Stuck-Up Suit
Page 9
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This strange woman had gotten under my skin.
She’d said her name once through the intercom, but it stuck with me. Normally, names went in one ear and out the other.
Soraya Venedetta.
Well, technically, her full name was Soraya You’re Welcome Asshole Venedetta.
How did she get my phone?
The text continued to haunt me as I read it over and over.
Your mother should be ashamed of you.
Each time, it made me angrier than the last, because deep down, I knew there were no truer words. My mother would have been ashamed of me, the way I treated people on a daily basis. Everyone deals with tragedy differently. After my mother died, I’d chosen to shut people out of my life, focusing all my energy on schooling and my career. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore, didn’t want to connect with anyone. The easiest way to go about achieving that was to scare people away. If being an asshole were an art form, then I’d mastered it. The more successful I became, the easier it was.
It was amazing what a man of my position and appearance could get away with. Almost no one called me out on my crap or questioned me. They just accepted it. In all these years, not one person had spoken to me in my place of business the way Soraya Venedetta had today. Not one.
While her ballsy attitude over the intercom impressed me, I’d almost forgotten about her until Ava, the receptionist, knocked on my door and handed me my phone.
And now, hours later, I was still sitting here completely obsessed with the deep realization that came from Soraya’s words. And completely obsessed with the set of tits pouring out of a dress that was the color of the devil.
Fitting.
Soraya Venedetta was a little devil.
She’d left me unable to focus on work, so I canceled the one afternoon meeting I had and left the office.
Back home, I sat on my couch and sipped cognac while continuing to ruminate. Sensing that something was off with me, my West Highland terrier, Blackie, just sat at my feet, not even bothering to try to get me to play with him.
My Upper West Side condo overlooked the Manhattan skyline. It was dark out now, and the city lights illuminated the evening sky. The more I sipped, the brighter the lights seemed, and the more my inhibitions slipped away. Somewhere out in the vast city, Soraya was feeling satisfied with her little act, unaware that she’d wrecked me in the process.
Staring at the image of the feather tattoo on her foot again, it occurred to me that she didn’t show her face because she was probably ugly as hell. At that thought, my own laughter echoed throughout the stone cold, empty living space. I wished I knew what she looked like. I wished I had opened that office door so that I could have shut her up to her face.
My finger lingered over her name, You’re Welcome Asshole. I wanted to make her feel as crappy as she’d made me. I was not beyond going there. So, I did. I answered her text.
My mother is dead, actually. But yes, I suppose she would be ashamed.
Maybe five minutes went by before my phone chimed.
Soraya: I’m sorry.
Graham: You should be.
I should’ve let it be. She would have felt like shit, and that would’ve been the end of it. But I was buzzed. Not to mention fucking horny. Staring at her tits, legs and ass all day had gotten me all worked up.
Graham: What are you wearing, Soraya?
Soraya: Are you serious right now?
Graham: You ruined my day. You owe me.
Soraya: I don’t owe you anything, you fucking perv.
Graham: This from the woman who sent me a shot of her cleavage. Nice tits, by the way. They’re so big, at first, I thought it was a picture of an ass.
Soraya: You’re the ass.
Graham: Show me your face.
Soraya: Why?
Graham: Because I want to see if it matches your personality.
Soraya: Which would mean what?
Graham: Well, that wouldn’t bode well for you.
Soraya: You won’t ever see my face.
Graham: Probably better off. So, give me a hint about what you’re wearing.
Soraya: It’s red.
Graham: So you haven’t changed out of that dress?
Soraya: No, I’m naked with dye dripping down my body and my tongue is throbbing thanks to you.
That was an odd thing to say.
Graham: That’s an interesting visual.
Soraya: You are seriously crazy, dude.
Graham: I AM a little crazy, actually. I probably need my head checked because I’ve been fantasizing about a headless person all day.
Soraya: Well, the naked pic ain’t gonna happen.
Graham: How about I go first?
She must have been shell-shocked because she never responded again after that. Deciding to stop messing with her, I threw my phone across the couch and lifted Blackie onto my bare chest where he stayed until I fell asleep.
She’d said her name once through the intercom, but it stuck with me. Normally, names went in one ear and out the other.
Soraya Venedetta.
Well, technically, her full name was Soraya You’re Welcome Asshole Venedetta.
How did she get my phone?
The text continued to haunt me as I read it over and over.
Your mother should be ashamed of you.
Each time, it made me angrier than the last, because deep down, I knew there were no truer words. My mother would have been ashamed of me, the way I treated people on a daily basis. Everyone deals with tragedy differently. After my mother died, I’d chosen to shut people out of my life, focusing all my energy on schooling and my career. I didn’t want to feel anything anymore, didn’t want to connect with anyone. The easiest way to go about achieving that was to scare people away. If being an asshole were an art form, then I’d mastered it. The more successful I became, the easier it was.
It was amazing what a man of my position and appearance could get away with. Almost no one called me out on my crap or questioned me. They just accepted it. In all these years, not one person had spoken to me in my place of business the way Soraya Venedetta had today. Not one.
While her ballsy attitude over the intercom impressed me, I’d almost forgotten about her until Ava, the receptionist, knocked on my door and handed me my phone.
And now, hours later, I was still sitting here completely obsessed with the deep realization that came from Soraya’s words. And completely obsessed with the set of tits pouring out of a dress that was the color of the devil.
Fitting.
Soraya Venedetta was a little devil.
She’d left me unable to focus on work, so I canceled the one afternoon meeting I had and left the office.
Back home, I sat on my couch and sipped cognac while continuing to ruminate. Sensing that something was off with me, my West Highland terrier, Blackie, just sat at my feet, not even bothering to try to get me to play with him.
My Upper West Side condo overlooked the Manhattan skyline. It was dark out now, and the city lights illuminated the evening sky. The more I sipped, the brighter the lights seemed, and the more my inhibitions slipped away. Somewhere out in the vast city, Soraya was feeling satisfied with her little act, unaware that she’d wrecked me in the process.
Staring at the image of the feather tattoo on her foot again, it occurred to me that she didn’t show her face because she was probably ugly as hell. At that thought, my own laughter echoed throughout the stone cold, empty living space. I wished I knew what she looked like. I wished I had opened that office door so that I could have shut her up to her face.
My finger lingered over her name, You’re Welcome Asshole. I wanted to make her feel as crappy as she’d made me. I was not beyond going there. So, I did. I answered her text.
My mother is dead, actually. But yes, I suppose she would be ashamed.
Maybe five minutes went by before my phone chimed.
Soraya: I’m sorry.
Graham: You should be.
I should’ve let it be. She would have felt like shit, and that would’ve been the end of it. But I was buzzed. Not to mention fucking horny. Staring at her tits, legs and ass all day had gotten me all worked up.
Graham: What are you wearing, Soraya?
Soraya: Are you serious right now?
Graham: You ruined my day. You owe me.
Soraya: I don’t owe you anything, you fucking perv.
Graham: This from the woman who sent me a shot of her cleavage. Nice tits, by the way. They’re so big, at first, I thought it was a picture of an ass.
Soraya: You’re the ass.
Graham: Show me your face.
Soraya: Why?
Graham: Because I want to see if it matches your personality.
Soraya: Which would mean what?
Graham: Well, that wouldn’t bode well for you.
Soraya: You won’t ever see my face.
Graham: Probably better off. So, give me a hint about what you’re wearing.
Soraya: It’s red.
Graham: So you haven’t changed out of that dress?
Soraya: No, I’m naked with dye dripping down my body and my tongue is throbbing thanks to you.
That was an odd thing to say.
Graham: That’s an interesting visual.
Soraya: You are seriously crazy, dude.
Graham: I AM a little crazy, actually. I probably need my head checked because I’ve been fantasizing about a headless person all day.
Soraya: Well, the naked pic ain’t gonna happen.
Graham: How about I go first?
She must have been shell-shocked because she never responded again after that. Deciding to stop messing with her, I threw my phone across the couch and lifted Blackie onto my bare chest where he stayed until I fell asleep.
