Vicious (Sinners of Saint #1)(32)

Our gazes locked, and I allowed myself to get sucked into those blue eyes for exactly two seconds. They were Smurf-blue today. Probably not the best analogy, but shit if it wasn’t the truth. Help’s eye color constantly changed, according to her mood.

She arched an eyebrow. “You promise what you want me to do isn’t illegal?”

“It’s not illegal,” I said. Of course it was illegal.

“Nothing of a sexual nature?” she proceeded.

I threw her a condescending glance, as if mocking the very idea.

She was going to have sex with me. But of her own free will.

She blinked, clearing her throat. Shaking her head. So, Help needs some help with breaking the spell.

“Fine. You got yourself a deal. Let’s go. But I’m fucking warning you, I hate French toast.”




Spending time with my staff reminded me why humans were my least favorite creatures.

We all sat at a round white table, and I glared at my cold toast and egg-white omelet with little appetite. Help laughed a hearty laugh, the type I had never heard before she moved to California, as she showed the geriatric receptionist something on her iPad. They cooed and exchanged grins, and I wanted to know what they were talking about, but didn’t ask. Then the receptionist said she was retiring at the end of January, and Help jumped at the opportunity to organize her farewell party, as if she was going to be around that long.

Whatever. I wasn’t going to burst her bubble just yet.

People made small talk with each other but barely acknowledged me. My employees at this New York branch were timid and wary of me whenever I was here in-person, which wasn’t very often. They were used to Dean, who might have been a sleaze ball but was also a pretty decent boss. I was cold, more detached, and when I got angry, I’d yell at the person who fucked up so loud the glass walls in the office would rattle.

They treated me like I was a ticking bomb and asked the dumbest, most boring questions.

“So how do you like New York? Is it very different from California?”

No shit, Sherlock.

“Have you done any of the holiday stuff? Ice skating in Central Park? Rockefeller at Christmas?”

Fuck yeah. I also took selfies of myself holding the Statue of Liberty in the palm of my hand and hung it over my fridge with an I <3 New York magnet.

“How big is the Los Angeles branch?”

Big enough to avoid all the people who work there with me.

I’d always been antisocial. My popularity in high school blossomed through association. I hung out with outgoing people. Trent, Jaime, and Dean lived for the crowd. But me, I still liked the silence. The humming sound of expensive electronics in my Los Feliz penthouse and nothing more. Well, maybe the slurping of a nameless woman beneath me as she sucked on my cock. Specifically, one with a hair color like Help’s. That made the fantasy so much more realistic. Anything else was pointless noise I wanted to eliminate from my ears.

“I’m done,” I announced to Help after fifteen minutes, getting up from my chair.

She was still engrossed in conversation, this time with the NY branch’s chief accountant. He was fairly young for a senior accountant, a preppy New Englander who probably graduated from an Ivy League school. Reeked of privilege. A guy like me.

“Emilia…” I snapped my fingers twice, like she was my pet.

Help swiveled her head, giving me her unimpressed look, before resuming her conversation with him. At this point, the guy turned mute and kept stealing glances at me like I was the Grim Reaper.

I got him, I did.

I was young. So fucking young to be a CEO. People didn’t achieve this level of power at twenty-eight. But the HotHoles and I, we’d had our fair share of shortcuts, what with the ability to invest millions of family dollars in our business from the very first year. Wealth attracted more wealth. And with Jaime, Dean, and me putting ten million dollars in FHH back when we founded the company, we saw a return quicker than the average idiot entrepreneur.

We’d created a monster.

And we were in charge of it.

That made me even more formidable than your usual CEO, and the young accountant knew it.

“If you’re not in my office in sixty seconds, I’ll just assume you’ve resigned,” I said easily before I turned around and left. On my way back to my office, I kicked the HR manager’s door open and proceeded—without even looking at the person who occupied the desk. “The accountant kid—how good is he?”

“Floyd? He’s good. Been here for three years now. Mr. Cole never complained.” The middle-aged woman behind the desk looked at me like she didn’t want me there. That made two of us.

“Send him to my office immediately.”