Page 12 of The Boss

Damn. I don’t think one ever has. I’ve had women who completely captivated me whenever we were in the same room together, but I rarely think of specific ones when I’m alone. I suppose there is some hyperbole in there, but as far as I’m concerned, I speak the truth.

Women don’t interest me outside of the occasional bouts of fun. That isn’t to say I don’t care about them. I vote, I donate, I stay educated on causes, particularly the ones my mother hates the most – since that probably means they’re worthwhile. Yet outside of the occasional date, the only time I engage with other women is in the office. My father encourages me to at least get engaged, especially now that my brother’s wedding is on the horizon, but I’ve never cared much about marriage. Spouse, children… perfunctory. No dreams of mine. Why bother, if I’m not 100% invested? It only leads to resentment and unadjusted adults.

Perhaps one day I will find a decent enough wife who will agree to an arrangement that is beneficial to us both. Her job will include having children I can’t be bothered to carry and keeping my image agreeable with the public. Otherwise, I don’t care what she gets up to behind the curtains, and I expect the same in return.

So these thoughts of Alessa haunting me as I step into the elevator and head down to my car, where she will be waiting for me, must be the result of great sex. I’ll be over her by the end of the weekend, surely. I will then make her sign every NDA my lawyer can draw up and pay her off to keep her mouth shut about me becoming carnally intimate with every inch of her body. It works every time. Presley has nothing to concern herself with.

I nod in farewell to the security personnel on the ground floor. One steps out from behind his counter to open the glass doors for me. I barely spare him my thoughts as I hurry to my limo parked alongside the curb, motor purring. My driver opens the door as soon as he sees me.

The backseat is empty.

I refrain from entering my vehicle. “Where is the woman I sent down here?”

“I have not seen her, Ms. Marcon.”

The dark sidewalk is empty this time of night. Buses roar by in the background. A few blocks up, parties let out, drunken revelers booming their voices until they echo between buildings. A few drug dealers are surely out tonight. Someone’s probably biting at the champ to ask me for money. Downtown Portland is insufferable during the day, no matter how empty it is these days. At least at night it’s a bit quieter.

Too quiet. I should hear Alessa’s voice greeting me as I slip in beside her.

“Drive around the block so we can look for her.” I already know I’m not going to see her again tonight. Either the woman’s so daft she can’t find a huge limousine waiting right outside the buildings, or she’s disappeared on purpose.

I’m too annoyed to give a shit. Yet I still give enough of a shit to contact my private investigator yet again.

Something is wrong with me. Something so incredibly vexing that I’m unable to work.

Alessa has not left my mind. I thought a good night’s sleep would make me forget her, or at least forget how she slighted me. Instead, I woke up this morning with a dream suspending me between a blissful slumber and a stark reality.

I dreamed about making love to her. Again. Again.Again. My subconscious couldn’t decide if it wanted her tied up in my bed or bent over my kitchen counter. Either way, she was mine, and I made sure she knew it.

Absurd. Almost as absurd as the physical need I woke up with. What am I, fourteen? Because this was no ordinary sex dream desperation that I’ll get whether I want it or not. This was a direct reaction to Alessa’s mere existence.

So, I did what any other woman in my unique position would do. I meditated until my mind was clear of such bothersome, unproductive thoughts.

Unfortunately, they came back only two hours later when I was in my gym.

As it went for all of Saturday. I even called my brother, which should tell you how badly I wanted to get Alessa off my mind. My brother and I don’t get along even on the best days, yet we still converse as if we’ve always been old pals talking about girls and the opera. Naturally, all Ted wants to talk about is his wedding. For as similar as my brother and I are in a lot of aspects, the fact he’s involved with the planning of his wedding is one significant difference. God, I can’t think of anything worse than planning a wedding.

“Make sure you bring someone acceptable,” he says with a drawl. “I can’t have my best woman bringing one of her usual tawdry stewardesses or bargirls.”

“When was the last time I brought a low-class woman like that to a wedding?”

“Last year? Helen Warner’s wedding?”

I struggle to remember who I took to that social function. “That was my accountant.” Well, one of them. When you have six on one team, who keeps track?

“Even worse, Jules.”

“I’ll make sure that whoever I bring to such an auspicious event has your stamp of approval. Give Jordan my best.”

“Yeah, yeah, save it for the bachelor party.”

I cringe. Something else that is not my sort of thing, regardless of the crowd being male or female. Only for my big brother would I deign to attend such a spectacle – I don’t even think Presley could convince me, and she would con me into being her “maid of honor” or whatever Edwin is calling me. When he asked me to be his “best mate,” I laughed in his face. I thought he was joking. Honestly.

I didn’t expect him to want me in his wedding party. Doesn’t he have friends?

My brother laughs at my obvious discomfort. “One day, Jules, it’ll be your turn. You’re not getting any younger. Cupid will snap your ass with his love-towel at some point.”

Only Ted Marcon will talk to me like that. He gets away with it because he’s my older brother, and they love to metaphorically pull their sister’s hair all the way to forty.

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