7. Drew

It's been five days, and I still have a job. Olivier Arnaud has a split cheek and a purple neck, and the same brunette night after night, but I'm still somehow employed.

I'm no closer to solving my financial problems, but at least that hasn't been what I've been thinking about the most these last couple of days. The need to break something simmers beneath my skin like an electric current with no way out. I feel like Edward Norton in Fight Club. This is Jack's impotent rage. And more than twenty times or so a day, my fist clenches with the urge to unleash that rage again. Feed the roaring beast.

The sight of Olivier coming and going displaying the proof of my violence like it's fucking Cartier or something gives me a thrill that I feel deep, deep in my core.

Those are my marks.

That's my bitch.

Sounds unhinged? Like I said, the thread I was hanging on by fully snapped. It's probably cliché to say it's nice to have control over one thing. And I'm not claiming I'm in control of The Heir. His strings are pulled by higher powers than me, but in those five minutes when I literally held his billion dollar—and yet totally worthless life—in the palm of my hand. I was a god.

Do I hate him less?

Slightly.

Not enough less to give up a chance to spare his life again, but I have a hair's breadth worth more respect for him, I guess. Okay, maybe it's not respect, but I'm not quite as reluctant to push his up button for him and his lady friend.

I enjoy it actually. Gives me a chance to see the bruises up close and remind him what he really is.

Meanwhile, Killian figured out the identity of the brunette. It's our job to know who's in the building, and this one is basically the female equivalent of Olivier. Elodie Lafayette. I mean—who the fuck are these people? These names, Jesus Christ. This is Jack's colossal eye roll.

Look, I've never seen the dude bring home the same woman twice. We're up to four times with Elodie. Something's up, and I'd bet my left nut it has to do with that TMZ video. He's—well—toned himself down some.

Other than those fleeting, haughty moments in his penthouse designed to crawl the fuck under my skin, he's not smirking at me in the lobby anymore. He addresses me as Drew. "Good evening, Drew." "Thank you, Drew." "Have a good night, Drew."

It's actually eerie. And Elodie—I feel like I need a shower after she looks at me. Her dirty thoughts might as well be playing on a reel projected from her forehead. God only knows what she puts Olivier through up in 1204. Let me tell you who doesn't want to know. This guy.

"You're in a good mood," Babs Connelly says as she breezes into the lobby smelling like a vodka distillery and Baccarat Rouge. Her prize-winning toy poodle dressed in Chanel is bundled in her arms and looking up at me expectantly.

Babs is a gem. A widow and a philanthropist. She's strongly anti-puppy mill. I especially like her because she's never treated me like a servant or a loser. She even knows things about me. Where I'm from, how many siblings I have, that Peggy is a bitch, and that the fashion industry won't have me. She also knows not to bring up modeling with me anymore.

"Am I?" I ask as I give Pearl an appropriately sized treat and a scratch under her curly chin.

Babs taps my forehead. "Your elevens are missing."

"I must've misplaced them. My apartment's a mess."

"Oh! Speaking of your apartment. I know a boy looking to come to the city from London. He's a homosexual, and he'll be staying with me until summer, but if he lands the job he's interviewing for, he'll need something more permanent."

"I'm not sure if our place would be the most comfortable place for someone like that," I say.

"Someone like what? Homosexual?"

I laugh. "No, uh…" I give Pearl another treat to buy a few seconds. "Someone coming all the way from London to interview in New York. He sounds kind of…fancy."

"He's a techie. Computers and such. His family is from Ireland. I don't think he's the kind of fancy you're thinking of."

"The living arrangements at our place aren't exactly ideal. It's only a two-bedroom."

"Hmm." Babs frowns up at me. "How does that work?"

"Well," I walk toward the elevator to press the button for her. "It varies."

While she waits, I grab the couriered envelope that arrived for her today and tuck it under her arm.

"Are you still with that Jerica lady?" she asks.

"Jericho. And yeah." I mean, technically. I haven't seen her in a week, but we're still texting like nothing's wrong.

"There they are." She gives my forehead another tap. "Do me a favor, Drew. Go back to thinking about what was on your mind when I came in. You're too handsome to be so grumpy."

I give her half a grin. "Have a nice night, Babs."

"You, too, dear."

The elevator spirits her away to 912, and I return to my post. Before I can sit, I notice a private courier waiting outside. Busy night. I open the door and usher him in, giving him the log to fill out and signing off on the package for Mr. Olivier Arnaud. Most of his packages are FedEx standard from some high-end retailer or another, but this one is more distinct. Tiffany's.

I examine the small parcel once the courier leaves and give it a small shake. The plot thickens.

After the wave of late-night dinner-goers trickle in, and the dogs return from their pre-bedtime walks, I pull up the Tiffany's website, scroll through it, and familiarize myself with the inventory.

When The Heir returns alone at midnight, he doesn't speak as I let him through the door.

"Something came for you," I say.

"You know the drill, Jack."

"It's small."

"I'm tired," he says flatly, striding to the elevator and jabbing the up button. It's his lucky night because the doors open right up. I shake my head as he steps on, tucks his hands into his winter coat, crosses his long legs at the ankles and looks down at the floor. His hair falls perfectly to shield his face. The doors close on that snapshot of him: the poor little rich boy.

I smooth out the elevens on my brow and wonder where Elodie went, and if, the next time I see her, I'll be able to spot whatever's in that box on her body somewhere. God knows, she won't mind if I look.

Dawn comes along with the runners and the dogs. The doctors and the Wall Street traders. Killian arrives, and I relay to him the reminder we've been passing back and forth for the past week that the new penthouse resident is moving in today. 1208. Ellis Bryan and family. Ellis is the star of a very popular HBO series who wants a better neighborhood to raise her school-age kids. In other words, she's moving up here from TriBeCa because the schools are better.

It's wild working on the Upper East Side. Not every famous person in the world lives here, but they've all at least tried, or they keep a small apartment in the neighborhood to use when they're in town. Between me, Christian, and Silas, we've basically seen them all, from Real Housewives to heads of State. In this building, Ellis won't even be the most famous.

That honor goes to 1110, one of the most recognizable pop stars in the country. He's hardly ever here, though, splitting his time between Manhattan, LA, and touring. He and his husband were here at Christmas, though, and he'd gotten me a gift—he'd gotten all the doormen gifts—but mine was an engraved money clip with my initials. Ironic, but thoughtful.

I contemplate The Heir's most recent unreasonable request and how to handle it. Despite the fact that he hasn't reported my violent behavior yet, that doesn't mean he won't. And despite the fact that I shouldn't want to beat the shit out of him again, I do.

He'll have earned it this morning for making me carry a box that fits inside my hand up twelve floors in the musty service elevator when there's a bed in the village calling my name.

Deciding to play it by ear, I grab the Tiffany's delivery and head upstairs.

I knock on 1204, entertaining myself while I wait by wondering how he's going to turn this little box into a scene. Or if he'll just straight up ask me to choke him.

Or maybe he'll just want to be slapped around.

I can't say why I'm assuming any of this is going to happen, much less why I want it to, but I do know I'll be disappointed if he merely takes the box from me and shuts the door in my face.

The apartment is silent when he appears. He's wearing Gucci lounge pants, the Cartier necklace, and nothing else but the fading bruises I left.

"Who is Elodie Lafayette to you?" I ask, probably in an effort to be invited inside. My fingers are twitching with the need to rough him up. Grab the upper hand. Control anything.

"My future wife. What's it to you?"

"I'm your doorman. I like to be kept in the loop. Congratulations." I hold out the box.

He eyes the box like he can't bring himself to touch it. "Put it on the table."

Without argument, I quietly enter the penthouse, crossing the floor to the table and setting down the box next to the unopened packages and mail I left there Sunday morning. "Still can't find the scissors?"

"Guess not," he says from the foyer, closing the door.

"Will that be all?" I ask when he appears several feet from me, the blank big screen and leather sectional behind him.

"I don't know," he says quietly. "Will it?"

Figures he'd take all the fun out of this. He doesn't even need to be slapped around. He's acting like he already has been.

I sigh, defeated. "Well, if there's nothing else…" I take a step away from the table.

"Wait," he says, approaching me.

We've closed half the distance that was separating us. My chest warms unexpectedly. My gaze is drawn to the bruises. "Out of curiosity—how do you explain those?"

"To Elodie? I told her I tried to hang myself."

An involuntary chuckle comes out. I can appreciate a dark sense of humor. His dimples appear briefly with the tightening of his mouth, but they're gone just as quick. He doesn't have deep cheek denting dimples like some people have. His are more like snags. Like the muscles of his cheeks get caught on something as they attempt to move.

"And she's not concerned?"

"We're not married yet," is his oblique answer.

"Well…" I say, circling back. "What am I waiting for? Did you need something else?"

"I guess I'm wondering if you do?"

"What do you care what I need?"

"You seem angry," he says. "Like…constantly."

Has the whole building noticed? First Babs, now this. "What can I say, we're always angry in Cleveland."

"Where are you really from?"

I glare at him. "Why?"

"I'm asking."

"You gonna look me up? You that bored?"

"Maybe."

"It's none of your business. Can I go now?"

"I'd be disappointed if you did."

So that makes two of us.

Still, it's not like he's giving me much to work with. I study him, waiting for anything. His smooth, pale skin contains zero visible pores. Not a one. His coloring is aristocratic. Dark curls, pale brow, navy blue eyes, and almost too-pink lips. Snow White, if Snow White were a spoiled Manhattan socialite—with a cock.

"You're not pissing me off today. At least, not much more than baseline. You're almost…pathetic," I say. Coming up here was a waste of time.

"Does hurting me turn you on?" he asks.

"No," I say, but that's not the complete truth. It doesn't make me want to furiously jerk off or anything like it does him, but what I did to him those two times definitely got some juices flowing. And I like seeing my marks on him. I like knowing I put them there.

He sinks to his knees in front of me, head bowed. "Freshen me up," he whispers.

I take a step away. "What?"

"I need new bruises. These are fading. Freshen them up."

"You're sick."

"You don't know the half of it, Jack. The worst part is that your being here is making me hard, and if you don't want me to report you for assault, you'll fucking do what I tell you. How difficult is it? You hate me. I can smell it on you. Give me what you think I deserve and ignore the fact that I do get off on it."

I consider his threat. It's a decent one. He's got the proof. The witnesses. He might even be filming this. Who the fuck knows how well this apartment is wired?

Rich people are wacko about their security systems.

"What if I'm not in the mood?" I ask, even as the power he's handing over to me fills some of the emptier spaces in my soul.

"Want me to call you some names first? Insult your profession? Your family maybe? What's your mom like? Is she hot?"

I smirk, though he can't see me now that I've circled around to stand behind him. Ignoring the question, I ask the more important one—to my mind anyway. "You're not gay, are you?" I don't want him getting any ideas.

He huffs a mirthless laugh. "No."

"I don't give a shit if you are, you know? I can't fucking stand you either way. Just wondering what it is you're getting off on exactly."

"You ever been choked while you're jerking off?"

I huff. "No."

"Then you wouldn't understand."

"What makes you think I wanna do you any favors?"

"Well, it's kinda like I said, Jack. I know some powerful people who wouldn't take kindly to a doorman assaulting me."

"But you want me to."

"You want it, too," he says.

He's not wrong. "I'm not gay, either," I tell him, just so we're all clear. "And this is fucked up."

"Hmph. Well…" He slips his pants down, his leaking erection springing out to slap him in the abs. Impressive.

"Pervert," I say.

"Do it, Drew," he says, a new urgency in his tone, bordering on desperate. "I'm not fucking around about pressing charges."

I don't doubt it. And you know whose voice I hear in my head—fucking Peggy's—Well isn't this perfect?—is exactly what she'd say if she had to come bail me out on assault charges.

"How often are you gonna want me to do this?" I ask, even as I slide my hand around his pale, slender neck.

A shudder runs through him, and his hand flies to grip his cock. The sight puts a twinge in my pants, too, much to my annoyance, but not surprise. I've had a few dreams since the first time I came up here, and the image of choking him with my dick woke me up in a cold sweat yesterday afternoon.

I don't know what this is, but I do know I was lowkey excited when that tiny package arrived last night, and if that means anything… I'm choosing not to examine it too much. I have to acknowledge, judging by the fact of my presence here, that something in me needs this. If I can't control my own fate, I can control his. It's not a turn-on—not exactly. It feels more like a compulsion. Like an urge I can't deny.

It's fair to say I've entered the burn it all down stage of frustration and rage. Better than depression, which still gnaws at the edges of my consciousness, begging to be let back in to remind me I'm not good enough for anything but a service job that involves dog treats and pushing elevator buttons. Maybe I like feeling chosen even if it is for this one twisted purpose.

You know what? I'm desperate enough to accept that.

He groans instead of answering my question, his head falling back to rest on my thigh, offering me more of his throat to grab. "How often?" I ask again, keeping my touch relatively light to make him answer.

"Every day," he says.

"I don't work every day, asshole, and you can go fuck yourself if you think I'm gonna come all the way up here to watch you jerk your dick on my days off."

"Fine, then. Whenever you're here. Whenever I tell you to."

I'm sorry—who's doing the choking here? My grip tightens, because this doesn't work if he thinks he's the one in charge. I'm not his goddamned toy.

"You don't make the rules, Olivier, you posh little perv. When I'm here, and you've got your dick in my line of sight, you call me sir. Are we clear?"

"Yes," he croaks. "Yes, s-sir—fuuuck."

I hit him on the back of his head because I don't want to see his face. The view I do have is more than enough right now. Sitting back on his heels, Olivier fucks his rapidly moving fist while I gradually cut off his air supply. I keep a close eye on him, the way his skin reddens first then pales in places. But his hand moves with robotic speed, and he thrusts up into it, too. Like he's been reduced to a mindless organism with one urge only. Not even the urge to survive. If he had that, I'd think he'd grab at my hand, attempt to peel my fingers away from his throat.

I wonder if I'd allow that. Would I stop if he needed me to stop? It's not like I can't feel his pulse beneath my thumb. It's lightning quick. And it's not like he drags this out—he's rushing to the finish line.

"Mmmph…mmm…unh…" are the only sounds he can make, and they're strangled by my fist.

He's close. Trembling. I let him go, and with two more strokes and a gasping intake of air, cum shoots from his tip in thick white ropes as he groans and continues to thrust, cursing and making sounds like it hurts to come like that. Unlike last time, when I couldn't bring myself to watch, this time, I do.

His hips rise and fall back onto his heels in smooth arcs of movement. Not insignificantly, the last minute or so has gotten me hard. My very confused erection is pressing at the strained fly of my pants. The Heir's head is thrown back now and his purple, parted lips give me thoughts—adulterous thoughts. Wild, filthy, totally alien thoughts I can't even be sure belong to me, but they all boil down to one stark, undeniable sensation.

Need.

Dark and depraved.

Within the next few seconds, my dick is free of my slacks, and I'm no longer standing behind The Heir.