That Which Destroys Me (3 page)

As I step out of my Audi R8, grab my brief case and Starbucks espresso, a nine walks by fucking the shit out of me with her eyes.

Are you kidding me, bitch? It’s too goddamn early for this shit.

No — I am not a morning person, nor am I a Monday person. Yes — I’m over these bitches constantly looking at me as if they hold sexual promises as well as all the answers to my deeply rooted, confounding disorientation where life is concerned.

The fuck did I say? Don’t look at me like that, dammit. It’s fucking Monday morning.

When I slam into my office, Rach almost drops the bottle of water she has halfway to her mouth. “Rachel.” I nod as I make my way towards the solid mahogany double doors that lead to my inner-sanctuary, the head office, the throne that the king of Jacobs Publishing House sits upon, mothafuckas.

Rach is hot on my heels, “Mr. Jacobs…”

I spin around and advance until I’m leaning over her like the prey she is, our faces a breath away when I whisper, “Rach, It’s Wesley or Wes.” I grab her chin in between my thumb and forefinger. Grasping it hard, I growl, “My cock’s been in that pussy, Rach. From that point on, you lost the right to be polite. Stop acting so goddamn virtuous, do you understand me?”

My eyes slide down her face and I watch as her neck bobbles, trying to swallow… She does swallow too—Just in case you were wondering.

In a breathless fluster of mumbled words she finally replies, “Wes,” She clears her throat, “Wesley, your father, Mr. Jacobs is in your office, sir.”

Oh, huh. I should probably be embarrassed, especially after the way I’ve just, well whatever. I’m not. I’m pissed! Not at Rachel, at my fucking father. Mr. Jacobs.

The scowl on my face is not something I could mask, even if I wanted to. I stalk into
my
office and there they are - Victor and Josephine Jacobs - somehow looking down on me standing over them at my full six-foot-four stature.

They’re the embodiment of rich pompous pricks. So am I, but at least I don’t look down my nose like an asshole at people.

I’m a product of my father’s infidelity. Josephine, my step mother, was almost eighteen when she married my father at forty-five. On the day after my father’s forty-sixth birthday, yep, you guessed it—I was born to a stripper-slash-escort girl my father had been having an eight year affair with during his frequent business trips to New Orleans.

Now, anyone that knows me knows I love my ma. She’s a great fucking woman. I don’t blame her for what she had to do in order to feed her younger brothers and sisters while cancer ate her own mother alive.

My plans of becoming a football star with a law degree and being able to care for my mother financially, allowing her to live in the lap of luxury, were thwarted by a football injury they’d originally said would prevent me from ever walking - much less running - again.

For as long as I can remember, I allow the simple fact that I run five miles a day help calm my demons, help soothe the hate that I’ve always had to keep reined in and in all honesty it isn’t working anymore.

After my scholarship was pulled because of the injury, my father brought me to the Dallas area and tried to get me enrolled in several bitch ass schools. But when you come from playing quarterback for LSU, your square shape doesn’t fit in everyone else’s peg holes—well not those holes anyway.

We agreed on Texas A&M where I threw myself into every damn socialite and sorority girl’s pussy within a seventy-five mile radius. That and my studies, acing shit left and right until I’d graduated first in my class with a bachelors in Science of English, then my masters in communication.

With my father nearing his seventies, he eagerly handed over the power of our prestigious, and highly recognized family publishing business—to me, his single living heir.

In less than a year, I’d handed almost every one of the authors my dad represented over to the very capable hands of a very different publishing firm than the one I had Jacobs headed towards becoming.

I kept two authors that pops had kept hidden in the basement. One, a very cutting edge and no-holds barred writer that, quite frankly, didn’t give a flying fuck if you liked his work or not. Scott’s books were out of this fucking world. His shit was raw. It was pure. It was fucking real. I kept him.

The other was an erotica author, but Melanie’s shit was much darker than the Fifty Shades books. Again, raw, gritty, erotic talent.

Melanie, Scott, and I packed up the whole fucking Dallas building and moved to NYC. The three of us slapped Jacobs on Madison Ave. Between the three of us, we brought in fifteen new upcoming erotica or cutting edge authors—no cookie cutter bullshit, no happily ever afters. Fuck that. Those were a dime a dozen. And I wanted Jacobs Publishing to be one of a kind!

That was almost ten years ago. Now I have more than two hundred authors, every fucking one of them think outside the box and more than bend the rules the writing world. Seventy-eight percent of them have been at one time or another on bestseller lists.

Victor was once a millionaire. Now he was a fucking billionaire, many times over. Did he and Josephine spend that money like it there was no goddamn tomorrow? Fuck. Yes.

Did they approve of the direction I took their prominent publishing business that had been in the family for over a hundred years?

Fuck. No.

“Pops,” I nod, “Josephine…” I kiss her weathered cheek, “You’ve aged like shit, my love. Glad to see it.”

“Wesley.” My father chastises. “Do not speak to her that way. We’re here to discuss business, not squabble like children. Keep your petty childish behavior to …”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out.” I glare into his eyes. “There is no goddamn business for us to discuss, old man. You’re over eighty years old.” I glance at his crotch, then look over at Josephine, “Speaking of shit - Josephine, is he in adult pampers, yet?”

In a flurry of mink, diamonds and curses, she stands quickly moving to exit my office. Before slamming the doors, she calls over her shoulder, “Victor I’ll be in the car, dear. I refuse to be treated this way by the son of one of your whores.”

The doors slam behind her as I move around to sit behind my massive mahogany desk, steeple my fingers and commence glaring at my father.

After I’m finished with our glaring contest, I jerk my head towards the double wood doors, “Leave. Now.”

“Son, acquiring an intern is the last business request I will make. JPH has always participated in, and been recognized in the Publishing Intern Accreditation Society. My grandfather, your grandfather and I helped not only make PIAS the respectable organization it is; Wesley, we built it. It’s important to at least continue, even if you do have them proofreading smut.”

The sinister laughter that rumbles from me has my old man’s spine straightening. In the most condescending tone I have, I reply, “Smut, huh? I must say, it is utterly bemusing to me how you can allow words like accredit and respect to roll so gallantly from your old shriveled tongue, then -
THEN -
have the audacity to spat the word smut, at me?!”

I abruptly stand, causing my chair to crash into the floor-to-ceiling glass wall behind me before stalking around my desk and grabbing this motherfucker by his tie. I jerk him up until our faces are an inch away from one another. “Get the fuck out of this building you old motherfucker. You needed an heir to head this business. Well, here I am. I needed you to at least attempt to take care of my mother, Kathy! My
MOTHER
. And you never lifted a finger to help us when I was a kid. Well guess what, the roles have reversed. I will take care of my mother. But I would do almost anything to ruin you financially. However, if I do, I can’t take care of the woman that raised me.”

I smooth his tie out before grasping the lapels of his suit jacket. “You alright, pops?” I smile glacially at him.

“F-fine. I’m fine.” He stutters.

“Good,” I say patting his shoulder. “There’s the door. Please do us both a favor and excuse yourself.”

After he’s been gone for five or ten minutes, Rachel comes in with today’s schedule, rattling on.

I, however, am still seething pissed. I watch her mouth as it moves and the urge to fuck those red puffy lips isn’t what skates across my mind. My eyes slide to her throat. That, that little fucking neck, is what I want. My hands wrapped around it, choking her until her eyes bulge and she claws the skin from my wrists.

Chained. DAMMIT. I never called! I need to put a call into Paul, let him know I’m coming. Line up some subs for me. He knows my flavor.

And it ain’t fucking vanilla.

I chuckle at my thoughts, but they’re interrupted by Rachel, “Sir? The intern list? I was explaining that I’ve researched the top twenty. Honestly, I can only see one, maybe two, candidates.” She nods to the list on my desk that’s gone unnoticed until this moment.

I snatch it up with a sigh and look over the names, their degrees, and the colleges they attended. “Which two, Rach?”

“Well, Christopher Wells; he comes from a long line of highly respectable names. He’s the ‘maybe’. And Jackson Brands; his family also includes an incredible amount of well-known names. And his Master’s degree is from Oxford, so…”

I look up from the list of names, blinking dumbly at her.

“I mean I went through… I researched every name on the list, Wes. What? Stop looking at me like that!” Her giggle instantly reminds me of C-names voice, causing my head to collapse back, hanging over the back of my chair. I shove my thumb and forefinger into my eyes.

Am I attempting to gouge my eyeballs out? Fuck no!

My goddamn brains? FUCK. YES.

Groaning in exhaustion, I remove my hand from its attempts at a digital lobotomy and raise it to shut her the hell up.

“Jesus Christ, Rach. Stop. Shut your mouth. You realize that this…” I point to the list, “…I am aptly capable of handling? These little pussies…” I glance down to the highlighted names, “…Christopher and Jackson, are not the caliber of interns I’m looking for.”

“Well, like I said, I went through every name. And those two gentleman,” She starts ticking her fingers off with her reasons—which leads my mind back to wrapping my hands around her throat, “Are extremely educated, come from a long line of some of the
best
publishers and editors. They each have exceptional references and are without
rap sheets
.”

I smirk at this cocky bitch, steeple my fingers and lean forward, “Rachel… I want the ones with the seediest pasts, longest goddamn rap sheets, from families that have no idea how to even spell publishing… That are from the top colleges.
That
is what I want.” I point to the list, “And if there isn’t one here, I’ll need you to call my pops, and tell him to go fuck himself. Then, send him and Josephine a fucking Edible Arrangement, with nothing but chocolate covered bananas. Understood?”

As she rushes out of my office spitting, quite honestly the saddest attempts of curses and threats I’ve ever fucking heard, my eyes fall to the list of names.

I’m going to find a damn intern. And when I’m done, they’ll be nothing less than five goddamn stars.

Chapter 4

Families are Bitchin’-Especially The Poor Ones

“Shit!” I scream as the heel of my shoe gets snagged in a manhole cover. The next thing I know, I’m on my fucking ass in front of God and everyone; bloody knees, broken high heel, and papers stating all five firms are no longer accepting applications.

If I was a bitch, I’d fucking cry. I swear to Christ I would.

But I’m not.

After gathering all my shit, I half walk half hobble the last four blocks to my and Trina’s apartment. I struggle up the stairs with one six-inch heel and one no inch heel, but don’t worry. I make it! I unlock our door, shove it open with my hip and look up to find Trina cleaning the shit out of the kitchen. Tossing my keys and purse on the foyer table, I ask “The hell are you doing, babe? Smells like a bleach bomb blew up in this place.”

“Oh my God! What happened to
you
!?!” She scurries from the kitchen towards me and I look down at my bloody legs and kick off my heels, well… whatever, you know what I mean.

“What’s it look like? I busted my ass. That’s what happened.” exhaustion evident in my voice.

“Looks like you tried to bathe a cat!” Her laughter sounds more like a cackle, “With your fucking feet!” Aaaaand the cackling continues.

“Yeah, I guess it kinda does. I’m gonna hop in the shower. Today sucked gorilla balls - fuck that - it sucked King Kong gorilla balls. I’ve been defeated. And I fucking despise defeat. You get any wine?” I ask stripping off my clothes and heading to the shower.

“I got four bottles of Riesling, to celebrate… But fuck it, we’ll have a defeat party instead. And I’m only attending because I know you haven’t cried a day in your life.”

“Fuck yeah! The first three bottles are mine though! No negotiations!” I call out on my way to the bathroom.

Before I can close the door I hear her non-negotiations, “Okay, that’s cool. Because Bo and Eve are coming over! They’re bringing wine to celebrate too. Err… Dance in defeat, I mean.”