11. It’s In My DNA

Chapter 11

It's In My DNA

MEGAN

I feel sick to my stomach.

When the car stops at The Blue Whiskey, I rush inside to the bathroom and vomit, but I haven't had anything to eat since morning, so nothing comes out but yellowish bile. I can't get the memories that are playing over and over again in my head to subside.

The thin needle.

The probing hands.

The screams.

I sink to the marbled stone of the bathroom; my hands pressed against my ears as I try to drown out the screaming of the terrified little girl. There's a knock at the door and I just hunch further into myself as I hear the sound of the door opening. I want to say something, but no words come out, and then somebody is covering me with a jacket. I look up, expecting to see Mr. Middleton again, but it's Lars.

"What are you doing?"

He stares blankly at me for a moment, not saying anything, and then he crouches down next to me. The warmth of his jacket is giving me a barrier to hold on to.

"Breathe," he instructs, his voice unusually kind. "Take long breaths."

I stare at him and follow his instructions. The breathing helps calm me down, and he tightens the jacket around me. "You're fine. You're safe."

Tears rush to my eyes at the words, and I press my lips together, bobbing my head up and down in understanding.

"Don't tell him."

"I won't," he says steadily. "Can you stand up?"

He helps me up when I nod. Wetting a hand towel, he wipes my face as I stand there dully. A man who I'm pretty sure looks upon me as a nuisance most of the time is taking care of me. I've never had a male figure in my life who's looked after me.

My panic is subsiding as he begins to talk to me, his voice quiet, "I had a daughter once. She would be around your age if she had lived. She'd probably be just as fiery as you, too."

It takes a few seconds for his words to register and for me to respond. "I'm sorry. What happened to her?"

"She died a few years ago." His hand pauses, and then he says, "She used to have panic attacks like the one you just did—bad ones. I'd get her ice cream when she had one, and then I would tuck her into the couch and put on her favorite movie, and she'd watch it until she fell asleep. She loved Jaws."

Lars puts down the towel, and I follow his movement, feeling hollow but better now.

"Why are you telling me this?"

He studies me. "I don't know. You just reminded me of her for a minute."

My heart tightens in my chest at this surprising glimpse of the gruff bodyguard, but it's only for a moment. His posture stiffens, and once again, his usual unpleasant demeanor returns.

"Why are you letting someone beat up on you?"

"I'm not beat up."

"Come, I'll fix you up in Mr. Middleton's office. He's waiting."

"It's just a scratch," I protest as he pulls out a small first aid kit.

"Actually, it's a bruise with some deep lacerations that you're going to have to keep clean, or they'll get infected. And you need to ice that ankle too. So it's either me or the emergency room. Your choice."

I huff in exasperation. Lars knows, by the way he just found me ten minutes ago, that I'm not stepping foot into a hospital. So I guess I have no real choice if I want to keep my job.

"Fine, let's go."

"After you."

When I enter Mr. Middleton's office, I notice that he looks a bit agitated. Maybe I'm just projecting my own unease.

"Are you okay, Miss Taylor?" He asks with a tight face.

He swiftly approaches and brushes the calloused pad of his thumb underneath my fresh bruise. My body shudders in surprise, and I stumble over my response.

"Yes, sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine," he says abruptly. He backs away from me and takes a seat at his desk. I notice how he flexes the same hand he used to touch me as if touching me was painful. Oddly enough, I find myself yearning for him to touch me again.

"I see Lars found you," he says with little effect. "Do you have a problem with him patching you up? He has experience at that sort of thing."

It throws me off when I realize that he's being considerate, and I shake my head mutely. Two nice gestures from two very dangerous men in one day? That's a little hard for me to process.

Mr. Middleton watches intently from his desk as Lars cleans my bruise and applies a liquid bandage to seal the cuts. When he checks my ankle by slowly rotating it, I wince.

"Ouch."

I had known that my words would come and bite me in the ass, but I hadn't expected that Ashley would corner me in the bathroom after classes. It wasn't like I'd never been bullied in school when I was young, but I was under the impression that all of that nonsense stopped when you went to college. I mean, aren't we all grown?

So, when Ashley grabbed me by my hair and dunked my face into the toilet bowl, I was so shocked by it that I didn't immediately fight back. When I finally started to struggle against her, she smashed the side of my face into the marble edge of the toilet bowl.

"Stop chasing Ricky. He doesn't want you!"

Her words didn't make any sense to me. She sounded angry and threatened as if I held some power over Ricky. I don't. All I am is some girl he taped, sucking his dick and nothing more. Doesn't she see that?

At the time, though, I didn't know how far she planned on taking her assault on me, and I definitely didn't have any plans to sit around and find out. I kicked one of the girls holding me in the crotch and ran outside, twisting my ankle in the process. Fortunately for me, classes had just ended, and I managed to hide myself in the crowd of students who were leaving.

My plan had been to go home, take a shower, and then figure out what to do about my face. I never expected to run into my terrifying boss right at the entrance of the college although I don't really know why I'm surprised. Mr. Middleton does what he wants.

"So let me get this straight, Miss Taylor, you were willing to go to blows for that server who was flashing her tits at my table, but you let some college kid do this to you?"

"I don't owe you any explanations."

"Next time someone attacks you, either you fight back, or you tell someone who can fight for you," he drawls, his eyes glinting with a tight emotion.

I don't answer him. He would never understand.

Ashley and Ricky both come from prestigious, wealthy backgrounds. No matter how much I want to, physically touching her would mean that she can exert her family's influence and get my scholarship taken away from me.

Back when college had been a new start for me, a chance to fall in love and pursue my passion for art, I hadn't realized the den of snakes I was walking into. Ricky was the kind of guy who typically never gave a girl like me a second look, so when he showed an interest in me, I was flattered. He was very charismatic, gorgeous, and smart, and I quickly fell hard for him.

When he pleaded with me in that charming way of his to just get him off, I hadn't realized that he and Ashley were in their own very complicated and twisted relationship. I was simply a pawn, and they were laughing behind my clueless back. I just have to get through this next year or so and I'll be done with them both.

"You ready?"

Mr. Middleton has no intentions of putting off the shopping trip because after Lars wraps my ankle in an Ace Bandage, I'm packed into a dark SUV driven by Parker, and we drive towards the poshest part of Los Angeles.

When we stop in front of a chic-looking store with a gold and white design, the streets are crowded with mainly fashionably dressed women carrying designer purses. I feel so out of place in my faded jeans and beige blouse that it's almost laughable.

Mr. Middleton pauses at the entrance. "I have an appointment with Clark."

"Who's Clark?" I whisper to Parker, who grins.

"A stylist."

"What?" I ask, astounded, but we're already being ushered in.

"Mr. Middleton," I say in urgent hushed tones. "You can't hire a stylist to dress me. I'm just a manager. Steve wore the same thing every day."

Black slacks. Black button down.

"Exactly," he responds easily. "He didn't fit the part."

"This is feeling very Pretty Woman-ish," I whisper disapprovingly to Parker, remembering a previous exchange I had with Naomi.

"Trust me, it ain't," he replies. "The boss is no Richard Gere."

Clark is an exuberant man with silver hair, deeply tanned skin, and purple eyes. It's the eyes which throw me off first until I realize that he's wearing tinted contact lenses.

"Mr. Middleton!" He throws open his arms in welcome, and I freeze, wondering if he's planning to hug my stone-cold boss. I can't imagine anyone hugging Hunter Middleton.

But Clark stops short a few feet away, "So who have you brought for me to transform?"

When Mr. Middleton looks over at me, I wonder if passing out would let me out of this whole thing. I've never really enjoyed shopping, probably because I've never had any money. But it's a dizzying sensation to have to model outfit to outfit, from blouses to skirts to pants. I draw the line at underwear, though.

"Absolutely not," I hiss under my breath. "Nobody's looking at what I'm wearing underneath my clothes."

Mr. Middleton gives me a long, contemplative look, and I suddenly feel the urge to cover up. It's like he's undressing me with his eyes…one garment at a time.

"Whatever you want, Miss Taylor."

When we leave the store, I did not realize just how much he purchased. There are so many bags in Parker's hands that I feel faint.

"That's too many," I say out loud. "Did you buy everything I tried on?"

"No."

I don't believe him, but my feet are aching, and I'm starving. All I care about at this point is eating.

"Are we at least finished?"

My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl loudly, and without missing a beat, Mr. Middleton says to Parker, "Go to El Palo."

El Palo is one of those restaurants that you read about A-list actors eating at in a celebrity blog. It's a restaurant that's impossible for regular folks to get into, especially without a reservation. I think Jennifer Lopez got engaged to one of her husbands there.

"Wait, what?"

My head is spinning at all these new developments and I'm still a bit rattled by what happened at school today. I really just want to go back home at this point and crawl into bed.

When we reach the restaurant, I stare at the decorative exterior before glancing at my boss. "My entire week's paycheck will not even cover a meal in there. I'm not comfortable eating here."

Mr. Middleton ignores me and simply gets out the truck and waits for me to exit the vehicle. It's probably the first time today that I've actually really looked at him. It's hot as hades today but he's dressed in a navy suit with a light blue collared shirt that fits like it was made for him. I don't usually go for guys that are corporate looking, but leave it to Mr. Middleton to make a suit look badass. He looks incredible.

"Can't I just get a hot dog?"

"No one should just eat a hot dog, and if we all did things we were comfortable doing, there'd be no personal growth."

"I just want something fast," I counter.

"Miss Taylor."

There's a warning in his voice, and I have no choice but to slide out of my seat. It's clear that I'm fighting a losing battle. The maitre'd who sees us immediately jumps to attention.

"Welcome back to El Palo, Mr. Middleton. We have your usual table ready."

I expect him to look at my clothes with at least some level of disdain but he doesn't so much as flinch, yet when we follow him past the other tables, the other well-dressed diners do raise their brows at me.

I'm not usually that easily embarrassed but I suddenly feel out of place. We are taken to a large corner booth which could probably fit a party of six easily but there is only a place setting for two. My ears feel hot as I slide in and he follows right behind me. Once we're seated, Lars and Parker go sit at the bar where they can keep an eye on us.

"Why are we here?" I ask him in a low voice.

He slides closer to me as if he can't hear me. "Come again?"

"I said, why did you pick this restaurant?"

He leans in, his lips dangerously close to my earlobe. "You were hungry."

My core becomes engorged with need, and the crotch of my jeans suddenly feels tight between my legs.

"I mean…aren't you hungry?" He suggestively licks the corner of his mouth.

On so many levels, the answer to that question is a resounding yes.

"I would've been fine with a hotdog or a pizza," I say miserably, feeling uncomfortable in my own skin.

"Have you ever eaten here before, Miss Taylor?" He questions. "Do you not like this place?"

Still sitting dangerously close to me, he hands me one of the thick menus already on the table.

"It seems really expensive," I mutter, squirming in my seat, unable to meet his gaze. The way he looks at me, especially when he's this physically close, it's difficult for me to hold it.

I'm not usually that type of girl, but with Mr. Middleton, I am. With each passing day, he intimidates me in a way that I don't recognize about myself.

"Well, it's on me," He tells me when the server actually hands us two additional menus. One is solely for wine and the other lists the specials of the day.

"Do you do this for all your managers?" I stare at the main menu and almost choke on my own saliva at the prices.

When he doesn't answer, I turn my head only to find him still watching me. I have a feeling if I probe him more, I just might poke this temperamental bear, so I stick my head back in the menu and try to find the least expensive dish.

"Have you decided?" He asks after a few long seconds and I set down the menu.

"I'll have this," I point to the most complicated salad I've ever seen. There are a thousand ingredients, and it costs a ridiculous forty-five dollars, but it's the cheapest thing I can find.

He stares at me. "That's what you want?"

"Why?" I ask cautiously. "What's wrong with it?"

He sets down his menu to study me. "Miss Taylor, I hope you're not pinching pennies for my sake."

I press my lips together and look away. However, I can see from the corner of my eyes that he's struggling not to laugh at me.

"I love salad," I say, sinking deeper into the plush leather of the booth.

"Mr. Middleton?" A surprised voice comes from the side, and I thank the heavens for the interruption.

The voice belongs to a man in a pleated suit and golden-wired glasses. He has a stringy figure with a bald head and a pleasant smile.

"Dixon." Mr. Middleton nods at him, accepting the handshake. "I see you have time to roam around but not to return my call."

The words are almost gentle, but the threat behind them makes me shiver. Mr. Middleton's dark eyes deepen, and I see Dixon, the man, offer a nervous smile.

"I was busy with some personal matters."

Mr. Middleton smiles at him. "Well, it's fortunate that I saw you here then, wasn't it? I was considering paying you a personal visit."

I've never seen a man lose color so fast.

"I assure you that won't be necessary," the man stammers. "If you want, we can talk right now."

"I have a guest with me right now. As a matter of fact, it's a little rude that you didn't acknowledge her sitting here."

I give the terrified looking man an awkward smile, and he looks at me as if just noticing my existence.

"Good evening, Miss," the man says as he offers his hand to me across the table.

"Pull your hand back," Mr. Middleton orders in a deep baritone voice. I'm not sure which of us he's addressing, but I slowly put my hand back beside me and offer Dixon an awkward verbal greeting instead.

"Nice to meet you."

"I expect to see you tonight," Mr. Middleton tells Dixon. "Otherwise, I'll rearrange my schedule."

I wonder if this poor man is going to faint.

"I'll be there," he barely gets the words out.

I watch him leave, wondering if I'll see this Dixon person at the club later, and when I turn my attention back to Mr. Middleton, he's looking through the menu, totally unfazed.

"Why was he so scared of you?" I blurt out without thinking. "Are you going to hurt him?"

When he sets down the menu and looks at me, my heart nearly stops, and I quickly say, "I'm sorry. I didn't know my mouth was moving. It does that sometimes."

"One day, that pretty little mouth of yours is going to get you into a lot of trouble."

I gaze towards the door where Dixon exited and consider everything I know about The Blue Whiskey and just how little I know about Mr. Middleton.

At first, he was just a legendary fixture. A man who owns the place where I work but a man I never saw. I know that he has a lot of connections in Los Angeles, enough that he can make any awful thing that happens in the club disappear– even bodies. I also know that he's a well-known figure in the business community and filthy rich.

And then there's the other side of him.

The man with icy cold eyes at Table 21. A man who makes other grown men shiver in fear. Hell, I just witnessed it. The smart thing for me to do would be to quit this job. I've been the new manager for literally twenty-four hours, and already, I've seen this man more than I ever have in my six months of working there. What does he want from me? What does he expect?

I don't know, and I'm not sure I want to find out.

But, of course, things never go the way I plan.

It must be in my DNA.