Mister West

  MISTER WEST

  R.J. Lewis

  Copyright © 2021 R.J. Lewis

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  To every person who is on the brink of leaving a toxic relationship – you’re stronger than you think.

  One

  Aidan

  I’m a jackass.

  But you know what? At least I’m willing to admit that. I’m not like these imposters walking around, wearing their false identities to the public. They don their business suits and pretend they’re reasonable fair men in the world of cutthroat business. These douchebags will fuck you over the second your back is turned to them.

  Not me.

  I’ll fuck you over while I’m looking straight into your eyes, and I won’t hesitate to do it.

  The only way to get far in life is to be powerful, direct, and in control. The minute you let one person walk all over you, the rest of the scoundrels that make up the population on this pathetic ball of waste we call Earth will too. That’s just how it works in life. Which is why most people don’t get ahead. They’re not strong enough. Their skin’s not thick enough. They don’t hunger the better life enough to sacrifice the good for a long while. They only think of the now, and that becomes their greatest downfall. And then, by compensating for their insecurities, these people like to think I’m some lonely rich man surrounded by money.

  Unhappy.

  Depressed.

  Secretly plotting to end my own life because I’m so alone.

  It’s pretty much that recycled Hallmark crap of “Money can’t buy happiness.” Yada-fucking-yada. It’s just not true. I love being rich. I love all my money. It has made me happy, and the last thing I am is alone. In just under a minute I can be in the company of a beautiful woman. Or surrounded by equally successful people. Or enjoying my time with the few family members I have left, ensuring I’ve given them everything they desire, knowing it’s my hard work that’s responsible for their security and good health.

  No, I’m not unhappy. I’m not depressed. And I’m most certainly not alone. But what am I right this very second?

  Pissed.

  “Look, I’m not asking you to keep me in Economy class, I’m demanding you to.”

  This incredibly slow check-in agent is looking at me like I’ve lost the plot. “But you can have a first-class ticket, Mr –”

  “Don’t tell me what I can already have,” I cut in sharply. “I’m standing here, sober, completely in control of my faculties, and I’m telling you I want that economy seat. I’m sure they need to be filled. How many people are flying across the country this time anyway?”

  “Many, actually –”

  “That was rhetorical.”

  “But the airline wants to ensure you fly the best, Mr. West. Your experience matters a lot to us, and once you get this seat upon check in, there’ll be no changing it this last minute.”

  “It’s precious you care about my opinion.”

  That’s all I say. My eyes remain hard on hers, waiting.

  She finally does as I say, albeit with confusion written all over her face. When I’m finally given my last-minute booking in an economy class seat, I make my way to my gate. I’m cursing under my breath, glaring at anyone who’ll look my way.

  I’m not in the mood to be recognized. Being here, in Vancouver, has been good for that. It won’t help I’m about to be in the back of a plane without any privacy, and that could spell disaster if I’m found out.

  Calm down, I tell myself. Thomas just wants to get under your skin. Don’t fucking let him.

  No, I won’t let him.

  Like he said, with that smirk on his face, what was six hours among the “plebeians” anyway?

  *

  I’ve nearly forgotten how cramped a passenger plane can get. I make my way down the barbaric aisle to my confined seat in the far back of the plane. Right in front of the fucking toilets. Fantastic. I look at the two seats, grateful I don’t have to sit in the middle aisle among three other people. Not that the aisle is big or anything, but at least I’ll be against the window and not forced between two people.

  It’s the small things. Like microscopic small things.

  I like space. Space is good. Space makes me forget the nights I slept in storm culverts as a kid. And space is the last thing I am being awarded now.

  I open the above luggage compartment and take my time storing my bespoke Leather suitcase inside. It was a gift I was given at the end of my first successful merger, and I can’t have it tumbling around with all the important shit I have inside of it.

  “Hey, man, we’re waiting on you!”

  I look to my side and at the long line-up of people who are begrudgingly waiting for me to take a seat so they can get to their own. I glare at the teenage boy with his ridiculously shaped hair, all gelled up like he’s a princess in a boy band.

  “Yeah, you’re waiting on me,” I retort icily. “Which means when I’m done, it’s your turn to go. And I’ll go quickest if you wait the quietest.”

  I hope I didn’t use too many long words for this little shit. I fit the briefcase in place, never breaking eye contact with this suddenly uncomfortable Justin Bieber wannabe. Then I slowly make my way to the window seat, prompting the man-child to look away and hurry down the aisle. As the line resumes, I pull out my phone and check my email.

  Thomas Dorf

  Subject: Enjoy your flight

  Hey Champ, just want to let you know no hard feelings. You can’t win every bet, right? Sometimes you have to remember you’re only human and that the world does not bend to your will. Keep that in mind and maybe next time you’ll win big – or at least something at all – on a winning horse.

  Enjoy that Economy seat. I hear the food is… colorful.

  -Thomas

  My eye twitches.

  I delete that message right away, never wanting to be reminded of my humiliation. Then I sift through a few others, trying my hardest to mentally block out the sudden screaming of children filling the air. My head begins pounding.

  I shut my eyes and try to calm down. I’m unusually angry. Angrier than I’ve felt in a very long time. It’s wrong. I know I’m being unreasonable, but fuck, I’ve had a shit day from hell, and the last thing I need is to be sleep-deprived. Everything is gnawing at me more than usual. I’m not like this, I tell myself. I’m saner than this. I’m better than this. Still, the old me likes to rear its ugly head from time to time.

  “Um, excuse me?”

  Opening my eyes, I check the time on my Sohne watch.

  “Hello?”

  Time isn’t passing. How much longer do I have to wait –

  “Excuse me, sir! Are you deaf?”

  My head shoots up, and I immediately make eye contact with an angry brunette glaring down at me.

  “No, I’m not deaf,” I snap back, matching her snide voice. “What do you want?”

  With an icy look, she retorts, “My seat.”

  I lift a brow, tone dry. “Then go find your seat.”

  Leaning over, she grits out, “You’re sitting in it.”

  Two

  Aidan

  Fuck me. I don’t recall people in Economy class being rage cases like this tiny little thing here.

  I pull my ticket out of my pocket and look at the seat number.

  “I’m wi
ndow seat,” she tells me in a defensive tone. “Don’t argue it. I’m really not in the mood for bullshit today.”

  “Yeah, well that makes two of us,” I mutter.

  “If that was the case, you’d have gotten up by now.”

  Little Rage-Case is right. I’m the next seat over. Looking up at her, I say, “No need to bite my head off, darling –”

  “Don’t call me darling. Just move.”

  “With your tone of voice, you’d think this problem can’t be so easily corrected.”

  “The problem is I’ve repeated myself three times and you’re still not getting up.”

  I think I’m broken because my glare is doing nothing to intimidate her. Well, shit, she’s a feisty little thing, isn’t she? And judging by her barely there clothing, I’d say she isn’t a shy one either. She’s got a handkerchief of a white tank top on that accentuates her cleavage. Her short-shorts can pass for underwear, barely hiding her ample ass. She’s not at all what I’m used to. And while her clothes leave little to the imagination, her face stands out the most. It’s smooth and spotless, heart shaped with lightly applied make-up that make her blue eyes leap out of her tanned skin. Her dark pin straight hair falls just below her shoulders, and I spot random red strands throughout.

  Huh.

  I’ve spent the majority of the last decade bossing people around, so I’m not sure how to feel being bossed by her, but I stand up anyway. I’ve admitted defeat just hours prior, no use fighting something else now.

  When I sit in my seat, she moves to hers, brushing her smooth legs against my suit pants. I’m hit with a fruity scent that’s pleasant and not overwhelming like women her age that seem to think perfume is an alternate method to showering.

  Taking a seat next to me without batting me another eye, she opens her elephant print mammoth sized bag and shuffles through an avalanche of shit. I watch her in bewilderment as she takes out a stick of bubble gum and shoves it in her mouth. She tosses the wrapper aimlessly on the seat before crossing her legs. She’s so small, her knees don’t even touch me, but her shorts shoot up even more. She’d make a nun blush with the view she’s uncaringly showing off.

  “Do you have a staring problem?” she hisses at me without even looking.

  My lips curve up as I reply, “It’s hard not to stare at a spectacle.”

  Her face whips in my direction. “Oh, yeah? Well, I should be staring at you too, wiseass.”

  “Yeah? Why’s that?”

  “When I see a man dressed in an Armani suit wearing a twenty thousand-dollar Rolex sitting in Economy, I should probably watch that too.”

  I can’t help the smirk that accompanies my face. “Please, Armani can be bought retail, and I guess Rolexes would seem impressive back here.”

  A dark brow shoots up. “Are you saying Armani and Rolexes aren’t that big of a deal?”

  “I’m saying there are a hell of a lot more out there.”

  She eyes me again, taking in my watch and suit. “So, what’re you wearing, hot shot? Something fit for a king?”

  “Try a Lange and Sohne watch and a seven-figure clothing budget.”

  I sound like such an arrogant cunt. Not my intention, but I’m a man with taste. I’ve spent a lot of time honing my look which matters in a world like mine.

  She scoffs with indifference. “Well, it all looks the same to me, and men like you do too.”

  “Men like me?”

  “Materialistic bastards thinking you’re better than everyone else with your Lange Sunny or whatever-the-fuck-you-call-it watch.”

  “Would you rather I have a wife beater on and a beer in my hand?”

  “I’d rather you stick a fork down your throat and shut the fuck up.”

  Something strange happens. My mouth splits, and it’s not an angry frown I feel coming on, but a…smile.

  I’m…smiling.

  Well then.

  How the fuck do I respond to that? For once, I have nothing witty to contend with. Little Miss Rage Case has won the battle and my mind is still trying to absorb the shock of it all as I watch her closely turn away from me and put on a giant pair of headphones. She’s not at all phased by our colorful exchange. Not at all bothered in the slightest about anything. She swore like it was second nature, like it didn’t fucking matter she’d have to sit next to a man she’d insulted for the next six hours.

  Huh.

  Soon every person has gracefully boarded the flight and the flight attendant is preparing us for take-off, and I still can’t stop looking at the girl next to me. Nor has the smile on my face weakened. Reluctantly, I turn my head away and force myself to listen in on the safety procedure while a baby screams and a fat man in the aisle next to me passes gas. I want to die.

  Focus, Aidan.

  The sooner we do this, the sooner I’m off this congested shithole of a place.

  *

  Twenty minutes later…

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.Thump.Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  “Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorer! Something, something, something, Dora-Lora.”

  Thump.

  Thump.

  Thump.Thump.Thump.

  “Swiper no swiping!”

  Thump.

  “You look like you’re about to explode,” remarks Rage-Case with an amused smile on her face.

  My face is tense with anger as the kid behind me continues to kick my seat, singing the same ridiculous tune of a little girl named Dora the fucking Explorer. “Just a little,” I grit out.

  Her smile broadens, and she pops a huge bubble from her gum. She then places her iPod back in her mammoth purse along with her huge headphones. “Forgot to charge this. Stupid thing’s dead,” she tells me. “So, I’ll be suffering with you.”

  “I’d rather suffer alone.”

  “It’d be awfully suffocating suffering alone, not to mention lonely. Best it be enjoyed with a cool girl like me.” She winks exaggeratedly at me and blows another bubble.

  “Didn’t you just tear my head off a half hour ago?”

  “Didn’t you take my seat a half hour ago too? Let’s call it even, especially now that we’re bored out of our skulls and have absolutely nothing to do.” She smirks at me then, and I blink in response, unsure of what to say.

  I resist giving her comments attention because I’m not about to let her know she’s funny. I’d like to sit here shitty and pissed in peace. But when she happens to sift through her bag again, I can’t help sprinkling some humor in.

  “You don’t happen to have anything sharp in that bag, do you?”

  She lets out a hard laugh, and I can’t resist cracking another smile as she turns red in the face. “Oh, my God. No, I don’t. Well, maybe a toothpick.”

  “Can you mute someone with a toothpick?”

  She laughs again. “If you want to serve a lengthy sentence, I’m sure you can get creative.”

  When I don’t immediately respond, she says, “The safest option would be cooling off to a movie.”

  She turns to the screen on the back of the seat in front of her and turns it on. She presses a few buttons and goes through a list of titles.

  Thump.

  Thump.

  I rub my face as she searches. “I could really go for some hard liquor.”

  “Well, I’m sure there will be some classy bar nearby in Ottawa when we land, rich man,” she assures me. “For now, it’s economy class with the thumping child and rambling chick next seat over.”

  I resist smiling, but I feel the corner of my mouth go up. “Great.”

  “What’s the deal anyway,” she adds. “Were they out of seats in Rich Dick Class?”

  “Referring to someone as a ‘Rich Dick’ suggests you have a chip on your shoulder for the rich, darling.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” she whips back with a glare, but just as quickly the glare fades and she gives me a cheeky look. “And you’re probably right. I’m bitter
because I’m broke, and I envy you egotistical assholes.”

  I resist widening my eyes. Well, that was.... honest. I know I’m envied, but I’ve never been told it before, unless someone was desperate to kiss my ass.

  “No movies worth watching without punching someone in the face, fuck my life,” she mutters under her breath.

  I eye her for a few moments as she then begins scratching away the bright red nail polish on her nails. She’s wearing at least a dozen fake gold bangles, and they clatter together audibly as she scratches away like her life is depending on it.

  You know, this is not what I’m used to. When I’m around an attractive woman, I usually get the hair-twirling-around-the finger-while-flirting treatment. This girl simply doesn’t care about me, much less my presence. She’s not even blushing, or sneaking glances in my direction, or even trying to act modest. Thing is, I’m fucking good looking, and I’m not trying to boast about it. It just is. And she doesn’t give a fuck.

  Huh.

  And now that I take a closer look at her while she’s preoccupied, I see the kind of stunner she really is. I resist smiling as I check for a wedding ring or any valuable jewellery she might be wearing to signal she’s in a relationship. She’s not wearing any. People of my wealth flaunt that sort of shit around, picking out the finest jewellery like it’s a fucking contest. I usually pick up wealthy women, and not because I have a thing for them, but because they’re everywhere in my social scene, and it’s a matter of convenience. And before I see their beauty, I’m staring at their ring finger first. My attention is only ever drawn to available women, even if it’s innocent flirtation. If she’s even a foot in a relationship, I’m not interested.

  “Instead of envying us,” I tell her in a low and smooth voice, “a girl with your looks could very well woo any old rich man on his deathbed. A sugar daddy will see to it you never go without, and that’ll keep you from being bitter at the rest of us innocent people of wealth.”

  Her lips curve up, but I can tell she’s fighting against a smile. “All of that sounds very advantageous, but if something sounds too good to be true then there’s always a catch.”