Mr. CEO(69)

“Yay,” Mom says sarcastically, her nose twitching. I'm surprised it can still do that. The amount of putty and plastic in there is probably what you'd see with repairing a minor fender bender on a car. “What's he want now, to discuss your little faux pas last night?”

So she's been sober enough to pick up the news. “Fuck all if I know. He just said to get you,” I say with a shrug.

Mom's eyes glance over to me, and I can see that she doesn't have them in. Or more precisely, she doesn't have in her colored contacts that she normally wears, the ones that give her the DeLaCoeur blue. Instead, I can see her normal muddy hazel eyes, and to be honest, it's refreshing. Hey Mom, nice to f*cking see you for once. How long has it been? “You don't take that tone with me, Jackson Garfield DeLaCoeur. I am your mother,” she says coldly.

“As much as you wish you weren't,” I snap back, pushed to the limit. Seriously, when you grow up listening to your mother bitch at least once a week how giving birth to you ruined her figure, you kinda feel unwanted, you know? “I mean, I'm sorry I made your tits sag, but they're holding up... reasonably well. At least they stick out past your stomach.”

Okay, so I'm being a dick with the backhanded compliment, but she deserves it. Mom didn't even say anything to me on my last birthday. Probably because my birthday always reminds her that no matter how much Hennessy she sucks down, or no matter how much work she has done...fifty's just around the corner.

At the mention of her stomach, Mom touches her abdomen, checking that she's still flat there. I give her a little smirk. “I'll go see what Andrea's up to. You should go check on Pops soon, he might be wondering where you are.” I leave without waiting for her to reply.

Instead of finding Andrea though, I head back to my room, my head still trying to make sense of the look in Pops' eyes, and what he said to Nathan. What the hell am I supposed to do?





Chapter 3





Kat





Success! Oh, it was f*cking sweet, too! The look on his face, the flash of the bulbs... and best of all, not a single soul knew who I was.

Don't get cocky, Katrina. Your work is just beginning.

I nod at the words from long ago and take off my dress. I strip everything off before sticking it all into a plastic bag for later disposal. It's going to suck throwing a thousand-dollar outfit into an incinerator, especially since that's more than I make in a month sometimes, but it's necessary. Peter DeLaCoeur's going to send his men after me, I know it. I can ghost, but only if I leave as few clues behind as I can.

I go back over to my dresser and open it up, grabbing my favorite black gi pants, and the sports bra I prefer for exercise. I get dressed quickly, then turn and walk across the big, empty space of this old warehouse until I reach the post in the middle of the floor. In exchange for teaching kids' martial arts classes twice a week, the owner of the boxing gym downstairs lets me crash here. Right now I'm buzzing on adrenaline, and I need to refocus.

The post is steel, but I've wrapped it in old, bald tires that provide just enough padding for me to use it as my own personal training dummy. My sparring gloves are an old castoff pair I rescued from the garbage downstairs, but they serve their purpose well enough, which is to prevent scrapes on my hands. I take them off their hook, and pull them on, sneering at the tires. Except they aren't tires any longer. They're Peter DeLaCoeur's fat, piggish face.

My first punch lands hard, but it jars my body. The first punch always has that effect. I can punch far above my weight, but my first punch always knocks me a little off balance. Still, it doesn't take long for my body to adjust. It's trained to compensate for the shocks, turning them into energy I roll with and use to power the next strike. Kicks come next, then knees, and elbows...this is just a light workout for me. I can't practice my deadlier techniques on this simple training dummy, but it's a good way to relieve some of my stress.

With a scream, I throw an overhand elbow that would dislocate a man's jaw before falling to the floor, covered in sweat and gasping for breath. That's good enough for tonight. I'll get a real workout in tomorrow.

I peel off the gloves, hanging them up on their hook again and go over to the mat on the far side of the room. I've removed the lights, and darkness reigns. By pure muscle memory, I find the lighter and light a single tea candle, setting it in front of me and assuming the seiza kneeling position that I learned long ago. I send my mind into the flickering light of the candle, and what comes up are my memories.

“You are filled with anger,” Virginia says, two days after I've come to her home. It's the third foster home I've been placed with, the other two having sent me back after what the social workers called 'inappropriate behavior'.

“No shit, lady,” I snap back at her, twisting my hair around my finger. “You'd be too if you got treated like last week's Big Mac.”

“Perhaps I would,” Virginia says. She's lean, and according to the file the social worker showed me before she dropped me off at the house, she's former military. She looks it too, with muscles outlined against her chocolate-brown skin, and eyes that look like they've seen some shit. “But I wouldn't be helping those people who treat me that way by acting like an inconsiderate baby.”

“Excuse me, bitch?” I snap, sitting up. “I ain't no goddamn baby.”