Page 26 of My Office Rival (Keep Your Enemy Closer #2)

JASON

C ynthia was avoiding me. And if I were honest with myself, I was avoiding her too. Last night in the kitchen had been a revelation . She wanted me and I couldn’t stop thinking about her.

I was currently at the diner, having a late afternoon coffee after my run.

I was browsing through the local paper and idly listening to the two men behind me catch up over a late lunch.

They had the twang of locals and had mostly been chatting about crop yields and how business was doing at the fair.

My ears pricked when I heard my client’s name.

“One of her boys got in trouble last week,” said a man with a gravelly voice. He spoke with the confidence of a local in the know.

“One of those idiots is always getting in trouble. Each is dumber and meaner than an enraged bull,” man number two snarked.

Gravelly voiced man spoke again, this time in hushed tones. “Yeah, but this time he hurt someone.” I started, nearly spilling my coffee.

“Don’t be bringing that trouble round here. I want no part of the nonsense that happens over at the compound.” Snarky sounded serious now, and he said the word “compound,” like it was a proper noun.

The two men moved on to discussing the upcoming storm that was due to sweep through the area, and I stayed until well after they left.

There could be a totally innocent explanation for everything they were saying, but Mr. and Mrs. Harris didn’t have any sons, only daughters, as far as I knew.

So the “boys” they were talking about were more likely employees.

This was really weird. My skin prickled.

I was intimately familiar with small-town dealings and the rotten core that could run through a seemingly normal place.

I moved through the world with one eye trained on my surroundings, and every animal sense told me something was up.

I let my head fall back onto the booth. I desperately wanted these issues to go away, or even to become more concrete.

Anything was better than this murky in between.

But I had nothing. Just a hunch, some inkling that the financials were hiding information, and hearsay about some of their employees hurting someone.

Mitchell and Nisha would not take kindly to me bringing this to their doorstep.

I needed concrete evidence before I said anything, or I would be fired for blowing up a multi-multimillion-dollar deal.

Just thinking the word fired made my entire body tense.

Over the past almost decade, I had saved and saved, until I was a millionaire.

But it wasn’t enough, maybe would never be enough.

On bad days, I checked the balance in my brokerage account to soothe myself.

Yes, it was fucked up and my old therapist probably wouldn’t have approved.

I wouldn’t be able to stop the spiraling worry over my future and my security until I had my own firm, my own clients, and my name on the door.

No one would be able to fire me. That was the ultimate goal.

And I was so fucking close. Just one more deal and I’d be able to secure an office space.

I would be untouchable and finally able to relax.

I hope I’m blowing this out of proportion. Maybe Mr. And Mrs. Harris were totally aboveboard. I wanted this deal to succeed, needed this deal to succeed .

And you have to go through Cynthia to win.

Could I do that? Could I crush her against the counter and then crush her under my heel?

That’s not you. But it was me. Wasn’t it?

Hadn’t I been that uncaring guy enough times that maybe I’d become him?

Cold outside and cold inside. She doesn’t see you that way.

And yeah, I liked the way I looked in her eyes.

What had she said? That I wasn’t scared of anything?

I nearly choked on my coffee. If only. But damn, I preferred the way she saw me to the way I saw myself.

And what I wouldn’t give for even ten percent of her loyalty to belong to me.

I sipped my coffee as the sky darkened, matching my black mood. Self-doubt and thoughts of shady dealings swirled in my mind.

My phone pinged. An unknown number.

On the screen were five little words:

You owe us, pretty boy.

I froze, phone dangling from my stiff fingers.

It couldn’t be . I checked the area code.

Tennessee. Fuck . Again. They had found me again.

I changed numbers every few years. This wasn’t the first text I’d received, I assumed from Spencer, or maybe Jax.

Jax, who was responsible for the ugly scar on my forearm.

One that had started a lurid crimson and faded now into a white line.

A beer bottle to the arm, just missing my artery.

Luckily for me, since I’d woken up hours later after being knocked unconscious.

I shuddered. They can’t find you . I inhaled through my nose and out through my mouth.

I had a new name, no social media, no friends in common.

I checked my online presence and my personal information every few months to make sure they couldn’t find me.

In the past, nothing had come from these messages.

I’d change my number and try to forget. But they always unsettled me.

With shaking hands, I checked my brokerage account. The number of digits in the account soothed me. You’re fine. They can’t find you.

But just in case, I needed to be untouchable. Rich enough that I was protected. Independent, so the shame of my past could never sully me. I clenched my phone in my fist. I was never depending on someone else ever again.