Honey Do Me Read online

  Jesus.

  I run my hands through my hair, pulling at it slightly, letting some frustration out.

  “This isn’t good, Carter,” Alan says, his voice tense.

  “No shit,” I growl at him, and shake my head, knowing it’s not him I’m angry at, but this whole fucked-up situation.

  Teresa changes the channel, and it’s Becca’s voice that emerges, making us all visibly tense.

  “For too long, Carter Kane has taken advantage of his employees…” I drown her out as she continues to rant.

  Carter taking advantage is not any better than ‘Carter Assaults’ and ‘Carter’s Cum Condom’ in this same sentence. I’m royally fucked here.

  “Jesus Christ. Is it on every channel?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Every channel,” Teresa declares.

  “Alright. What are we going to do?” Alan leans forward, refocusing his attention on fixing this shit show—or, as the news has coined it, #CondomGate.

  Now, this is why I hired this man. When it comes down to it, he knows how to get shit done, and to do it well.

  I glare at Alan and Teresa. “I have to do what I do best. I’m going to have to deal with this shit in person.”

  They look at me, waiting for me to continue.

  “I need to take on Becca Riordan.”

  Chapter Four

  Becca

  “No, I don’t think he did it on purpose,” I tell the press for the hundredth time. How many times will I have to repeat it? It’s as if they’re not even listening to me.

  “How do you feel, Ms. Riordan?”

  “Are you going to need a psychologist?”

  “Are you still in shock?”

  “Are you pregnant?” One of them asks, anxiously waving his mic in front of me. “Will you bear Mr. Kane’s children?”

  “Do you want to be a mother, Ms. Riordan?”

  What the…?

  Jesus.

  The questions keep on coming, and I try to deflect them in any way I can, which isn’t exactly an easy thing to do, since I basically have to brush off the whole incident. Yeah, I can’t believe I’m actually defending Carter “CondomGate” Kane, either. But I guess I need to.

  I don’t want this stupid situation to spiral out of control and take over the protest. Right now, Facebook and Twitter are ablaze with pictures of the scene, and people have stopped talking about the real reason we’re protesting. I gotta try and stop everything from falling apart, even if that means I have to defend Carter.

  It’s useless, though.

  For the last hour, it seems like every single journalist in the country is hounding me, barking questions at me like blood-thirsty vampires, all while trying to turn me into a victim. All they care about is turning me into some goddamn martyr they can use to sell more newspapers, generate more clicks, or whatever the hell it is they do. Honestly, besides freaking out on a daily basis about Kanye and Taylor Swift, does anyone know what the hell the media people in this country do?

  “Look, guys,” I continue, talking into the dozens of microphones the journalists insist on shoving under my nose. “I appreciate your concern, really, but, let’s focus on the real story here, shall we? This was nothing but an accident.”

  At least, I hope it was. Because if I find out that Carter Kane threw that thing at me on purpose, I’ll do worse than empty a can of mace on his balls. Still, I gotta wonder—why the hell did he have a used condom with him in the limo? What kind of freak cums into a condom, and throws it out? Is this really what billionaires have ended up doing with their money nowadays?

  One thing is for sure.

  This shitty day can’t really get much worse.

  And this is not what I figured would happen when we began protesting outside Kane & Company.

  This shitty day really takes the cake.

  Greedy businessmen keep screwing the little guy, my boyfriend turns out to be a cheater, and condoms with semen rain down on me from Mr. Robber Baron himself.

  And we’re only four chapters in, for Christ’s sake.

  “For too long, Carter Kane has taken advantage of his employees,” I continue, doing my best to push all those thoughts out of my head. I gotta keep my mind above my shoulders and try to control the narrative here. “But, now that the city is looking into fixing it, it seems that the elite have decided to stand their ground. They will battle the legislation and…” I trail off as the journalists shrug off and start scattering — their microphones moving away from me fast, almost as if I have a contagious disease.

  I guess that the only thing these assholes are interested in reporting are sensationalist stories, not the damn truth.

  “Fuck this,” I mutter under my breath, my face still feeling crusty from all the cum. More than anything in my life, what I need right now is to lock myself inside my apartment and take a long shower.

  Walking toward one of the rundown vans we leased for the protest, I climb into the back, and sit atop a stack of painted signs. I glance at the crowd, still looking as furious and motivated as always, but I can’t help but wonder if what we’re doing here is really going to make a difference.

  We’ve been at this for days now, and nothing has happened.

  Nothing has changed.

  Every day, Carter rolls past us in his limo, not even bothering to to acknowledge that we exist. The bastard doesn’t even roll down his windows to glance at us.

  Well, until today, that is.

  Today, he rolled down one of his windows, didn’t he? Too bad he only did it to throw his dick’s discards at my face.

  Sighing, I bring the towel in my hands up to my face once more, and I scrub my skin so hard I feel as if my cheeks are on fire. The first thing I’m going to do once I get home tonight is to hide inside my bathtub for a minimum of three hours, and spend half that time brushing my teeth. I don’t care what they say about the nutritional properties of semen—the last thing I want on or in my body today is billionaire cum.

  “Becca,” one of my helpers calls me, poking his head inside the van. “I’ve been looking for you. Check this out.”

  He pushes his phone into my hand, and I instantly grit my teeth as I see what’s on the screen. The headline reads “CUM AND PROTEST!”, and the article starts with an infuriating “sexual harassment is what we need to be protesting about, not wealth”. A few paragraphs down, and there’s a photo of the precise moment Carter’s cum grenade hit my face, strands of it flying everywhere.

  As I scroll down the article, I start getting more and more pissed off. Instead of actually reporting about the causes of our protest, the media have decided to totally ignore that and go with a story about sexual deviancy running amok on the streets. When the hell did #TooManyBillionaires become #TooManyPerverts?

  Look, I’m with you—sexual predators should be strung up by the balls. But that’s not the reason I gathered thousands of New Yorkers here today, is it? We’re all right in front of Kane & Company’s office building because we want to bring the fight to his doorstep. We want him to see just how badly he’s hurting the working population.

  Maybe I was too naive.

  I thought the media would support the protest.

  I really did.

  Instead, they’re shitting all over it, deflating the whole situation as if Tom Brady was peeking over their shoulders. You know, #DeflateGate and all that crap. If only people cared about making assholes like Carter accountable as much as they care about a freaking ball of cum.

  But, I can’t quit. No matter how much all this sucks, I gotta keep my head up and fight as hard as I can. If I don’t do anything, Carter will have it his way, and that means all of his employees will be screwed.

  Again, not on my watch.

  Fuming, I jump out the van and march straight to where all the media guys have assembled. Instead of talking to them, I simply jump on top of one of their cars. That gets their attention. They love drama, don’t they?

  Well, let’s give them some.

  Facing Carter’s office building, I take a deep breath and place my hands on my hips as I tilt my chin up.

  “CARTER KANE!” I shout at the top of my lungs, looking up at the high-rise building. I know the asshole can’t hear me all the way up in his office, but I know that the media will stream the whole thing live for the world to see. Whether Carter likes it or not, this time he’ll have to acknowledge me. I’m not just another protestor, after all—I’m the one running things. “I challenge you to come out and talk to me. RIGHT NOW!”

  Then, for good measure, I add four little words I’m sure will do the trick.

  “Or, are you afraid?”

  There. That’s gotta be carried out by all the networks. They’ll definitely get sensational stories of me challenging Carter.

  Yeah, it’s been a shitty day. And all I’m left with now is two words to describe my mood.

  Game on.

  Chapter Five

  Carter

  I walk through the lobby, the floor-to-ceiling windows giving me a perfect view of the crowd gathered in front of the building.

  This is fucking insane.

  “Or, are you afraid?”

  Her words are being played on every television that I pass. She’s fucking taunting me.

  But, if this is what she wants, this is what she’ll get. Hopefully, Ms. Jizz-Covered Snowflake knows how to deal with a man who unapologetically works hard, and then gets what he rightfully deserves.

  I take a minute to scan over the crowd before I head out the revolving doors. Do they really have nothing better to do than camp out here all day? Fucking hippies.

  I make out some of the picket signs, waving up and down.

  One says: CORRUPT CARTER. KANE & CO. IS THE ENEMY.

  Another one: CARTER KANE IS ONE O
F THE #TOOMANYBILLIONAIRES.

  Oh, but my favorite is: CASTRATE THE ELITE.

  Clever, really clever. You’d think people with liberal arts degrees would come up with something more creative. Looks like that Art History degree failed them again.

  “Mr. Kane!” Teresa shouts as she runs after me.

  I twist around to face her. “What?” I say, more sternly than I intend. But, honestly, I can’t help it. I’m fucking angry, and this shit needs to end.

  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks. Her brows are furrowed in fear. “We can hire a PR Specialist who can take care of all this. It’ll be better optics if we do.”

  “No.” I insist. “No way in hell will I have someone—no, pay someone—to take care of my own business. Something that I’m more than capable of doing.”

  “Really?” She persists. “You’re positive? It’ll take one phone call.”

  I sigh to myself.

  All my life, I’ve never shied away from a fight.

  When I was 10 years old, I saw a man slapping his girlfriend (at least I thought it was his girlfriend) when I got off the bus from school. It didn’t take me long to grab some rocks and throw them at the guy, not stopping until he ran away.

  I never let people fucking bully me.

  I always end the fights I’m in.

  No way in hell I’m going to hide behind a PR person.

  “Teresa, go upstairs,” I say calmly. “Thanks for your concern, but I got this.”

  She spins on her heels and drags her feet back to the elevator with her head down. It’s like I scolded a child, but, right now, if that’s what I have to do to get her to understand that I do this shit on my own, and I face them head on, then so be it. She should know that by now anyway.

  I push through the glass doors and the chaos of the protest ensues around me.

  I hate fucking protests.

  Frankly, there are moments I am flattered by them, sure. But, after a while, they get fucking annoying. They’re like little pests flying around you, not going away until you find the perfect angle to swat them down.

  One day, I’ll find that angle.

  I make my way down the street, heading toward the corner where the reporter and Becca made their broadcast.

  “CARTER KANE! FUCK YOU!” Some extremely pale girl with dreadlocks that look like they haven’t been washed in years screams at me.

  Jesus…you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  Where do these people get off?

  Maybe first start a company, or hold down a job before criticizing someone who provides livelihoods for tens of thousands of people.

  Is everything I do perfect?

  Hell fucking no. But I’m out here everyday trying the best I can.

  “Excuse me,” I say as calmly as possible, and move away from her.

  I won’t let this fucking Bob Marley wanna-be rile me up. I have one goal in mind, and it’s to fucking shut Becca Riordan down, before #CondomGate ruins me for good.

  Okay, maybe, I feel a little bit bad about my used condom slapping her in the face. But, fuck, don’t get that close to my limo, and don’t fucking protest me, then maybe you won’t get my jizz in your face.

  “NO! You will not be excused!” the girl yells back, cutting me off again.

  “You’re a capitalist pig, you swine!” her friend, an even paler woman with equally grungy dreadlocks down to her knees yells. She tries to spit at me, but she misses by a mile.

  One more move like that, and I’ll have to punch his hippie vegan face in. So what if I get arrested? It’ll be fucking worth it.

  “Really? You don’t want to get into it with me,” I warn them as I clench my jaw and tighten my fist.

  I notice the bold lettering on the woman’s t-shirt: “We’re the 99%.” She’s emanating a strong stench of weed. She looks every bit the lazy stoner cliche.

  “You’re a fascist. Taking everything for yourself, leaving us all for dead,” she shouts, some of her saliva sprinkling me this time.

  Goddamnit.

  I reach underneath my jacket, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe my face.

  “Is that how you see it?” I fold the cloth in my hands, knowing I’ll be needing it in a few minutes. “Tell me, what is a fascist to you?”

  “You’re a fucking dictator. A puppeteer. And we’re your minions,” she yells.

  “How am I controlling you? You literally mean nothing to me,” I declare, wiping down my jacket.

  “Exactly! Us workers, us 99% mean nothing to you.”

  “No. I never said that,” I say calmly. “I said you mean nothing to me. You personally. I don’t give two shits about you. My employees, on the other hand, are just that, my employees, and they are cared for in a way that is profitable for both them and me. It’s capitalism. Not fascism.”

  “Bullshit! How do you see it that way?” she rages. “You made all your employees into independent contractors just now! You’re controlling everything, like a dictator! And, you’re leaving us for fucking dead!”

  “How am I leaving you for dead?” I ask her.

  She pauses.

  “I’m serious,” I press. “How am I leaving you for dead?”

  Her companion jumps in. “You don’t need more money. WE DO!” she shouts.

  I sigh loudly, and that somehow stops the both of them.

  “Listen, I’m not leaving you for dead. You don’t work for me. If you did, you’d probably be working, making money, instead of out here on the streets, wasting your time picketing whatever the fuck this movement is, and trying to shout at me to give you some money,” I wave my hands around to highlight the reality of the situation.

  I’m only telling them the truth. They’re just too stubborn to recognize it.

  “I can’t get a job if they aren’t there,” she spits at me again.

  Told you I’d need that handkerchief, I use it to wipe my face again. I’m about ready to end this shit now.

  “The jobs are right there, you ignorant hippie,” I snarl, and both the dreadlock-sporting anarchists recoil at my tone.

  “Every one of the people you call the elites are working over 60 hours a week. My employees are working at least 50 hours a week. The people you call the ‘99%’ They’re all there,” I continue. The two hippies sputter as I emphasize their coined title in air quotes just to piss them off.

  “You want to know why they’re inside, and you’re out here on the streets like rats?” I ask them with a sneer. “Because they work hard. They take their responsibilities fucking seriously. They don’t act like motherfucking children who want candy at a grocery store, and when they realize they have to pay for it with money, they don’t cry and throw tantrums like little girls.”

  I’m on a fucking roll. No one is saying anything to me.

  “Go and get yourself a fucking job instead of standing on the street taking a piss in mailboxes. Stop protesting people who work their asses off to provide for their families. Stop trying to take money from people who work hard to survive so people who do nothing can get a handout. I work hard for my money,” I shove my words into their faces, the equivalent of verbal uppercuts. “I promise you, there are jobs out there. And fuck, sure, I make hard decisions, but that’s what you do as the CEO.”

  The woman stammers something incoherent, and I smile smugly.

  Yeah.

  She has no idea what to say.

  I’ve completely shut her and her friend down.

  That’s what I thought. They had no real leg to fucking stand on—just a rotten core. And I just killed it.

  “Now, if you don’t mind. I have some business to attend to. Something you might want to consider getting a degree in…that is, if you want to make money,” I put my handkerchief away and button my suit jacket, walking toward the woman with cameras on her.

  “What about Becca Riordan?” The girl shouts back, trying to regain her mental footing. “The woman you hit with your semen! What do you have to say about that, pervert?”

  I shake my head, ignoring her.

  I don’t need to answer.

  She’s a fucking trouble-making spoiled child protesting a world, which doesn’t give a shit about her…she has nothing left of interest to me at all.

  I turn back toward my destination.

  And see her right in front of me.

  That’s fucking Becca Riordan?