One

one

GAbrIEL/BEZALIEL

PRESENT DAY

"You're fired." My tone is final as I hold down the speaker button on the intercom on my desk. The temp PA on the other end remains silent. I look through the glass wall along one side of my office at Millennium Park, filled with hundreds of people at this time in the afternoon, and further down at the blue waters of Lake Michigan.

"Go see Evelyn in the HR office. I want your desk empty in the next five minutes." I release the button and turn my eyes to my phone to see if I can fix the disaster the temporary assistant made. Three days ago, I asked him to call the escort agency I normally use when I need a plus-one to an event, and he couldn ' t . Which is unacceptable.

Now the agency has no one available since the fundraising dinner is in less than a week. If I don't bring someone, most of the high-society mothers present at this event will try to push their snobbish daughters on me. It's incredible how relentless they are when in the presence of a rich bachelor. Hence the need of a plus-one to make them back down.

My irregular schedule and long hours in the office could make it hard, but wouldn't really prevent me from having a personal life. It's just that I don't want one, not to mention how dangerous it would be, given my…lifestyle. Escorts are the right solution for me. They do what I say and be what I want them to be for a few hours. No complications.

Offering the agency double their fee could do the trick. I leave a voicemail since nobody is picking up, and my next call is to the HR office to find a new assistant.

My regular, super-efficient PA went on maternity leave two weeks ago, leaving me in chaos. The guy she found as a temporary replacement had an accident which prevented him from coming to work for me. This is the third assistant I've fired since she left.

I scratch my cheek, down my short stubble, and wiggle in my chair, trying to shake away the uneasiness spreading through my body. It will go away after tonight.

"Evelyn," I address the HR manager on the line. "My temporary assistant is coming your way. See what you can do while you find me a new one."

Before she can reply, the door to my office opens, and Bart Dorridge, an associate working for my firm, walks in. His rigid strides and the angry expression on his long face give me a clear hint of what this is about.

"Evelyn, I'll call you back," I say into the phone before hanging up.

"You fired my brother?" he barks, stopping in front of my desk. His clothes are winkled, hair mussed. I can see the leather carry-on he dropped on one of the chairs outside my office through the open door. He just came back from his work trip and found out about his brother's contract termination.

I wish you terminated him with one of your knives, Bez growls.

The angry associate in front of me can't hear Bez, the alternate personality I share a body with. We co-front, which means that we are both in control at the same time to varying degrees. Even though at work I tend to lead since law is my area of expertise.

I'm slightly tempted by Bez's suggestion, still I force the thought away. The family code forbids it.

"You already know the answer to that question." I don't like to waste my time, even less to useless conversations.

"You believed a lying, easy, ladder climber over my brother? Frederick worked for you for three years." He lifts three fingers in the air. "How many cases did he win for this firm? How many clients did he bring in? He made you rich."

Tedious.

Boring motherfucker , Bez feels the need to add. Drown him out with some Queen of the Stonage.

Now is not the time for your rock music , I tell him.

"I was already rich, and everything Frederick did was for himself." I turn my eyes to my cell phone again and start answering an associate's text.

Through my peripheral vision, I see Bart lower his fists to my desk, his purple tie falling on the wooden, shiny top while his body leans toward me in what he must think is an intimidating move.

Bez doesn't like the pathetic power move. He hisses, and he's the one slightly curling my left hand around the chair's armrest.

He's what psychiatrists call the protector, while I'm the core identity. He takes charge in the event of real or perceived danger, physical or emotional. But it rarely happens these days. Bart Dorridge's bullying, aggressive act is only that: an act. He's all bark and no bite. He's good at making the opposition take deals. His cases rarely end up in court because if they do, he loses.

"That lying bastard is still working for you, though!" he hisses.

Lori is many things, snarky, arrogant, over-confident, but not a liar. When I lift my eyes to Bart's, my blank expression doesn't show any sign of emotion. "Not for me. For the firm."

Bart starts ranting, and my bored mind switches to Lori. He's a paralegal, a very good one, I was told. He used to work for Bart's brother, but after rightfully smashing Fredrick's face against a desk, I moved him to a group of new associates.

Lori is my brother-in-law's best friend and a magnet for trouble. And he has hated my guts from the very first time his chestnut brown eyes fell on me.

Rague has asked me more than once why I hired him since Lori never hides his dislike for me. My brother knows very well I don't do anything out of the goodness of my heart. I always have an agenda. I'm a lawyer. I'm part of a conniving, bloodthirsty bunch. Manipulating and plotting is an everyday occurrence for me.

At first, I hired Lori because I didn't trust him. He came into our lives when Rague met his husband, Ollie. And Ollie accepted quite easily what my family does because, well, he loves Rague. But Lori? He isn't a bloodthirsty psychopath like Raph or a torture-loving sociopath like Uri—my other two brothers—still, he's eager to punish evil, just like we do. Why?

"…so why didn't you fire him? You're not afraid of a lawsuit; you can crush him in court if he sues. Unless…are you fucking him?"

Mmm , Bez's noncommittal hum echoes in my head, bringing me back into the conversation.

Bart's face has turned red, his lips have taken on a disgusted twist, and his little eyes have narrowed in on me. Does his homophobic brain know that his brother likes to grope men, like he did to Lori?

I sigh as I place my phone into my gray waistcoat pocket and then relax back into my leather chair. "You couldn't be more irrelevant. Why are you here wasting my time?"

"I want to know why you're protecting a-a nobody…a paralegal! And why did you force Frederick to sign a document that prevents him from suing the lying bastard? He broke his nose for fuck's sake!"

His impulsiveness and directness make him an average lawyer—even less than average. His persistence is as commendable as it is vexing. Maybe I should fire him as well.

Right now, I could call security and have him removed.

Or stab him in the heart with the combat knife you placed this morning in the extra pocket Vincenzo sewed for you in the inside of your suit jacket , Bez suggests.

I won't do either. Fear is always the fastest weapon to make cowards retreat, and I have work to do.

"I didn't force him. He signed because this wasn't your brother's first time harassing one of his staff." Bart's eyes widen as I keep talking. His demeanor radically changes in front of my eyes. "I now know about all the people he molested and then bribed, threatened, or coerced into silence. I talked to every single one of them." And sent them to an attorney working for another law firm, who took their case and will sue the ass off Frederick Dorridge. Except Lori. He already had his revenge on the guy's face.

"That's…impossible. He… What…?" He stumbles over his words as he takes a few steps back, looking shocked and maybe slightly scared. Either by the fact that his brother is a disgusting pig or that his boss knows about it and is now on to him. Because I am. Bart's background looked clean…too clean for my liking, just like Fredrick's before I let my brother, Rami, dig deeper.

"If I find out that you were aware of your brother's wrongdoings , your termination will be immediate, and I won't stop there."

He opens his mouth, but the cold stare I usually reserve for my donors shushes him. Bez's growl comes out of my lips, and I fill my voice with ice. "Now get out of my office and don't try anything, Bart. Remember, I can easily crush you." And not only in court.

He looks down at the wooden floor, I can clearly see on his face how he's frantically trying to find the best way to proceed. After a couple of seconds, he gives me a stiff nod and leaves my office, closing the door a little too vigorously behind him.

Fear of losing his job, his credibility, and his position worked like a charm. Also of getting caught?

Maybe he is eligible to become a donor—that's what my brothers and I call the people we kill. But they have to be evil to receive such an honor, and we need substantial proof, as the code we follow requires. It's a family side business—technically a foster family side business. Still, we think of ourselves as brothers since we made a promise in blood many years ago to always be there for each other. The long, old scar on my palm feels uneven under my thumb.

The fate we suffered brought us together, and what we do now keeps us close. We were kidnapped when we were kids and tortured by two sadistic scientists, who were trying to turn us into emotionless assassins. Officially , the military project was unsanctioned. Unofficially, the two bastards who funded it are rotting seven feet underground.

We were chosen primarily because of our psychotic traits—traits that disappeared with time in most of us—but also for our high IQs and, in my case, my blood. When our foster mothers, Meg and Linda—one a renown forensic psychiatrist and the other a secret agent—found us, we were already fucked up in one way or another. Our bodies might have healed, but after years of torture, our minds have found different ways to cope. And that's the general reason behind the family side business. We kill rapists, killers, abusers—the untouchables. Where the law fails or justice turns a blind eye, we thrive.

We aren't heroes or villains, bad guys or good guys. We are simply essential to restore a natural balance.

Each one of us has a different motive. Raph loves the sight of blood, Rague needs to feed the anger inside of him, Rami thinks it's our destiny. Me? I kill to keep myself in check. Unaliving evil stops the fastidious itch rushing up and down my body. I find my balance again, my control.

And control is everything.

As a child, I felt helpless, a prey to my father, and then, those callous scientists who made me disappear in one of their cages. Never again.

My mother's gentle, smiling face appears in front of my eyes. Every day, I see her light blonde hair and slate-gray eyes in my reflection. My daily reminder of my unalterable past.

Enough with the trip down memory lane , Bez grunts with annoyance.

I'm sending a text to the head of security, telling him to discreetly put a man on Bart, when my phone starts ringing. It's Rami.

"What is it?" I answer.

"C-3PO, after the dirt I dug up on the handsy lawyer and his disturbingly immaculate sibling, I expected a more grateful reply!" Rami is the family hacker. He helps us find out if the donors are deserving of a painful death by our hands or not.

"Serena did most of it," I taunt him. Serena is Rami's infallible AI. She helps him with cyber research and whatever else we need to get our hands on the donors. She also cyclically checks our phone lines making them secure, so that we can talk freely about our side business.

"And who created Serena, eh?" His retort is cut off by a moan—the agonized kind—and then the sound of a fist hitting something hard. Repeatedly.

"Having fun?" I ask him. Bez enjoys the sounds of violence coming from the phone, and I do too. I wish I was there bestowing some of that pain with my knives. My skin turns itchy and I pull at the collar of my shirt trying to release some of the uncomfortable sensation.

"Immensely. I'm watching my grizzly of a boyfriend pound a fucker into the ground. My dick couldn't be hard?—"

"Red!" I hear Hunter, the grizzly in question, calling him. "Bring that sweet ass here."

"Cooooming!" he tells his boyfriend, then lowers his voice. "I'll definitely do that later as well."

"You wanted something?" My tone is flat, but I'm quickly getting more annoyed by him and the pile of cases on my mahogany desk.

I hear footsteps and a rustling sound, then Rami says, "You need to go check out Crimson, an exclusive sex club."

"Prostitution?" I shift in my chair again, the itch wandering over my skin increases. Any kind of mistreatment of women is something I can't tolerate. It's surely related to what happened to my mother.

Tonight, I have a donor to take care of, which will soothe the uneasy sensation finally.

"No. Drugs," Rami replies, as I hear more grunts and Hunter's gruff voice in the background.

"Phoenix related, I presume." Phoenix is a criminal mastermind involved in drug trafficking, assassinations, and the abductions and deaths of innocent people. We have no idea who they are but they've become a person of interest since they got involved in making live videos of teens being beaten to death. Ollie's brother, Sully, almost lost his life because of it. After that, Phoenix rapidly climbed our shitheads list and took the first place. The elusive fucker is still out there playing a cat and mouse game with Rami. My brother is becoming obsessed with him. It's good he found Hunter, who distracts him from time to time, or he'd be stuck in his research 24/7.

"Yes. Ten women and six men have been hospitalized all over Chicago in the last two weeks, exhibiting confusion, memory loss, and signs of sexual assault."

My teeth grind, making a cracking sound. "Were they dosed with GHB?"

"The date-rape drug? At first, I thought that was the case, but I talked to Art?—"

Hunter cuts Rami off. "When did you meet Art?" His voice has taken on a low, dangerous register.

"You know how much I love that bear-y possessive side of yours, but I contact my informants from time to time. It's part of what I do. With Art, I just talked on the phone, Hunter Bear." I can't see, but clearly hear the smirk in my brother's voice.

A curse and then a kissing sound comes over the line. I'm about to hang up when Rami talks again, almost out of breath, "Art said that when dosed, the victims felt sharp, burning pain all over their bodies."

"Pain?" Memories of excruciating agony try to find space inside my head, and the itch is too much to bear for a second.

Breathe, or I ' ll take charge . Bez's threat spears through the chaos in my mind, and I take a few gulps of air before I can open my eyes again. Bez is strong, stronger than me, but he's also a lazy bastard, who likes to lie back and watch unless the situation calls for him.

"Are you there? Too busy commanding your troupe of lawyers, as usual?" Rami's voice reminds me of the conversation we are having. Fuck.

"Continue." My voice is trembling slightly, but he doesn't seem to notice.

"There seems to be only two ways to take the pain away, a strong sedative or…pleasure." Incredulous silence follows his words for a few seconds.

My frozen mind starts firing thoughts as Hunter asks, "Are you fucking serious?"

Could it be?

"It makes me sick to my stomach, but it's true. The pain is agonizing, almost unbearable, but endorphin releases generated by pleasure can placate it. The drug leaves no trace in the blood. We need a sample of it to identify it."

"Is Art a viable informant?"

"Yes. He has never given me false info," Rami says with conviction. "Some of the victims' memories are still very hazy from what I read in their psychiatric files. But I followed their digital footprints, even though someone tried to erase them. I could link five of them to the club, Crimson. You need to infiltrate tonight and see if you can get a sample."

"Tonight? Can't you do it? I have my donor scheduled for tonight."

And you fucking need it, Bez uselessly reminds me. Because my prickling body is already a constant reminder of what I need to do to make the uneasiness stop. Killing a donor and then moving on to the next one—while all Bez needs is fucking and rock music.

I've never particularly cared about the victims. I don't sympathize with them even though I don't like the injustice they suffered. The universe doesn't settle the score as it should. So, I do. But I mostly kill to assuage my own need, no other reason.

"Serena found Phoenix's online signature while searching for any link to this drug and located a warehouse. I'm going there with Raph, Hunter, and Opal as soon as we are done here," Rami lets me know.

"What about Uri? He has extreme tastes; he actually goes to these kinds of clubs. Send him."

"Uri is into…five hundred shades of gray. You know why you're the best option."

Yes. Because in case I'm dosed, this drug won't work on me.

"It can't wait, Gabe. My contacts say the drug isn't on the streets yet, but Phoenix is involved, so we need to expect the worst. Three victims died as a result of being dosed, and the last one tried to commit suicide because she was bombarded with flashbacks from the night she was drugged."

I sigh. "People are having different reactions to the drug, which means that whoever is testing it is using people as lab rats." Just like those scientists did to us.

"This has priority, Gabe."

Normally, I'd agree with him, but I haven't killed in three weeks, and I can't keep procrastinating. Need the itch to go away. "And my donor? The shithead that slowly poisoned to death his three wives and is on number four now, doesn't?"

Hunter replies, "Rague can take care of it. He needs it. He has been out far too long."

He's right. Two days ago, Rague tore both arms off a donor in the FUNS room—the Fucked Up Nasty Shitheads room is where we take care of the donors at our base—and then proceeded to melt his face with a blow torch. He's been working on himself the past two months, but his inner anger still needs an outlet.

"I can't take this to the police. I don't have enough proof," Rami adds. "Nothing would stick at the moment. Plus, it's Phoenix related. We need to take care of it our way."

Who the fuck care! Don't give in , Bez says.

I ignore him, and reply to Rami, "Alright." My capitulation earns an angry growl from Bez.

"It'll be easy for you since your firm helped the owner of the club with a small legal issue."

My law firm has numerous clients. "Who?"

"Philip Bailey, owner of a successful chain of night clubs. Crimson is his first sex club. I'll email you his background with all the sordid details."

An image of a tall, bald guy in a dark green suit with tattoos covering his hands and neck pops inside my head. I'd met him a month ago while I was having lunch and Bart Dorridge stopped by my table to introduce me to him. He was a potential client Bart was having a meal with, but maybe there was more to it. Interesting.

"Your squeaky-clean lawyer, Bart Dorridge took care of his case. After that, he went to his club more than a few times." Rami almost read my thoughts.

"Is he involved in this?"

"Don't know yet. But he's definitely good at hiding his dirty secrets—as I told you a few days ago, his background is immaculate. I'll look more into his pathetic life. In the meantime, tonight is anyone-in, which means that non-members can enter the club. Well, non-members who know about the very secretive sex club. But you have to have the red ticket—the courier must have delivered it to your office this morning."

My eyes fall to an unopened envelope on my desk with my name written on it near a ludicrous cartoon of a robot—clearly made by Rami. A red square card with the name of the club and its address written in gold letters slides out when I tear the edge open.

"Got it," I let Rami know as I turn the card between my fingers.

"Show it at the club entrance, and it'll get you in. Bailey is always there after ten. He'll probably welcome you and show you around. See if you can get some information out of him. Oh, you got the red ticket from another member of the club. Members want to keep their privacy, so he won't ask for names. But just prepare a backstory like you were bored, wanted something more exciting, more illicit."

"Don't need your help," I remind him. It's not my first undercover job. Also Linda thought us well how to blend in.

"I'm just being thorough, C-3PO." My brother uses again the nickname he gave me when we were kids.

C-3PO, always hilarious , Bez chuckles.

A loud scream comes over the line, and then Rami's abrupt yelling makes me jerk the phone away from my ear, "…Yeah, that's what you get when you piss my bear man off!"

I hang up, finally getting away from the endless call. I got everything I needed from my brother, and if there's more, he can email it to me. I slide the red club card inside my jacket and leave my office.

My PA's desk is empty once again, and as I cross the floor to get to the elevator, everybody quiets, quickly looking down and away from me. Only the sound of the phones ringing from the reception desk echoes in the air. A client greets me from one of the conference rooms, and I tilt my head their way without halting my steps. I command with a firm fist. I'm a tough boss, but a fair one—as long as I give a damn, which usually I don't. I don't allow mistakes and rarely give second chances, but if my staff works hard, they get rewarded.

You fucking bumped your donor to go check out a sex club , Bez hisses as the doors to the elevator close.

I grit my teeth against the feeling of my skin crawling. He can feel it too, obviously, that's why he's pissed—not that he has any kind of self-control usually.

Bez and I are completely opposite. He's impulsive, boisterous, irrepressible, remorseless, relentless, and with no care for rules or anybody but himself. His only purpose is to protect us.

We'll find another one tonight , I reply.

Right , he huffs with incredulity, or I'll find a tight hole to pound at that club. He doesn't add anything else. For that, I'm grateful. He's not a very talkative person, which is fortunate since co-fronting impacts my relationships and everyday conversation.

Having two distinct identities at the wheel makes living a delicate dance between managing inner conversations and external interactions. It took me years of therapy with Meg to learn how to juggle multiple conversations at once, maintaining coherence while staying present in the moment without disrupting the flow of dialog externally. It can still be disorienting. I pretend to be on my phone at times to avoid awkward situations and the following questioning.

That's why Bez's few, short comments here and there don't bother me. We are very different individuals, but there's a layer of respect between us encouraged by self-survival.

The elevator stops on the twentieth floor with a chiming sound. The lobby of the HR office is filled with people holding resumes and chatting, hoping to find a place in my prestigious law firm. The receptionist smiles at me a little too eagerly.

I assume my work-stern look, and without making eye contact with anybody, I move toward Evelyn's office with confident strides.

I turn into the corridor on the left and stop in front of the manager's door, which is slightly ajar and allows me to see inside. My gaze zeros in on a waterfall of light caramel hair, a stripe of golden skin revealed by a loose pink shirt falling down a delicate shoulder and a pair of black high-heeled ankle boots.

Lori Boone.

He's sitting with his back to me in front of Evelyn's desk and near my crying ex-temp PA. He's slightly turned to the right in his chair while talking, and I can see the profile of his upturned nose, the pinkness filling his cheek, and the shiny lipstick on his red lips—the upper one forms a round arch, while the lower one has a dip in the middle that makes me think about softness and bites.

I can't stop my eyes from wandering over him. He's different from anybody I've ever met and I feel ambivalent toward him. I don't know how to deal with him. Usually, people are quite predictable in my experience, while he's a mystery I cannot pin down.

It gives me headaches. Which means that he affects me. Which in turn is preposterous.

He looks petite and overly flamboyant, but he has an understated strength to him and such confidence in himself that charms most people and intimidates the rest. I'm not in either group. While Bez…

Little Wasp looks edible today , he growls darkly.

Little Wasp , that's what Bez calls Lori. He. Likes. Lori. When he never likes anybody. He can barely stand me, and I'm his headmate. I cannot figure out why Bez is interested in him. I know he wants to fuck him, but there's more.

He wants sex, especially with men, while I'm not a very sexual person. When I feel the need to fuck, I veer toward women. I only had a couple of encounters with men in college. I was curious, I scratched the itch. Bez, on the other hand, gets his quickies often, but he's never expressed an ongoing interest toward any of them.

Why Lori?

He does it for me, man , Bez replies. Look at that impish smile and those plump fuckable lips. Want to fill them with my hard dick.

So damn vulgar , I tell him.

Like you weren't staring at him with filthy thoughts two seconds ago , he retorts.

He's…peculiar.

Is that why you follow him every day after work until he gets into his car? Because he's peculiar?

He works late, and I'm changing the security in the underground garage. It's just a precaution.

He's a buzzing little wasp with an unstoppable, conniving mind, an ass that doesn't quit, and a sting ready to prick anyone who bothers him , Bez replies like he didn't hear a word I said.

I counter, Everybody calls him Gremlin .

Like I fucking care what everybody does. He's a little wasp. End of discussion.

He's rarely this final about anything. Doesn't care enough usually.

My ex-assistant lets out a muffled sob, and I hear Lori saying to him, "Oh, you're a sandwich short of a picnic if you keep wasting those tears on a lost job."

"A what?" Evelyn asks him.

" of my gran's sayings." He waves a dismissive hand at her. Lori's grandmother was from the UK, and he got all these odd British words and expressions from her. "Firing people is the boss's go-to response for everything, kind of like the Queen of Hearts and her ‘Off with their heads.'"

"Right. Here take this and show it to Mr. Crandfild when you go see him tomorrow for the PA job. Good luck!" Evelyn quickly says, handing an envelope to the temp PA. She lifts her gaze and it meets mine.

I push the door open, revealing my presence to everybody and take a step inside her office.

"Mr. Reed," she addresses me, hurriedly standing up from her chair behind the desk, while all the eyes in the room turn on me. Lori's impish smile—as Bez has called it—doesn't falter. My ex-assistant quickly dries his eyes, and after uttering a few mumbled words, he leaves the office, being very careful not to brush against me while he walks away.

"All of a sudden I feel a chill in the room, Eve." Lori turns to Evelyn who frowns in response. "It's like a dark entity just entered the premises," he insolently adds. "I can see my breath!"

"And I can hear you," I tell him.

"I know that. Quit looking at me in that tone of voice," he says flippantly, crossing his arms in front of his narrow chest. But I can see the glimmer of humor in his gaze.

I cast him a haughty look. "What tone of voice?"

"That!" He points a delicate finger in my direction. "With the Paddington hard stare."

Paddington the Bear?

That smart mouth. I've never believed in demonic possession, but I might have to revise my opinion on the matter because Lori is…

A little wasp , Bez reminds me. If Satan ever summoned him to hell, he'd go with a pleased smirk and act like he owns the place .

"Mr. Reed?" I hear the HR manager calling me. Damn, I got lost in my inner conversation again.

"Evelyn, did you get around my temp PA issue?" I ask her. My question produces a snort out of Lori.

I shift my attention back to him. "Something amusing?"

He wets his lower lip, the cherry red tip of his tongue makes a quick appearance, sliding in the soft dip in the middle before retreating as his teeth slowly trail the same path. A tiny mole on the edge of his incredible mouth strangely catches my eyes, while Bez finds the whole lips move deeply arousing.

"Your temp PA reign of terror? Not particularly," Lori shamelessly retorts. Makes me want to see that mouth screaming. In pain or pleasure, I'm not sure.

Both , Bez growls, and I feel my dick twitch inside my boxer briefs.

"What is Mr. Boone doing here?" I ask Evelyn.

She sends a quick glance at Lori, then swallows, looking tense before answering. "Mrs. Kruger, the administrative manager had an…accident."

Lori's sniff follows.

"Accident?" I focus my gaze on him.

"A glue-related accident. She found herself stuck to her computer mouse, her desk drawer, and…her chair. We had to cut her skirt to release her," Evelyn quickly replies.

Lori's attempt at sucking his lips in to cover his mirth is less than subtle.

"Why do you think Mr. Boone is implicated?"

I know Lori is guilty. Like he was of the stink bomb in one of the associate's offices. And also of the glittery purple dick in the box that exploded on an HR assistant's face in the middle of the reception area. They had made homophobic jokes at work and heavily mocked Lori, I had discovered. But I still should have fired him, if for no other reason than the blatant way he addresses me. And yet, he's still working for the firm, while I've fired or transferred everybody else.

"Mrs. Kruger complained to HR about Mr. Boone's choice of wardrobe a few days ago," Evelyn says with a sigh.

Feisty Little Wasp , Bez chuckles. Fire the hag. Nobody trashes him.

"Rubbish! Miss Scrooge ?—"

"Kruger," Evelyn tries to correct him, but Lori just keeps going.

"And please remember the Miss, the bitter spinster insists on it. If she feels intimidated by real fashion, it is hardly my fault. Karma always finds her bitches." Lori stands up, displaying his lean legs covered in a pair of skinny gray jeans with fringes on the sides. He surely has his own signature fashion style. He places his painted black nails on his hips, and I'm suddenly hit with his delicate lily scent.

"So, how did she get stuck to her desk?" Evelyn asks him.

"Perhaps some people skipped pre-school and can't handle glue as well as taste."

He's always so unapologetically himself. And I respect that since I know how hard it is to stay true to yourself. But this is a place of work, not kindergarten. You'd think people should know how to behave.

"Do you have any proof?" I ask Evelyn.

"No, but this is not the first accident where Mr. Boone is most likely involved."

"Please, stop with the ‘mister' already. We meet at least once every two weeks, Lori is just fine." He says it like it's a good thing to meet the head of HR weekly.

"Lori." She gives him a quick, exasperated-looking half smile.

"Am I the F word?" Lori asks, looking between me and her. "Fired?" he clarifies.

"No!" Bez growls out, taking charge of my mouth. He never interferes during work hours. But wanting to keep Lori working for my firm seems essential to him…and his dick. And that's one of the reasons why Lori is still working for me.

Lori's amber eyes are filled with puzzlement. But he's fast at regaining his sassy attitude. "Even if I tell you I'm the mastermind behind Miss Scrooge's sticky accident?"

"Miss Kruger," Evelyn tries again with a sigh. It doesn't really matter what her name is, since she'll be gone next week.

"Do you want to get fired, Lori?" I ask. More likely, he's testing the limits to my patience.

"Is that a trick question? 'Coz in that case, I'll take help from the audience." He waves at Evelyn's befuddled face.

Bez chuckles, it sounds like a rumbly noise inside my head.

I keep staring at Lori until he says, "It seems to be only logical to expect it."

"Logical," I repeat in a deadpan tone. After interacting with Lori in the last few months, I reached the conclusion that his brain must suffer a logic insufficiency. "This is a workplace not a frat house. If someone offends you, come to Evelyn and file a complaint."

"I'm no snitch." He sniffs like one of those Italian gangsters on TV.

"Are you good at organizing and managing day-to-day events?"

His frown quickly gives way to an agape mouth and widened eyes. "I'm a paralegal, not a PA! And frankly, working for you would feel like hitting my head repeatedly against a brick wall—moronic and time wasting."

Evelyn gasps at his last statement, while I have to stifle a twitch of my lips. The people working for me treat me with deference and overt politeness and attentiveness. Lori is the exception. His crude honesty at times is refreshing. But mostly, I'm indifferent to it. He's here because I need to keep an eye on him and see if he slips. Discover what's his angle.

"Very well. Break time has ended." I give him an empty stare, to which he responds with an eye roll and mumbled words too low to decipher.

"Ta-ta, Eve. Boss." He sashays out of the office. I watch his high, plump ass more intensely than I should—because of Bez. But I have to admit those jeans wrap it perfectly.

A perfect peach for my teeth , Bez grunts.

They are my teeth too , I remind him.

Like you don't enjoy when I have my fun at gay clubs.

Evelyn clears her throat, and I only then remember her presence. "This temp PA issue…" I start.