Stuck-Up Suit - Vi Keeland Page 0,1
there was an empty seat that was forward-facing. My blood pressure immediately went down as I sank into it. I shut my eyes for a moment and let the swaying motion of the train calm me.
A man’s gruff voice disrupted my serenity. “Fucking just do your job, Alan. Do your job. Is that too much to ask? Why am I paying you if I have to micromanage every last goddamn thing? Your questions make no sense! Figure it out then come back to me when you have a solution that’s worth my time. I don’t have time for stupid questions. My dog could probably come up with something more intelligent than what you just brought to the table.”
What a dick.
When I looked over to catch a glimpse of the face from which the voice came, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. Of course. Of course! No wonder why he thought he could shit all over everyone. With looks like that, people probably dropped to their knees around him all of the time, both literally and figuratively. He was gorgeous. Beyond gorgeous, reeking of power and money. I rolled my eyes…but still couldn’t look away.
This guy was wearing a fitted, pinstriped shirt that made it easy to figure out the sculpted silhouette beneath. His expensive-looking navy jacket was draped over his lap. The black pointy dress shoes on his large feet looked like they’d just been shined. He was totally one of those guys who let people shine his shoes at the airport while he avoided making eye contact with them. His most notable accessory, however, was the angry glare on his perfect face. He was off the phone call now, looking like someone just pissed in his Cheerios. A vein was popping out of his neck. He ran his hand through his dark hair in frustration. Yup. Switching to this car was definitely a good decision for the eye candy alone. The fact that he was so oblivious to everyone else around him made it easier to ogle him. He was fucking hot when he was mad. Something told me he was always mad. He was like a lion—the type of species best admired from afar, whereby any actual contact could lead to irreparable harm.
His sleeves were rolled up, showcasing a massive and expensive watch on his right wrist. With that sourpuss expression, he stared off out the window as he fidgeted with the watch, twisting it back and forth. It looked like a nervous habit, which was ironic considering I was sure he made plenty of people nervous himself.
His phone rang again.
He picked it up. “What?”
His voice was the type of raspy baritone that always hit me straight between the legs. I was a sucker for a deep, sexy voice. It was rare that the voice actually matched the man, too.
Holding the phone in his right hand, he used his other hand to continue messing with the metal of his watch.
Clickety Click Click.
“He’s just going to have to wait,” he snarled.
“The answer is I’ll be there when I get there.”
“What part of that is unclear, Laura?”
“Your name is not Laura? What the hell is it then?”
“Then…Linda…tell him he can reschedule if he can’t wait.”
After he had hung up, he muttered something under his breath.
People like him fascinated me. They felt like they owned the world just because they’d been blessed by genetics or handed opportunities that put them in a higher financial bracket. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I bet his day consisted of nothing but self-serving activities. Expensive espresso, work, eating at high-end restaurants, loveless fucking…repeat. Shoe shining and maybe racquetball somewhere in between.
I bet he was also selfish in bed. Not that I’d throw him out of bed—but still. I couldn’t say I’d ever been with anyone as powerful as this guy, so I wouldn’t know from experience how that translated into the bedroom. Most of the guys I’d dated had been starving artists, hipsters, or tree huggers. My life was far from Sex and the City. It was more like Sex and the Pity. Or Sex and the Shitty. I guess I wouldn’t mind playing Carrie to this guy’s Mr. Big for just one day, though. Or Mr. Big Prick in this case. Absofuckinglutely.
One flaw in this little fantasy of mine: I was definitely not this dude’s type. He was probably into submissive high-society waifish blondes, not curvy Italian girls from Bensonhurst with snarky attitudes and multi-colored hair. My long, black tresses hung down