We don't say anything for a few minutes as she grunts, trying to dig the pointy parts of her body into the sore parts of mine, finally working out some of the tension. That is until the door flings open and my assistant's voice comes crashing down over my trying-to-relax state.
"Matthias! Where have you been?"
Judging by the tone of her voice, my massage is over.
I sit up, ignoring the fact that I'm buck naked. There's isn't much she hasn't seen of me either, but not in any kind of sexual state. She's just walked in on me showering or changing enough times not to be fazed in the slightest about the sight of my back and front bits. If anything, I feel like she silently scoffs, as if she's disappointed in me for even having genitalia.
That's what you get when you hire an assistant who's ten years older than you.
"You know, Hannah," I say, "all of my brothers' assistants call them 'Mr. Baxter."
Her eyes roll up so high in her head she can probably see what's hung on the wall behind her. "Well, then, you wouldn't want to be mistaken for them, would you? Aren't you always complaining about how you hate being in your older brother's shadow and overtaken by your younger brothers' intelligence?" she says, her voice deadpan as she throws a robe at me.
It lands over my head and drapes over my face, the scent of fabric softener permeating my breath. "Touché. What are you doing here, anyway? You said I had a half hour break before my next meeting." "Mr. Baxter is on the phone," she says.
"Which Mr. Baxter?"
A smug smile settles on her lips as she realizes I have made her point. "Your uncle."
A string of curses spills from my lips. Gerry, my uncle, the interim CEO of Baxter Enterprises, is more of a pain in my ass than my masseuse and assistant put together. Times a thousand. As far as I know, they're not trying to throw my three brothers and me out of the company.
"What does he want?" I growl, pulling on the robe. Any day that has Gerry in it is a bad day.
She purses her lips. "I think you know what he wants."
I do. It's about the news that he's allegedly about to be a great-uncle to two baby Baxters. I slide off the massage table and shrug. "He'll get over it. It's not the first time."
"I don't know. He sounded angry. He sent Paula from PR to come talk to you."
"What makes this time important enough for him to stick his nose into it?" I ask, but it's a rhetorical question.
We know exactly why.
Because in eight months, the company's board is due for a vote, and as agreed between the board and my late grandfather, when my eldest brother Kingsley turns forty-two years old, he is to be voted in as CEO. So, Gerry, as interim CEO, has eight months left to get us thrown out and get the board to vote him permanently into the position. Since my grandfather's passing, he's been trying to pick all of us off, one by one. He hasn't succeeded with any of my brothers yet, and I'll be fucking damned if I'm going to be the weak link.
Hannah hands me my clothes and turns away while I quickly get changed in my private elevator as it whizzes up to my office floor. "You don't have to turn away, you know. You're welcome to enjoy the show."
"No, thank you. I'm not much for horror movies, Matthias."
"Ouch!" I groan as the elevator comes to a stop, and I catch a smirk on her face as she steps out onto the floor ahead of me. "Paula," I say as soon as I step into my office to see my PR rep standing there, looking about as pissed with my uncle as I am. "Tell me what I have to do to make this all go away, and fast, so I can actually get some work done around here."
"Yes, Mr. Baxter. But frankly, sir, you're going to fucking hate it."
CLARISSA
T
he ear-piercing shriek from the sound system feels like someone is slashing at a spot behind my eyes with a nail file. If the sound check goes on for a minute longer, my brain might actually
explode.
"Ms. Masters?"
I shake my head at the sound of my name and scowl at my head bartender, half-annoyed, half embarrassed that I'd been caught not paying attention to what he was saying.
"What?" I snap.
A look of confusion flashes over his face at my tone, but he doesn't say anything about it, just holds out the clipboard to me. "Erm, I was just saying, I think we're going to need to up our ice shipment. I think another five twenty-pound bags should do it. We can store them in the cool room and then bring them out when we need them. But we were out almost an hour before we closed last night. Had to hit the kitchen up for some."
In the background, the speakers let out another screech, and I use every ounce of presence to plaster a neutral look on my face. "Sure, whatever you think is right, James. Update me in a week." "Sure thing, Ms. Masters." He pauses, then asks the question on his lips. "Are you okay?" No.
No, I'm not.
And nothing makes it worse than being asked that question for the tenth fucking time of the day.
I wave my hand. "I'm fine. Just go back to work, I have things to do," I hastily say, in a voice almost as shrill as the sound coming out of the speakers.
Before he can ask any follow-up questions, or the facade fades, I walk to my office, slamming the door closed behind me, and lean against it. My eyes flicker erratically back and forth, and fall on my reflection on the mirror across from the door. I almost find myself without breath again when I see what I look like - messy bun, face still bare, eyes circled by dark, purple rings.