Free Mikalo's Flame by Syndra K. Shaw Page A

of
an asshole.”
    And then she laughed.
    Loud.
    Taking the glass from her, Mikalo placed it
safely out of reach.
    Her father closed his eyes and sighed.
    “Oops,” she said, seeing the spilled wine,
not yet noticing the glass was no longer in her hand.
    She reached down and, zeroing in immediately
on Mikalo’s crotch, she started rubbing, clumsily trying to clean
it up.
    She paused, her eyes finding Mikalo’s
face.
    “Fuck,” she whispered.
    His hand immediately grabbed hers, gently
lifting it and putting it on the table, his large palm patting hers
impatiently.
    “Mara!” her father barked.
    Slowly, she looked at him, her brow knitting
in confusion.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Stop.”
    “His prick, it’s fucking --” she began
    “Stop!” her father interrupted, his eyes
closing as if he was fighting off a major headache.
    She sighed, pouting, the new glass quickly in
hand, the wine disappearing in a series of heaving gulps.
    The table lapsed into an uncomfortable
silence.
    Like a kabuki cougar, Abby pounced.
    She leaned forward across the table, her eyes
zeroing in on Mara.
    “Of course Ronan knows Mikalo,” she said, an
insincere smile plastered on her painted lips. “They’re to be
married.”
    Mara’s head lifted. She blinked, taking in
this new bit of information, the words worming their way through
her befuddled brain.
    Then she turned to me, moving from Mikalo to
press herself close.
    Her face inches from mine, her teeth almost
bared, she spoke.
    “Who are you?”
    “I’m one of your attorneys,” I offered, a
small smile on my lips, my tone one would use with a small child or
an incredibly drunk heiress.
    “Pffft,” she said, spittle flying from her
lips.
    She pulled back like I was a leper and took a
long swallow of her wine. “We have hundreds, thousands, millions of
attorneys. We own attorneys. Cities of attorneys,” she then
snorted.
    “You say ‘I’m your attorney’ like it is a
thing that means something. Like it is some important thing.”
    She turned to me again.
    “But what it says is that you are no one. I
pay for you. I buy your house, your food, the clothes on your back.
They are mine. It is all mine. You are nothing, nothing, without me
or my money. More money than your dreams can dream.”
    She turned away.
    “You are no one and ... and ...” she said,
nodding toward Mikalo.
    She stopped, unable to remember his name.
    “This man, here, my guy, my husband, he will
not marry a no one. It is unheard of. It is something
impossible.
    “Besides, who cares about the help?” she then
asked to no one in particular. “I mean, really. Who cares?
    “And why in the hell would someone like him
--”
    She indicated Mikalo with the glass holding
the wine, the liquid sloshing and spilling over the sides.
    “Ever have an interest in someone like, well,
hell, like this?” she continued, the wine spilling my way.
    “I mean, for Christ’s sake, papa,” she then
said, turning to her father. “She’s the help. The help!”
    She turned to Mikalo.
    “You don’t marry the help,” she explained, on
the verge of tears. “You kick ‘em, you fuck ‘em, or you fire
‘em.
    “But you don’t marry them.
    “I mean, are you fucking insane or
something?” she then asked him.
    I was keeping my temper in check. Unwilling
to let Abby see me angry or give Marcus the pleasure of watching me
crack. And I certainly wasn’t going to lose my cool with a big
client -- and big and very drunk client -- in front of Rainier
Richardson.
    I was going to let this pass, knowing it to
be the drunken ravings of a spoiled child.
    Mikalo had other ideas.
    “I am not insane,” he began. “I’m in love. I
love her. Everything about her.
    “She is someone you will never be,” he
continued, finally pulling his arm from hers and all but pushing
her away. “She is magnificent and kind and loving and she makes me
happy and I do not know if there will be marriage --”
    He looked now at Abby who was doing