Completed short story, set a year-ish before the beginning of Vicious (Dark Billionaires of New Bristol #2). Content notes apply only to this part.
“May-May!” my father greets, smiling a little awkwardly. He’s dressed in one of his better suits, which I’d picked up from the dry cleaners last night just to be sure he had something clean to wear today.
He’s still better dressed than I am, since I’m in the catering staff’s uniform. I’d arrived a few hours early, and I’m glad he managed to get here on time. I was half afraid he’d forget to show to the event.
“Hi, Baba,” I whisper. I hold the tray of appetizers up to him. Much louder, I say, “Would you care for some hors d’oeuvre, sir?”
If anybody caught me being social with the guests, I’d probably lose my job. Even if he’s my father.
My father laughs awkwardly and takes one of the canapes from the tray. “You don’t have to be formal with me, sweetheart.”
If we were in a more private area, I would have agreed, but my father caught me as I was making my rounds through the large event space. There are lawyers and judges and every manner of public official here, all gathering to celebrate the retirement of the attorney general. It’s a wonder my father got invited at all, but I suppose it would have been obvious if they’d neglected to invite one of the state’s most senior public defenders. They’d invited all the others, after all.
I paint on the best smile I can manage, but it doesn’t feel real. It doesn’t have to, though; it’s not like anyone’s going to notice if it’s fake.
A handsome, well-dressed man approaches us. He has East Asian features, with a thin beard and mustache as well as slightly longer hair. His suit is much better tailored than my father’s, and the quality makes it clear whoever this man is, he isn’t a “public” anything. “Simon! I didn’t think you were coming.” He has an accent that sounds British, but there’s something else mixed in that’s almost familiar, too. I vaguely wonder where he grew up.
My father laughs awkwardly. “Ah, Chase. Hello. It’s been a while.”
The name doesn’t sound familiar, despite all the stories my dad tells me about his work. I try to melt into the background and let my father do the networking he desperately needs to do, but he grabs my shoulder before I can get far. “Have you met my daughter, Chase? This is May.”
He’s going to get me into trouble at this rate, and I cast a quick glance around. No one’s looking in this direction, at least, but if this lasts too much longer…
Chase looks at me, clearly startled. “Your daughter? I would never have guessed.”
I know I don’t look like my father at all. I take after my Chinese mother, while my father is as white American as they come. But I get annoyed whenever people assume I must be adopted, or that he’s stolen me from my real family, or whatever stupid ideas people get.
I keep that fake smile on my lips, offering the tray out to him. “Hors d’eouevre, sir?”
I have plenty of experience from my second job as a waitress, but my hand wobbles a little because I’m terrified I’m going to get caught fraternizing with the guests.
My boss Mr. Johansen is strict to the extreme, and I need the extra money from these catering events if we’re going to pay the rent this month.
“Thank you,” Chase says as he takes one of the appetizers. His eyes rake over me, and I get that disgusted sensation I always do when I know somebody is checking me out.
Fucking creep, I think, although I don’t let my smile slip.
“Well.” Chase turns back to my father. “Simon, I did want to talk to you about one of your cases. May… I hope I see you around again. Maybe as a guest, next time.”
“It would be a pleasure,” I say in my best call center voice, the one I use when customers decide to get a little more personal than they need to.
The look he’s giving me is… predatory. I can’t think of any better word for it. It makes me feel a little off-balance, and I turn, relieved to be away from him.
As I make my way through the crowd, letting people pick appetizers off the tray, I survey the room. It doesn’t look like anyone noticed my prolonged presence near my father and the creepazoid he was talking to, at least.
A man waving a champagne glass in one hand motions me over to him, and I reluctantly approach to allow him to take an appetizer. He’s older, his hair graying considerably, and his suit isn’t fitting him quite as well as it should.
“H-hey,” the man slurs at me. “Have you… have you got…”
“I have small quiches and canapes, sir,” I tell him politely. “I can get you something else if you’d prefer.”
He sways a little on his feet, and I fight the urge to grimace. I really, really hate these events sometimes.
“I want more wine,” he says, lurching toward me.
I can see his arm extend outward, but somehow I don’t quite comprehend what he’s doing until his hand is on my shoulder. He leans in closer and takes a long sniff of me.
I startle, the tray wobbling in my hand. It’s not the first time a drunk guest has tried to feel me up and get in my personal space—and I’m sure it won’t be the last—but it’s always mortifying.
“I’ll get you more wine, sir,” I say, trying to squirm out of his grasp. He tightens his grip, though, and it’s all I can do to keep my balance… and my composure.
“The thing is,” the man says. The alcohol stink of his breath reaches my nose. “The thing is, my wife is such a bitch, and—” He waves his champagne glass around wildly, and it connects with my tray.
The glass shatters.
For a moment, all I can do is gape at the mess. Some of it has been contained on the tray, but several large shards have fallen onto the floor.
Damn it.
Now my boss really is going to get on me about this even though it wasn’t my fault. It’s not fair, but nothing is fair in this line of work. The best thing to do is clean it up as quickly as I can — hopefully before he notices.
“I should really clean this up,” I tell the man. I try harder to break free of the hand on my shoulder, wanting nothing more than to just get this done so I can find another area in the party to offer canapes to.
Unfortunately, the noise attracted attention. I see one of the other servers coming my way, hopefully to help.
Mr. Johansen beats her to me. “May!” he hisses. “Clean up this mess you made!” He turns to the guest. “Mr. Richards, I’m so sorry about her clumsiness. It won’t happen again.”
At the very least, Mr. Richards finally releases my shoulder. I’m sure Mr. Johansen saw it, but the guests are always right and superior and whatever other crap he might spout off about why everything is the staff’s fault.
Flustered and embarrassed, I set the tray on the floor. The food is already ruined from shards of glass, and there’s no way I can serve any of the rest of this food to guests.
I reach down instinctively to pick up the larger shards, hissing in pain as one of them slices into my finger.
My blood is shockingly red against my pale skin, and I shudder at the sight of it. For a moment, I’m transfixed, unable to do anything but stare.
“May! What are you doing? Pick this up before somebody hurts themselves!” Mr. Johansen hisses.
Somebody arrives with a broom, holding it out to me.
The cut must’ve been deeper than I thought, because it keeps flowing.
“I’ll take care of it,” Aaron says in a rush. “Here, May, just take the tray to the back.”
I cast a grateful glance at my co-worker, mouthing ‘thank you’ and taking off before Mr. Johansen can protest. It’s not like he should, considering there are several droplets of blood on the floor, but he’s more concerned with the guests’ feet.
I drop the tray off in the kitchen and mumble something about going to the bathroom to clean up. Except there’s a line for the restrooms, and I’m sure they don’t want one of the servers using the guest bathrooms anyway.
Great.
I slink over to a secluded corner and lean against the wall to catch my breath. I probably should’ve used the first aid supplies in the kitchen, but Mr. Johansen would’ve gotten pissed about that too.
Man. I don’t even know why I bother with this job some days.
Oh wait, yes I do: my father gambles away everything he earns, and we wouldn’t be able to pay the rent if I didn’t have three jobs.
With a sigh, I put pressure on the wound. I tell myself it’s to try to stem the bleeding, but I know better. I’m doing it for the same reason I always push on my bruises and pick open the scabs from the scratches my cat likes to give me when she wants attention I don’t give her fast enough.
It feels… good.
It centers me, allowing me to settle, and I feel more at ease as the minor discomfort whispers through me. My hand is streaked with blood, which I can also appreciate.
I’ve always been afraid to actually hurt myself, worried that it would be a slippery slope, but I might be a little reckless — a little less than careful with knives, a little less than attentive when Chloe wants me to pet her, a little less than cautious with the wooden shelf at home that I never fail to run into.
Maybe it’s sick. Maybe it’s wrong.
I can’t help it.
I lick the blood from my finger and lap at the wound, closing my eyes at the slight pain and the shiver that goes up my spine.
If I weren’t at work, I’d probably play with the cut for a bit before finally bandaging myself. But I have to remember where I am, and that I really can’t afford to lose out on these gigs.
I reluctantly open my eyes, ready to find a first aid kit.
Chase is standing a few feet away, staring.
Fuck.
How much has he seen?
My cheeks get hot from embarrassment and utter humiliation. He’d been a little obvious in his assessment of me, but if we were anywhere else, I might’ve given him a chance despite it. He’s a handsome man, well-spoken, and my father seemed to respect him.
He can’t be a total tool, right?
I straighten up, shoving my injured hand into the pocket of my apron. “Hello, Mr.—” I hesitate. I don’t think my father gave a last name for him. “Mr. Chase,” I settle on. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Anything that does not include him staring at me like he’s trying to see what’s under my clothes.
“Chase Vicious,” he says, grinning like a shark.
Vicious? What kind of last name is that? I keep the smile on my lips, though, even though I feel like he probably changed his name to better suit himself instead of being born with it.
“I saw what happened. People are such animals at these events.” Chase gets closer to me, and I realize he’s blocked my easy escape route. “Are you all right, May?”
I know his kind. He’ll get off on it if I appear nervous or frightened, so I fight not to let any of that show. I lift my chin and pretend I wasn’t just messing around with a cut on my hand where people could see me…
“Oh, I’m fine. Tiny little incident,” I assure him. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to find a first aid kit, then I can get back to work.”
Chase doesn’t move out of the way. No, he gets closer still, crowding me against the wall. I tense and watch as he wraps a hand around my wrist and lifts it up, my injured finger between us.
“It’s not advised to lick wounds,” Chase says in a husky voice. “All those germs.”
I grit my teeth, barely resisting the urge to yank my hand back. He could get me in serious trouble, but I also don’t intend to stand here while he touches me like he knows me.
Shit. Handsome or not, warning bells are ringing in my mind. Any man who thinks he can touch a woman so fearlessly, without regard for repercussions, is not okay in my mind.
“Excuse me, but I’d rather you not touch me,” I say, my voice as polite as I can possibly make it. “I didn’t give you permission.”
Chase’s grip on my wrist tightens, a pressure so sudden that I gasp in pain… and that sends a shock of warmth through me. I swallow hard, suddenly at a loss as to what to say. I don’t want him to keep holding my wrist like that, to the point where my fragile bones are almost grinding together, but at the same time…
He loosens his grip. “Interesting. Your pupils dilated just now. I wonder why that would be?”
“I don’t know what that means,” I lie. I have a pretty good idea of what he saw, but the fact that he recognized it is downright disturbing.
And interesting, though I push that thought away as quickly as it flickers through my mind.
“You don’t?” Chase lets go of my wrist, and I should pull my hand away, but I stay stock still as he trails his fingers over my palm. He taps against the cut, which barely throbs anymore. “Were you the kind of child who pushed against her bruises?”
Panic courses through me, my eyes briefly widening at the assessment. How has he seen right through me? No one has ever guessed something like that — or at least, if they have, they’ve never shared it with me.
“That’s inappropriate,” I say, though my voice catches in a little bit of a wobble. “Mr. Vicious, I’m sorry, but I need to get back to work before my boss comes looking for me.”
Now that isn’t a lie, but I don’t know if it’s enough to make him lose this strange interest in me.
“If he comes looking for you, I’ll handle it,” Chase says. He presses even closer against me. “I’ve always admired those who know how to enjoy pain. You take something everybody else cowers from and make it your own.”
“If he comes looking for me while you have my back up against a wall, I’m going to get fired,” I tell him, purposely ignoring the latter part of what he’d said even though it had sent a thrill through me.
I’d never understood my obsession with pain, with blood even, and the way he puts it almost makes it sound like something he… respects? I don’t get it, though. Most people would be horrified.
“What a rare bird I’ve found,” he murmurs.
He uses feather-light touches to tilt my chin up, which is a little disappointing because I almost wish he’d just… grab it. Press his fingers in.
Bruise.
I shudder. It’s obvious what he wants, with our lips mere inches apart.
I should resist. I should push him away, yell, do something.
Chase presses his mouth to mine—and bites my lower lip.
The soft moan that escapes me is muffled by his mouth, and for a moment… For a moment, time stands completely still. I want this, need this — want him. I find myself pressing my body against his, and open my mouth for him. He grips my hair and tugs on it as he plunges his tongue inside to deepen the kiss.
I’ve never been kissed like this. I’ve never had somebody be so rough with me. I’ve never had the pleasure and the pain mingle and enhance each other, until it’s hard to tell which of them I’m even feeling.
I lose myself in the sensation, kissing back and barely managing to swallow down my sounds.
It isn’t until I feel the bulge of his erection through his suit pants that I come back to myself.
What the fuck am I doing?
I jerk back, my eyes going wide as I stare at him in alarm. I’m not sure if I’m panicking because he did it, or because I liked it, or some other reason I can’t fathom. “You need… You need to leave,” I tell him, my voice shaking.
“I don’t,” he counters, nipping at my jaw. “I could spend all day with you. Taking you apart. Making you cry out in pain and pleasure both.”
I want it.
I want what he’s saying so badly, but I can’t—least of all here, where I’m supposed to be working. I tell myself he’s just a lecherous asshole who can’t even ask permission, that he’s setting off all sorts of red flags, but I can’t seem to get that through my head.
“Let go of me,” I say more firmly. I wish my voice wasn’t shaking. I wish I wasn’t shaking. I wish I could somehow make sense of what’s going on in my mind, but I just… can’t.
“You don’t sound like you want me to,” Vicious answers. He presses my wrists against the walls as he continues to kiss. “You sound like you want me to lay you bare.”
“No,” I say, pulling back and turning my head, struggling not to let him keep going with those intoxicating kisses. “I don’t. You’re a dick who doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘no.’”
Chase grins at me. “My entire job is to turn nos into yes.”
“I’m not one of your clients,” I tell him, struggling against him. “I’m not anything to you. You just met me. I swear to you that I will scream if you don’t let go of me.”
Will I?
I don’t know, and that’s only partially because I’m not sure anyone will care.
Chase huffs a small laugh. “You think your boss will be on your side? I saw how he treated you. I’m sure he’d tell you to do everything in your power to make me happy.”
He probably would. He’d probably tell Chase Vicious to fuck me then and there if it satisfied him, never mind what I want. People like Chase don’t get told no… especially by women who don’t know what the hell they really want.
“Mr. Vicious,” I say, trying to think of what might possibly get through to him. “I need this job. All right? I am going to get fired. Can you be human for twelve-point-five seconds and realize that not everyone is loaded and can risk losing their jobs?”
Chase loosens his hold on my wrists in order to cup my jaw. “Yeah? If you just need money, I can think of a mutually beneficial arrangement. I’ve been known to spoil my… girlfriends.”
My lips curl in distaste as I realize what he’s offering. “I’m not a whore, no matter how much you might try to spoil me. I earn what I get honestly.” I shove at his chest. Screw how much smaller I am than he is. He needs to move, because now he’s gone from insulting to impossibly arousing to insulting all over again.
He gasps at the impact and stumbles back a few steps. I take the opportunity to duck away from him, dashing straight toward the main hallway.
“May,” Chase calls out. “I hope I’ll see you around!”
He won’t.
Not now, not ever. I will do any and everything I can to keep him away from me.
No matter how much my body wants him…
I clean myself up in the kitchen, listen to the lecture about how close I am to losing my job, and get back to work. My father finds me near the end of the party, smiling awkwardly.
“Are you all right, honey?” he asks, glancing at my bandaged finger. “Not too terrible of a cut, I hope?”
I shake my head, feeling numb. “It’s not bad,” I tell him.
My thoughts won’t stop returning to Chase Vicious, though, and I know that every time I fiddle with the cut on my finger, I’ll think of him.
Damn it.
“Chase was very curious about you,” he adds. “Please don’t be mad, but I had to be a gushing papa for a while. He invited us both for dinner next week.”
I freeze at that, my mouth opening and closing without any words coming out. “Baba…” I don’t want to tell him what happened, but he obviously thinks highly of Mr. Vicious. Shit. “I really can’t.” I do my best to sound regretful. “I’m working late every day next week. You should go, though.”
My father frowns. “May-May… you work too hard. You can take a single night off for dinner. Come on.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “When else are you going to meet a nice fellow like Chase?”
A nice fellow.
I want to laugh, but he wouldn’t understand.
I sigh, and as much as I hate to do it, I go for the jugular. “Baba… Rent is due by the 5th,” I say as quietly as I can.
He freezes. “I’m sure we’re fine. And we can always ask for a few extra days.”
“The 5th is a few extra days.” I reach out to squeeze his hand. “It’s okay. We’ll have another opportunity, I’m sure.” I smile at him. “Now go mingle. I need to get back to work.”
My father looks like he wants to protest, but I hurry away from him and back toward the kitchen.
There will be no fancy dinners with Chase Vicious.
There will be no more kisses.
There will be no promises to fulfill my darkest fantasies.
Because I know if I go down that path, I’ll lose part of myself. I might forget why I’m doing all the things I’m doing.
I glance back at my father, who has found somebody else to talk to.
Rent is due, and last I checked, my father spent nearly all of his paycheck on online gambling again. No matter what Chase promised to pay, it’ll never be enough to get my father out of that hole he keeps digging himself into.
The only one looking out for my father is me.
Even if I wanted to explore what Chase has to offer, there’s no room in my life for myself. So I shut those thoughts away and return to work, severing my dreams and stepping back into reality.
And reality… doesn’t include Chase Vicious.
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