Chapter 15

Allen

 

He will die.

The old coot who spawned me—who’s decided to withhold my rightful inheritance because I haven't married a sniveling, do-gooder, bleeding heart, tree-hugging cunt like Krista Glass—will eventually succumb to age.

Yet, for now, my ass-kissing days are not behind me.

I raise the brandy snifter, filled with a perfectly delicious sacrilegious cider beer with a bright, crisp taste, and stare at my wretched father over the fine crystal rim.

“Cheers,” I say without enthusiasm.

“Allen,” Orson Rothschild begins with a tone of voice I abhor, “if you were to partake of the beverage that server was intended to hold, you would sound merrier.”

Father's smirk is the same, pushed into a surgery-enhanced face.

He considers himself a Hugh Hefner lookalike and dresses in velvet and expensive lounge sets. He’s smoking a horrible pipe in the lavish drawing room where we meet.

After having called me like a dog to heel to quiz me about who I've decided to permanently tolerate.

Jesus.

I turn away from my father's penetrating stare, hiding my sourness, and stare at the lushness of Lake Washington. The mansion’s many windows face the sparkling depths.

Father lives in Medina, an expensive neighborhood that houses the rich of Washington state. Though Bill Gates could arguably be among the richest of the world, he resides here, as well.

Today is gray, like many days in the Pacific Northwest, and though rain doesn't fall, the outdoors are pregnant with the potential.

I take another sip, staring at the waves, painted an angry gray to match the sky—and my mood.

“So how is lawyering?” Father asks casually.

I know from raw experience that he is the least casual person of my acquaintance.

“The same. Tedium.”

“I see.”

I give him a sharp look, thinking that if I have to slice and dice my face to remain youthful forever, as my father has, I might as well die now and get it over with.

“And your marital prospects?”

My exhale is hate on breath. “I'm working on that.” I lean forward, letting the crystal snifter dangle between my semi-slack fingers, dangerously close to empty.

I'd need ten of these to numb me before my father's scrutiny. The old fucker is consistent, I'll give him that.

“I'm desperate for grandchildren, you know.”

“Yes.” I don't look at him.

“Allen, look at me.”

My eyes rise reluctantly, finding a shade exactly like my own. Bastard.

“Your mother and I…” Orson spreads his hands.

“She's not my mother, as you damn well know.” Heat suffuses my face.

Orson nods. “True, however she does stand in her stead.”

My birth mother died due to a rare complication when I was born. There's been a precession of blonds with perfect teeth, tits, and tight asses since.

Because Orson Rothschild was not picky about anything else. He had a wife, and he didn't take another until last year.

The bitch was my age and hopelessly stupid, like the others.

“I liked the potential surrounding the young teacher.” Orson taps his chin.

He should like her, he originally brought her to my attention then encouraged Samantha Brunner to make the introduction.

“Kristin?”

I hate him, and a simmering loathing threatens to boil over. Like his puppet, I swam to the bait like a hungry fish.

He absolutely remembers Krista and his own involvement, but he also enjoys his theatrics.

No one else does.

“Krista Glass,” I bite out. Hell, he practically chose her.

Orson snaps his finger. “Ah yes, fine girl. A girl from a very different family, circumstance, and social circle than our own.” His smile is secretive, as though something only he is privy to amuses him.

Orson’s smile makes me think, Shark.

Wouldn't he love to know I’ve fucked every girlfriend he ever had? Some weren't so willing.

I fucked them anyway. I wanted Daddy Dearest to have my sloppy seconds. The slut girlfriends were always too scared to tell Orson Rothschild he had a rapist for a son. It'd be my word against theirs. And how could a fifteen-year-old boy act on those impulses, surely?

Easily, as it turned out.

A flutter of adrenaline beats through my veins, and dissipates just as quickly as it came.

It's the quiet defiance that keeps me going. The little fuck yous I sprinkle about like fairy dust allow me to survive these cock-tug soirees. If it weren't for all the small deviant acts I committed behind my father's back, I never would’ve lasted without killing him. But then I wouldn’t have the money…

I lift a shoulder, smoothly entering back into the game. “She's had a change within the parameters of her teaching. We've not moved forward because she's busy.”

Actually, the little bitch just cut me off with a “let's be friends” line, as though I’m a cartoon character she no longer wants to look at.

Orson's eyes, so like my own, glitter like the tropical seas I've visited since I was a boy. I've been everywhere on my father's expansive yacht.

All the sights that allure most leave me cold. I will marry Krista Glass, chuck her overboard, and entertain female harems with my father's billions.

After she's birthed a few children, of course. A fleet of nanny's can take care of the brats while I have my fun.

“Allen?”

I jerk my face toward the sound of Orson's voice.

He must have said something, but I missed it while scheming my future. That pastime has, of late, consumed my thoughts.

“Apologies, I was a million miles away.”

“Yes, you were.” Orson clears his throat. “In an effort to protect my assets”—his eyes pierce me, seeming to look directly into my treacherous, black heart—“and you are my most precious.”

I maintain a straight face by imagining losing this elusive fortune and am pleased to discover how well that mental imagery works.

Orson continues, “I have contracted my team to investigate Miss Glass thoroughly.”

Rage and defeat sing through me like the thrill of adrenaline did just moments before. But this—Orson digging around Krista's background—is the final insult.

I move to stand, and he throws up a palm. “She is the perfect choice. I don't want another girl.”

“Why can't I marry one of the women from our own inner circle?” I beat the armrest, nearly slopping the remainder of my beer over the fine crystal rim of the snifter.

“That's not something I can divulge at this time, Allen. However, suffice it to say, when you have recouped your rightful inheritance, all will be brought to light. Or if need be, sooner.”

Orson leans back, artfully tugging the heavy silk pantleg at the knee and crossing his legs. After setting his brandy on a nearby table, he steeples his fingers, staring unblinkingly at me.

How I despise him.

“What if Krista doesn't want to take the next step?”

Orson spreads his fingers. “That is not my issue. Persuade her.”

For the first time, I see a glint to Orson's eyes as he emphasizes that word.

Right then, an epiphany strikes me—perhaps, the apple doesn't fall very far from the tree.

Who knew?

 

*

 

The documents are delivered by courier.

Inside are things about Krista Glass that even she might not know about herself.

Tapping out a message to my personal assistant, I chuckle. Oh, what monetary resources can provide. Excellent. My assistant answers immediately with the only response I require:

Yes, of course.

Reading the handwritten note from Orson for a third time, my eyes stutter over the message: Use this information to woo, Allen. I do expect a degree of creativity.

Her parents aren't really her parents. That's a biggie. And the tidbit about her “scholarship,” that she supposedly earned… I snort.

There is no way in our current climate of diversity handouts that Krista Glass, Miss Caucasian, would be awarded the type of scholarship she enjoyed at the University of Washington. That is precisely what she and her pseudo parents have been led to believe, though.

I'm uncertain how this information helps me woo her. But if knowledge is power, then I can at least blackmail her into becoming my wife.

The third item, and the most puzzling, is what I hope to use, but don't know if it's significant to Krista.

A sex trafficking ring has their eye on the elementary school where she teaches.

In particular, they hope to acquire certain children from neglected and underprivileged environments.

Just the type of imbeciles Krista teaches.

Though her current students certainly do not belong in that particular category.

Brett Rife. Corina Style and Dwayne Carson: three morons, all illiterate adults. They have nothing in common except their stupidity, which is plenty for me.

However…

I type out an email, encrypt it, then press Send.

I will use my own expensive team to flesh out the character of those three.

The more you know. I hated that one big idiot on sight, for thinking he could have a woman far above his station. Brett Rife is nothing more than an animal posing as a man, probably employing every manipulating tactic because he's got the hots for teacher.

And Krista is far too soft to tell him she has me, a real man, who can actually provide something for her.

It's probably a dalliance, which will be easy to stop.

Permanently.

I shoot a predatory smile at my female assistant when she walks in.

Naked.

Orson hired her. She fucks on demand. As long as I don't come inside her honeypot, I can do what I want.

“Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald.” Her voice only quakes a little.

I get a painful erection just hearing that small shiver of fear in her tone.

“Hands and knees.”

Abbi turns, showing me her back. Faded bruises meet seamlessly with new.

I love my work.

I watch her rear end go up like an offering as she takes her hand, as I've instructed, and parts her pretty pink pussy lips.

In my haste to drop my pants, I almost trip. Finally, I manage to kick them off and drop to my knees directly behind her. I pull out the lube I carry in a small tube always in my front pocket. The shape and size mimic lip balm very closely.

After loading my cock with the slimy stuff, I stab myself inside, and Abbi bites her lip to keep from screaming, which is also a major turn on.

I pound her unmercifully, until her forehead touches the carpet of my luxury office, and she's mewling.

When I’m close to coming, I say hoarsely, “Turn.”

Abbi knows the drill.

I tear out of her, my cock aching, and she rolls over and opens her mouth, tipping her head back.

I gag her with my prick, shooting my cum down her throat.

“Ah!” I yell into my office, grabbing her head and ramming it to the bottom of me, lips to base.

She doesn't fight.

Abbi knows where that leads.

“So good,” I say, still pumping inside her wet mouth. Finally, I drag myself out from between her lips.

She stares at me, her disgust and disdain plain to see.

But we both know who that's for. Her.

Orson Rothschild pays her well to keep my demons at bay. God knows it was a challenge to not let them take over when I've been with Krista.

I smile down at Abbi. She’s Krista's surrogate.

But the real thing is this close.

I can taste it.

“Get out,” I tell Abbi.

She leaves, nervously licking the remnants of my cum off her lips, and I wait for my team's intel on Krista's current students.