Bosshole by Jagger Cole

4

Barrett

The doorto my penthouse slams shut behind me. I drop my shit at my feet and stomp across the place, making a beeline for the bar cart. The scotch pours quickly and heavily. I inhale the smokey scent of the God-knows-how expensive bottle. Then I drink it down and pour a second.

I take my time on the second one. I move to the windows overlooking the glittering streets of New York below. I shake my head in amazement, as I do frequently. That will happen when your life goes from the bottom to the very top.

Ten years ago, I had none of this. Hell, I barely had four clean t-shirts to my name. But me and my dad made do. We’d made do for a long time together, after my mom bounced when I was eleven. My dad never even dreamed of the wealth I have now. But he worked his goddamn ass off, and he taught me the importance of doing that.

That’s how I met my now arch-rival. Back then, Roland Simmons was just the son of the man whose lawns my dad took care of. Dad and I lived about as far across the tracks as you can get. But the Simmons? They lived in goddamn castle on a cloud.

In a normal world, Roland and I would have never crossed paths. Maybe I’d have valet parked his car or poured his wine at a restaurant or some shit. But one day, my dad’s truck shit the bed at work. So, I came to pick him up on the old pan-head Indian chopper I was rebuilding. Turns out, Roland geeked out over bikes as much as I did. The guy took one look at my ride, and we basically started hanging out in his garage all the damn time.

At first, it was like a fuckin’ movie script. The dirt-poor kid from the wrong side of the tracks makes friends with the misunderstood rich kid? Hell, I’ve seen that movie.

For about two years, we were thick as thieves. I showed Roland what I knew about bike mechanics. He helped me ace my SATs and write some kick-ass college applications. Dad couldn’t help me at all financially with school. But I have no doubt that the letter from Roland’s dad Harold, and alum, is what got me into Harvard along with Roland.

And yet, as close as we were, I always knew in the back of my head that things were off. I always knew I didn’t belong. Roland was my “friend”, but not one he brought around his other friends, because I was different. I didn’t have the money, the car, or the cool expensive clothes. I wasn’t from that world, and they never let me forget it.

It was the way his dad would smile and write me a college recommendation letter. But also side-eye me any time I set foot in the house. It was the way the staff hid the good silverware when I was there. I saw it all, but I tried to push it aside.

And it wasn’t all bad, either. Roland had a half-sister, seven years younger. I mean she was just a kid. But she was always dropping into the garage to chat with us or just lurk around. She always had a nice thing to say. She seemed to like my ride too, and she even liked my beater of a car that her dad always wrinkled his nose at.

It’s not like I was fucking into her…I mean she was seven years younger than us. But I liked her. She was like a sister I never had. She was the good that helped balance out a lot of the bad in my life.

And then, my world went upside down.

Roland was driving that night, recklessly. We were back from our first semester at Harvard together. We’d been at his house; I’d joked around with his kid sister. And then we’d gone to a party. He wasn’t wasted, but when we got pulled over, he had booze on his breath. The cop searched the car and found cocaine in the glove box. It wasn’t mine. I’ve never even done it. But that night, it sure as hell was mine.

That was the day I realized the rich can do whatever they want. I discovered that friendship can mean different things to different people.

Roland claimed it was mine. Right there on the side of the road, right in front of me. He told the cop the drugs were mine. I denied it, obviously. But his last name is Simmons, and his dad gave three mil a year to the police union. Take a guess who they believed.

In one afternoon, I lost it all. Kicked out of Harvard, I lost my scholarship, and then I did eighteen months in county for possession. Like I said, life will break you—slowly at times, and with a fist to the mouth at other times.

I slam back a gulp of the scotch.

Yeah, that was my trial by fire. I spent the next year and a half behind bars earning my own MBA. I read every book. I went over every corporate write up. I crammed all day, every day, for eighteen fucking months.

I don’t have a diploma. There’s no school with my name on the graduate list. But I learned what I had to learn. And when I got out, I got to work.

Now, I have all of this.

I look around the forty-million-dollar penthouse. I won’t deny myself a gloating smirk. I’m rich now. Richer than the little shits who looked down one when I was a kid. But I’m not one of them. I’ll never be of that world, and I’m fine with that.

Except now, there’s a reminder: Delphine.

She’s Roland’s half-sister, for fuck’s sake. And Roland didn’t just fade away, either. There’s no karma in this world, even when people wish there was. There’s no justice like in the movies. If there were? Yeah, Roland would get his comeuppance.

But he’s rich, from rich parents. Shit never gets on the shoes of people like that.

Now, Roland runs my biggest competition, Simmons Financial. And his kid sister is my new junior analysts?

Fuck.

This is messed up, on a couple different levels. For one, her family. But mostly, it’s her. It’s what she very clearly does to me. It’s how I became unraveled around her, and that was before I saw her naked from the waist down.

The problem isn’t just her family. It’s that I fucking want her. I want her like I’ve never wanted a woman before.

The flash of her bare skin and the temptation between her thighs that I saw before—in my office and then again at her front door—comes rushing back. I groan. My cock hardens. I cup myself and squeeze my thickening erection. But then I snarl and pull my hand away.

Christ what is wrong with me? I could literally have my pick of any woman in this city, with the snap of my fingers. But I don’t want any of them.

I want Delphine Laurent. And I always, always get what I want.

I groan and take another sip of scotch. I want her, but my guard is still up. It has to be. She claims she and her family are estranged. She claims she has nothing to do with Roland.

We’ll see about that.

I’ve had my walls up and my armor on for as long as I can remember. Not a single person has peeked over them or gotten through the cracks. So why does it feel like Delphine is about to kick down the front fucking door?

Why does it feel like she maybe already did?