My Own Worst Enemy

Hello, gentle reader, and thanks for rejoining me on another journey into this reading quest for love and sex. Mostly sex.

CAUTION: this story portrays some very angry sex. I don't think it bridges into Non-Con territory but it is rough. This story also involves emotionally-screwed-up people doing screwed-up things, so if those are not your bag as a reader ... well, you've been warned.

I'm not quite sure where this one came from. I don't know that it breaks a lot of new ground but hopefully the characters will endear themselves to you. Thanks to my special friends (you know who you are!) for giving me a test read. As always, I apologize for my lousy proofreading skills and typos, and welcome any feedback, whether good, bad, or ugly.

#

As I looked up from my knees, staring into Mark's smirking face, I was suddenly reminded of my mother warning me that my competitive nature was going to get me into trouble someday.

I sighed. I wish I had listened.

#

A lot of folks with personality disorders like to blame it on their childhood but I can't do that. Mine was pretty great, actually. My folks were good parents. Dad met Mom on a business trip to France. From the moment they met, he was smitten with her long black hair, sparkling blue eyes, toothy smile, and impressive rack. I think she was smitten by the size of his wallet. I agree, it was pretty superficial up front but they've been together almost forty years and are still happy together, so ... whatever works.

I got my competitiveness from my father. He was a driven businessman until the day he hung it up. Even then, he just shifted his focus over to the tennis courts and golf courses of his and mom's retirement village out in the Hamptons. He'd play board games with us kids while we were growing up and showed no mercy just because we were children. Getting our asses handed to us in Monopoly always made my younger brother and sister—Charles and Juliette—retreat to their rooms in tears.

Me? Every time I lost, I swore I'd beat him next time. Sometimes, I swore directly at him. Unlike Dad, who I think genuinely just enjoyed the adrenaline of competing and vying for victory but never got upset if he did lose, I wanted to win. I always wanted to win.

That instinct served me well into high school and beyond. It gave me drive and motivation. When I had a part-time job, I had to earn my raises faster than everyone else. Even though I was disciplined and intelligent enough to be a straight-A student, I had to be the class valedictorian. It wasn't enough to make the school volleyball team, I had to be the team captain, and we had to win.

I said my competitiveness served me well, right? Well, like any finely-honed instrument, it was capable of cutting both ways.

I remember the day my senior year when Natalie Drummond missed a spike in a close game, which cost us the game and the match. I yelled at her until my voice was hoarse, until she was in tears, before the coach sent me home. None of the other girls would meet my gaze. I was still grumbling when I got in the car with Dad and my brother Charles. Mom had come from her job and drove her and my little sister home.

I caught a glimpse of Charles smirking in the back seat. I knew he was smug because he and I had an argument earlier in the day. He'd been irritated because I'd teased him for his girlfriend breaking up with him. He'd waited until I started getting stressed over my upcoming game, I'd snapped back, and the fight had escalated to the point that I'd bet him that I'd win my game and staked a month's worth of allowance on it.

He leaned forward in the back seat. "I'll take that fifty off your hands whenever you're ready."

"I'm not giving you shit, Charles. I didn't lose. My stupid teammate did."

"Yeah, but—"

"You want fifty dollars? Go collect it off Natalie, butt munch."

He sighed and sat back in his seat.

Dad didn't say anything on the drive home and I was too preoccupied with annoyance and grumbling to myself.

When we pulled into the driveway, my brother huffed, got out, and stomped into the house. Dad didn't open the garage door. Instead, he killed the ignition and looked at me.

I scrunched my brow. "What?"

"Are you proud of yourself?"

"What are you talking about? I didn't blow the game. I led our team in points."

Dad sighed. "That's not what I meant. I'm talking about how you talked to Natalie and to your brother."

"She missed that spike and Charles—"

"Sophie, shut up," he said in a tone that brooked no dissent.

Neither Mom nor Dad used that voice with us kids very often; when they did, we knew it was serious ... beyond "you-might-get-grounded" serious but more along the lines of, "keep-this-up-and-you're-getting-thrown-out" serious.

I stilled. Since I was already eighteen, it was a viable threat.

He glared at me a moment before his countenance softened. "Sophie, I know how much you like to win. I do too. But the simple fact is you won't always. That's just life. You used to deal with it better but as you've gotten older, both Mom and I have noticed you are getting more and more angry when things don't go your way."

"But—"

"Let me finish. I'm not telling you not to try your hardest, to set high standards, or to have confidence in yourself. All that is good. It worked for me. Helped me get your mom."

I rolled my eyes.

"But even when I hated that I didn't do well, I never lost control. On the other hand, Sophie, you are your own worst enemy because you let your pride overrule your mind. You have got to start handling things with a little better grace or you are going to alienate everyone around you—everyone worth having around, anyway.

I bit my lip. "It wasn't that bad."

"Really?" He raised his eyebrows. "I'd be surprised if a single one of your teammates is still talking to you tomorrow."

My mouth fell open.

"I saw the looks on their faces and even talked to a few of their parents. They've been pulling away from you for a while and I bet you haven't even noticed."

I found my voice. "I ... I thought they were just busy with school and everything."

"I don't think so, kid." Dad reached out and patted my shoulder. "Sophie, you gotta remember that not everyone is competitive as you are. That doesn't make them better or worse, just different. Okay?"

I stared at Dad. "O-okay."

"And you

are

going to pay your brother. Part of competing is owning up to your loss. You set the conditions with Charles, so deal with it." His eyes bored into mine. "Only losers with no integrity go back on their word, Sophie."

His words stung more than I wanted to admit. Even though my fierce drive made me caustic sometimes, I'd always thought of myself as basically an honorable person who kept their promises. I nodded. "I will."

"Good, I'm glad we had this talk."

Mom ended up being a lot more direct. Before I'd even gotten all the way into the kitchen, she confronted me, with her hands on her hips and fire in her eyes. "Sophie, what the hell is wrong with you?"

I looked away. Even though I was, at six-one, five inches taller than her, she still had no problem intimidating me. "It was nothing, Mom."

"Nothing?

Nothing?

" She turned aside and launched into a series of rapid-fire French curses I won't repeat. When she faced me again, some of the anger was gone but it had been replaced by something worse: disappointment.

Mom sighed. "

Ma fille

, I do worry about you so. I know you get this from your father—" Mom shot Dad a severe glance. "—but you have to rein it in, as he does. You have to know when to let it go. Otherwise, you are going to find yourself in a lot of trouble."

"I will, Mom. I promise."

It might have been the only promise to my mother that I ever broke.

#

Going to college, then grad school, and then starting my career was another string of unbroken successes for Team Sophie. I plunged into my career as an investment banker with glee, as it was the perfect fodder to feed the demon within. While I can't say I never failed, I succeeded a lot more than not and ten times more than my recently-arrived fellow graduates. When things did go wrong, I was scrupulous about taking accountability, which earned me a lot of trust in an industry where everyone tried to pass the buck or blame intangible conditions. By the time I was thirty, I was managing funds worth billions and was on a first-name basis with multiple Dubai millionaires. My unflappable demeanor and drive had earned me the nickname the Iron Broker.

I pretended not to notice that moniker but secretly, I was delighted.

Some of my bitter coworkers liked to circulate gossip that I was sleeping with my clients as a way of ensuring their investments. I just laughed those rumors away. Some men had hinted at such an arrangement, after which I'd immediately kicked them to another investor in the company, who inevitably failed to make the client as much money as I was making mine. It got out pretty quickly that I wasn't to be propositioned if someone wanted me to manage their portfolio. That didn't stop men from trying, though.

I couldn't say I blamed them. I was attractive without being hot, per se. But my size made me alluring. People often described me as "statuesque" when they were being kind, "Xena" when they were being playful, or as "bean pole" when they were neither. (Actually, they usually called me "bitch" in those cases.) I'd gotten my father's height and broad shoulders, and topped out at six-two. I'd also inherited my mom's silky black hair which unbound hung halfway down my back, sharp blue eyes, and alabaster skin. While I wasn't as top-heavy as Mom, my body was proportional and my long legs drew a lot of eyes in a skirt. My mode of dress always toed the line between professional and alluring. I knew men took pleasure in looking at me and I wanted my clients to enjoy themselves.

Would I have slept with one of them? No, I never seriously considered it. Part of being competitive meant winning cleanly. If I fucked a guy to get his portfolio, then by my own standards, I'd have cheated. Being the truly best meant I had to succeed in the confines of the game. I didn't even care about the money, really, as long as I made enough to buy what I wanted. I did, and then some. After ten years, I had my own diversified portfolio that would keep me comfortable for years.

That doesn't mean I wasn't ruthless. I let my success speak for me and pointed out to certain clients—the ones with a lot of money—that they could do better with me riding herd on their investments than the chumps they had doing it, and pointed out how they could go about getting us switched. Many agreed. It wasn't a good way to make friends in the industry but I didn't care.

Not fucking my clients also didn't mean I lacked for company and that too became a competition. When I saw a guy I liked, I went for him. I never tried to hook up with a guy who I knew was married or in a steady relationship. But if he was available, it didn't matter if some other woman wanted him. I went for what I desired, which was usually the best of the best. Just like everything else, I succeeded there more times than not.

I had some short-term relationships but none of them lasted very long; I wasn't looking for a life partner, just another mountain to climb, another challenge to best ... and let's face it: one cock is pretty much just as good as another. Sure, some are attached to better men than others but that's about it. I was satisfied with the transactional nature of such relationships and was okay without something more enduring.

To their credit—and unlike so many unwed women my age—my parents never leaned on me about getting married. They supported me in my career and we still spoke weekly and visited several times a month. Besides, Charles and Juliette had married and had kids, and all of them lived nearby, so my folks were swimming in grandchildren.

All in all, my life was going great and I was happy.

So how does a happy, got-it-together woman with the world at her fingertips end up on her knees, glaring at a man even as she unzips his fly?

Don't worry, I'm getting there.

#

I sat in my office, flipping through the portfolio of a potential new client. I smirked at the desired end state of the package. Rudolpho Caravella might come from a long line of Naples shipping magnates but his unrestrained spending on mansions, yachts, and three ex-wives left his balance sheet a bit in the red. Even with the most aggressive strategies, he was looking at a decade before he really started seeing a way out of the mess. In other words, he wasn't worth ditching one of my current clients in order to make room. I fired a quick email to our investments vice-president, Chuck Smith, suggesting that due to EU banking regulations, Caravella's portfolio could better be managed by our London office. It was a bullshit excuse but Chuck would see it for himself and not want that client dragging down the office.

Having done that, I stood, smoothed my skirt, walked to my open office door, and peeked out. Two doors down, the corner office door stood open. I watched Bob Langford pack his belongings. He paused when the phone rang and sat to answer it. He was cleaning up the last of his client actions before his retirement on Friday. At sixty-eight, he had finally decided he'd had enough—which was good news for me.

My eyes flicked to the etched metal panel on my door.

S. Driscoll. Portfolio Manager.

It was Wednesday, so in less than five full days, that plaque would be on the door of the soon-to-be-vacated corner office.

At last,

I thought.

There were other managers who had been with the firm longer than me but none had produced so much success in the last five years. When Chuck had announced that I was taking the Senior Manager position six months earlier, there sure had been some initial grumbling but I didn't care. The Senior Manager position was the crown in the investments branch. At thirty-two, I would be the youngest to ever hold it, and it was a stepping stone to bigger and better positions.

My peace only lasted a few hours. The portfolio manager with the next most seniority after Bob—a stout woman in her late fifties named Susan—flat out accused me of fucking Chuck to get the job. In front of the whole office, I told her to put her money where her mouth was and that if she could out-produce me for the next quarter, she could have the job.

Susan's eyes had narrowed and she'd gotten a small smile, as if she thought she had a chance. I remembered a lesson from military history: if at all possible, never fight on a battlefield prepared by the enemy ... which is exactly what she'd done. Head-to-head competition was what I breathed and bled.

She tried, the poor dear. But it wasn't even close. She announced a sudden retirement right after the quarterly results were announced. That event had cowed the rest of the office enough that no one else said a word, leaving me unchallenged and supreme.

I smiled at the thought and returned to my desk to review some other holdings. I hadn't been in the chair for more than five minutes before Chuck rapped on my open door. "Hey, Sophie. Got a moment?"

"Sure, c'mon in."

He did, shutting the door behind him and sat across my desk from me.

I liked Chuck. He was in his early sixties, balding, and owned a rather standard "dad bod," but his mind was sharp. He'd always been friendly and respectful, and he was a good hands-off manager who let us run our clients as we saw fit, getting involved only when there was a complaint or someone wasn't performing.

I leaned back in my chair. "What's up?"

A slight cloud crossed his face. Chuck took a deep breath. "Sophie, I hate to be the one to tell you this but ... we can't give you the corner office."

I stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "Good one, Chuck."

"I'm serious." His face said he was, too.

My laughter drained away, replaced by irritation. "Well, who the hell is getting it then?"

"You know Mark Vandergaard?"

"Only by name." I knew he worked out of the Los Angeles office, which handled the west coast and Asian crossover clients while we were the east and European side of things. We hadn't met, though. "What does he have to do with anything?"

"He's transferring to New York. I got the call this morning. He's from New York originally and I guess he has some family complications so they're making room for him here so he can move back."

I gave no shits about that. Visions of the corner office, with that beautiful view, flamed and burned in my mind. Then a more serious thought struck. I sat up straight. "But the Senior Manager chair ..."

Chuck sighed and looked away.

"You have got to be shitting me." My voice was just a growl.

"Sophie, this wasn't my decision. It came from upstairs, right from the old man's desk. He made the call."

The image of our CEO William Stackford flashed through my head. "But—"

"I fought it as hard as I could. But he and Vandergaard's father had some kind of decades-old relationship. Even that wouldn't be enough if Mark couldn't do the job but he can. He's good." Chuck answered my unspoken question. "No, maybe not quite as good as you, but he's close, and he has seven years seniority on you. I'm sorry, Sophie."

"How sorry are you and Stackford going to be when I walk away from this job? Do you think there's not another brokerage that wouldn't snap me up in a heartbeat?"

"I know they would, and so does Stackford. He said he would offer you a generous severance package if you want to walk, and a glowing recommendation. He also said he would offer you a higher commission percentage and put you at the head of the line for the Senior Manager seat at the LA office when it comes open, if you're willing to move. But for now, this is how it's going to be."

His words didn't just take the wind from my sails but deflated me completely. I slumped in my chair and stared at my desk.

I cannot believe this. I have busted my ass and done great things for this company. Top earning manager about every other quarter, top annual earner three years running. Youngest manager to ever do that. And what does that get me? A pat on the head.

When it became obvious that I was so stunned I wasn't going to say anything further, Chuck stood. "Like I said, I'm sorry, Sophie. Mark's first day will be Monday but I won't announce it until Friday. If you want to take that day off, I understand."

The image that all of my coworkers would stand around snickering at me—as in,

the Iron Broker finally brought low

—filled my thoughts but also lit a fire in my belly. I fought not to snarl. "No thanks, Chuck. If Stackford thinks this guy is better than me, he's going to have to prove it."

A slight smile flitted over my boss's face, as if he'd expected that reaction.

"I am, however, going to take the rest of the day off." I stood and reached for my briefcase. "I feel the need to hit a heavy bag for a while."

"You do that."

My exclusive apartment building had a full-service gym that rivaled a lot of commercial ones. I felt a lot of male eyes on me when I entered in my spandex and sports bra, just like every time. I ignored them; there was that old adage about not pooping where one ate. I liked the gym and didn't want to have to see some guy I'd slept with every time I went in there.

An hour later, I think I was still just as pissed but I was too tired and sore to care. I put on a good face the rest of the week and moped my way through the weekend. The more I thought about it, the more morose I became.

I didn't want to mention my reversal of fortune when I talked to Mom and Dad Sunday evening but since I'd already told them I had the promotion, I had to. Mom was stoic about it. I knew she would be. She didn't get what drove my Dad and me. As long as there was money in the account for her to do what she wanted, she didn't concern herself with anything else work-related.