Malcolm
Roast beef, cheese, mustard, rye—normally all the makings of a good sandwich, but today I can't eat. Just looking at food makes me queasy.
I chuck it into the wastebasket, disgusted with not only the food, but with myself, and with my life in general.
What was I thinking, falling for a woman like Athena, especially given the high stakes? Of course she snuck out of my apartment—no good bye, no 'hey, it was fun, but I gotta run,' and not even a text. Karma? Luck? Fuck if I know.
And that's what really gets me. How hard is it to send a text message?
I've been calling her like crazy, one call after another, and texting too, but now she's giving me the silent treatment. Like I don't exist. For all I know, maybe she even had my number blocked.
It's as if she doesn't know me.
Her silence makes me feel feral in my vulnerability. One minute, I'm confessing my love for this women—a dangerous fucking thing to do considering this '100 Days' contest isn't even over and I have everything to lose—and the next, she's vanishing quicker than a ghost.
I'm like a wild animal locked in this office.
I swear I'm losing it. I'm even hoarding small things that remind me of Athena—it started out simple, keeping a small cocktail napkin from our first date, and then holding onto an earring she left behind in my bed sheets.
Who have I become?
I pull my cell phone from my pocket and dial her again. I listen to the phone ring, and ring, and ring before going to voicemail.
I end the call in disgust. I refuse to leave another message.
Then I buzz my secretary.
"Stacey, re-schedule all of today's meetings."
"No problem, Mr. Bane. Is everything okay?"
"No, but it will be."
I let go of the intercom button, and send a message to my driver.
If Athena won't take my calls, I'll come to her and catch her off guard at her office.
There's no way I'm going to forget this ever happened because none of this makes sense. What if she's hurt? What if something terrible has happened and I don't even know about it?
That seems unlikely, but still … at the very least, I deserve to find out what's going on. Because at this rate, it feels like my fucking life is on hold.
Athena has consumed me. I can't think about anything else to the point that nothing else exists.
No amount of masturbating, working out at the gym, or whiskey drinking will erase her from my mind.
I walk to the curb outside and see my driver standing next to the car, holding the back passenger door open.
"Afternoon, sir. Where to today?"
"Thanks, Henry. Take me to Millionaire Matches, Inc. headquarters."
"Right away sir."
Within moments, the car is pulling into the steady flow of traffic, and I sink into the soft black leather, closing my eyes.
With my eyes shut, I can smell Athena's hair—sweet and exotic and faraway from the city—Mandarin oranges served on a slice of salty ocean. I can almost feel the way her pulse flutters in her neck, like a caged butterfly against my lips.
Athena—the ancient Greek goddess of wisdom and war. Yes, that seems to ring true—even for this modern-day Athena.
Before I know it, the car is pulling up to her building. It's a marvel of architectural achievement—all steel and glass as far as the eye can see.
I thank Henry for the ride, and walk toward the building's elevators. I ride them all the way up to her office, the whole time wondering if she's going to be here.
I walk out of the elevator, and into her office.
"Excuse me, sir?" her secretary says, and I blow right past his desk.
I don't have time for niceties.
When I reach her door, it's open, and I see her.
She's sitting behind her desk, her slender legs crossed, in a tight black skirt and blazer. She raises her eyes, and looks at me. It's not a look of surprise. In fact, her look doesn't tell me anything.
Is it indifference that I'm sensing?
"Where the fuck have you been?" I say. "I was worried. You slipped out of the apartment without a word, a note, a text—nothing. And then you've been refusing to answer my calls. What's going on?"
She shrugs. "Contrary to what you might think, I'm a busy woman."
I laugh. Two can play this game.
"Too busy for a text?"
"What, Mal—do I need to be at you hand and foot now? Because if that's what you think, you're talking to the wrong woman. That's not me."
"Stop, that's bullshit and you know it. You know I'm not asking for much."
She shrugs again. "I don't know what you want from me."
"You know what this is?" I say.
"Is this a thing?"
"That's right; it is. Your head versus your heart—your whole body is rebelling. Look me in the eyes and tell me that's not true."
She looks at me for a second, but refuses to hold my gaze.
And in that moment, I know I'm right. About this. About everything.
I walk toward her, closing the distance between us and my heart is kicking in my chest.
The way she's holding her lips slightly open, the way her tits are sitting in her blouse, like two scoops just begging to be eaten, and the way the sun from her floor-to-ceiling office windows is lighting her hair around her face—it's all making my cock throb.
I know she can feel this too. She isn't moving. Isn't speaking.
I'm now standing in front of her, and I brush my fingers against her lips, and drag them down her throat. I touch her lips again, and this time she opens her mouth, sucking them with her warm, velvet tongue, and it sends a bolt of electricity traveling down my spine.
With uncontrolled lust, I grab her throat, bringing her closer to me.
“Unbuckle my belt.”