Perpetuate Read online

  Perpetuate

  Copyright 2021 K.C. Ale

  Published by K.C. Ale at Smashwords

  Smashwords Edition License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  Table of Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thank You

  Available Now

  About the Author

  Also by K.C. Ale

  One

  Gemma

  I’m so mad I can rake his eyes out.

  Never mind that my nails are stubby short and can’t scrape dried whiteout off cheap plastic. Brad Hawkes is going down. When I’m done with him, he won’t be able to lift a manicured pinky for some dainty asshole-expresso. When it’s all over he’ll be begging my dad to come back to HC. He’s going to be so remorseful for what he did, of how he treated a sick man, one that’d been loyal to the company for nearly eight years since the fledgling and struggling first days, that he’s going to come crawling back on his pampered hands and knees and plead for eternal forgiveness.

  Okay, maybe that was a tad optimistic.

  The image does lift my spirits marginally. On a priming huff, I march purposefully across the expansive, opulent ground lobby to the security console. Haughty men in power suits strolled while women with designer leather handbags sway on skinny, pointy-toe heels. Ignoring the nerves jerking in my chest and quietly wishing I’d put on something swankier than a simple beige knit shirt and navy skirt, I get in the short line. The wait isn’t long. A rather large man in a cheap dark security suit glances up at me expectantly. The black letters on the silver nametag pinned to his lapel reads Adolfo.

  “May I help you?”

  I know how this works. I’d visited my dad a few times in the past to know no one gets in the locked elevators without an access card or registering with security. “Hawkes Construction.”

  Dark brown eyes dip below the console, presumably to a monitor. “Your name, please.”

  “I don’t have an appointment,” I tell the unflappable gaze suddenly gone suspicious. “But I’m here to speak to Brad Hawkes.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he says, nearly yawning the practiced monologue and sounding anything but apologetic. “We have strict instructions. No one without an appointment is allowed to the suite.”

  “My father was an employee with HC, and I came to retrieve some of his personal belongings.” Lying is never easy for me, but the desperate necessity of it far outweighs my discomfort. “I’m sure if you ring someone with the firm, this will be straightened out. Please,” I add when he looks ready to turn me away to tend to the impatient suit in line behind me.

  It would only take him a few seconds. Building security always has a list of contacts for just such an event. Trying not to tap my foot or my fingers irritably, I stretch my lips for the most honest, harmless smile I can muster despite my sour mood. It seems to work because Adolfo picks up the phone from somewhere beyond my view.

  He looks at me and asks again. “Your name, ma’am.”

  “Gemma. Peter Warton’s daughter.”

  “Yes, this is building security,” he speaks into the receiver, steadily eyeing me. “We have a young lady here by the name of Gemma requesting access to your suite. She claims her father was an employee, and she’s here to collect his personal items.” He pauses as he listens, then, “Peter Warton.”

  Brief silence. A quick glimpse over my shoulder reveals the line behind me getting longer by the second. My mind is forming all the nasty, in-your-face things I want to hurl at the prick of a CEO that my father wasted his professional life on, my heart pumping on pure adrenaline as I prepare for this ultimate showdown.

  If I can even get up to the stupid reception desk of the company.

  “We’ll take care of it. Thank you.” The oversized security guard returns the phone and looks me right in the eyes. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I’ve just been told you need to make an appointment beforehand.” My stubborn mouth opens to argue just as he declares dismissively, “Have a nice day.”

  If Brad Hawkes thinks he can treat people like compost and hide behind overblown gorillas in polyester suits, he has another thing coming.

  There’s more than one way to scale a castle wall.

  I swivel around with a murmured thank you and make to appear like I’m leaving. There are just enough people and hurried bustle in the building for the distraction to work to my advantage, and it’s close enough to lunchtime to generate constant elevator activities. HC has over three hundred employees in LA, a lot of them in this building where it occupies three levels, so there’s got to be people going to the fifty-eighth floor at any given time.

  Chewing on the inside of my cheek, I contemplate my options. Hanging out at the elevator banks would be too conspicuous, and I’m sure security would be on me in a minute before I can even peruse my surroundings. Wandering around aimlessly would also flag too much attention. Do I just make myself at home at the sitting area in the lobby until a recognizable face appears?

  That seems to be my best option, and since there are enough individuals loitering about, it hopefully wouldn’t be that obvious. If asked, I can always tell building personnel I’m waiting for my ride.

  Mind made up, I casually stroll to the modern white leather coaches and chairs setup around a large chrome table, my flats sinking into the plush, vibrant area rug separating the section from the granite lobby. Smoothing a hand down my skirt, I plop onto a chair, making a show of looking at my phone like I’m impatiently waiting on someone, throwing a leg over one knee to bounce it restlessly. A discreet peek through my lashes reveals the vigilant Adolfo darting watchful glances at me. I hold my breath, waiting for him to kick me out on my devious ass, but he just returns his attention back to the demands of the stylish woman at the front of the line.

  It could’ve been ten minutes or a half an hour, but I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here, people watching and hoping to catch a familiar face. At some point Adolfo was replaced by another wannabe goon at the console, barely even sparing me a cursory glance. When a man around my age pushes a metal cart brimming with covered platters through the automatic glass doors, the enticing aroma teases its way into my empty stomach and makes it gurgle in need. I’m close enough to the lobby console to catch the man’s words to security.

  “Delivery for HC, Inc.” He glances at a slip of stained and crumpled paper in his fingers. “Suite 5800.”

  Ding, ding, ding, goes the lightbulb hovering above me. Harps jingle zealously in my head.

  The words hardly left the de
livery person’s mouth when I unobtrusively, quietly push to my feet. Looking down at my phone, I pretend to be distracted by it, answering the blank screen as I amble over near the appropriate set of elevators. I can hear the clanging and rolling of the metal cart as it approaches purposefully behind me. With my free hand I press the button to summon my ride. Two men joins us for the wait, animatedly going on about project numbers and estimated time of completion.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say to no one on the phone before stuffing it back in my purse. I toss out a friendly but bland smile to the food guy, watching his eyes beam up with interest just as the round light above an elevator brightens. “Smells good,” I tell him after he gestures for me to precede him inside. “I hope that’s for us.”

  “HC, Inc.?” he asks and follows me in along with the two yammering men.

  Knowing security has momentarily opened the floor for the delivery, I watch the light come on for fifty-eight as he selects it. This time my smile is genuine. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  The two men are still engrossed in their heated discussion when the lift halts on the forty-third floor. My ears are painfully adjusting to the sudden shift in altitude when they step out and on with their lives.

  As soon as we are alone the curious looking delivery dude grins at me. He motions to the food on the shelf of the cart. “You in this meeting?”

  Discreetly trying to pop my ears, I shake my head. “No. Different meeting.” More of a confrontation, really.

  When the elevator stops a second time and the doors quietly slide apart, I can almost see the curtains rising for show time. Since the loaded cart and the man are between me and the exit, I gesture for him to go ahead of me.

  My flats are greeted by shiny gray marble sparkling under muted soft lighting. The identifier HC, Inc. is reverse carved onto a brush metal plate hanging on the frosted glass wall immediately facing the elevators. An attractive, serious looking blonde, one that looks way too somber for someone that can’t be a lot older than me, is behind the massive reception desk of expresso-color wood. Her hair is twisted back in a severe but stylish do, emphasizing her pale, porcelain skin and radiant red stained lips.

  As soon as she looks up and catches sight of the lunch transport, her shoulders sag in relief. She points down the hall to her right. “Set that up in the main conference room, last room down this way. You can’t miss it.”

  The guy nods and begins wheeling his aromatic cargo in the direction indicated.

  The blonde looks a question at me, efficiently taking in and evaluating my closeout outfit, her smile of greeting as fake as her injected lips. “How may I help you?”

  Here we go. “I’m Gemma Warton, and I’m here to see Brad Hawkes.”

  Red tipped nails perch over the keyboard in front of her. Her face might’ve been sculpted on stone. “Do you have an appointment with Mr. Hawkes?”

  “No.” These appointment-obsessed people are starting to annoy me.

  “I see.” But I can clearly tell she doesn’t and doesn’t care to. “What is this regarding?”

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Hawkes about my father, Peter Warton, who used to work here.”

  A sudden chill radiates from the talking statue. “I’m sorry, but Mr. Hawkes is not available at the moment. Would you like to schedule an appointment?” Those long, gel-tipped nails tap a few keys. “It looks like the first available time would be July tenth.”

  My jaw drops. “That’s over two months from now!”

  She only stares blankly at me like some programmed droid at my outburst. How can I set the man straight if he doesn’t even have time to see me?

  “Look,” I begin, hoping I can reason with the wires in her heart. “I’ll only take a few minutes of Mr. Hawkes’s time. It’s really important. He would want to hear what I have to say.”

  iBuilt 3000 doesn’t like my taking up her precious time and shakes her head, her stiff facial muscles frozen in place, every strand of hair stalwartly sticking to its spot without so much as a flutter. “I’m afraid that’s beyond my control, Ms. Warton. Mr. Hawkes’s time is extremely sought-after, as you might surmise from his hindered accessibility. If you leave your contact information with me, I can certainly attempt to notify you if something earlier should be presented. That’s all I can do at this point.”

  The distinct chime of an elevator sounds as she’s talking, alerting us to new arrivals. Vaguely I wonder if she’d somehow summoned security with a panic button without my knowing and now I would be tossed out on my persistent ass after all.

  Male voices echo closer behind me. As though someone plugged her in, iBuilt 3000 visibly stiffens her spine, her neck suddenly appearing more elongated than just a minute ago as she sits up in overly alert attention.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Hawkes. Mr. Perez.”

  I nearly crack my spine; I pivot so quickly. I know what Brad Hawkes looks like. All I had to do was Google him, which I did as part of my homework prior to today. The other person I recognize from HC’s website as Martin Perez, its COO.

  Hair the color of my favorite Frappuccino and discernibly cut by a stylist that probably charges more than my annual salary subtly waves back like he just left a professional photoshoot. A straight nose symmetrically bisected a striking face above a perfectly formed mouth. Brad Hawkes towers over Martin Perez, who looks to be around the average male height. Unlike his COO, he’s not in some gleaming golden suit. His armor is a crisp tailored white shirt stretched by wide, sturdy shoulders, the top button loose to reveal the hollow dip at the bottom of his throat. Even with no swanky silk tie, he exudes influence, keenness, and focused intent.

  He’s not what I expected. He’s younger, for one. Not yet thirty, now that I recall from my web research. Not that old, but there’s an air of coldness about him, not negative or vile in anyway, just detached. Aloof. Like a smooth, polished stone on display, designed to be admired from afar but cold to the touch.

  Spring green eyes dart in my direction, a steady one-two perusal that I have no doubt easily and accurately pegged me in two point one second as no one that he should waste his precious time on. My skin instantly prickles in reaction, the weighted air catching in my lungs on mid-exhale.

  Martin Perez never even bothers to glance my way. “Mr. Hawkes,” I call out in what I hope is my most mature voice when they breeze by me. Both men peer over at me. “If I can have a moment of your time? I have something important to discuss with you.”

  From the corner of my eye I catch iBuilt 3000 leaping up from her chair like her voltage cranked up.

  “My apologies, Mr. Hawkes,” she rushes to interject as Brad Hawkes stops short. “Ms. Warton was just leaving when you arrived.”

  Martin Perez steps up in a protective stance in front of his boss, his much shorter stature a mere speck in front of the impressive Brad Hawkes. The COO’s gray eyebrows drag low over his dull brown eyes as he carefully inspects me from head to scuffed shoes. “Warton? Any relation to Peter Warton?”

  My determined and resolute gaze meets the leery COO. “He’s my father.”

  At that the older man considers me, eyeing me openly now, not exactly hostile, but it isn’t friendly either. “Your father is no longer employed with HC,” he reminds me in no uncertain terms.

  All my irritation, my fortitude, is slowly being swallowed up by sudden nerves. Resolutely I remind myself to speak up, to say what I came to say and ignore the man with the intense green eyes fixedly studying me, who hasn’t deemed me worthy enough to speak to me even after I addressed him by name. “I’m aware of that, Mr. Perez, which is actually why I’m here. My father was devoted to the firm since the beginning. And losing this job… well, he’s just devastated.”

  “Then why isn’t he the one here instead of his child?”

  My back jerks up. I’m not a child, I want to argue to this stuff shirt. “My father is ill, but I can assure you, if he’s able to, he’d be the one arguing against the company’s decision to let him go.”<
br />
  “We didn’t fire him. He abandoned his job.”

  “He’s ill, sir,” I adamantly reiterate and take a step closer in avid appeal. “He would never voluntarily leave HC. This is his life. His days revolve around his career.”

  “Surely he wasn’t too ill to pick up the phone and call. For three days,” Martin Perez throws out mercilessly. “I know he has issues, but the last thin—“

  Perez’s impatient justification is abruptly cut off by a simple lifting of a masculine hand. Without taking his disconcerting eyes off me, Brad Hawkes finally opens his mouth while Perez abruptly snaps his. “I’ll catch up with you at the meeting, Mart. Miss Warton, if you care to join me in my office.”

  Though the sentence was formed into a question, he wasn’t asking.

  Two

  Gemma

  Time reigns like a thudding heartbeat.

  It’s broken by the handy dandy 3000 model. “Sir,” she stumbles out as the COO frowns at me. “The meeting will start in less than five minutes.”

  It’s amazing, really. If I can, I would take a snapshot of that one dark eyebrow deliberately arcing and the cybernetic blonde’s obedient drop to her chair, eyes downcast, and post it on Instagram.

  “Miss Warton.” Having no doubt I’ll be right on his heels, Brad Hawkes resumes his way, long legs eating up the distance as I bust to attention to hustle hastily behind him.

  While my father was under HC’s employ, his office was on the fifty-seventh floor. The few times he’d brought me in for a visit hadn’t included a tour of the executive suites, nor did he make it a point to introduce his daughter to the executives. The space is wide and airy, with a high, exposed ceiling and gleaming, picturesque windows that displays the magnificent city in all its glory.

  Wordlessly the head of HC leads me down another hallway, dashing steps slapping the floor. So sure I wouldn’t be anywhere but scurrying behind him – as I’m sure everyone does around him - he doesn’t even glance over his shoulder. Just when I begin to think I’d need a GPS to find my way out, it clears into another reception area. Seemingly unfazed, a woman in her fifties smoothly pushes up from behind her desk and immediately opens one of the double doors she obviously guards.