The Wildcard

Chapter Eight

“Take a seat, Runaway,” he muttered, with a chuckle, taking off his jacket as he stood, and hanging it neatly in one of the cupboards built into the walls – I spotted a few other shirts in there – and blankets – maybe seducing the payroll wasn’t an entirely new idea to him.

Maybe CJ Industries was just a decadent harem for him to dally in while other people ran his multimillion pound corporation for him.

Although I really didn’t see how this business could have evolved into what it was without some hard work somewhere along the line. I’d read up on my new company countless times – CJ Industries started in the late 2000’s. Originally a single nightclub called Scruples in the centre of London – previously owned by Frankie Fish in the late ‘90’s, it hadn’t had a fabulous reputation – dubbed as the local hangout for Outlaws and Thieves on The Take. The rumour mill went wild in the Autumn of 1999, after Frankie Fish ended up apparently losing everything in a bad Roulette gamble that went horribly wrong, just weeks before his brutal death at the alleged hands of Jonny Hayes in one of the seedier bars on the East Side of London. Once Scruples was taken over by a mysterious new management, there was complete overhaul – and development. One club became four, and then a Casino, a Gentleman’s Club, Restaurants – eventually, the mysterious new ownership was revealed to be CJ Industries – the new leading corporation in entertainment and leisure activities in the country. Named for its founder – Cayden James.

What I wondered is why not one single scrap of research that I’d put myself through for the past fortnight had mentioned his full name - well, after the most pertinent questions, obviously. Like why does God hate me? How bad must I have been in a former life for this to be happening to me?

I blame my Mother, personally. The selfish bitch never thought to have me christened. Now look at me.

Thinking quickly, I had to decide how to handle this in the best way – the dynamics were all shifting beneath my feet like I was in one of those Funhouse walks – where all of the pieces move at different angles and you’re having to hop from one to the other like a deranged rabbit.

I never did like that fucking game!

But I had nowhere to go with him – he was so unreadable that I was struggling to gage a mood and work out my best line of defence.

I’d seen so many emotions race through his eyes since I’d walked through the door – anger, amusement, irony – but, in all honesty, I couldn’t pin point any single one to work out how to handle myself.

He’d disarmed me, completely, and judging by that arrogant pose as he sat back down opposite me – lacing his fingers at the nape of his neck, and carelessly crossing one ankle over the other as he reclined in the seat – yeah, he knew right then and there that I was basically a mouse at the cheese, with a metal guillotine hanging over my head.

“This is a happy coincidence,” he drawled out mockingly, before a burst of pent up energy had him kicking forwards to pin his sharp elbows on the desk and stare at me appraisingly – taking his time – dragging out the torture as he twirled a Parker pen around and around in his fingers, “Doubtless, probably not so much for you.”

I looked away – up at the expensive light fixtures above his head – out of the window at the Metropolitan movements of London – so new and exciting – so alien to what I could feel rising up inside me right then.