Hateful Promise: A Mafia Hate to Love Romance, page 23
Under normal circumstances, I’d never talk to a vindictive little prick like Johnnie like that, but I’m way past my last nerve, basically working on reserve nerves at this point, and I’m lashing out.
Johnnie’s face falls. His Patagonia Cronies stare at him like they’re about to laugh—which makes his face turn a disturbing shade of pink.
“You fucking bitch,” he says, standing up to stare down at me. “You do realize I’m your manager, right?”
There it is. I was waiting for that. The threat in his tone is clear.
“I’m not in the mood for this,” I say, shaking my head. “Just leave me alone, okay? I’ll pretend you didn’t just say the most asinine, sexist thing in the world, and you can swallow your pride for once in your life.”
“Fuck that,” he says quietly. “You can’t talk to me that way.”
In all my time at Bankman Associates, I’ve held my tongue. I’ve kept my head down, smiled politely, nodded at inane comments, laughed at inappropriate jokes. I’ve done all the things women have to do in a toxic workplace environment. I’ve done it, because the job pays exceedingly well, and I was raised to value money more than anything else.
More than my own self-esteem, apparently.
But this is too far.
Ten hours ago, I had a boyfriend.
A nice boyfriend. Nothing spectacular, but still. A guy I thought was going to propose soon. We had plans, long-term plans. We were merging financial assets. I had a lot of hard-earned money saved in the bank, ready to be spent on a wedding, or a down payment for a house, or maybe on baby clothes and a crib.
Now, I’m twenty-four years old, and I have none of that.
Instead, a white-hot rage (admittedly pointless and impotent) burns in my belly.
I jab a finger at Johnnie. “Listen to me, you walking stock option. I need you to apologize right now. I need you to accept the consequences of your actions, because other people have feelings. You realize that, right? You can’t go around saying whatever you want, fucking whatever moves, stealing whatever you need, throwing away whatever you don’t care about, cheating on me with my fucking roommate, all because you’re a selfish piece of fucking trash.”
I’m projecting here.
A little bit, anyway.
Johnnie’s gaze darkens. “You just crossed a line, Dar,” he says through his teeth. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, but you’re not going to get away with embarrassing me in front of my bros.”
He grabs my arm. I stare as his fingers dig into my flesh, biting down hard. I yelp, more from shock than from pain, but he doesn’t let me go.
I start to freak out.
Johnnie’s a big guy, easily over six feet. His Patagonia Cronies are also tall, both of them looking like they’re from Abercrombie catalogues, like they’re one step away from the polo club, and neither seem to mind that their friend is publicly manhandling a girl.
This is getting out of control very quickly.
At least until a shadow appears at Johnnie’s side.
“You should let her go.” The voice is low and resonant with malice.
A man’s standing there. Stubble on his chin. Big hands balled into fists. A pristine suit, slim fitting.
I stare at the stranger, at the tall, broad, athletically built man, as a terrified pulse shivers down my spine.
He’s handsome. Sinful, absurdly handsome. Like, beyond inappropriately handsome. Dark, wavy hair pushed back in a lazy sweep. High cheekbones, tanned skin, blue eyes like early morning frost. A reddish beard clings to his cheeks, trimmed, but somehow still unruly. He’s in a suit, black and tailored to his muscular frame.
Holy hell, this guy is hot.
Stupidly hot. Like he’s a very unnecessary distraction.
Johnnie’s eyes bulge. For a second, I don’t think he’s going to release me. I imagine he’ll use me as a human shield.
Instead, his grip slackens, then disappears. “Who the fuck are you?” Johnnie snaps.
The stranger looks at me for a beat before saying, “I’m her boyfriend.”
Oh my god.
What the hell is this guy doing?
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B. B. Hamel, Hateful Promise: A Mafia Hate to Love Romance
