The Dirty Series 2(35)

“You know,” he says, his eyes gliding up and down the curves of my body, “I think this is a misunderstanding.”

“There’s no misunderstanding.”

“What I meant to say....” He pauses, licks his lips. The sooner he spits it out, the sooner I can shove past him and—. “I meant to say that I think Adam will really like this music.” His eyes bore into mine, and as his words sink in, the world narrows to this few feet of sidewalk.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, but my voice comes out as a whisper and I can feel the blood rushing out of my face.

“Adam,” he says again, giving me an encouraging look. “You know, your brother. Adam. He’ll like this music.” Only then does he hold out the CD case in his hands. Inside is a note. Through the clear plastic I can see that it reads, “One chance.”

My breath is shallow, fast.

“I don’t want any music,” I repeat for the last time, then spin on my heel and take off down the street, walking as fast as I can in my low heels.

Charlie wasn’t fucking around.

He’s watching.

I have no choice but to do what he says.

I’m still rushing down the sidewalk, sneaking glances over my shoulder to see if Charlie’s goon is following me, when my phone vibrates. The text comes from a blocked number, but there’s no doubt: it’s the first of the instructions.





Chapter Four





Jett



My place on the Upper East Side isn’t cutting it—not if I’m going to be at the Midtown headquarters until all hours, whipping Brandon, Inc. back into shape. No more distractions. No more slip-ups. There’s no point in dwelling on what happened with the media merger—Connor is already working on a way to sort it out—but I’m not going to waste any more time sitting in traffic.

And I’m not going to let that bitch Emerald have a hold over me.

I’ll never admit it to anyone, but the reason I’ve been staying at my place on the Upper East Side since I returned from London is because Emerald’s prints are all over the Midtown penthouse.

Things moved fast between us, and at first it didn’t seem much different from any of the other women I’ve taken home with me since I graduated from college. But Emerald got under my skin, got her claws deep into my organs, and I made the mistake of letting my guard down. She moved into the penthouse inside of a month. I was the dumbass who let it happen, because fuck me, the sex was hot.

I shake my head as I slide into the car on Tuesday morning. I’m done thinking about her. Done.

The most important item on my agenda is getting all my things moved back into my penthouse. That’s a job for Howie, my personal assistant. At nearly fifty, Howie has been with my family for almost twenty-five years. He handles everything I don’t have time for, and with discretion. Three texts is all it takes, and he’s got people packing and moving things from one place to the other. By the time I get home this evening, the penthouse will be back in order.

I sit through my breakfast meeting with laser focus, and by the time Stuart pulls the car up next to the curb to pick me up, I can’t fucking wait to get to the office.

My ass has hardly met the seat when my phone rings.

“Brandon.”

“Mr. Brandon, this is Emily,” Emily sounds out of breath, and there’s a weird echo in the background like she’s taking the stairs instead of the elevator.

“What is it?” I ask tersely.

“Building security just called to let us know there’s a—a gas leak. They’re evacuating the building.”

Jesus Christ. “Do they have an estimate for how long it’s going to take to fix the problem?”

“Not that I’ve heard, Mr. Brandon.” That call is probably going to come through to my cell at any second. My eyes narrow just thinking about it.

“I’ll be sending out an all-staff bulletin from my email account in a few moments. Coordinate an alternative workspace for the division heads as soon as you get onto the sidewalk. This is not a day off, Emily. Work wherever you need to, but be available.”

“Of course, Mr. Brandon.” She tries but fails to keep the disappointment out of her voice. I end the call.

Fine. I don’t need an office to get work done.

“Stuart, change of plans. I’m working from the penthouse today.”

By the time I climb out of the car when Stuart pulls up in front of my Midtown building, I have received confirmation from Emily that she’s rented out several offices in a shared space fairly close to the office but far enough away that if, God forbid, the building explodes, none of my employees will be harmed. All the paperwork I was intending to finish up with at the office can be printed off and sent over by courier. I just need to make sure we don’t end up with duplicate copies. I wont’ tolerate any more sloppy mistakes.