I didn’t want Nina to have it. I didn’t want her to be happy. Did I want her to fail? Did I want her to stay poor, lost, and somber? Did I want to get back at her for being such a vile bitch to me?
And if so, did that make me a bad person? I didn’t think I was. Screwed up, sure. Would I ever want my future daughter to date someone like me? Hell no. I could smell my kind for miles. But then I couldn’t fully commit to the word evil, either. I’d seen evil. Grew up with Vicious—now that’s an evil man. I wasn’t cut from the same cloth. I helped the elderly cross the road, carried their grocery bags all the way to their Buick Lucernes, even if it meant that I ran late to important meetings. I never misled any of my one-night stands. I was polite—and not only by obligation, but by nature—I voted, always used my blinkers, never, ever offended people on purpose and had been sponsoring an African kid for five years now. We even exchanged letters from time to time. (Kanembiri and I both agreed that Scarlett Johansson was fuck hot and Manchester United FC sucked hairy balls. Because some things were simply an international consensus.)
So, can I wholeheartedly say that I was a bad person? No. I wasn’t.
I fucking loved people. And I loved fucking people even more. The most outgoing and social out of each of my friends. Which was why the situation didn’t sit right with me.
Me. Staring at my MacBook screen for twenty minutes. My index finger hovering over the pad. Just fucking do it, I pleaded with my inner asshole. What the fuck do you care? You’re still rich. She is still poor. She will always be miserable, no matter where she goes.
A soft thump on the door threw me out of my musings. Sue walked in without permission. Technically, she knocked, but that was just cheap semantics on her part. My PA was rude, vindictive, and downright nasty when the opportunity presented itself ever since she caught me fucking another chick against an office desk at the Fiscal Heights Holdings Los Angeles branch. Never mind the fact Sue and I only shared a brief, casual fling. Was it wrong of me to fuck my personal assistant? Probably. Did I tell her, right from the start, that she had better chances converting me to Scientology than getting me to commit to a relationship? Yes, I did, multiple times, before I even slipped the tip in. Did she say she ‘totally gets it, and, that she’s like, totally in the same place in life’? You bet your ass she did. But none of that mattered when push came to thrust, then a moan, then a wannabe actress from Los Feliz screaming my name so loud, security almost barged into the office to check if she was okay.
It’d been almost a year since Sue “caught” me not-cheating on her, and things had gotten progressively worse with every passing month of my non-existent infidelity. Any other chick would be long gone from my glitzy Manhattan office, but Sue had a special contract I had written myself (no legal background, thanks for asking), in a very particular situation where she deep-throated my cock, so I couldn’t fire her. She wouldn’t quit either, and I could see why.
I paid her well, and the hours were relatively sane for a financial company in downtown Manhattan—but she wouldn’t give me a break either. Like now, she breezed into my office with her pencil skirt and high heels and impeccable bleached-out, side-bangs and sour face. I was lucky my office was made solely of glass windows (other than the black wood door). There was always the possibility she’d try to cut my balls off and shove them down my throat.
“Morning, Mr. Cole.” Her crimson lips barely moved as she swiped a finger over her iPad, staring at it intently. I closed the website window to my bank account, holding the thought of wiring money to my archenemy. She could wait. She sure makes me wait. For years and years.
“Sue,” I said, leaning back and lacing my fingers together. I refused to play the bullshit game where I called her by her last name—Miss Pearson—because I was approachable and casual with my staff. Also, it was a little too porno-ish, even for my taste, to refer to someone as “Miss Last Name” curtly when I had been knuckles deep inside of her at some point in my life. “How are you today?” I asked.
“Fine. Yourself?”
“If I were any better, I’d be worried I might explode from happiness.” My smile was intact, but my voice paper-dry. Was I happy? Was I sad? Was I just too fucking high to distinguish the two feelings? Who the fuck knew? What I did know was that I needed a drink or three, which was what I usually felt after speaking with Nina.