Chapter 3

THREE

The pubs lining the small streets of London can often be mistaken for Boston's. If I'm drunk enough, I'll forget which country I'm in. At least until the bartender or stranger sitting at the end of the bar yells across the room, their distinct accents reminding me of where I really am.

Despite me being born in America to American parents, sometimes I feel like I was born in the wrong country. Fuck, sometimes I think I was born into the wrong family. The motto ‘the grass is always fucking greener' is constantly playing in my mind, everywhere I go, because no matter where I am, I'm always questioning if I should have been born into another family.

Maybe it's because I've never fully belonged. My older brothers are mine but not fully. Half their blood has always been loyal to their mother. I have vague memories of her when I was younger. She was kind and treated me as her own during the times I was away from my own mother.

While I had my own loving mother, she always treated me as the outcast. Her treatment by the Harding line bled into me and how I was treated by anyone sharing my last name.

No one wants to be loved out of obligation, but that's how my father's love for me operated. That's how he operated.

He's been dead for ten years now, rotting as a corpse in the cold, damp ground where he belongs. But sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I see his piercing eyes staring back at me, and the older I've become, the more I swear I look like him.

I fucking hate it.

My phone vibrates in my front pocket, intensifying the hard on pressing against the zipper of my dark blue suit. This wasn't the plan, but sometimes my dick decides to go rogue, abandoning all reason.

"I want you to taste me. Right here." The woman in front of me falls against the crusty, faded wall of the dirty stall we're standing in. Her voice is flat, and every few words, I swear I hear a distinct Boston accent, reminding me I'm not thousands of miles away from the home I dread coming back to every week.

The woman spreads her legs and slides her hand down the length of her stomach, then lifts her skirt, displaying her bare pussy to me. Her breasts are shoved together by the tight, black corset wrapped around her frame, the tops of them spilling over. My eyes follow her arm down to the hand she has pressed against herself. She parts her folds with her fingers, telling me exactly where she wants me to taste her. She massages her clit as she bends her left leg, hitching it up to rest her foot on the roll of torn toilet paper. Her foot slips, and she stumbles forward, gripping onto my waist to keep herself from falling face first onto the sticky, beige, tile floor. Her long fingers grip onto the lapels of my suit, crinkling the smooth fabric. Righting herself, she giggles as she straightens her back, lazily wiping flyaway strands of her curly hair away from her face.

She giggles again, hiccupping as she falls back against the wall. It's comical to see her in front of me. She's a stranger, pawing and clawing at another stranger. I wish I was more into this than I am.

My dick twitches, with another vibration rippling from my pocket.

"I'm really drunk." She covers her mouth, unable to contain her laughter.

"I gathered as much." I sigh. "Do you normally drink on the job?"

"Not always." She giggles—again—and tosses her head dramatically from side to side. "Usually, I can get away with it, though. Especially on nights that are slow. You walked in at the right time. I was beginning to get bored." She leans forward, half closing her eyes. Her mouth comes close to mine, but I stop her before she gets too close.

"Do you think because you own this bar, it means you can drink on the job whenever you want?"

"Maybe." She shrugs on another hiccup. "My boyfriend is never here and doesn't care that I drink with the other customers. And while I might not officially own this bar, you could say I do." She leans forward again.

I fall back against the door of the stall as she lifts her face to mine, biting down on my lip. She winds my tie around her small hand, keeping us only inches apart. I brace myself against the dirty walls of the bathroom stall, and she looks up at me with drunken eyes that are swimming with heat.

After swiping her tongue across her lips, a heavy breath and deep moan passes her mouth as she slides her other hand down the front of my pants. Instinctively, I grunt when she wraps her thin fingers around my hardened length over the fabric of my suit.

"What do you mean you don't officially own this bar?" I ask, closing my eyes and clearing my throat, telling myself to focus on the task at hand. I can't allow myself to get distracted. Not yet.

Business first.

Pleasure second.

I'm here for work, but it doesn't hurt to have a distraction. Anything to get my mind off how fucked my life has become.

"Technically, my boyfriend owns it, but I pay the rent." She winds her hand tighter around my tie. Her voice is heavy and weighted, and the sour scent of whiskey blows across my face.

I roll my eyes, irritation bubbling under my skin. It seems the business side of the encounter with the bartender of this pub is quickly fading. She isn't the one I'm supposed to be talking with.

"You told me you owned this place when I walked in."

She flexes her hand around my tie, tugging me impossibly closer, and I hold my breath, wondering how I'm going to get out of this situation. I shouldn't have come in here with her like this, but my head, heart, and dick are in a persistent battle. Three sides refusing to surrender easily.

"I didn't lie." She giggles with a glint in her eye. "Like I said, technically, I do own it."

"But you don't," I say, my eyes bouncing across her face. I press my fingertips into the dirty plastic walls. The incessant vibration from my phone has finally stopped, but my dick is relentless. It wants to be inside something. Anything to make me forget the horrible, wretched human being I've become.

"Are you disappointed?" She pouts. "Does that change things?"

She tries to pull me closer, but something in my brain has flipped. My stomach sours. Suddenly, the memories I work to bury in the dark recesses of my brain have come out to play. They taunt me, refusing to retract the claws they've sunk in deep.

"Come on," the woman begs. "Don't get soft on me now. My boyfriend won't be back until later tonight. I'm a quick fuck." She slips her hand under the waist of my pants, cups my length, and starts rubbing.

"Stop," I grunt, pulling her hand out from my pants. "I didn't come here for you. I came for your boyfriend."

She cocks an eyebrow, crossing her arms over her chest with an exaggerated huff. "Then, why are you in here with me?"

"That's not what I meant." I sigh and dig into the front inside pocket of my suit jacket to pull out my business card. I pinch it between two fingers before handing it to her. Her dark eyebrows knit, eyeing me curiously as she snatches it from me and holds it annoyingly close, as if she can't read it unless it's three inches from her face.

She snaps her head up, wide-eyed as she sucks in a sharp breath, realization dawning on her.

"You're a Harding," she whispers shakily.

Her face has paled. The loose, curly strands framing her face cling to her damp cheeks. I'm not as intoxicated as her, but suddenly, I'm aware of the alcohol we shared before deciding to come into the bathroom. The dingy walls close in around us, and the air is tight.

"I am." Like the prick I am, I hold out my hand in some sort of mock greeting, as if she wasn't just attempting to stick her tongue down my throat or fondling my dick a few minutes ago. "Micah Harding."

She doesn't take my hand. Instead, she lifts her worried, pleading gaze. Her face has softened.

"I know who you are and what you being here means. I promise, I pay the rent," she squeaks between her pale lips, as if her explanation will make a difference. "I give my boyfriend money every week so he can make the payments. The pub's been struggling, but we have plans to fix it. That's why he's not here tonight. He's talking with a strip club owner here in the city to see if he's willing to invest."

I lean forward, bringing my face close to hers to look into her eyes, keeping my hands pressed to the walls. My tie is now unraveled from her hand, no longer binding her to me.

"Your boyfriend may be going to the strip club to network, but if he isn't using your money to pay the rent for this shithole, then I doubt his networking is strictly business related."

Her chin dips to her chest as she swallows, placing her hand on her stomach. I can't tell if it's the alcohol making her nauseous or that my speculation has made her put two and two together. Her brown eyes flicker back and forth as she keeps her head down. My business card slips from her hand, landing on the floor beside the mildew coated toilet.

Call it being numb.

Call it unfeeling.

But business is business.

I've come to terms with this being part of my job. Hardings have always been known for their ruthless business tactics. Ever since our father died ten years ago, and my older brother Lennon took over the company, the sharp bitterness that once haunted our family is gone, but we still have a reputation. A reputation for buying companies a second before they're seized by the bank or the city. It doesn't matter who is at the top or the face of the company, the nature of the beast never changes. To the city, this is an ugly business.

For a moment, I dig deep, scrounging up even the slightest bit of pity or remorse.

The woman standing in front of me doesn't know her boyfriend hasn't made a single payment for this shithole in months, or that he's been stealing her money, most likely to pay for strippers at the club he's been going to every week. Or that he's keeping a secret he doesn't care will cost him his business or relationship.

Even if I weren't numb to the emotions that go with this job, the sympathy I'd have for this woman wouldn't go very far. She was willing to cheat on her boyfriend before she found out who I was.

"Harding Holdings has bought your boyfriend's business out," I say, matter of fact. My words linger in the tight, damp air. "I'm simply here to deliver the message out of courtesy."

"Courtesy?" she practically spits with anger, but her face is still pale. "You call this courtesy?"

"Yes. You should consider you and your boyfriend lucky this place didn't go straight to the bank. They wouldn't have been as kind and considerate."

She laughs, lifting her chin and squeezing her eyes shut, a loud cackle escaping her throat before she slowly narrows her eyes on me. Leaning forward, her hooded eyes stare straight into mine. "You call this being kind and considerate?"

"Don't take it personal. It's just business."

Our connection to the major banks lends Harding Holdings the privilege of knowing what businesses are set to go into foreclosure, giving us the opportunity to buy them before the bank seizes them. We pay a slight premium for snagging them early, but with our wealth and success, it's a small price to pay.

"If you were strictly here for business, you wouldn't have come in here with me. Why did you?" she asks.

I give her a blank stare, suddenly aware of my breathing. The claws inside my mind sink deeper, refusing to retract. Flipping this woman's world upside down may have been business, but following her into a dirty stall and hoping for a quick fuck isn't, but the reasoning behind my decision is something I refuse to acknowledge.

Declining to answer her question, I bend down and pick up the business card I'd given her and hold it between us, the gold lettering glimmering under the dim yellow hue of the light above us.

"My boyfriend's apartment is upstairs. He'll be homeless if he loses this place. But if I had your job, I guess I would have to tell myself the same things you do just to be able to look in the mirror without hating myself."

Heat simmers under my skin, bubbling and boiling over. Darkness clouds my vision. Suddenly, it's as if thick, gray clouds have surrounded me, drowning me in their darkness. I clear my throat, unwilling to let it take hold, once again.

Memories and images of the man I used to be flash through my mind. Time is a construct I haven't been able to understand. The life I once had seems so far away, yet there are parts of me left dormant, like a pile of ash at the bottom of a fire, the slightest bit of smoke drifting from it. But the smoke isn't enough to relight the fire. It exists only to remind me of what once was. Of what's lost.

I stare at the woman in front of me. The way my father taught me.

"You might want to tell your boyfriend it's in his best interest to call me before he shows up for work one day and finds himself without a place to go, aside from that strip club he seems to love so much."

She doesn't take the card. Instead, her hand flies to her mouth. I didn't notice before, but her skin has turned from ghost white to a pale green, clammy, glistening in the faded light. The echoing thud of the classical rock song playing from the bar fills the stall we're standing in.

A grumble climbs up her throat, then she shifts on her feet and lurches forward. Panicked, I reach behind me, fumbling to find the handle to the stall. My back is pressed against the door, leaving no room for me to move. I press myself against the door as much as humanly possible and turn my head to the side. I can't find the lock. Unsure of what to expect, my heart pounds, knowing I'm stuck. I peek to the side just as her eyes widen and her hand flies away from her mouth.

Vomit streams from her open mouth as she bends over. A mixture of dark yellow, brown liquid and red chunks cover my brown suede shoes. Wrapping her arm around her stomach, she hurls again, the sound causing my stomach to wobble.

I hold my breath, listening to her throw up the three vodka sodas and five shots of whiskey I watched her down an hour ago. Her sickness comes in waves, the thick liquid splashing onto my ten thousand-dollar pants before she suddenly stops. Her body heaves, and for a few moments, she remains looking at the floor, with her hands pressed to her knees and her hair curtaining her face as she catches her breath and regains her bearings.

She spits the remnants of the vomit dripping from her mouth before she finally looks up at me with a dazed expression. Color has returned to her cheeks. Her eyes are crystal clear and more sober than the entire time we've been in here, as if she's suddenly no longer drunk.

I scrunch my nose, the sour scent of her bile filling my nostrils. I don't miss my business card back on the floor, sitting beside my feet, now coated in vomit.

Sloppily wiping the back of her hand across her mouth, she takes a step back with a sneer, trading glances between my face and my now vomit-covered shoes.

"Something tells me it won't be difficult for you to replace those." She points to my feet then turns her anger on me. "Now, get the fuck out of my way so I can get back to work."

I shift to the side and raise my hands in surrender, giving her enough room to reach the handle of the stall door. She squeezes through the small opening, while I stand still, listening to the door to the bathroom swinging open. The thumping music grows louder before it quiets again.

I place both of my hands on my face and breathe out. Pushing my hair back in disbelief, I look down at my feet.

"Fuck," I breathe out. This must be the messiest confrontation I've had. My role in this business has always been to deliver the bad news, but it's never landed me in a dirty bathroom stall, covered in vomit.

I pull my phone out of my pocket and type a quick text to Lennon, telling him the job is done. Afterward, I check and see that I have three missed calls and a text from my best friend Archer.

Archer: I need a favor.

Of course, he does.

I stare at those four words, the claws in my mind expanding again. They still have their grip on me, not willing to concede or let up.

My mouth waters for a drink, and my brain begs for the promise of being numb. Leaving the stall, I straighten my tie and tear off a fistful of paper towels to clean off the extra vomit covering the toes of my shoes. Frustration festers. I toss the paper into the trash bin and move to the sink to wash my hands, but the sharp glint of the damaged mirror hanging above the sink catches my eye. It's barely clinging to the wall, hanging cockeyed by the top left corner. The corners are faded and out of focus.

The claws latch on, sending a searing pain through my mind, down to the muscle still beating in my chest.

I stare at my reflection with hate-filled eyes, wondering if I will ever be able to look at myself in the same way I used to, before my life became unrecognizable. When I wasn't increasingly becoming the one person I never wanted to become. To a time when I didn't look at myself with resentment.

My reflection stares back at me, and it's all it takes.

I lift my fist in the air and drive it into the mirror. Sharp pain immediately meets my knuckles. The glass fractures and splinters out like a web, my fist at the center of it. Blood clings to the mirror as I lower my hand and ignore the pain shooting across it as I grind my teeth. The pressure builds in my temples, and it feels as if my brain might explode. Spreading my fingers, I hold my hand in the air and study the cuts. A line of blood spills down the ridges of my knuckles and over the peaks of my hardened veins. I don't feel the sharp pain from the cuts. My skin is numb to the damage I've inflicted.

I'm wondering what other parts of me have become numb, but those thoughts don't stay around for long.

They leave me the second I leave the dingy bathroom and shattered mirror behind.