I watch her walk past the glassed-in room, completely captivated, mystified, and amazed. There are a thousand things I feel right now, things connected to the past and memories. So. Many. Memories. It’s all confusing and a little awe-inspiring. No, I never stopped thinking about Zoe and her dad. I never looked her up because I was too busy building my own life, trying to take care of my mom, and then too busy trying to run a company that made its first million just a few months in. It was overwhelming—all of it. All the struggles, trying to survive, and college. And all of a sudden just…just making it.
If never looking Zoe up makes me an asshole, then I guess I am an asshole. Just like I told her, I was always an overachiever. I don’t want to think about that or debate what exactly makes a person a total D-bag. I have something else, something very vital, to worry about. Zoe. In my house. Tomorrow night. I can’t fuck it up. Meaning, I will not make a pass at her because she works for me, because I don’t need to get slapped with a sexual harassment lawsuit, because it’s not right, and lastly, because it’s technically kind of really gross since she’s my ex-stepsister.
I sit at the table in the empty boardroom for another forty-seven minutes while pretending to look at my laptop and pretending to read emails.
Although, really, that’s just how long it takes for my damn dick to obey my commands to calm the fuck down and stop making a tent in my pants so I can get the hell out of there.
CHAPTER 4
Zoe
Go over to his house. His. Freaking. Monstrosity. Of. A. House.
I don’t know if I believe Raiden’s threats about firing everyone if I don’t comply, and I’m also sure I have legal rights he’s stomping all over, but I know doing something about it could take months and months, if not years. I don’t know for sure if he’s bluffing or not, and I don’t think he’d actually fire anyone to make them pay for me quitting, but I can’t be sure. He isn’t the same Raiden that I used to know. Eighteen years is a long time.
After I drive through the black gates, which have actual pointy, medieval-looking spikes at the top, I start checking house numbers. I didn’t know Raiden’s house would be a monstrosity of a mansion, but I guessed as much based on the fact that he lives in a gated community. As it turns out, I was right. The other houses in the subdivision are giants. And I mean they’re at least five thousand square feet with statues on the front lawns, crazy stone pillars, stone lions at both sides of the front door, fake grass, expensive flower gardens, and a guaranteed pool in the back. Some of them are even three stories, and some of them have triple garages, which probably have elevators inside to fit all the hundred thousand dollar sports cars and whatnot.
Raiden’s house stands out from the rest—of course it does—because it’s black. Yeah, that’s right. Black. It’s on a corner lot too, which makes it look even bigger. It sprawls out with crazy rooflines peaking left and right, right then left, and there are what seems to be eight different rooflines. Why does one house need so many roofs? He has the typical three garage door deal before the front of the house even starts. There are huge silver numbers on the side, modern and sharp, and cedar trim accents under the windows.
If it were anyone else’s house, I’d think it was pretty cool. But seeing as it’s his, I grow a new hatred for ultra-modern architecture.
I park my eyesore of a car (it’s technically a nice sedan—an import I bought used and in immaculate condition) right in the middle of the driveway. I purposely do a haphazard park job that isn’t even close to being straight and hope all the neighbors see this wretched six-thousand-dollar car in the driveway and wonder about Raiden’s judgment. He’ll probably get a call about clearing the garbage out of the neighborhood. The thought fills me with delight.
As I walk up the immaculate concrete to the side walkway, which is also the same immaculate concrete, past a heck of a landscaping job consisting of different colors of crushed rock and a few trees in circles here and there, towards the front doorstep, I resolve to remain firm and hold tight to my anger. I’m completely justified in feeling every ounce of annoyance and rage that has wormed its way into my chest. This demand is basically bribery, and why the shit does Mr. Evil Cactus Poop want to bribe me to not quit? Doesn’t it usually work the other way?
I’ve decided the cactus poop thing fits Raiden perfectly. Cactus poops are the prickly kind. The kind that perforates and shreds when they come out. They are unmerciful and horrible. The worst of the worst on the poop scale. Evil and ruthless. I’ve read all about Ruthless Raiden, so it fits. It was Raiden who came up with the idea of a poop scale and to give the different kinds of poop terms and ratings, so don’t blame me. He did this to himself.
I notice right away that the doorbell is a camera deal, and it’s not branded with our company’s logo. I hope Raiden changes that up as there’s no point in supporting the sub-par competition. It unnerves me to think about Raiden watching me on the cameras he undoubtedly has as I pulled up. I just barely resist the urge to adjust the green dress I’m wearing, which I bought on
