Page 11 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)
ELEVEN
Atlas
I grind my teeth together so tightly that a bolt of pain shoots through my jaw.
But it’s a far cry better than letting out the rant that’s currently pounding through my mind–mainly telling the blowhard to shut the fuck up, to stop posturing, and to get to the damned point so we can all get the hell out of here.
Alas, even if I got out of this meeting early, it’s not like I’m going home.
I have five more meetings before my day is done.
Another zing of pain has me refocusing on the presentation–instead of my calendar–but my attention only lingers for a few moments. Long enough to clock that he’s still posturing, still blustering, still not getting to the point–only now the tortuous trio is accompanied by a PowerPoint presentation.
Fucking kill me.
I’m the boss–I can cancel this meeting, the five others following, can say fuck it and just go home.
But to what?
An empty house?
Hours spent staring at my laptop screen, pretending to slog through emails when I’m really hyperfocused on my phone…and the fact that Lily hasn’t called or texted me.
I’m not giving up–I didn’t make it this far giving in when barriers were thrown up in front of me–but it’s not like I can continue to pursue her indefinitely. There’s a difference between persistence and stalking, and I don’t want to be riding that line.
But the hell that awaits me if she doesn’t text, doesn’t take the tiniest step toward me, doesn’t open up, even the slightest bit…I’m already imagining it.
Awkward Sunday Dinners, trying to keep my eyes away from her while playing Connect Four with Frankie, hanging at The Sapphire Room with her across the table from me yet completely out of reach.
Fucking. Hell.
“...and that’s why investing in GlobalTech will be a lucrative venture,” the blowhard says, dropping the remote that controls the slideshow on the table and sinking down into one of the leather armchairs that surround the conference table.
“Any questions?” he asks and smirks–likely amused by his forthcoming joke of, “No? Great. I’ll get the paperwork. ”
I don’t reply, just glance over at Briar and shake my head minutely.
She shakes it back, just as minutely. As usual, we’re completely on the same page.
Then, it’s likely a dick move, but I don’t care.
Because I knew there was absolutely no way I would ever work with a guy who stared at Briar like she was a piece of meat, who was short with Jenny, my executive assistant who handles tasks that Briar doesn’t (like booking this room, like passing out the water he’d rudely rebuffed, like taking notes diligently through the useless presentation in case we need them later).
So, rude or not, I don’t say a word as I push back my chair and leave the room.
That’s answer enough to his bullshit.
But I know the team will give him another clear one.
Still, I lock eyes with our security guard on this floor, incline my head to the room, silently telling him to pay attention in case Boomer Blowhard tries to make a scene or gets in anyone’s face.
Then I’m striding into my office, shutting the door firmly behind me…
And I’m jumping right into my next meeting–this one online and not in person.
But it’s still just as agonizingly frustrating. And annoyingly, I don’t have anyone to turn my fury toward–there are no blowhards on the call, no one’s posturing, no one is even giving me answers I don’t want to hear.
It’s a perfectly normal status update.
And I still want to launch a chair through the plate glass windows that make up one wall of my corner office.
Something that doesn’t change as the call finishes up.
As the next one begins.
As my day slogs on.
Briar comes in and we touch base on our bombastic asshole from earlier, both of us on the same page, both of us needing to brainstorm where we go to next.
Not him or his company is the obvious answer.
But neither of us has had time to figure out the alternative.
“I’ll have a list of options to you by the end of the week,” she says as she gathers up her tablet and water bottle. “We’ll figure out how to make it work.”
“We always do,” I tell her. “And knock off early,” I order. “Take Frankie for ice cream or something. I’ll cover the facilities update.”
“That’s not?—”
“My job?” My mouth hitches up. “Of course it is. I own the company, remember?”
She scowls because I’m right…and maybe also because she’s not normally stymied so easily. She’s fierce on a normal day, a ballbuster on a good one, and maybe…a little softer since she mentioned going on a date with West.
Hmm.
I don’t like that.
I mean, I do. I want her to be happy…
But Briar is like my little sister.
The thought of her having a love life, of dating a hockey player–Christ, I know exactly what hockey players think–makes my blood boil.
She needs to be protected.
Cared for.
Looked after.
Ha.
Like she’d accept that.
It was a fight to get her to move here to SoCal, to take the job.
Her accepting a man just strolling into her life and taking care of her and Frankie when she’s fully capable of doing that by herself is almost comical.
Not to mention that I have her back, along with Dash and Royal and Banks.
She doesn’t need a man.
But maybe…she wants one, I think. It has to be lonely going to work, going home to single mom it.
Who does she talk to aside from us and Frankie?
Who is her confidant and the person– no matter how much my blood boils at the thought–that holds her as she drifts off to sleep?
No one.
And that’s a worse thought by far than thinking about her with a hockey player, so even though I could ruin West McGregor in the blink of an eye, if he makes her happy, I’ll resist ruining his life.
“Go home,” I mutter. “Order takeout and watch West in the Vipers game tonight.”
She stills, head tilting to the side. “You mean watch Banks?”
“I said what I said, Thorny.” My phone buzzes, reminding me of the meeting. “Go home, enjoy yourself, and give that kid of yours a big hug from me.”
Her face goes soft and she surprises me, leaning over my desk, brushing her lips over my cheek.
“So scary and intense.” A pat on my cheek. “And so damned sweet inside.”
Before I can argue that nonsense, she’s straightening, snagging her tablet, her bottle of water, and zipping out the door.
“Sweet?” I mutter.
“Sweet,” she calls from the open door. “Just after that call.”
Right on cue, my phone buzzes again and I grind my teeth together as I log on to the meeting, as I immediately know I made a mistake sending Briar home.
It’s about as exciting as paint drying.
I scowl throughout the entire hour–though luckily my camera is off.
And when my phone buzzes again at the end of it, I imagine sending it right through the window behind the chair I imagined launching.
Only…
Then I see the message.
Lily: I have a ticket waiting in Portland if you really want to use that plane of yours.
And raging out is suddenly the last thing on my mind.
Instead, I’m plotting…
And calling for my jet.