Page 2 of For the Love of Layla

Buzz, buzz, buzz.

I sit up abruptly, jerking my phone from the pocket of my dark jeans.

Fuck, I fell asleep.

I decline Brandon’s call, I’ll talk to him later. He’s probably wondering why I’m not at the office yet. The office will just have to wait. Things can move along just fine without me if need be. He’s more than capable of leading the meetings. Layla is off work today, which means she’ll be asleep well into the afternoon. My girl is always exhausted, thanks to her incessant need to stay up as late as possible every night, so worried she’ll miss out on something. The fact that she kept her job at all after that day has me clenching and unclenching my fists. She can do so much better than that place. I opened up countless other positions for her and she turned it down.

Stubborn, stubborn, little star.

Four Months Ago, Liam

I barge into the lobby of Blinked, biting down on my inner cheek until copper mixes with the taste of her in my mouth. Clinging to the last shred of rational thinking like a fucking life preserver. At least for the time being, until I get in there. Until I get my hands on him. I could barely sleep last night. Layla was already so upset, then she had to spend most of her night trying to calm me down as I paced back and forth through the halls of the penthouse.

I lost my cool in front of her, but she never turned away from me. Never looked put off or angry at me for my actions. Even after I punched holes through the drywall and trashed the place. The way she gripped my waist in a death hold, clinging to me for dear life, willing me to come back down to her. Before she pleaded…for him.

I own his pompous ass, and he thinks I’ll let this fucking slide? I’ve ignored how he calls her into work past hours, making her finish projects days, even weeks in advance on his little man power trip. Taking up all her time when it should be spent with me. I’ve ignored it all, because Layla asked me to.

Not this. Never fucking this.

The receptionist jumps as she catches sight of me, “Mr. Curran! I didn’t know you’d be in today. We just got off the phone with your assistant, she said Layla wasn’t coming in.” I ignore her completely, barely able to stop myself from curling my lips up in disgust at the way the platinum blonde pushes her comically large tits up when any well-dressed man enters the room.

My company bought out Blinked Magazine along with a dozen other businesses in this building. That’s how I met her. My sweet Layla, the woman that has changed my life just in six short months.

I storm past the hall of cramped offices heading straight to Samuel Danvers’ oversized one, a physical representation of his over-inflated ego. I don’t bother knocking as I throw open the door. Men like me don’t have to knock. Spiders don’t announce themselves before they devour the cockroaches caught in their webs. Danvers jumps, his phone clenched in his grubby fingers as his face goes beat red with anger. Recognition passes over his features as he realizes who I am. I watch as he clenches his jaw, fighting the urge to order me from his office.

You could try.

The receptionist I never bothered getting the name of rushes in behind me, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Danvers, I didn’t know he was coming in here!” Her high-pitched voice is like nails on chalkboard. For a moment I wonder what sound she would make if I cut her tongue from her mouth all together.

No, she’s probably just scared of whatever shitty, monotonous task he’ll stick her with, punishing her for letting me past.

Both of them utterly oblivious to my intentions, to the fucked up nature of my thoughts. As most people are, it’s easy enough to hide the way my mind works. Until Layla, she strips me bare in all the most horrible and beautiful ways. I’ll be dammed if I’m ever put back together again. If this is the way she wants me, bare I’ll be.

“I’ll have to call you back.” He mutters into the phone before placing it on his desk, “It’s quite alright, Olivia, close the door on your way out.” The glare he shoots her doesn’t match the words leaving his mouth, as they rarely do with his particular brand of gutter rat.

It’s most certainly not alright, Danvers.

I don’t take my eyes off him as I walk to the edge of his desk, leaning over it, my face inches from his. I can smell the burnt coffee and cheap cigarettes on his breath. “Do you know why I’m here, Samuel?” My casual use of his first name is intentional. Stripping him of his power only fuels his fire.

Good, this would bore me otherwise.

“I haven’t the slightest clue what would be so pressing you’d need to barge in here like the building was on fire.” His buttery face prickles, a thin layer of sweat forming on his fetid skin. I don’t speak. He knows why I’m here. Not speaking when someone gives you an unsatisfactory answer can have more impact than words. One of the few valuable lessons I learned from mother. The woman wielded her attention, her silence like a weapon.

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, before sighing, “Look, I don’t know what she said to you, but you know how women like that are. Always throwing their blown-out pussies at men in power. She practically begged me to touch her with all those little skin tight skirts she wears.”

She begged you to?

My anger detonates, jerking my head back and sending it forward into his face, head-butting him so hard he grunts falling back into his chair. I barely feel the sharp pain that splays across my forehead. “She begged you to fucking touch her? That’s the story you want to go with?”

He leans forward, his mushroom nose cracked to the side, dripping blood onto the papers strewn around his desk. I don’t give him time to answer before I grab the back of his head, slamming it into his desk so hard the sturdy mahogany colored wood groans.

“She didn’t ask for shit!” Slam!

“Nobody fucking touches her!” Slam!

“She’s mine!” Slam!

“Mine!”

---