Played: Manhattan Ruthless - 11

Chapter

Ten

“ H ow was the trip, Boss?” Hayden asks in greeting. The human resources executive is perched on the edge of my secretary’s desk outside my office like he’s been waiting for my return.

Please tell me there’s been no more drama in my absence. Elijah didn’t mention any, but sometimes Hayden likes to filter bad news through me instead of taking it to my older brother.

“Good. Got what I needed to do done. Everything okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I was just passing by your office and …” He looks at the closed door. “Wondered if you were back yet, and then I saw you walking down the hall.”

“Hey!” Elijah places a warm, strong hand on my shoulder from behind. “It’s good to have you back. I have someone you need to meet.”

I suspect it’s the hotshot. He started Monday, and Elijah says he’s good, so he must be. My brother isn’t easily impressed. But that’s all I know about the guy. Since his work for our company isn’t exactly common knowledge, I don’t ask for more details in front of Hayden.

I follow Elijah to his office, and Hotshot is already there, staring out the window with his back to us. His arms are crossed and his shoulder muscles bulge against the fabric of the tight white T-shirt he’s wearing. Guy is fucking huge and not exactly inconspicuous. What kind of auditor wears jeans and a T-shirt and looks like a linebacker?

“Mason, I’d like you to meet King Blackthorn.”

King? The shadow of a memory associated with that name burrows to the surface, and he turns around at the sound of my brother’s voice. The second our eyes meet, I am assaulted by so many memories that it feels like someone has punched me in the stomach. I’m certain all the oxygen has been sucked from the room. My head spins, my heart pounding. I’m going to pass out. Or have a stroke. Through sheer force of will, I force myself to look him in the eye and not run out of Elijah’s office.

“Hi, Mason.” He has the gall to say my name, to speak to me like nothing ever happened. As though eighteen years ago he didn’t rip out my heart and stomp all over it. And suddenly I’m that kid again, feeling worthless and used and …

I draw in a breath and push down the hurt dredged up at the mere sight of him.

So he’s going to pretend that this is all normal? That he and I don’t share a deeply fucked-up history? I focus on my rage and shove aside the maelstrom of other unpleasant emotions swirling through my body. Two can play at that game, Hotshot . “Mr. Blackthorn. Nice to meet you.” My voice is calm and even despite every cell in my body vibrating with anger.

Elijah checks his watch and winces. “I have to meet a new client. King, can you bring Mason up to speed on what you’ve discovered so far?” My older brother, oblivious to the suffocating tension in the room, claps me on the back. “I’ll catch up with you later, and you can tell me all about Philly.”

I don’t answer, keeping my gaze trained on the asshole on the other side of the room, the one who’s staring at me like I’m the problem. A few seconds later, Elijah is closing the door behind him. Leaving me alone with a man I’d really like to kick in the balls rather than speak to.

I fold my arms across my chest. My stomach rolls. The sooner I get out of this room and away from him, the better. But I’ll be fucked if I give him the satisfaction of leaving first. We stare at each other, engaged in a twisted game of chicken.

Annoyingly, it’s me who can’t stand the awkward silence any longer. “So, Mr. Blackthorn. What is it you’d like to update me on before you leave?”

His jaw works. “Mason?” There’s a plea to his tone, but I ignore it. Manipulative bastard.

“The update?”

He takes a few steps toward me. Instinct tells me to back away, but pride roots me to the spot. “I just want to explain⁠—”

“I don’t give a single fuck what you want to explain!” I roar, eighteen years’ worth of anger and hurt spilling out into a single moment. “Give me the fucking update and get the hell out of my building.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “In fact, I don’t give a fuck about any update, because as of right now, you no longer work here. You are no longer contracted to do whatever the fuck it is you think you’re doing. And if you have a problem with that, if you think any NDA you signed will be null because you’re not getting a dime of my family’s money, then you’re wrong. My brothers will tie you up in court for the rest of your miserable fucking life.”

He clenches his jaw, his green eyes smoldering. “I have no intention of breaching any NDA.” His voice is calm and soft, like rich velvet brushing over my skin. I recall it all too well. “Let me say my piece, and then, if you still want me to, I’ll walk out of here and you never have to see me again.”

The latter would certainly be a welcome outcome. I glare at him and will my knees to stop fucking trembling. Seems King Worthington still has the same effect on me after all these years. “You have sixty seconds before I have security toss you out of here.”

“I know I shouldn’t have accepted this job. But I worked for Drake in Chicago⁠—”

“Yeah. He told me all about you. The hotshot? Had no idea it was you, though.” Disdain drips from my tone, so unmistakable that even King, who has the emotional intelligence of a tadpole, could pick up on it. And he does.

Scowling, he takes a few more steps toward me, and now we’re only a few feet apart. Again, self-preservation tells me to run, but my ego makes me take a step closer. “If you’re only giving me sixty seconds to say my piece, then don’t fucking interrupt me, Playboy.”

Playboy? Arrogant fuck! I inhale a deep breath that has my nostrils flaring. “So speak, Hotshot.”

“Drake asked me, and I …” He scrubs a hand over his buzz cut. “I honestly wish I could tell you why I said yes, Mase.”

Mase? What the hell gives him the right to call me that? I hate that my body responds on instinct when he does though. I despise remembering how good it felt when he whispered that name in my ear. How he moaned it when I made him lose control. “To torture me, maybe? To tell me how disgusting I am, just in case I forgot? I mean, it has been eighteen years, so maybe you figured I was due a reminder.”

The pain that flashes in his eyes only stokes my anger. How fucking dare he act hurt after what he did. “No, nothing like that,” he says. “Maybe I thought it would be my chance to say I’m s⁠—”

“I swear to god. If you tell me you’re sorry, I will throw you through that fucking window.” His Adam’s apple bobs, drawing my eye to the thick dusting of stubble covering his jaw and neck. “The time for sorry has long since fucking passed, King Worthington. Or is it Blackthorn now? Did you change your name in the hopes I might not recognize you?”

It’s fury flashing in his eyes now. “Of course I knew you’d recognize me. For fuck’s sake, we were …” He growls and shakes his head, unable even now to say what we were to each other. Clearly he’s still disgusted by it. “I changed my name because I didn’t want to be associated with my father.”

His father. I stagger back a step. Kyngston Worthington III. Sick, twisted fuck. Bile surges up from my stomach, burning the back of my throat.

“Mase.” King’s hand is on my forearm. “Are you okay?”

I shrug him off. “Don’t fucking touch me.” He doesn’t get to pretend like he cares. I wonder if he knows what his father did. I’ve convinced myself that he couldn’t have. It was the only way to survive it.

“Okay.” He backs off, holding his hands up in surrender. “You looked a little …”

“What?” I snarl, regaining my composure. Ten long years of therapy helped me deal with what King’s father did to me, and I won’t let it take up any space inside my head. Not sure any amount of therapy could fix what King broke though. “Like I’d seen a ghost? Just what the fuck are you doing here, King? No more bullshit. I’m not some sixteen-year-old kid who thinks the sun shines out of your ass anymore. Give me the truth or get the fuck out.”

“The simple truth is I needed a job. I needed an interesting job that doesn’t make me want to gouge out my own fucking eyes. I swear if I have to record one more dude fucking a woman young enough to be his daughter, I will lose my goddamn will to live.”

“Well, being honest, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

“If we’re being honest,” he replies, “then I also took the job because I am fucking good at what I do.”

“Yeah, Hotshot. I get it.”

His green eyes narrow. Good. He’s pissed at me, and I’m fucking glad about it. I can’t believe he walked in here and intruded on my life, thinking it was okay. “I think I can find whoever the leak is,” he says. “And I already know it’s not one of the people who worked on the patent.”

I suspected that too, but I’ve worked with these people for twelve years. How can he be so sure after only two days? “How do you know that?”

“I met with them. I was granted full access to their personnel files. And I just know. I can read people.”

“You can, huh? Then you must know exactly what I’m thinking right now.” I smirk at him in challenge, and he takes it.

Nodding, he steps closer, leaving us only inches apart. “You’re thinking about how much you want to hate me.”

“I don’t want to hate you, Hotshot. I actually fucking do.”

He trails two fingertips across the lapel of my jacket. I should punch him in the face. “You can keep telling yourself that, Playboy, and yeah, maybe a part of you does.” His voice is low and dangerous, and it sends a shiver up my spine. “But that other part of you remembers all the ways I made you come.”

Holy fucking shit. My knees almost buckle. Arrogant fucking douchefuck.

“I’ll be back tomorrow morning, wearing a suit and tie. You know, so I look like someone doing a health and safety audit.” He arches an eyebrow. “And if I don’t find the leak within three months, then you can fire me.”

Or I could fire his ass right now. Actually, I just did a few minutes ago, didn’t I? So why am I working out when his three-month period would be up? He’s so damn sure of himself. What I’d give to wipe that smug, self-centered look from his face. But I don’t.

“Fine. But you stay the hell away from me. I don’t even want to see the back of your goddamn head while you’re working here. Got that?”

“You won’t see me,” he says, holding up his hand. “Scout’s honor.”

I roll my eyes. “Like you were ever a fucking Boy Scout.”

He lets out a soft laugh. It sounds self-deprecating, except that it’s him, so it can’t be. “I’ll do my best to stay out of your way, Mason.” He sounds sincere too, which again, can’t be the real King. Not the one I remember anyway.

“See that you do.” I spin on my heel and walk out of Elijah’s office, blood thundering in my veins and my heart racing with every step. I barely acknowledge any of our employees as I pass them, propelled forward by my singular mission to reach my office, close the door, and have a full mental breakdown.

When I finally get there, I close the door behind me, rest my head back against it, and take deep, calming breaths until my pulse returns to normal. Then I stagger to my desk and pour myself a full glass of our “special occasion” Scotch. Two huge gulps and it’s gone. The burn in my throat isn’t enough of a distraction though. Neither is the slight buzz as the alcohol hits. Because it’s not only King. It’s everything he represents from that time in my life. The ghosts I worked so hard to lay to rest. And they all came roaring back with a vengeance. Ten years of therapy up in smoke.

I could tell my brothers what happened, and they’d never work with King again. They’d probably have his father taken out by their friends in the Irish mob, which is definitely an option to revisit at a later date. But truthfully, I don’t want to open that can of worms with them. I managed to keep my relationship with King a secret from them all for the entire eighteen months we were sneaking around.

More surprisingly, I managed to keep the aftermath a secret too, although that was unintentional.

I roll my neck. I can do this. Three months, and then King is out of my hair again. No need to dredge up the past. No need to reopen old wounds that I spent a fortune and thousands of hours healing.

I place my hands on my desk. Yeah, I can do this. I survived the Worthingtons before, and that was when I was a scared kid. Now, I am Mason fucking James, and nothing and nobody will ever make me feel weak or less than what I am ever again.

Let King stay. Let him see what I’ve made of my life without him in it.