Take Me Over: A Protector Enemies-to-Lovers Romance Page 7

  Like Brenton, I too wouldn't buy his line of bullshit, even if it'd been glossed in gold and painkillers.

  "Excuse me!" I shot and had to stop my arm from swinging at his face. "What the hell did you just say to me?"

  "I said..." he dragged, ascending from his seat after watching one of my hands slap the other down.

  It wouldn't have been the first time that I hit him. I doubted that it would've been the last time that he hit me back. I just wanted it to be over. All of it. "You may have to fuck him...For the good of us all."

  He made his way for the office door before I'd had a chance to respond.

  Quitting wouldn't have helped me. All that would have proven to do was give me more time to be Luthor's stooge and provide whatever jury, that I would inevitably meet, with indisputable proof of my involvement.

  I was trapped. He had me. He knew it.

  His wrist emerged from the sleeve of his, now dust-caked sleeve as he checked his watch.

  "He said that he'd pick you up in a half-hour. That was fifteen minutes ago..." He swung open the door—to the applause of the dozens in the bullpen, who'd been mourning the loss of a man whom they'd considered great. "Don't be late."

  They had no idea of who he really was.

  After seven years, even I wasn't sure.

  I didn't care.

  "Victoria Mills?" The large man in a black suit and tie asked as I exited the building—still considering the faults of just making a run for it. I would have gone back upstate—where my parents had still lived off the grid, on a farm, free of WiFi and all other comforts of the modern-day urbanite.

  The thought sickened me. But, then again, so did the predicament that I'd been drowning in.

  "Yes," I answered. "That's me."

  He opened the backseat of a black town car with a smile as he invited, "Mr. Fox sends his sincerest apologies for not coming himself. He'd had some business to attend to but assures that he'll be waiting for you at the restaurant."

  B.B. King's was a massive looking place on 42nd street—just a few blocks away from MossCorp's main headquarters and right in the heart of Times Square.

  In addition to live music, good food, and stellar service, it was something of a hub for the masses looking for a nice place to dine during their lunch hour.

  What particularly worried me, was how Brenton had planned to pull the whole thing off. Even for those who'd taken the time to make a reservation in advance, seating was limited and rarely prioritized just because someone looked good in their name brand attire.

  As I shimmied into the back seat of the car and awaited my driver to finish his cigarette—I began thinking of other options for lunch.

  In the city, it's first come, first serve, or don't get served at all.

  We were already running late.

  "Can I get you anything before we take off," he asked, almost as if he hadn't known the city as well as I had. Based on his accent and demeanor—it was more likely than not that he'd rarely left the island (and doubtful that he'd ever wanted to).

  "No, thank you," I answered as the butterflies in my stomach burst with anxious glee—both at the prospect of some much-needed alone time with Brenton and leaving the office—if only temporarily. "I'm fine."

  "Well, that's just swell, madam."

  With a smile and heavy foot on the gas, we were off.

  Off to B.B. King's, to meet my would-be prince, all the while I'd been held captive in the clutches of an over tanned monster.

  10

  Brenton

  I bought out the restaurant for two hours—just to make sure that we wouldn't be disturbed. At first, I'd planned on going to meet Victoria at the office. I'd made up some lie about having to check-in to my hotel (clearly, neither her nor Luthor were aware that I'd held a large share of stock in the Four-Seasons hotel).

  Truth be told, I just wanted to watch her squirm for a little bit. I wanted her to have a moment just like the ones that she'd used to give me. The cold shoulder at parties. The late invitations where she'd never show up. The waiting.

  I wanted her to feel that spiraling pit of insecurity for as many moments as I could manage. I wanted her to feel hope, like I'd felt hope, only to be let down in the final quarters and run crying home to mommy when she couldn't make sense of it.

  All these thoughts swirled in my head, as I sat at a table in the center of the restaurant—sipping a cold beer and listening to the dulcet tones of the in-house band. The Blazers.

  They'd been serenading, just me. I've never considered myself much more than a loner who'd been forced to socialize; to play nice with others. It's an unfortunate downside of the business that I'm in. The business that will eventually see to it that I'd have every ounce of revenge that karma had owed me.

  The plan was simple. We'd eat. We'd chat. We'd catch up. And just as she'd gotten comfortable—likely over the fear of losing her job—I would drop the bomb on her and leave her where she sat to let her devastation simmer alongside the smooth tones of old-school jazz.

  There wouldn't have been a moment in her life that followed where hearing the sway of a trumpet wouldn't bring about thoughts of self-mutilation and internal hatred. I basked in the thought of achieving my revenge as the bassist began his solo—acting as the heroic music to my protagonist.

  I thought that it would be sweet—

  "Brenton?"

  ...and then, I heard her voice call to me like a swan-song. Ripping me whole from my evil thoughts and bringing about that same emotion that I had been running from since I'd begun this quest for vengeance.

  Suddenly, I was no longer, Brenton, the entitled and self-righteous CEO and most profitable mogul that quarter.

  No.

  All that I had built beyond our relationship melted away with one single utterance of my name and gave me chills like an air-condition system had set up beside my heart and dialed to 'freeze'.

  It was her. Victoria Mills. Looking better than I ever could have imagined—with her quirky fashion sense, and a flustered look on her face that brought about thoughts of becoming her savior. Her captain. Her lover. Her man.

  Snap the fuck out of it, I thought, as I watched her pry through the front door—accompanied by one of my LeBron look-alikes and a smile that I couldn't quite place.

  Her expression looked, all at once, like supreme happiness and desperation—entangled from the space between her brow and her lips, clenching and unclenching with each click of heels toward our table.

  "Victoria," I muttered—coughing the nerves out of my throat as I did. "I'm so glad that you could make it."

  I jumped out of my seat like the Manchurian candidate; like I'd imagined doing all those years ago, fantasizing about where the two of us would be once the number thirty had been staring us down like a beaten bull.

  It'd always been in that place. Not specifically B.B. King's, but the city. I loved it once. I was enamored with it and altogether smitten with the fast-pace and rough exterior. Where others would look for and find intimidation, I saw promise. I saw a world of potential that had yet to be tapped.

  I saw her.

  It's possible that my feelings for the two may have been more correlated than I'd thought. It was almost like walking into my own birthday party—watching her float toward me like we'd been a part of some fairy tale.

  Snap the fuck out of it, I thought again—sneakily pinching the goosebumps that had risen like brail on the curves of my skin.

  Where was the hate?

  The anxiety?

  The need for a wondrous revenge that I would have then told the world about—if only to prevent it from happening again?

  It was gone.

  It was all gone.

  Everything but grown-up versions of the fantasies that we used to share about being together. About having a family. About spreading a love amongst ourselves that could go on to inspire the same passion in the world at large.

  We were always supposed to conquer it together.

  Sudde
nly, I no longer remembered what the hell I'd been doing there. What was wrong with me?

  "I'm glad that you've decided to have me," she answered, this time with a genuine smile and an excitement that should've preceded all else. "To be honest..." She swiveled into her chair as I held it out for her—doing her best not to take her eyes off me.

  Something about staring into those beautiful pools of hazel made me weak. Made me think.

  Made me reconsider.

  She continued, "I thought that you hated me."

  It was a well-played way to start a conversation.

  "I did. Still do," I joked. At least, I think it was a joke. She wasn't as amused—her expression dropping into low-slung frown and moon-crested eyes. "...But, that doesn't mean that we can't be cordial. You are, after all, officially my secretary—as of five 'o' clock today."

  "So, you're planning on keeping me around?" She giggled that famously debilitating laugh. It was the same kind that I'd always believed could either kill a man or bring him back from the dead. "That's nice..." She added—sarcastically.

  It wasn't my intention. It was like my mind and my mouth had been having two completely different conversations—both of which centered around her.

  There I was again, dancing to the beat of her drum like a tribal chief—masking my pain with the sincere joy of being that close to her again. Of smelling that lilac perfume that she'd always worn. Of looking at her and seeing the craftsmanship of whatever God or power had compelled us together.

  I looked at her and remembered a version of myself that I'd long thought dead and buried. The version of me that still had hope for this world and could see beyond our mortal flaws to the bigger picture. To the boy who'd experienced love and wanted nothing more but to be cradled in its embrace.

  Just like that, I was right back, where I'd started. Panting and stuttering. Speaking low and somewhat candidly. They were the remnants of when I was the pathetic little snob that the bullies called "Booby" and was subsequently harassed in kind.

  I was that same boy that I'd been before that asshole with a lead pipe came to destroy my body, and in the process, broke my spirit.

  I was that same kid who'd spent weeks recovering in the hospital, and months more on crutches, wanting nothing but a sign that someone cared.

  I'd only received one letter for the entire duration of my rebuilding.

  It was from her.

  I never responded. Too bitter. Too angry. Too young.

  "Well," I said—sitting down in my own chair as the thoughts raced through my mind like it was the Indy 500, "I couldn't rightfully just hire you without an interview. As... illustrious a recommendation as Luthor has given you, I think that it'd be best if we build upon our own terms. What do you say?"

  "Okay." Her lips pinched together as she held back that diamond smile of hers. It was enough to melt me at my core and consider just offering to her what I had before. I hated that it was so out of my control. I hate anything that is. "...that sounds fair. Where would you like to start?"

  Before I could answer, the waiter arrived—all smiles (likely because I'd already pre-tipped $500).

  "How are you folks doing this evening?" He was a pale-faced, scrawny looking kid, that oddly brought back memories of myself when I'd been his age. Based on his shrill, yet to be formed voice—I instantly felt a connection. It was almost as if I was given a sign.

  If this was to be my second chance at Victoria Mills, the woman I hated, the woman I loved, I would have to consider what the old me might have thought of each and every move that I made going forward. This was his woman. The new Brenton would have some ground to cover.

  Then again, the new Brenton didn't give a shit about formalities.

  "Good. Good." I answered as Victoria sat back and watched me take the reins. At a glance, an onlooker may have already thought us smitten.

  The waiter sure as hell did. "That's great. I'm glad to hear it." A smile stretched across his face like an elastic band. "You two celebrating an anniversary or..."

  "Acquisition..." I said.

  "Oh..." He stammered and added with a quick wink. "I get it...'acquisition'. Well, let's not hold you up then. Can I start you two with something to drink? Perhaps, an appetizer. We have specials on..."

  "Actually," I interrupted. "I think that we're ready to order..." Even in the shroud of lies that was our past relationship, Victoria and I had made time for each other. For the most part, our "buddy-time" (as she'd dubbed it) consisted of dinner and a movie.

  If there was anything that I’d remembered about her, it was her crappy taste in romantic comedies and how picky an eater she was.

  "I'll have the B.B. steak with a baked potato on the side."

  "Very good choice, sir. And for the Mrs?"

  "Miss..." I corrected—hoping that it'd drive her crazy. "Miss Mills will have the bruschetta on toast—with a side of artichoke dip and some breadsticks on one side...Easy on the garlic." I looked at her. She was just as shocked and full of awe as I’d wanted her to be.

  Goddamn it, I thought.

  By then, I'd lost all hope for anything but impressing this woman whom I thought I'd never have. To that end, based on her flattered expression and nervously twiddling fingers, I assumed that my mission was accomplished.

  "And to drink?"

  "I'll have another beer and... Victoria," I asked, if only to bring her back down to earth where I'd just been beginning to flaunt my powers. "...You want to join the party?"

  11

  Victoria

  I winced at the idea, but then again, I couldn't think of many other times that I'd needed a drink as badly as just then. "A rum and coke, please. More coke than rum, if you don't mind."

  "Very good, Miss." Our scrawny waiter sauntered away like he was the fairy cupid himself.

  Normally, I would hold off on the drinking until after my shift--and a few minutes of catching Milton up on my daily goings-on. However, for more reason than one, it was a temptation that I couldn't resist.

  In addition to being there under the false pretense of "catching up," I hadn't been able to catch my breath since the second that his driver had whisked me away from that damn building—where Luthor had no doubt been collecting the last of his praise before his final departure. Far removed from that man and his tyranny, I'd been shocked for an entirely different reason.

  And worried for many more.

  B.B. King's wasn't just a world renown restaurant—but it had also moonlit as one of the premier nightclubs in town. After nearly twenty years of splendid operations, it was nothing short of a landmark and the closest thing to "high-brow" as anyone could have gotten—without having to stress about a stringent dress code or mortgaging their home twice, just to foot the bill.

  Needless to say, that large auditorium looking establishment was always packed full of hungry guests and some others that just wanted to enjoy a drink while listening to the stellar house-band provide their latest renditions of classic jazz.

  It was a draw and on top of it all, it was my favorite type of music. I wasn't sure if Brenton remembered anything about me at all...until he ordered my favorite dish. It was the very same one that he used to tease me about—calling it "Mills Special"--which primarily comprised of finger food and something to dip it in.

  Not even Milton knew that much about me. But this man, ten years down the line, had spouted off some of my favorite things without so much as a doubt in his mind.

  My Brenton.

  He'd become everything that he'd ever wanted to be.

  "I can't believe that you remembered that," I said, desperately trying to uphold a professional standard of manner. For all I knew, despite the drinks, that was still very much a job interview.

  Thankfully, that seemed as if it'd deteriorate rather quickly. "What have you been stalking me or something?" I joked as our drinks circled around us and landed at our fingertips.

  "Perhaps," he laughed and sipped his beer. In a show solidarity, I sipped from my gl
ass as well. "Would you mind if I had?"

  "Not if it means I get to keep living like this..."

  He'd rented out the place. What once was a sprawling mass of dinner tables and diner-folk had become nothing short of an ethereal dream.

  A symphony of beauty bordered by candle-light blanketed in that darkened ambiance that sang joyously of romance to come. It mourned of romance lost and delivered a promise of its eventual victory over all that opposed the heart and its desires.

  It was everything that I could ever have imagined. A dream that I all at once craved and felt undeserving of.

  He was everything. In that moment, I thought of relief. I thought of hope. I thought of our second-chance. He could keep the flashy appearances and the grand gestures (though I didn't mind that they were present). All I needed was a sign that even the slightest part of him would be willing to give me a chance. What I received in return, were boatloads of his potential.

  Our potential...together.

  My Brenton, I thought. How much you've changed and all at once remained the same. How good the world has been to you despite the darkness. How much there is that I have to say.

  "Now..." Brenton said, after I'd been quiet for too long. The band had just completed their bass heavy rendition of Sammy Davis Jr's Blackbird—a magnificent accompaniment to our reunion.

  As I so often did, I found myself lost in the music, swaying mindlessly as my thoughts carried me off to a place where things were perfect. Where he and I were together.

  When he spoke, his own voice had the same effect—jolting me into a utopia of prickly excitement and insatiable sexual desire.

  He continued.

  "...I don't want you taking any of this the wrong way." Just like that, he was a boy again, vying for my attentions. But I wasn't that little snobbish girl anymore.

  Now, I wanted him and I wanted to return the affection in any way that I could. It was like the world around us had melted away.

  It was just him and I and what we felt. I just didn't know how to tell him. I was afraid that my mind had carried me too far off of the ground and away from my reality.