Ethan
I got to my office and was startled to find a new face sitting behind Angela's desk. She really had been a great assistant and I was going to miss her. Unfortunately, the fiery passion that had made her so good at her job also made her a force to be afraid of when she'd been crossed.
Angela and I had never committed to each other, but the sheer regularity with which we've enjoyed each other's bodies had been enough to make her feel like I betrayed her when I wanted to call it quits between us. She blamed Kayla, but in reality, I should have stopped our affair long ago. It was wrong of me to keep turning to her for sexual release — no matter how hot she was. I always knew fucking the same woman for too long would be misconstrued as a relationship, and I had been right.
Under the circumstances, it was best that Angela had moved on. Steve was a lucky man. I knew I could count on him to appreciate her for her administrative skills, and not just for being a hot piece of ass. They would make a great team and be a huge asset to the company.
"Mr. Colson, I'm your new assistant, Gary," the young man behind the desk introduced himself with a nervous quiver in his voice.
"Glad to meet you. I have an appointment with an old acquaintance. He should be arriving first thing this morning." I was about to tell him to have security ban him from the building when he arrived, but to the over-eager young man cut me off.
"Yes, sir. He's already here. A Mr. Dorsey. I told him to have a seat in your office until you arrive."
"What?" I was annoyed. I had got into work an hour early specifically to avoid this situation again. Damn it. My irritation must have shown on my face because Gary flinched as if I'd slapped him.
"I'm sorry. Should I call him back out and have him wait in the lobby?"
/> "No, he's already here; I'll take care of him," I glowered, but I knew it was a mistake Gary would never make again.
When I entered in my private office and shut the door securely behind me, I found Charles sitting in my favorite chair with his feet propped up on my desk. He folded his hands behind his head and it was all I could do not to smack the cocky grin off his face.
I couldn't wait to give it to him just to get him out of my sight. If I never had to see Charles Dorsey again, it would be money well spent. The problem was, I wasn't sure that would be the case, and looking at him now, I was sure it wouldn't be.
All of a sudden, paying him off didn't seem like such a good idea. It seemed like a recipe to have him in my life forever. He just looked so damn sure of himself sitting there at my desk like he owned it, and I realized giving him this money would make him think that he owned me — and in a way, he would.
Suddenly the sure feeling I had when I got the cashier's check felt like a lump sitting in my gut and it bubbled up inside me in the form of rage.
"What the hell are you doing there? Get your ass up." I had to force my hands to relax from clenching into fists.
"We had an appointment. I knew you'd probably forget, so I decided to come early. You forget a lot of things. They say this a symptom of repeated drug use," Charles said, sounding as cocky and condescending as ever.
"I mean, what the hell are you doing in my chair? That's my desk. Now, move your ass before I do it for you." As I advanced on the little weasel, he scrambled to his feet, and then tried to make the move look casual, swaggering as if it had been his idea and not because he didn't want me to beat his ass.
"Fine. I thought as old friends you'd like to spend some time catching up before we do a little business, but if you're in a hurry, I'll just take my check now and leave."
When I first came into my office, that's exactly what I had wanted to do, but no longer. I reached into my pocket for the check, and Charles hand was held out expectantly. I could see him swallow hard against the saliva that had built up in his mouth, like a drooling mongrel. He was hungry for it, but it wouldn't satiate his hunger and in a month or so, he'd be back, ready for more.
Why should I hand over my money to this slimy, little jerk? Why does he deserve to have the money I've worked so hard to earn with 20 years of sweat, innovation, and sleepless nights? I pulled my hand out of my pocket and crossed my arms in front of my chest, with a lift of my chin.
"You know, I've just been thinking. I built up Speed Motorcycles out of nothing and turned it into the biggest motorcycle company in the country. Sure, I was a dumbass and almost let drugs destroy my life when I was young, but it was a mistake I learned from and I got clean.
“I'm not going to let it ruin all that I've acquired now. I'm not going to be intimidated by your chicken-shit attempt at blackmail. Do your worst. Tell every newspaper in town that Speed Motorcycles stands for getting loaded on speed. Tell every television reporter that I was a junkie that first year of my company. I'll even confirm that it's true."
"You can't do that. The bad press will ruin your reputation. Your model girlfriend will leave you. Think about what your parents will say. Your fans will hate you. You'll be a laughingstock and no one will ever want to buy one of your crappy bikes again."
"That won't happen. Because I'll tell an even more compelling story about how I traded the misery of drug addiction for the even better high of speeding on a fast bike. Speeding on motorcycles is the kind of high that can't be beat, and my rise from the fall will inspire everyone who hears my story. I won't be a laughingstock — I will be a hero."
"You can't do this to me. You owe me money. Pay me now." He sounded like a spoiled kid throwing a temper tantrum in the grocery store, but I no longer cared. Let him rage and kick and spit all he wanted. Still, he was a reminder of what could have become of me if I hadn't gotten clean, and I felt compassion for him.
"I don't owe you a dime. We were friends once, and because of that, I am willing to pay for you to go to rehab, but that's it. Take it or leave it."
My offer was sincere and I hoped he'd take it, but instead he turned his red eyes on me with a look of pure hatred. Flipping me the finger, he shouted, "Fuck you. I don't need rehab. I need money. If you won't pay to keep me quiet, then pay because you owe me. The name of this company was my idea. I came up with a lot of the product ideas, too. I deserve to be paid for it."
His screaming didn't scare me, but the fact that he truly believed what he was saying terrified me. Speaking in a calm voice, I said to him, "You didn't create this company, and you didn't even come up with the name. We were two dumb kids getting stoned together. That's not an epiphany that turned into an empire. That's not 20 years of hard work. Let me help you get clean the way Garden Hope Center helped me. Let me check you into rehab."
For a moment, he looked hopeful, as if a part of him yearned to be made well, and I thought he might take the help I was offering. But it only lasted for a moment and then the dark demons of addiction took over and morphed his expression back into something ugly.
"Fuck you. You're going to pay me the money you owe me. I'll sue if I have to. I'll take you to the highest court. We'll see what a judge and jury say when they hear the truth, and I won't settle for just a million dollars. I want a billion dollars now. You're going to pay, and when you do, I'm buying you out and you'll be back to nothing again."