Honey Do Me Page 2

  “Becca, this—” my staffer tries to get in before I cut her off.

  “Don’t. Just, don’t,” I tell the brunette, spinning on my heels to face her.

  I give her my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ face, and that’s enough to have her scurrying out of the room.

  Turning my attention back to Peter, I walk toward him with my shoe in my right hand.

  “What...what are you going to do with that?” he asks, his eyes focused on the sharp spike of my heel.

  “What do you think?” I ask him back, a sudden wave of calm washing over me. “I’m going to use it to turn you into a eunuch. Do you know what a eunuch is, Peter?”

  Judging by the panicked look on his face, I’d say that yes, he does know what that is. And that’s a good thing, because he’s about to become one.

  “Becca, please,” he starts to beg, his eyes darting to the open door behind me. In a moment of desperation, he tries to push his way past me. His pants are still down around his ankles though, which means that with the first step he takes, he stumbles forward, crashing face down on the floor. Like a baby turtle still learning how to survive, he somehow manages to roll onto his back.

  “We’re done, Peter,” I declare, staring down at him. I grip the heel tightly in my hand, but Peter propels his feet up high, and kicks it out. As he crawls on his back toward the exit, I just sigh and reach inside my purse. He doesn’t want the shoe? Well, I have something better.

  A split second later, and I’ve taken a can of mace out of my purse.

  “What do you think you’re going to do with—”

  His final words are replaced by a moan of pure agony as I sprinkle his wrinkled balls with as much mace as I can. His miniature dick retreats inside his body, making him look straight-up like a creature from some pervert’s daydream.

  “You get to keep your dick,” I say, still spraying. “Too bad that even it seems to want nothing to do with you.” Throwing the mace can back inside my purse, I turn around to walk past him. “I hope you’ll remember what we had, Peter. Because I sure as hell won’t.”

  Leaving the conference room, I slam the door shut behind me. Not that it solves anything—Peter’s still shouting in pain, like the cheating little bitch that he is, and everyone in the small office can hear him. I guess my organization should have leased a bigger office.

  Maybe with soundproof walls.

  “After a productive discussion,” I say to my staff, trying to cool down, “Peter and I have agreed to go our separate ways. We’re still friends though,” I finish weakly.

  The people are stunned.

  No one in the room dares to ask me a question.

  I decide that we need to move on. “Okay, people, let’s get moving! This city is counting on us to put the elite back in their place,” I declare.

  At that, I finally get a reaction from all the volunteers packed inside. They let out a few shouts, clap their hands together, and start heading toward the door. I trail after them, trying to push Peter’s cheating ass to the back of my mind as I focus on the task at hand.

  I still haven’t introduced myself, have I?

  I’m sorry. I know it’s rude. You’re there reading about me spraying mace at my ex-boyfriend, and you don’t even know anything about me. I mean, it’s a pretty personal situation you walked into.

  Anyway, I’m sorry about being rude.

  But, give me a break, okay?

  Between running this protest, and dealing with a cheating boyfriend, it’s not like I’ve had much time.

  Anyway, my name’s Becca Riordan, and I’m the person behind the #TooManyBillionaires movement.

  What is it? We basically protest the growing crop of billionaires while everyone else struggles to make a living.

  Why? Because the world has too many billionaires, obviously, and their greedy asses can’t keep themselves from fucking over the little guy. I’ve seen what no-holds barred greed has done to this city—hell, to this country—and I’ve decided to take a stand against it.

  Income inequality is really a thing.

  But, don’t worry. I’m not like some hippie-dippie vegan-friendly liberal. I think there’re ways we can make everyone prosperous by curtailing some of the worst abuses that happen when we get too many billionaires running around the place.

  I mean, think about it. Billionaires have some crazy ideas. With their red rooms of pain and their crazy over-the-top antics, is it any wonder the rest of us are struggling?

  All you have to do is browse contemporary romance sections to see there are a million billionaires out there, you know?

  This isn’t my first movement. And it won’t be my last. I’ve always had a keen sense of justice. I’ve always been able to organize people.

  I can make governments bend to my will to do what’s right. I’ve met with city leaders, governors, members of Congress, and even the President.

  Always pushing for what I think is fair. Not the kind of fair that helps one group of people over another. But true social justice.

  That’s where I come in. Just a girl-next-door taking on the elite.

  Our main target right now?

  Carter Kane.

  That asshole has been running wild for too long now, and no one has made him accountable. My job is to make sure that ends. If rumors are true—and when I hear them, they usually are as I operate in justice not drama—that bastard thinks he can screw over all his employees just because he doesn’t want to pay them livable wages. He might try to skirt the Import-Export law by turning all his employees into independent contractors. Yeah, right. Not under my fucking watch.

  The guy is so cocky, thinking his good looks and cash make him immune to everything.

  That’s who we’re mobilizing against right now. We have been for the last few days.

  Marching through the streets of New York City, I lead the tumultuous crowd as chants of “castrate the elite!” fill the streets. Not exactly what I’d have chosen for a slogan, but you know how rowdy protests can get. Besides, I gotta admit it—those elitist dicks kinda need to be castrated. Pun intended.

  When my small army of disgruntled New Yorkers finally arrives at the headquarters of Kane & Company, one of my aides tells me that Carter still hasn’t arrived but is en route.

  Good.

  I want to be here when the bastard arrives.

  We spend the next half hour waving our signs and roaring against the elites, and we only step back when the police make a cordon to push us out of the road to the sidewalk. In the distance, I see the hood of a black limo gleaming.

  Mr. Robber Baron himself.

  “Man up, Carter!” I shout as the limo passes me by, two police officers trying to stop me from knocking at the limo’s windows. “Do what’s right!”

  Of course, I doubt Carter can hear me. And, even if he does, I doubt that he gives a shit. But, we gotta start somewhere, right? Besides, I—

  Wait. What the hell?

  This has to be a miracle.

  I see one of the windows slowly roll down, and, for an instant, I think that Carter is actually going to stop and talk to me.

  I can’t believe this is working. After protesting for God knows how many days, I’m finally going to get that bastard to talk. My mind is racing as I try to think of what I can say, but then I notice that the limo isn’t slowing.

  That’s when I see a hand poking out the window and flicking something up into the air.

  My gaze traces the trajectory of that something.

  It’s balled up. It cruises through the air like a shooting star, I follow it on its way up, and then blink twice as I see it coming straight at me on its way down.

  Before I can do anything, I’m hit in the face.

  There’s almost an audible “splat”.

  It used to be a ball, but now it’s splayed across my face.

  It’s sticky.

  It’s slick and sticky.

  I can’t help but notice that it’s warm.

  Then, some
thing starts dripping down my face, and I almost throw up as I realize where that salty taste is coming from.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I mutter, taking the damn thing out of my face.

  A wet, leaking condom.

  With cum in it.

  Carter Kane threw out a condom filled with his cum at us.

  And it hit me in the head.

  What the fuck?

  Can my get day get any fucking worse?

  Chapter Three

  Carter

  “Carter, now that your announcement is made, I see no other reason why we shouldn’t move forward with the conversion…now,” Alan, my CFO, says to me as we comb through the finer details of Kane & Company’s conversion plan.

  This deal is not something we’ve concocted overnight, though it fucking feels like it. Seeing that the new city tax mandate has just passed, we’ve been working around the clock to ensure that we remain profitable, and exceedingly so.

  We had no other choice but to convert our employees to independent contractors.

  Business is business, after all, and we’re all in it to make more money.

  “Just make sure that the protections we talked about get implemented as we convert,” I say as I look at the papers in front of me. “Just because the city is trying to screw the company doesn’t mean the employees have to suffer.”

  I scribble down some notes and peer up at Alan, who takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes in exasperation.

  I know, I’ve been working this man to the fucking bone. But, if anyone knows the name of the game, it’s Alan. Regardless, I know the 1.2 million dollars a month we’ll be saving will tuck them in more than comfortably.

  After all, who doesn’t sleep like a fucking baby knowing you’re making hundreds of thousands of dollars while you’ve been asleep?

  I know I do.

  “Understood,” Alan says to me. “We’ve got to get moving on this. It’s going to be a shit show for a while, you know,” he tells me, leaning back in his chair. He grabs his coffee and sips it, slurping annoyingly loud.

  “When has anything come easy for us? C’mon, man. You know you’ve got to get a little dirty to come out clean and fucking shiny as hell in the end,” a smug smirk curls the corner of my lips. This isn’t the first time I’ve been protested against, and, hell, I kinda like the attention.

  They care so much about me, don’t they?

  It’s impressive, I know.

  “You have some descriptive, flowery words for such a cutthroat business deal,” he chuckles with a shake of his head.

  “It’s true through. With the money we’re about save, we’ll be shining like fucking diamonds,” I wink and cross my arms.

  I gauge his reaction, watching him spread his papers across my wooden desk. Luckily, the custom built desk, courtesy of Austin Randall—yes, that one, the co-CEO of Oakmont Domina—made it big enough to comfortably accommodate five people. Alan is putting it to good use now.

  Who knew such a tiny man could take up so much space?

  I do have to admit, the exaggerated ruggedness of the desk sticks out in comparison to the rest of my office. The modern, slick, and minimalist design screams Tess, his wife and the other half of Oakmont Domina.

  And, it’s also more me. Don’t get me wrong, doll.

  I’m as rugged as they come, but in a more refined way. Tall, dark, and handsome, and dressed in a tailored suit—that’s me. Should I give you a minute to process that? Or, just let you Google me, and then pin my image for later? Or, even do both—I’m versatile like that.

  “Alright. I’ll give my wife a head’s up that I’m working late, and I’ll let my barber know, too, seeing as I’ll be losing more hair over this…and that,” he laughs, self-deprecatingly with a nod to the crowd outside.

  “Fuck the protestors! We have a job to do. I’m sure they don’t even know what that word means,” I gloat, feeling slightly like a dick, but not enough to care. Actually, I fucking like being one. You’ll find it charming, too, doll.

  “Fuck,” Alan sighs. “You got any whiskey?”

  “Really?” I ask looking at the clock. “Already?”

  Before I finish my sentence, berating Alan on his stupidity—he’s knows I always have whiskey in my bar—my secretary, Teresa, storms in, all flustered and shit.

  “Mr. Kane, have you seen the news?” she shouts, breathing heavily as anxiety radiates from her.

  “Calm down, Teresa,” I tell her, getting up.

  She’s still flustered when she grabs the remote.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  Alan jerks his head back and forth between us, looking like a fucking spectator at a tennis match.

  “Is everything ok?” He asks, sitting straight up in his chair.

  “Look!” She presses the remote button that turns my TV on.

  Screeching sounds of New York traffic and muffled chants of protestors fill the room as a female reporter appears in the center of the screen.

  “We’re live at the #TooManyBillionaires protest, right after a controversial announcement was made by the very own CEO of Kane & Company.”

  They cut to an anchor in the newsroom, a middle-aged man with silver hair lining his temples, who appears and blinds me with his shockingly white teeth.

  “Mary, can you tell us more about the alleged assault that occurred today?” He leads her. The screen splits into two as they transition back to her on the sidewalk in front of my fucking building.

  “Yes, Collin. Apparently, before the announcement was made by Carter Kane, he assaulted a woman in the crowd,” she announces. “And not just any woman. The target of his assault was Ms. Becca Riordan.”

  What the fuck did she just say?

  I feel like I just took a bullet, my chest burning around the wound, wanting nothing but to retract the foreign, unjustified accusation toward me.

  I look at Teresa, and then at Alan, who both stare at me with their mouths agape.

  “Turn this shit up!” I instruct.

  Teresa does so diligently, and the anchor comes back on.

  “Can you describe the assault in more detail? What happened to Ms. Riordan, and why did she come forward now? How could this have happened in the middle of a protest?” He grills her, throwing these questions in quick succession.

  “Better yet, Collin, I have Ms. Riordan here right now. Please, tell us, what happened between you and Carter Kane? How did this assault take place?” She asks, angling herself toward Becca, the woman I allegedly assaulted.

  I watch them with anxious anticipation, afraid to move because I don’t want to miss a word she has to say.

  This is fucking ridiculous.

  “While I was walking with the crowd, minding my own business, a very full condom—filled with cum—flew out of Mr. Kane’s limo and hit me,” she begins.

  Oh, fuck.

  Not that condom.

  “It was wet,” she says into the camera.

  Please God.

  “It was sticky,” she continues.

  Jesus Christ, please let this not have been the one.

  “It splattered on my head and was stuck there,” her words keep coming and stabbing me in the heart.

  “I pulled it off and realized it was filled with Mr. Kane’s semen,” she finally finishes.

  Motherfucker. The irony of ironies. I jerked off looking at this chick.

  And it apparently hit her on the head.

  “Yes, a used condom hit me in the face,” she says with faux seriousness. “Who knows if it was an accident, or if he was trying to send us a message.”

  “There you have it, Collin—” the reporter starts when Becca cuts her off.

  “Now, can we please re-focus to the matter at hand, #TooManyBillionaires?” she shouts, looking agitated and slightly pissed off that this is all the reporter cares about.

  Yet, regardless of what Becca says to the reporter, the damage has been done.

  Shit.

  This is not good.

>   “How can you not know it was an accident?” I shout. But, of course, it’s a fucking TV, so she can’t hear and react to me.

  Look at me, damn it!

  “How do you know it was Carter Kane who threw the used condom?” The reporter asks her again.

  Yes, yes! Great question, Mary.

  Fuck, who would’ve thought I’d be siding with the media? It’s a cold day in hell, that’s for sure.

  But I also need to know.

  How in the fuck does this woman know it was me?

  Becca scoffs like she’s offended the reporter asked her that. “Well, if you must know, I saw him exit that very same limo. Right before he made his despicable announcement about firing all his employees and making them independent contractors. That’s why we’re really here—to protest corruption and greed,” she stresses. But the reporter cuts her off before she can continue.

  I fold my arms and roll my eyes hard. These fucking protestors are something else. I know how to deal with backlash. If you’re anyone important, like the fucking CEO of a Fortune 500 company—so, me—you’re bound to make decisions people don’t approve of.

  That’s just business, doll.

  These fucking protestors and this damn #TooManyBillionaires movement doesn’t make any sense to me. From how I see it, they’re a bunch of crybabies unable to make it without their parents’ money, so they find themselves fighting for something just to entertain themselves with and to be relevant without having to create any value.

  What else do they have to do?

  It’s pathetic, really.

  But this woman is a whole new level of annoying. Ok, sure, her accusations aren’t completely false—which makes this situation all the more fucked up—but she’s going on the fucking news to broadcast it to the world.

  This is bad. Really fucking bad.

  “It’s not just this channel either, Mr. Kane,” Teresa admits, and she switches the channel to another news network.

  The scrolling headline at the bottom of the screen reads: CEO, CARTER KANE, ASSAULTS #TOOMANYBILLIONAIRES LEADER, BECCA RIORDAN.

  Fuck…me.

  The real kicker is the next headline: #TooManyPerverts.