Devil In The Waters, Book 3, Chapter 1a (partial)

Sorry for the delay, folks. I wanted to get a little ahead since we're beginning a new book and wanted to make sure my story had a path moving forward for this next episode. I've figured out the direction now, and we'll see if Kimmy, Josh, and Devlin want to take my route or not. Remember: your comments always help too!

And: there's another thing I've been working on but, as usual, nothing's easy. I'm trying to integrate my Patreon with my website so it's all in the one place. If you're a subscriber and go to my website I want you to be able to access and discuss the content there. But I suck at this web stuff and I'm dealing with API and client_secrets and all sorts of techie mumbo jumbo that's above my pay-grade. I'm still working on it. For now, I'll continue updates to the story on Patreon the same way as before but hopefully soon I'll have it on my website.

But . . . without further preamble, here's the intro to the third Devil book:

——————

All morning he’d been in a bad mood he couldn’t shake.

Quarter to eleven now and he was on break finally, coming out of the cafeteria line at Swanson with a coffee and a croissant, looking to find Steve who’d got out into the seating area ahead of him.

The thing between him and Kimmy right now wasn’t what you would call a fight. That’s because he wasn’t putting up any obstacles to his wife working for Devlin. It was like he was afraid of a fight, or at least actively avoiding one. If he were to express what he wanted he was afraid Kimmy would reject his objection. Deep down the truth was simple. He did not want Kimmy to work for Devlin. Simple. He could say to his wife: “Kimmy, it’s a bad idea.” And where would that leave him? She would ask why it’s a bad idea and he would express his doubts at . . . at what? The state of their marriage? What would he say to her? I’m afraid you’ll cheat on me . . . If you haven’t already. And Kimmy (who hadn’t cheated on him, nor would she) would be offended. Or worse: Mad. And wouldn’t she have that right?

He tried to picture it like he had a new and attractive female co-worker with a loose and over-sexed reputation and this imaginary girl was all over him, and Kimmy objected to his proximity to her. Would that make him mad? . . . Hard to say. Proud maybe. Like riled that she valued him so much to worry. But what if she flat out forbade it? He could see scenarios where she became unreasonable that might make him angry. He could see it, could hear himself saying “So, what?—you want me to give up the chance at all this money because you don’t trust me? . . .” If he could picture himself mad then he could understand how he might sound irrational to Kimmy if he expressed how he didn’t want her to work for Devlin Stone.

Steve sat at their usual table by the window, and Josh worked his way between the seating to get there.

Here’s the thing: the texts from Devlin had been deleted from his phone. The contact deleted as well. So now he couldn’t even go back over them to remind himself how real the taunting had been. And the more time passed after Tiffany’s post-reunion cottage party the more unreal that interaction with Devlin in the tent seemed. Would a grown man come into his tent and show off his penis? It didn’t even sound right.

He’d had so much to drink at Tiffany’s party that even in the light of the following day, surmising the veracity of his dreamy memory had been tainted by alcohol. How trustworthy was his interpretation of that dream? Since the party there’d been no contact with Devlin. Not for sure at least. No direct taunts, nothing. And in retrospect, he couldn’t even remember talking to the guy. Dream Devlin’d said they talked at the picnic table. Had they? And if dream Devlin was only a dream, had he ever talked to the guy at all? Could parts of this be fabrication—his fearful mind filling in drunken memory gaps with horrible little gems of hurt? . . . Another particularly shiny red gem: When he couldn’t get erect, all he’d had to do was think of Devlin’s big hard bulge dry-humping Kimmy and his own penis went off like a rocket. How much of this was all in his head?

It helped to analyze his situation by taking the pile of components and arranging them into two boxes. True and Unsure. Devlin in the tent was unsure. Devlin’s taunting texts were unsure. Close to True but proof would remain in Devlin’s mouth. It would go into the True box when he heard directly from Devlin: “Yes, Josh, I sent you those texts.” And if Devlin didn’t send them? Who knows—maybe Amy. . . . It was something to consider. In the True box was that Devlin had held down his wife and tried to kiss her. Kimmy’d said Devlin was hard.

And that there was the real sticking point. That was the only leverage he could use against Kimmy to question why she’d decide to go work as a lawyer in-house at Devlin’s import-export business. But the more-than-valid point had already been countered by a whopping dollar sign. Yeah, the guy tried to hump me, Josh, but he offered me a great-paying job.

The fact that Kimmy’d never said “You know you can trust me,” could go either way. “I don’t even have to say it,” is what that could mean (which was where his head was at), but sometimes at night he’d wonder if maybe his wife knew not to make promises she couldn’t keep. Like Kimmy wouldn’t say “Trust me,” because even she was afraid she couldn’t honor that.

His tray of food went down hard on the cafeteria table making Steve jump. “Jesus, take it easy.” Steve scowled, thumb and finger still in his mouth where he’d just tucked in the heel of his tuna bagel.

Josh apologized, dropped his weight down on the chair and scooted nearer the table. Steve eyed him.

“You guys aren’t fighting, are you?”

“Me and Kimmy? No, we’re not fighting,” he said. The thing between them wasn’t a fight . . . but it could be called a disturbance. “We’re not fighting at all.” But maybe they should. Maybe he should have a sit-down head-to-head and lay it all on the table. I don’t like Devlin at all, not one bit, and you know it, and while I trust you . . . I don’t trust him. Shit, when he put it that way it didn’t sound so bad at all. Little late now though isn’t it, Josh? I mean, she’s already working for him.

Steve said, “And it’s Monday. Today’s Kimmy’s big day.”

“It is,” Josh said, fists on either side of his tray, the curve of his croissant like a smug smile on a plate.

***

 Tami was in her mid-twenties, an effusive and endearing girl with Indian parents. And her new secretary. Tami was currently appearing busy but side-glancing into the office to see what Kimmy was up to. She was being assessed.

Her new office faced south on the tenth floor of the P&G Building, Yonge and Sheppard, North Toronto. A furnished but otherwise empty space, about ten-by-fifteen, that she was currently setting up with artwork bought using an allowance from Devlin. Or at least deciding where it should go. She asked for Tami’s help.

Sunlight streamed through the window wall, falling across the space where another picture had once hung, the gray-painted wall sun-faded but for a darker square. Tami bustled, glad to be of help and not hanging around out front spying, taking up the end of a framed print depicting a traditional Chinese painted landscape, a pine branch and two stylized long-necked cranes in the foreground.

They both regarded the square of darker paint and Kimmy said, “What was up here before?”

“A landscape, like, a Group Of Seven, I think.”

Kimmy said, “Who had the office before me?”

“Mel. Mel Wilson. The guy who you replaced.”

Replaced? She’d thought she was added on. Did Devlin remove a lawyer to make room for her?

“I think your picture’s going to cover the square,” Tami said hopefully as the two women hoisted it up in place, getting the braided cable to hug the hook already in the wall.

“Let’s hope so,” Kimmy said, both of them now carefully removing their hands, seeing if the big picture would stay up. It did.

They stepped back to admire, gauge levelness, both of them with hands on hips. Tami wore a dark suit jacket and skirt with a satiny wine-colored blouse. Kimmy’s suit was also black, hers with pants that came to a high waist, pointed toes of her shoes under the hem like two patent leather daggers. It was a treat she’d purchased for herself in congratulations for her new job. She had suits she wore at Immigration, but this one was far nicer. It felt nicer, it looked nicer. She loved how it fit. The shaggy cut of her hair was pulled back, all business, the dullness chased away with gleaming product, bangs tidied and combed, the remaining length collected in a tight and neat bun. No makeup except for a line of black around her eyes and a shimmering lipstick in a color not unlike the natural dusky rose of her own lips.

“It’s beautiful,” Tami said. “Where did you get it?”

“Pacific Mall. My dad picked it out.”

“Aw, that’s nice,” Tami said. “He live in Markham?”

“He does now. We grew up in Kingston.”

Tami nodded, her lips pursed but wriggling; a question forming there but her mind weighing whether or not it might be appropriate. “I . . . heard you knew Mr. Stone Junior from before.”

“Yes. We’re both from the suburbs outside Kingston. We went to school together.”

“U of T?”

“No,” Kimmy laughed. “High school.”

“Oh, really?” Tami laughed honestly and touched a hand to her chest.

“We go way back,” Kimmy said. Then out of the blue: “My husband, too. We both went to high school with Devlin. Mr. Stone, I mean. Junior.” She held up her left hand, waggled her fingers to show off her wedding ring. Like she had to prove it. Or was defensive.

It only made sense. It took two seconds to figure out this conclave would be a den of whispered gossip. Even the way Tami had presented the query: I heard that . . . It would be best to establish a professional veneer right from the get go and not let visible chumminess with Devlin prompt all sorts of office gossip and rumors.

The administration, legal, management, and accounting offices of Stone Custom Brokerage LLC took up an eighth of the tenth floor of the P&G. There was an office in Kingston (it had been the only office up till ten years ago, now it was a satellite) a shipping warehouse in Kington and another one in Toronto, down on the docks in the east end. Here at the P&G there were four secretaries, all young women in their twenties; two middle-aged guys in accounting, Joseph and Ronald; two managers who she hadn’t met yet; three middle aged women, Anna, Veronica, and Gail, who all performed HR duties and similar, Veronica and Gail were Chinese but weren’t lawyers. A lot of possible vectors for the spreading of rumors involving the new woman who was already familiar with their handsome alpha male boss. There was sure to already be a vast anthology of rumors, anecdotes, and salacious stories surrounding Devlin Stone around Stone Custom Brokerage. It would take effort to be distant from them.

It would be easy to get embroiled in gossip. Either as the subject or source. Tami would find value in her new boss through suggested inter-office scandal or by digging the mine of Devlin’s past to entertain her cohorts. A professional barrier needed to be erected if she wanted to ensure that her relationship with her boss wasn’t fodder.

Tami was already on a roll. “Your husband, is he one of Devlin’s buddies?”

“No, it’s not like that. We all just grew up in the same neighborhood.” Closed off the conversation, then turned, headed to her desk. “Dial my father for me, will you—his number’s in the list of contacts I gave you.”

With a “Yes, Mrs. Chang,” Tami returned to her desk out front, situated between Kimmy’s office and the accountants’. By the time Kimmy’d sat down in her leather office chair, her phone was lit with an active line.

“Hey, Pop,” she said into the receiver.

“Ah, my Kimmy, how are you? Big day today.”

“You know it. Hey, I got your picture hung on my wall and it’s perfect.”

“I hope you like it.”

She said she did, then filled him in on how it’d been going. Told him about the three days of training she’d attended in Kingston, getting to know how Devlin’s brokerage worked, and the three-day conference she went to on her own dime, freshening up her corporate law knowledge.

“And how’s Josh? He good?”

“He sure is, Pop,” she told him. Though to say there wasn’t disgruntlement would be a lie. Josh currently boogie-boarded on a wave of resentment, arms out, struggling for balance, not saying a word to her about how much he didn’t like her taking the job. But her husband was smart as well as sweet. He knew what it could mean for their future. And taking the job wasn’t just for her and what she needed. It was for him too. She’d vowed to make that known to him.

“Come and have dinner,” her dad said, “you and Josh, before the summer’s over . . .”

“Sure thing, Pop. When do you want to . . .”

Coming in from the elevators, Devlin appeared in the lobby, Tami jumping up now to greet him. Dark suit, white shirt, indigo tie, he had his sunglasses up in his hairline, and held at his chest was a bouquet of flowers in a silvery foil wrap. Shoot.

“Hey, Pop? . . . My boss is coming, can I call you later?”

Her dad was apologizing even though it was she who’d called him, and she was apologizing too, then they whispered quiet good-byes. Out in the lobby Devlin engaged Tami, their body language making her think they were talking about her.

Phone hung up now, she rose, nodded and waved to Devlin, putting her hands in her pockets, coming around the desk as Tami ushered Devlin into her office. She closed the door behind her, leaving them alone but completely visible behind the floor to ceiling glass barrier.

“What’s this?” she said, good natured but perturbed, nodding her chin at the flowers he held.

“Welcome to Stone Brokerage, Mrs. Chang.” He smiled to one side, light picking up the color in his eyes, looking devilish.

She said, “I still can’t believe you convinced me to put my maiden name on my card.”

“It’s for the best and you know it,” he said, bypassing her now, moving to the side table under her newly hung picture and setting down the flowers then beginning to arrange them.

“Thanks for the flowers, but, really . . .?”

Still arranging, he said, “What’s wrong with flowers?”

“I don’t know . . .” What was wrong?—she couldn’t tell. It seemed . . . intimate. Something a man gave a woman who he had an interest in. “It seems . . .”

Devlin crossed his arms, eyed her, enjoying himself, the smile giving that away. “Worried about the hen house?” he cocked his head out toward Tami who looked like she was busy but could also be keeping them in her periphery.

“You don’t worry about that?”

“Nothing I can do to do to stop them from obsessing where I put my cock.”

She scoffed, chuckled, rubbed the back of her neck. “You can be glib. Don’t hold back.”

He laughed and she didn’t like them looking too chummy; it was like they were on a stage or in a TV set the way they were on display for an audience.

Devlin said, “Let the hens cluck, Kimmy.”

“Do me a favor?”

“What’s that?” Smiling, smug, dashing.

“Just don’t . . . you know, not here.”

“Kimmy,” he said, up off the table where he’d been leaning, moving around the office and looking out toward sunny downtown. “Did you think I was going to lay you out on the desk and ravish you?”

“No . . . We just haven’t talked. I’ve hardly seen you.”

“Afraid I’ve lost interest?” His eyes traveled down her body then back up again, enjoying the teasing.

“I hope so,” she said, but with the words out in the air now she was pretty sure she hoped he was still interested. It had been three weeks since they’d fooled around in his car, and there’d been nothing untoward since then. Devlin’d been professional. Her life here would be easier if he lost interest but maybe she enjoyed some of the attention.

Devlin said, “Would it hurt your feelings?”

She sighed, crossed her arms tighter and didn’t look away—kept her eyes on is. “It would be a relief.”

“I can keep my hands off you, if you’re concerned I might try to tear your pants down in front of all your new co-workers and try to get it inside you again. I have the occasional bout of self-control.”

“The flowers make me nervous,” she said, turning and touching the white petals of a carnation in his bouquet.

“If I were you I’d worry about the color in your cheeks since I came in.”

She frowned, touched knuckles to a cheek looking for heat. “I’m not blushing.”

“Sure you’re not.” He got closer but kept some distance between them. “You look beautiful, by the way. This suit is killing me.”

“It’s new.”

“You have an incredible figure. All legs . . . and that beautiful face. And that brain. I think I’m getting lucky both ways.”

“We should have rules,” she said.

“We should,” he said, nodding. “Makes it really hot when we break them.”

“This is the relentless Devlin I anticipated.”

“You got what you expected. I hope I get what I paid for.”

“Why don’t we have lunch?”

“You just can’t wait, can you?”

She said, “We can talk about those rules.”

“Can’t, Kimmy. Sorry. Meetings all afternoon then I’m back in Kingston for the night.”

She gave him no reaction, hid a small seeping amount of disappointment.

He said, “But welcome to your new office.” Now he came closer, moved near so she could smell his musk, leaned past her to handle his own flowers he’d gifted. She looked at the soft petals held in his large masculine hand, his thumb caressing, the curled pink edge of a petal flipping under the pad of his thumb— and thought wondrously of her own labia under his touch . . . 

If she hadn’t blushed before, now she could feel it. The tops of her ears burned.

He continued: “I hope you and I will do wonderful things here. We’ll have lunch together, you can bet on it. I know I’ll be seeing you a lot.” He chuckled like he had a window seat on that awful and salacious thought she’d just had, then straightened and passed her by.

At the door he paused. She turned, saw him standing in the gap of her open office door, Tami at her desk behind him.

“Maybe tomorrow. Busy schedule, but we should some fit some time in. Good seeing you . . .” Then tilting his head aside to regard Tami, he added: “Say hi to Josh for me.”

Then he was gone and she stood dumb for a moment, parsing how what he’d said may be interpreted by her secretary then worrying how it would appear if Tami were to turn and catch her standing like this in Devlin’s wake, caught in an obvious reverie . . . She returned to her desk, sat and spun away. In her iPhone’s camera she studied her own face, turning side to side, seeing a blush under her faint freckles . . . 

Damn it.