“Same fucking question!” she shouts back in my face. If she was anyone else, I would have her by the throat right now. Butinstead, I clench my fists so hard my fingernails cut into my palms.
“What you just did was beyond inappropriate,” I remind her.
“Well, what you did last night was inappropriate,” she retorts.
I stand in front of her, close enough that my chest is against hers, and bear down over the top of her. “You are a greedy, ungrateful little brat,” I growl in her face.
“And you are a controlling, manipulative jerk!”
With that, I grab her by the chin hard enough that her lips pop open. I press my thumb to her bottom lip, then inch it into her mouth, holding her there in my grasp.
Amara’s back arches. The smallest involuntary whimper creeps from her throat before I yank my hand away.
She nearly falls.
“You need to stay in line,” I warn her.
Amara rubs her chin with a scowl. “And you need to stop treating me like I’m your property.”
“You signed a contract!” I shout.
“So did you!” she shouts back. “And so far, all you do is cherry pick the clauses you want me to stick to, like I’m some kind of puppet. Don’t forget that you need me.”
I almost laugh at that. “I don’t need anyone. Especially not a rebellious assistant. I’m calling the driver. You’re going home.”
“Home?” she asks, following me as I make my way to my desk to eat my lunch. “What about work?”
“The secretary can do your job for today. At least she knows her place.”
Amara’s face is a mix of offended and pissed as she storms out of my office. I’m full of shit. Annette can’t even come close to doing Amara’s job. Hell, she can hardly do her own half the time. But that’s not the point. The point is she’s out of line. She’s forgotten that I am in charge.
And until she remembers, we will both take a hit.
Once she is gone, I have no desire to be here either. Honestly, I can run the place from my phone with closed fucking eyes. Oil and gas may rule the world, but they don’t rule the streets I live on, and that’s where my real problems are.
I clock out early—metaphorically speaking—but I have no desire to go home. I need to hit something. Or better yet, punch something.
And I know exactly what will give me my fix.
Maverick is under the hood of his car when I pull up. He looks over at me with a grin, his teeth white against the backdrop of his dark skin, stained with oil and who knows what else.
My stomach sours on contact. Cars and racing will always remind me of one thing: my brother. And that’s a memory I will repress to the grave.
But the high that comes from being here, at the old track by the bay, is second to none. I don’t do drugs and never have. Getting drunk is a numbing agent and right now, with the electricity that is surging through my veins, making my skin sweat and my head hot, I need to feel more, not less. I need to feel alive.
“Well, well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” Mav grins as he lets down the hood of the car. It’s a 2025 Chevy Corvette E-Ray Coupe, Mav’s newest baby. It costs almost as much as a cookie cutter three-bed-two-bath and he drives it like he stole it this morning.
“I need to clear my head,” I say, reaching in my pocket for a cigarette.
“I think you came to the right place. Nothing clears the brain like a little adrenaline. Well, other than getting your rocks off, but your life is a bit complicated in that area, isn’t it? Or should I say saturated.”
“I came here so I don’t have to think about women,” I tell him with the butt between my teeth as I shield the lighter. I take a drag and let it hit my lungs. Admittedly, I am doing a lot of things today that I gave up a long time ago. But it is what it is.
“Fair enough. So let’s not talk chicks. Let’s go for a ride.”
I have no need for speed. My life is crazy enough to function fine without it. But as Maverick takes me for a loop around the docks, I can feel the adrenaline building in my chest, needing a release. And guessing by the grin on his face when he glances over at me, he knows it.
“You wanna give her a go?” he asks.
