Page 9 of Serenity
My driver of the last ten years, Reed, was both loyal and intuitive than most. He knew my thoughts before I spoke them. Met my needs before they rose. Not today, however. Not today or the last month. I’d been unhinged in the last few weeks, leaving him unable to predict my needs. The vindictive quest in me fizzled alongside my desire to cum moments ago. Too bad it hadn’t stopped me from pressing SEND on my phone moments earlier.
Let it go, Duke.
Back to our regularly scheduled program.
Reed nodded, pulling away from the curb of The Wig Factory.
My face downturned as I observed the inevitable phone call from my ex-wife. For several seconds, I waffled on answering before succumbing to curiosity. I ached to know what was on her heart. Had it been the same that was engraved on mine? Had she felt a shred of the devastation she’d caused me sixteen months ago?
Tapping the green button to initiate the call, I held the phone to my ear, saying nothing.
“My hair stylist, Duke, really?”
“My best friend, Mya, really?”
Silence, past hurts, and rage plagued the air.
“I’m paying the consequences of my actions.”
Uncontrollably, a laugh tickled my throat. My gaze turned to the exterior world beyond the SUV doors. Low-hanging clouds began depositing droplets of anguish to match my tainted mood.
Consequences, she said.
Consequences included fifty-thousand-dollar monthly alimony payments for every year of marriage. Praise to the most high that we didn’t have kids.
“Please… Just stop,” she sniffed, making a poor attempt at emulating the sound of tears. A narcissist in her own right, I’d grown unaffected by her attempts to manipulate me emotionally.
In the comfort of silence, I considered her plea. Considered if my insatiable thirst for revenge had been quenched. The desire to fuck Ysira was immense until I was inside of her. Dry as the Mojave. A waste of space with that one. She needed maca root and a gallon of water daily added to her diet.
“Michael doesn’t want anything to do with me. I’ve lost everything during this ordeal…” My ex-wife complained into the phone of her sour karma.
Deprived of a farewell bidding, I disconnected the line that kept me tethered to the tone of heartbreak and unfulfilled promises. The nerve of her to mention his name as if she’d lost in the grand scheme of things. The nerve of her to complain when our demise had been her undoing.
Reed arrived at the front offices of Colonial Pipeline, prompting my swift exit from the SUV. Summer was closing its little black book, retiring until the following year. The sprinkling of rain stopped. Crisp, smog-filled air encroached on my nostrils as my feet collided with the pavement. A doorman nearby assisted residents of a condominium inside the building. Scaffolding from a remodeling project clung to a neighboring high rise. A proliferation of trees shaded the sidewalk, prematurely releasing leaves.
Mundane chaos prevailed outside. Thoughts swam, seeking to compete. My lengthy limbs carried me to the calm and control of Colonial Pipeline’s interior. The restroom was my next destination. Though I’d worn protection while dipping inside Ysira’s shallow pool, the need to clean myself was imminent.
Duke, get your shit together.
The evidence of Ysira’s presence loomed in the form of a dried white crust around the base of my dick. Few women prompted my desire to wear their scent, and she wasn’t one of them. Ignoring the greeting from security and other employees ambling by, I entered the first-floor restroom and grabbed a handful of towels. Commercial-grade soap and water coated the base of my manhood and balls. The hoe bath I gave my dick was downright despicable. My subconscious demanded a shower. The request wouldn’t be granted anytime soon. Prayers were freed from my lips as I exited the restroom that the meeting I was headed to would be brief.
Italian wool covered my limbs, Pima cotton sheathed the soles of my feet along with the best hard-bottom dress shoes a man could ask for. The platinum cuff links on my shirt were engraved with a serif “D.” Memory failed me to recall if they were a gift from the woman who’d run my heart through a blender or not, but they were among my favorites, so I was keeping the set.
The elevator carried me and my misery to the top floor, where the board meeting would be held. An oblong table in the center of the room housed the souls who kept our corporation running smoothly. Pitchers of ice water, pens, notepads, and laptops scattered the massive table. The drone of an air conditioner paired with the creak of chairs tattled with impatience.
Seven eyes fell on me as I entered the board room. Two lingered. One scowled. Had the set not belonged to the second of the two other men carrying my name, I would have disengaged them from his head.
“Took you long enough.”
Saying nothing, I grunted and located my seat at the head of the table.
Colonial Pipeline passed from Duke Stepford I to Duke Stepford II and finally to me, Duke Stepford III. Unbeknownst to my paternal predecessors, there wouldn’t be a fourth Duke entering the world. Whatever disappointment they harbored about their past mistakes and projected outward would be buried with me.
Annoyance aside, I relaxed in my seat and waited for the meeting to begin. An undeniable need to prove to my father and grandfather that I was more than capable of bearing the torch of our organization was prevalent. Years ago, they’d stepped down from their roles as CEO and passed me the torch. Since assuming the role, our profits increased by ten percent.
Our board meeting commenced with me welcoming everyone and announcing the official start of the meeting. Briefly, I reviewed the attendance, making note of a few discrepancies that needed to be addressed. Minutes from our previous meeting were reviewed and addressed before I handed the reins over to the COO.
Bradley Cartier held the title after the last chief operating officer was relieved of duty. Michael Dumas was my best friend who once held the role. After being caught with his dick inside my wife, and nearly losing his life for the inconceivable sin, the position remained open until Bradley took over. Six months later, I was still on my warpath of revenge. Ysira had been a mere casualty of my devastation. It hardly felt sufficient in comparison to Mya and Michael’s betrayal.