn't completely sure if I was referring to her outfit or the Starbucks. Was this Halloween? I checked my calendar just in case. Nope. We were definitely deep into December.

"Your coffee. Your breakfast awaits in the kitchen." She threw her Harley Quinn courier bag across the brown leather sofa in the corner of my office.

It took everything in me not to toss the coffee against the wall and send her on her way back to unemployment. I reminded myself that I hadn't hired Help for her magnificent PA skills or her fashion sense. I needed her. She was a part of a bigger plan, and I was gearing up to execute it. Soon, she was going to be worth the money and the glitzy apartment.

And she is better than my ex-psychiatrist for the testimony, with her big innocent eyes.

Fuck. The apartment. In my quest to convince her to take the job, I threw out a lot of shit I needed to back up now.

I sucked in my cheeks, feeling my jaw locking. "Get me my breakfast," I hissed out.

"No," she replied evenly, clearing her throat and tilting her chin up. "Your highness, I request that you go to the kitchen and have breakfast with your loyal subjects. I believe it's important that you familiarize yourself with your colleagues. Did you know half the floor is sitting there right now? It's French Toast Friday."

She tilted her chin even higher, inspecting me.

Of course I didn't fucking know that. The very notion of getting out of my office and spending time with those people who I didn't know or care about was making my insides bleed.

She stared me down, and I wondered what was going through her little purple head. Actually, I was also interested in the origins of that lavender hair. I didn't hate it. It suited her round face and eccentric style. She knew—Emilia LeBlanc fucking knew—she could bring a man to his knees, so she never bothered with pretty dresses and makeup. She wasn't a tomboy—in fact, today she was even dressed up in her own weird way. Her hair was always a mess, though, and she looked like one of those urban New York chicks who carried professional cameras around, taking photos of their Pret A Manger breakfasts and pinning them on Pinterest, genuinely believing that they were legit photographers.

And still, I knew Help well enough to recognize that she wasn't being pretentious. She really was an artist. The best painter I knew.

"Vicious?" she asked.

I slammed down my laptop screen, leveling my eyes at her. "Get me my breakfast. Unless you want to get back to bussing tables in a French maid uniform?" My voice dripped ice. It calmed my nerves a little.

She squinted at me, not budging.

I'd forgotten how hard to tame she was.

And I'd definitely forgotten how much it turned me on.