Dirty Ugly Toy (16 page)

Things changed.

And I soon found that I didn’t want to hurt her last night. I wanted to pleasure and please her. I wanted to kiss and make love to her. I wanted her,
Jessica
, to sleep in my bed with me.

I’ve lost my fucking mind.

And that’s why after she fell asleep, I carried her ass upstairs and deposited her into her bed. Then, I came to my office and have been trying to formulate a plan on how to fix this shit ever since.

“Sir,” Dubois says from the doorway, “you’re up early this morning. And if I may speak frankly here, you look like hell.”

I raise an irritated brow at him but quickly drop it, offering him a thankful smile instead when he hands me a cup of steaming coffee. “How’s Christine?”

“She’s better this morning and is already flitting about the kitchen making breakfast despite her bandaged hand. She said she’s making your favorite for dinner,” he tells me as he sits in the chair across from my desk.

Sipping my coffee, I let my gaze fall on my right-hand man. His dark eyes are tired, probably matching my own, and I wonder what has him looking so ragged.

“Beef stew. Nothing like a little comfort food after a rough last couple of days,” I tell him with a sigh.

He nods. “Sir . . .”

I hold his stare and wait for him to continue.

“I believe Trevor is going to be a problem.”

His words mimic the thought that’s been swirling around in my head for a while now. “Yes, that’s because he’s a snake. Did you tell him he was fired?”

He shakes his head and stares out the window. “Well, he was pretty bad off when I deposited him in his hotel room. Glenna and Jamal assured me they’d stay and look after him. They’re both worried about their own jobs and don’t seem to have any loyalty to him as far as I could determine. Jamal was going to inform him of his termination once he was awake and coherent. However, I think after he heals up and understands what he truly lost, he’ll retaliate. He’s always been a calculating one.”

I sip my coffee and then nod. “So we get eyes on him. I’ll put Jamal in as acting CEO until we figure out a better plan. Today I’ll conference our investors to let them know of the company changes. Our confidential matters are locked down so even if Trevor tried to do something to ruin me, the fucker wouldn’t get the chance. Plus, if I find out he even tries anything, I’ll ensure he has more than just a few scrapes and bruises next time.”

The reminder of how he touched my toy enrages me but I swallow down the fury, remembering I need to cool my shit when it comes to Bunny. I’m too wrapped up in her and it’s clouding my judgment.

“Sir,” he says carefully. I know he’s watching my behavior and analyzing it. It’s what he does—he knows me better than anyone. “I believe the miss is going to be a problem too.”

Liquid anger surges through my veins at his indication that my toy might be defective and I choke down the desire to lash out on him. Instead, I question him. “How’s that?”

He takes a deep breath and then lets it out in a rush, along with his words. “She’s messing with your head, sir. In the one week that you’ve known her, you’ve let her break rules, get under your skin, and you even nearly killed your CEO for her. She’s dangerous to you and your company.”

His bitter words aren’t meant to hurt me but to protect me. Dubois always looks out for me and not just because I pay him to.

“Jesus,” I groan and scrub the overgrown hair on my cheek with my palm. “You think I don’t know this? But what do I do, D? I can’t just send her back. You know that.”

“Why not? Send her off with a hundred grand and wash your hands of her. Despite Cartier turning her into something beautiful, she’s still dirty and wrong underneath. She doesn’t deserve you. I can’t watch her ruin what you’ve worked so hard to achieve.”

He’s right.

He’s always fucking right.

But could I send her back?

What happens when the hundred grand runs out?

What happens when she hits a low moment and seeks out heroin?

What happens when stupid fuckers like Corgy hurt her?

“I can’t do that. She’s not ready. A week of sobriety isn’t long enough. She’ll be back to her old ways before the weekend,” I tell him briskly.

He grumbles. “But sir—”

“She’s
not
ready, D,” I seethe, slamming my fist on the desk causing my coffee to slosh out. “They’ll hurt her.
He’ll
hurt her.”

“Trevor?”

“Yes, the Trevors of the world. For some reason, Bunny attracts all of the fucking wolves.”

“Like you, sir?”

I narrow my gaze at him. “I’m the biggest, baddest wolf of them all. And that’s why she’s safer with me. I know my limits. I can keep her from getting taken advantage of and make sure she stays off the drugs.”

“She’ll unravel you,” he tries again but his fight is wavering.

“No, I’ll keep my distance. I’ll remember the rules.”

He sighs. “How about this? I’ll back off if you call Nat. You haven’t seen her in a while. I’m sure she’d love to hear about Bunny.”

I glare at him and challenge his unmoving stare. He’s serious—fucking serious. I’m not ready to talk to my sex therapist about this yet. I’d hoped to figure it out on my own but clearly that’s not happening any time soon. She’s been a friend of mine for two decades now. My father had taken me to her as a young man when I’d been dealing with my anger toward my mother. It wasn’t until she left her practice and focused on sex therapy that we grew close—beyond a patient doctor relationship. Nat was the one to suggest channeling my sadism in the form of willing masochists, or toys, as I like to call them. It wasn’t all smooth in the beginning and it took quite a bit of guidance on her part. But eventually, she helped form a way for me to survive the mental anguish that plagues me. I’m annoyed he’s even suggesting I already call in reinforcements.

Yet . . .

Bunny’s wide, feisty green eyes are forefront in my mind. Her plump lips calling me by my name as if it’s no big deal. Me devouring her pussy like it was my very last meal. The vixen is tearing apart the very fabric of who I am.

Shit.

He’s right.

I’m losing it.

“Fucking fine already. Call Nat. I’ll talk to her. But in the meantime, I want you to look up every goddamned Corgy in London. I want the losers—the drug dealers—the street punks.”

He raises both brows but doesn’t question my sudden need to chase this new rabbit trail.

“When you find them, I want a list. And I want their pictures.”

The tall man is already standing, ready to tackle his assignment. “And then what, sir?”

“We find out which motherfucker hurt my Bunny,” I tell him, no infliction of emotion in my voice, “and then we kill him.”

The fat man in the red suit waves to people walking by and thanks them when they drop coins in his bucket. After they leave, he goes back to jingling his bell. I don’t get it. He’s big—probably from eating so much food—and he still asks people for money.

Why won’t Mama ask those people for money?

My bones poke out and I know it’s because I’m always hungry. We need the coins more than him.

“Mama,” I tug at her jacket and point. “Who is that man?”

Today, she’s not as sick as usual. She’s promised me a special treat because it’s Christmas. I still don’t understand what Christmas is but I want a special treat. So I’ve been a good boy all morning while she worked.

She kneels down beside me and one of her bare knees rests on the cold ground. Mama doesn’t wear many clothes and I wonder how come she isn’t freezing like me.

“That,” she says with a laugh that reminds me of the bell he’s ringing, “is Santa Claus.”

I scrunch my brows together and turn to look at her. Her blue eyes are as pretty as the sky today. When Mama isn’t sick, she’s funny and nice. I love her all the times but times like these are the best. “Who is Santa Claus?”

Her smile falls as if she suddenly remembers something and sadness makes tears roll out of her eyes, dragging black streaks along the way. “He’s nobody, Braxxy. Just a fat fucking bastard.”

I glare at the old man that smiles upon seeing me. I hate how happy he looks. Mama hates him for some reason and I do too.

“Let’s go, baby. The shelter said they’re doing their Christmas dinner at three. We’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

Trailing after her, I try not to look at the man. But I can’t look away.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” he yells at me, waving a piece of candy to tease me. “What do you want for Christmas little boy?”

He makes me so mad. And when he gives Mama the look that the other men give her, I can’t take it anymore. Breaking free from her, I run as hard as my little eight-year-old legs will carry me and I hit him right in his pee-pee.

“I hate you!” I tell him. I don’t want to cry—I want to be the brave boy for Mama but I’m so mad at the stupid fat man.

His eyes are open wide with shock and he clutches himself where I hit him. “You’re on the naughty list,” he hisses out. “Bad boys don’t get anything from Santa. They don’t deserve toys.”

I haul off to kick him again but Mama yanks my arm up and drags me away from him.

I don’t want any toys from the fat man. If I want toys, I’ll make them myself. Sometimes when Mama is working, I cut shapes out of cardboard from a little pocket knife I stole from one of the apartments we went to once. If there’s no cardboard, I like to cut out little stars from Coca-Cola cans. I make my own toys from the trash—I turn them into something pretty. They may not be toys like he’s used to giving to the
good
boys, but they’re
my
toys.

I’m still lost in my angry thoughts when something warm blasts around me. Jerking my head toward it, I smile to see the shelter we sometimes go to. Music, happy music, plays in the background. It makes me feel good again. Being mad at Santa is something of the past as we climb the steps.

Tonight is the best night of my whole life. The nice people at the shelter serve us hot, yummy foods and I even make friends with another little girl nearby. She’s younger and I pretend she’s my sister. When dinner is over, the adults gather the children around a big tree decorated with lights.

I like this tree.

It makes me happy.

“Everyone,” an old lady yells. She’s not mad. Not at all. I think she is crying with happy tears. “This year’s donations were wonderful. There are enough gifts for all the children. God is good.”

The group chatters around us. Mama strokes my hair like I do the stray cats I find and I lean in to her touch. I love my Mama.

“Here you go, little boy. I hope you get something special,” the old lady says, handing me a wrapped gift.

It’s painted with the same red and white candy the stupid Santa tried to give me. Mama seems so happy, so I don’t spoil her mood by getting mad.

“Is this my surprise, Mama?”

She kisses the top of my head. “Yes, Braxxy. Open it up. Let’s see what you got.”

Carefully, I tear open the paper and pull the lid off the box. Inside is a package.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Mama snarls. “I was promised a toy for my son. Not goddamned socks!”

I jump at her sudden outburst and turn to her. “Mama, I love these socks. They’ll keep my feet warm.” I tear open the plastic and am happy to find twelve single, white socks.

She looks embarrassed and strokes my dark hair from my face. “I wanted to give you a toy, baby.”

I smile really big at her. “I make my own toys, silly,” I tell her so she won’t feel bad. “The socks are better. I like them.”

She hugs me to her and I inhale the cigarette smell mixed with her perfume that sometimes gives me a headache. I love her smell. I want her to hold me always and never have to go to work.

“And what toy did Santa bring you, little boy?”

Mama and I both jerk away to stare up at the old lady. I glare at her. “Santa is a stupid, selfish fat man who teases kids with candy. My mama got me socks because she knows my feet get cold all the time. I don’t need that mean man’s toys. I can make my own.”