Pulling the condom off his still hard erection, I watched in a state of confusion and more shock.
“But you're... you can't walk around like that.” I was trying to think of reasons, solutions, or who had that much control in life to deny themselves this kind of pleasure.
He chuckled like I was some stupid girl who didn't get it. “Can you go downstairs and eat something? I’m sure you have the drunk munchies. I need to shower off.”
Disappearing into the bathroom, he closed the door behind himself, and I heard the sound of the shower start up instantly. Still stunned, I sat back on my heels still naked in his bed. Listening carefully, I waited to hear the sounds compete with the shower for dominance of him getting off.
Walking by the door in his shirt, I threw on without any panties or pants I twisted it open. The door cracked, and I heard the unmistakable groan of Grimm.
I was going to have to formulate a theory about this. He wouldn’t get off with me. Everything was private in Grimm’s life… even getting off.
It made me wonder what he did with other girls.
Did he make them come to only get himself off privately? Did he not trust women with that job? Maybe the office girls were right in thinking he was gay.
Thankfully, he wasn't one of the many LA residents with a fucking Starbucks in his kitchen. The fancy machines us low-class didn't know how to work or relate to anyone who had one. Grimm was a simple man, with a black coffee maker that we all knew how to work.
GRIMM
I had never met a woman who battled an orgasm with caffeine and still fell asleep. Mixing uppers and downers.
When I got out of the shower, I saw her coffee mug on the bedside table, still hot to the touch, and her passed out. She made herself so comfortable I didn’t have the heart to wake her up. She certainly wasn’t driving home still trashed anyways.
Letting her sleep, I found the remote and flicked on Netflix, letting some show play about teenagers looking for treasure.
My mind was keeping me distracted enough. If I thought the fallout of fingering her was bad enough to avoid her and hand her off to Khaos, then what would fucking her mean?
I couldn’t fire her. The paperwork, meetings, and bullshit would only end in me having to clean it up the way I was hired to anyways.
Finishing her coffee she abandoned, I don’t know when I fell asleep. Abigail wore out every ounce of control in my body without much effort.
I woke up downstairs on the couch, not remembering how I got there or even why my gun was in my hand resting on my thigh. Unclutching my hand around the handle, I placed the gun on the table after unclipping the magazine and counting to make sure all the bullets were there.
Lost time wasn’t a rare happening lately. Before Abigail got shoved onto me as my secretary, I was losing time more often than I wanted to. I would wake up in different places with no real reasoning on how I got there—in my car, in my shower, my couch, the cage in my basement… anywhere but my bed and always with my gun in my hand.
Waiting for the coffee to brew, I leaned onto the counter, elbows pressing into the granite, as I scrolled through messages I normally ignored from Khaos, Vic, Bo, and my mom. A storm of communication was just waiting to sweep me up. Hearing the distant clacking of heels against the marble floors, I snapped up in horror, thinking I had to be hallucinating.
My mother could not be here right now. The shadow moving behind the frosted glass wall closing in on me left me no time to run or hide.
Seeing me, she stopped like she hit a wall, and I cursed myself for not ducking behind the island, like a respectable adult, who had just fucked their employee, but not enough to see my o-face.
Walking over to the table, I picked up my gun and tucked it in the back of my sweats before walking back to my coffee, when Abigail breezed down the stairs in my shirt that hung down to her mid thighs. I could tell by her still sleepy eyes and stretching she wasn’t awake enough to realize the pretentious perfume hitting her nostrils was my mother standing in my kitchen.
“Who are you?” My mother’s eyebrows wrinkled in confusion and disgust—a look she perfected being the wife of someone powerful.
I watched Abigail’s cheeks flood a bright red, trying to become invisible. I couldn’t even help, turning my head up to the ceiling and cursing silently in my head. This was not my life right now. This moment was not happening for the second time with my mother showing up uninvited and overstaying her welcome with a pantsless Abigail.
“We’ve actually met before… Abigail…”
I was impressed that she spoke at all. My mother was like Medusa, turning people to stone and muting them with one look.
“Why don't you stick to coffee and phone calls? Or whatever it is you do.”
Her tone was grating my every nerve this early, before caffeine and my meds. Twisting the bottle tops open, I collected my horse pills when I grabbed my cup of coffee to wash them down with. “Boundaries. We’ve talked about this. You and Vic need to stop conspiring together. I'm eating, taking my meds, doing therapy, working out, and showing up to work. I'm not gonna explain myself.”
“I'm sorry. Do you need something? This is a private conversation with my son, Jason.”
“Stop. First of all, it's Grimm. I don't go by Jason. Secondly, she's my assistant; that's punishment enough to exclude her from your shit.”
She put up her hands and paused before following me outside, exactly how I wanted her to, away from Abigail being in the crossfire. Leaving the sliding door open, I walked onto the fake grass and squinted in the harsh sun’s brightness, even this early.
“Fine. Fine, I’m behaving. You missed your MRI last week.”
“And?” My disinterest in the topic was clear, as I waited for her to complain and give me the third degree, or whatever controlling moms do with their monster sons.
I had been getting MRIs done semi-regularly since I started therapy at the age of 10. My therapist was worried I had psychosomatic tendencies stemming from all the trauma I endured, so monitoring my brain scans was her way of keeping me in check.
“And what, Jason? You can’t skip these things. How else are we supposed to know you are okay?”
Her fake fucking concern matched her fake nails, fake tan, fake fucking voice, trying to sound as human as possible, when I knew her best. My mother could fake caring. She could probably fake a lot more, and she was as cold as ice. Nothing about her was warm and fuzzy. She knew what this world was, how to behave, how to look, how to turn a blind eye… the perfect cult member, perfectly brainwashed.
“I’m breathing, aren’t I?”
She didn’t like sass or jokes. I was her only child, so that shit didn’t go over well. Silver spoon took on a new meaning when you’re the only heir to the Rothschild name. Unheard of, really. I’m shocked it wasn’t forced upon her to breed more monsters, for the sake of the Clave.
“Jason! Mind your tongue!” That was a Clave saying. See how easy she used it in a sentence? Good little cult member. “You’re doing so well that you have a gun shoved into the back of your goddamn sweatpants and a half-naked girl in your kitchen!”
Taking out my gun, I extended my arm above my head and pulled the trigger back, letting it go off into the air. I watched my mother jump out of her perfectly polished skin, and her hands flew up to her ears, covering them from the loud pop.