Page 45 of Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy 1)
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?I try. See you tomorrow, boss.” Temperance heads for the door, leaving the remainder of the champagne behind.
It’s beyond tempting. How easy would it be for me to get drunk enough that I wouldn’t remember anything that happens tonight? But I’m not going to do it. I already have a buzz, and that’s enough of a disadvantage as far as I’m concerned.
I push up from my chair and take the bottle into the bathroom, dumping its contents down the drain before my better judgment slips away. I leave the empty bottle on the counter. I’ll worry about recycling it tomorrow with the rest of the restaurant’s glass. Tonight, I have a lot bigger things to worry about.
I gather my things and slip my purse over my shoulder before heading toward the door, already gathering the courage I need to face Mount after the scene this afternoon.
As I reach the threshold, a vibration zips through my bag and I freeze.
The toy.
Shit.
I spin around, leaning my shoulders against the door.
“Is that a warning because you know I haven’t put it back in yet, or are you trying to get me pissed off before I’m ‘delivered’ to you again?” I ask the question to the empty room that I’m not so certain is empty anymore. I know he’s not here, but I can’t help but wonder.
“Are you watching me right now, you controlling son of a bitch? Where are the cameras?” I turn around, the champagne and fuck-me heels making me unsteady as I search the office I thought I knew inside and out. “Where are they?” I say it just loud enough not to draw attention from Temperance in her office down the hall.
I step toward the door again, and the vibrator buzzes in my purse before I can touch the handle. I step away from the closed door and walk to the center of the room, my steps steady and measured this time. I put my middle fingers in the air and turn in a slow circle.
“Let me know if you can see that, Mount.”
The device in my purse is still, but something tells me he’s watching me.
I stalk to the bathroom, slam the door, and throw my purse on the counter. It smacks into the champagne bottle, sending it rolling off the edge.
“Shit!”
The mouth of the bottle lands at an angle on the floor, breaking into two pieces at the neck.
That could have been way worse, I tell myself as I reach down to grab the broken pieces of glass.
With my slight buzz from the champagne, I misjudge and the jagged edge of half the bottle slashes diagonally across my left palm.
“Fuck!”
Blood drips from my skin, and it stings like a son of a bitch. I grab a paper towel from the dispenser and squeeze my hand shut around it to staunch the bleeding as I crouch down to root around under the sink for the first aid kit. I know there’s one in here somewhere. My father’s motto is Always be prepared, which makes sense because he was an Eagle Scout. Another tradition he wanted to pass along to a son he was never blessed with.
I find the first aid kit and grab a roll of gauze and some tape. Apparently always being prepared doesn’t include palm-sized bandages in the kit. I lift the paper towel off the slice and wince, although it’s not as bad as it first seemed. It definitely hurts, but it doesn’t look like it’s deep enough to need stitches.
Thank the Lord, because the feel of sutures tugging at my skin while a doctor sews me up, even if I’m numb, creeps me the hell out.
I wrap the roll of gauze around my hand and cover it with tape to hold it in place. The broken bottle I’ll deal with tomorrow when I’m totally sober. I grab my purse and stalk out of my office, ready to be collected.
Keira
It’s not until I’m hooded in the backseat of the car driven by Scar that my purse begins buzzing. As soon as it does, my stomach drops at the memory of what Mount told me this morning.
“This better be in your pussy when you’re delivered to me.”
The incident with the champagne bottle, and field dressing the resulting wound, totally made me forget why I walked into the bathroom to begin with. I have a feeling he won’t believe my story.
Shit. I consider my options as the car heads who knows where.
I can reach into my purse, blinded by the hood, and try to maneuver this thing into myself one-handed while Scar no doubt watches me in the rearview mirror. Or I can face Mount knowing I disobeyed a direct order and own up to it.
