Inappropriate - Vi Keeland Page 0,4
got to one with a photo of a little girl in it. When I lifted it closer, the name in the caption confirmed it was Ireland. She had to be about nine or ten in the picture. For some reason, I stared at it like a bad car accident. She was crying, and a female police officer had a hand wrapped around her shoulder as they walked out of her house.
Good for you.
Good for you, Ireland—getting where you are today after that start.
As fucked up as it was, I smiled at the picture. Things could have very easily gone the other way for her. It made sense that she’d written me a second time now—she was a fighter.
I hit the intercom on my desk phone, and Millie answered.
“Yes, Mr. Lexington.”
“Would you get me some recent segments of the morning news with Ms. Saint James? She’s Ireland Richardson on air. Have them email up a link from the archives.”
“Of course.”
***
I might’ve paid more attention to the Broadcast Media division if I’d known it looked like this. Or I could have at least watched the morning news.
Ireland Saint James was a damn knockout—big blue eyes, sandy blond hair, full lips, white teeth that showed often because she smiled a lot. She reminded me of a younger version of that tall actress from the last Mad Max movie.
I watched three full segments before clicking back to the email Millie sent me earlier—the one from Ireland’s HR file. Three sets of tits greeted me when the video opened. I pulled my head back. Definitely not the news. The women were on a beach, wearing nothing but skimpy bikini bottoms and sipping drinks from coconuts with a straw. I forced my eyes up to examine their faces—none of them was Ireland. But a few seconds before the end of the short video, a woman walked up from the beach. Her hair was slicked back from the water and looked darker wet, but the smile was unmistakably Ireland’s.
With the other women, I’d noticed their bodies first, yet it took me until the video ended and froze on Ireland to even look down—and it wasn’t because her body wasn’t impressive. Her breasts were full and natural. They went with the rest of her luscious curves. But it was the curve of her smile that made me feel like I should suit up in armor.
I shifted in my seat and toggled to the X at the corner of the video to close it. Though she’d suggested I add it to my spank bank, I wasn’t going to be disrespectful. Now, if she’d sent me the video herself, that might be a different story. But I certainly wasn’t going to work up a stiffy in my office replaying the video a dozen times—no matter how tempted the asshole part of me was.
I turned in my chair to look out the window. Ireland Saint James. You seem like a real handful. A woman I should steer clear of, that was for damn sure. Yet I felt compelled to learn more. For a few minutes, I debated digging further, maybe listening to more of her side of the story. But why would I be doing that?
Because I was curious about Ireland Saint James, that’s why.
Though was it because I wanted to ensure fairness at my company?
Or because she had a mesmerizing smile, a killer rack, and a fucked-up history that made me curious?
After a few minutes of deliberating, I knew the answer. Every warning sensor in my brain told me to delete the emails and run the personnel file through the shredder. That was the smart thing to do…definitely the right business decision to make. Yet…
I hit the space bar to power my laptop back up and opened a new email.
Dear Ms. Richardson,
After further review…
Chapter 3
* * *
Ireland
Harold Bickman is such an asshole.
Though I loved my job, my boss was the one thing I wouldn’t miss. The man was a dirt bag. He hadn’t been a fan of mine almost from the very beginning, ever since I’d found out he hired my male counterpart—who had less experience than me and less time with the company—with a salary of twenty grand more than mine. I’d brought it to his attention in a professional manner, and he’d proceeded to explain that there were pros and cons to every employee and every position. He’d said I shouldn’t worry, that I’d see benefits Jack Dorphman didn’t have someday soon—like when I took advantage of the