Stroke of Midnight Page 2

  “Dad says it’s true love,” I taunt. “Maybe they’ll even have an oops baby together.”

  His dark eyes flash with cruelty. “She doesn’t love him, and she barely tolerates you. Besides, we were test tube babies. Mom can’t get pregnant the old-fashioned way.”

  “Whatever,” I grumble. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

  He runs his knuckle up and down my spine, making me shiver from the touch. “Nah. I’m on babysitting duty today.”

  I snap my attention his way, glowering at him. In another world, I’d find someone like Scout attractive. Tall, muscular, chiseled jaw. His black hair and fair skin make him look like a vampire. I always got a thrill from the dark, dangerous types. But there’s just something completely wrong with the Terror Triplets. They’re missing some key elements most humans have. In the three months I’ve lived with them, I’ve watched them make maids cry, destroy property for fun, and fuck more girls than humanly possible.

  “You’re still in high school,” I spit out. “I’m off to college. I don’t need babysitting.”

  “Technicality because we were held back. The three of us are older than you, Ash. But I wasn’t talking about age. I was talking about the fact we have to make sure you don’t try to screw over our mom. That takes constant watching.”

  “Fuck off,” I snap. “And get out of my room.”

  “It belongs to Mom, not you,” he sneers. “Best remember that. Mom would love to remind you of that. In fact, maybe I should tell her about all these new holes in her walls.”

  He stands and stretches, his T-shirt lifting to show off his muscled abs from playing lacrosse at Pembroke Preparatory School. When he catches me looking, his smile grows even more devious than before.

  “Like what you see, little sister?” He cups his junk through his jeans. “I could show you a little more.”

  Gross.

  I shoot him the bird, ignoring his taunts. Of the triplets, he’s the one who takes his stalking seriously. The other two tolerate me, but he goes out of his way to probe and poke at me.

  “Fine,” he says as he makes his way to the door. “When you want some dick, you know where to find me. Warning, though. Mom will be very, very angry if you fuck her favorite son.”

  I refrain from throwing my laptop at him. Barely. “Go to hell, Scout.”

  His laughter can be heard echoing, long after he leaves.

  Creep.

  Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

  Just like always, my bird Shrimp goes back to making noise in his bird cage the moment Scout leaves. Scout is definitely the spawn of Satan, because Shrimp is scared to death of him. My pink parakeet loves everyone except my stepmother and her monster boys. Shrimp is a good judge of character.

  My phone alarm blares, and I groan. Time to get ready for work. I hate this new job I’ve only been working at for a week. I hate my new family. I hate the fact I’m going to have to rely on Manda to pay for my school. I hate everything.

  Halcyon Building is silent as I push my cleaning cart along the halls. FGM Services cleans a few high-end buildings in the city, including this one. They’re strict on hiring and require hella experience, but because Manda knows the owner, I was given a job. One I obviously need since Dad raided my college fund.

  “Don’t embarrass me.”

  Manda’s words have been echoing in my head all week. Cleaning at these expensive offices isn’t exactly rocket science. In fact, most of the offices don’t require nightly cleaning, but we have to go through the motions anyway.

  Like last night.

  After Dad stood me up for my birthday lunch and none of my friends had plans to do anything for me, I spent my eighteenth birthday yesterday with the company of a noisy bird. And, because of Manda, I also got to work on my not-so-special day. I’d been annoyed and hurt last night. Most of the offices were pretty clean, so I just glanced around to make sure they weren’t too messy and took the night to goof off.

  The thought of cleaning a whole floor of offices that are perfect feels redundant and boring. I need the money, but I don’t know how much I can take of this.

  I don’t want to clean.

  I want to sit behind a desk and crunch numbers. Talk shop. Plan expansions. My dad is an economic analyst, which is what I want to be too. I’d always imagined us going into business together and heading up our own firm.

  Cleaning won’t get me there.

  I suppose playing nice with Manda the Maneater is my only resort at this point.

  For the next hour, I rush through all the offices that don’t need much more than the trash cans emptied, and then make it to the CEO’s office. One day, I’ll have an office like Winston Constantine, but I won’t be some old fuddy duddy. I’ll be a boss babe with style. My employees will love me, because I imagine I’ll be cool as hell. Rather than hire a boring interior designer like whatever robot chose the furniture and décor for Halcyon, I’ll do it all myself.

  I’m once again daydreaming of my future that seems more and more murky these days as I fumble through my email on my phone to find the code to get into Big Man’s office. Of all the offices, this one is the coldest and most boring. As though whoever Winston Constantine is, he doesn’t do any sort of work, but instead gazes out the windows all day.

  Finally, I locate the code and punch it in.

  It’s like twelve numbers long, and I fail a few times before it grants me entry. With a sigh of frustration, I push the door open and drag my rolling cart in after me into the dark office. I hit the light switch with my elbow and leave my cart in front of the door to prop it open. I fidget with the dumb uniform skirt I have to wear and wonder if anyone would notice if I wore jeans instead.

  I grab the duster and make a beeline over to the painting on the wall. It’s the best part of the office besides the cool desk that moves up and down and the windows overlooking the most picturesque parts of New York City. I touch the bottom of the frame to check for dust. As I imagined it to be, there’s not a speck.

  I’m just moving to the bookshelves when I hear a creak.

  “You’re supposed to clean it, not pretend,” a deep, furious voice growls, scaring the ever-loving shit out of me.

  “What the fuck, man?” I snap, whirling around, dropping my duster in the process. “You can’t just sneak up…” I trail off as I drink in the man sitting in the desk chair.

  Holy shit.

  Was he here the whole time?

  Fucking creepy!

  But there’s nothing creepy about his looks. He’s not a fuddy duddy either, if this is Winston Constantine. He’s fine as hell.

  Older. Dressed to the nines in a three-piece navy suit that looks custom-tailored and expensive. A handsome, villainous smirk on his face. His dark blond hair is shorter on the sides and longer on top, styled perfectly, making it look as though he came from a photoshoot at Gucci or something. Just enough scruff to give him an edge despite his otherwise clean-cut appearance. It’s his eyes that are mesmerizing.

  Dark blue. Intense. Penetrating.

  For some reason, it makes me think about my ex-boyfriend, Tate. The exact opposite of this man. Soft and sweet and gullible. Tate and I were a high school thing, but the moment we graduated a couple of weeks ago, we amicably broke it off knowing we were headed in different directions. This guy looks anything but soft, sweet, or gullible.

  He looks scary.

  Scary hot.

  But still scary.

  I clear my throat. “Sorry. I’ll just empty your trash and be out of your way.”

  “No,” he rumbles, his voice dripping in a menacing tone. “I’ve been waiting for you. It’s time we chat, little girl.”

  3

  Winston

  The cameras lied.

  Not about her actions—or inactions, I should say—but about her looks. I’d been too busy fuming this morning to take a closer look. Now, I’m getting my fill.

  She’s young.

  Really young.

  Like I’m not even
convinced she’s old enough to drive a car, much less work at a prestigious cleaning company. Her face is makeup free, but she’s somehow still naturally pretty. Dangerously pretty. The kind of pretty that gets men like me in trouble.

  Because…I want to fuck her.

  She’s barely said three sentences to me, and my dick aches to play with her. If she’s underage, I’m screwed, because I know I’m going to have her bouncing on my dick regardless.

  “Name,” I growl, even though I know it already.

  She fidgets, messing with the hem of her uniform skirt. It’s just short enough to be distracting, drawing the eye to her golden thighs, but not short enough to be satisfying. If she bends over, I won’t get a peek at what color panties she’s wearing.

  “Ash Elliott.” She blows air up, knocking a loose, dark tendril of hair from her face.

  “Take your bun out,” I grind out. “Now.”

  Her sculpted brows pinch together in confusion. “What?”

  “I didn’t stutter, child.”

  She huffs and narrows her eyes at me. “I’m not a child.”

  Thank fuck.

  “Let me see your hair,” I demand. “Stop wasting my time.”

  “Why?” she throws back. “I have to keep it back per the rules.”

  “You’re supposed to clean per the rules too, but we both know you’re a little rule breaker.”

  Her cheeks grow rosy, and she parts her plump, pink lips in shock. Yes. I will absolutely have those lips wrapped around my dick. Imagining her choking on my cock makes me uncomfortably hard in my slacks.

  “Do it before you really piss me off, Miss Elliott.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  “But you will,” I interrupt. “Obey me.”

  Her hazel eyes flare at my words. Then, like the pissy brat she clearly is, she reaches up and yanks at her hair tie. She scowls as she tugs it loose, sending her hair falling in bouncy brown waves over one shoulder. Her brow lifts in challenge as if to say, “What now, asshole?”

  I’m so used to women who live to please me that I don’t understand why I’m aroused by this unruly thing. She should turn me off completely, as she’s nothing like what I typically go for.

  “Come here,” I command, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees. “Now.”

  With enough attitude to make my palms twitch to pull her over my knee and spank the fire out of her, she storms right up to me. I get a whiff of her cherry scent, reminding me why she’s here in the first place. She left her candy wrappers littering my office.

  “Get on your knees.” I tilt my head up to glare at her. “Where you belong.”

  “Fuck you,” she sneers.

  “I’m about to,” I threaten. “When I fire you and the entire damn cleaning company because of your incompetence.”

  She gapes at me in horror. “What? Why would you fire everyone else because of me? I don’t understand.”

  “Because I am a Constantine.”

  “Elaborate, because that means nothing to me.”

  At this, I arch a brow in disbelief. “You know who I am.”

  “An asshole. Yep. Learned that five minutes ago.”

  Interesting.

  It’s unusual to not be known. Revered. Feared.

  “An asshole who will ruin you in every way possible. I’m a tenacious asshole. When someone pisses me off, I go to great lengths to make them understand they fucked with the wrong man.”

  “Why?” she demands. “What did I do wrong?”

  “Taking wages for a job you didn’t do. That’s fraud, Miss Elliott.”

  “I’ll leave—”

  “No,” I snap. “You’re going to listen, or I’ll plow through your life, destroying everything before you even make it to the first floor.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I take my job very seriously.” I smirk at her, loving the flare of hatred in her hazel eyes.

  “Job? So that’s your job? Terrorizing nice people?” She waves a hand toward my empty desk. “That explains the sparse office. All the nefarious work happens inside that fucked-up head of yours!”

  I reach up, gripping her jaw in my punishing grip, and pull her to my face. Her sweet, cherry scent fills my nostrils and stays. I want to lick every part of her to see what parts taste as good as she smells. A whine of fear escapes her as her hands settle on my shoulders, keeping her from falling into my lap.

  “I didn’t amass this fortune by being an idiot. I certainly don’t let little girls run my fucking show.” I relax my grip on her jaw, sliding my palm to her throat. Her pulse jumps against my thumb. “I’m here to offer you a job.”

  Wait? I am?

  “I have a job,” she mutters.

  “No, Miss Elliott, you do not. You did a really shitty job there, so you’re being let go.”

  “I need—”

  “I know,” I snap. “You’re a fucking maid. Rich girls don’t need to work, which means you need money. Are you ready to learn your new job?”

  I sure as hell would, because I’m making this up as I go along. I’m in unchartered territory here. My colleague and friend, Nate, will laugh his fucking ass off when he gets wind of this.

  “Are you going to hurt me?” Her eyes lose their fire as tears well in them. “I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Releasing her, I push back in my chair, putting distance between us. She rubs at her jaw, frowning at me.

  “I want to punish you.”

  She blinks at me as though she’s waiting for the punchline. The punchline is, there is no punchline. I just want to punish her. Among other things…

  “Like spank me?” She laughs—fucking laughs at me. “No.”

  “My punishment is far more creative than your young mind could ever conjure up.” I flash her a devious grin. “We could start tonight.”

  “Listen,” she says, “I think I should go. I’ll quit if that makes you happy.”

  I roll in my chair toward my desk and pat the smooth surface. “You quitting will make me happy, yes, and save the jobs of every person in that company.”

  She deflates at my words.

  “But,” I continue, “I want to give you a new job. One you can actually do. One that pays a hell of a lot more.”

  “I’m not going to be some Pretty Woman prostitute,” she bites out. “I’m not Julia Whatshername and you’re not Richard Grieco.”

  “Gere,” I correct.

  “The fact you know that means you’re old.” She rolls her eyes, her makeup-free lashes batting against her apple cheeks. “You’re old enough to be my dad.”

  “I’m only thirty-five.” I clench my jaw. Almost thirty-six.

  “My dad will be thirty-seven this month,” she sasses, cocking her hip out to one side. “Is that what this is? Some creepy ‘call me Daddy’ gig? Because, if so, ew. No.”

  I try not to outwardly cringe.

  So, I guess I am old enough to be her father.

  Lovely.

  “Focus, child,” I growl. “I’m not paying you to be my whore. If you want to fuck me, that shit is going to be for free.”

  She gasps. “I’m not sleeping with you!”

  “Yet,” I say with a smirk. “What I’m paying you to do is easy. I want to punish you. More like humiliate you, to be clear.”

  Her head cocks to the side. “Why?”

  “Because it gets my dick really hard.”

  She chews on the inside corner of her bottom lip, her hazel eyes darting to my crotch and lingering there. “That’s weird.”

  “You have no idea.” I pat the desk. “Sit here and we’ll get started.”

  “You can’t humiliate me if no one is here,” she volleys back. “It’s just you. Defeats the purpose.”

  “We’ll work up to public humiliation, my dear.”

  Her cheeks flame crimson. “How much?”

  There she is. Everyone is a born negotiator when money is up for grabs.

  “Make me an
offer,” I say, flashing her a wolfish grin.

  “What will I be doing?”

  “Nothing too difficult. Just something to please me. Five minutes.”

  “Five hundred dollars,” she blurts out.

  A low baller, I see.

  “A hundred dollars a minute?” I bite back a laugh.

  “Take it or leave it, buddy.”

  “I’ll take. And take and take. Now sit on my desk.”

  She frowns, stalling for a moment, but then lifts her chin before stomping over to the edge of my desk. Under her breath, she curses before hoisting herself onto the smooth surface. The desk is tall enough that she swings her feet back and forth beneath her like a child.

  “Where’s your phone?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.

  “Why do you want my phone?” Her eyes are wide and horrified. “You’re going to record it?”

  “What is it?”

  Her neck burns bright red. “I don’t know.”

  “No, Miss Elliott, I’m not going to record it. You’re going to record it. A little gift for later.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it embarrasses you.”

  “You get off on embarrassing me?” She pins me with an annoyed glare.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Fucking freak,” she mutters as she yanks her phone from her pocket. “Whatever.”

  “Lean on your elbows and put your feet up on the edge.”

  “What are you going to do?” Her voice is shrill and shaky.

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t get it,” she grumbles.

  “It’s like art,” I explain. “All in the eye of the beholder. Do as I say. Stop wasting our time. The clock starts when you obey.”

  She holds my stare for a long moment before finally letting out a harsh, exaggerated sigh. Her body trembles as she moves to get into my requested position. It’s cute how she tries to awkwardly keep her thighs closed, but the position won’t allow it.

  “Are you recording?”