Chapter 5 – Nicholas Howard
Nicholas Howard walked silently out of Edmond Mason's office, his anger dangerously close to over–boiling. He passed Bonnie Hyde's desk as he marched out, heard Mason ask her to send for Alexa. Nicholas sniffed. Alexa Ardell, the most beautiful woman in London, probably England. Mason must have been in one of his moods. He only called for Alexa when he needed to… relax.
Bonnie smiled at him faintly, a look of sympathy to be sure. She knew what he was up against. Everyone who ever came in contact with Mason hated him, even those who gained everything from his acquaintanceship. Nicholas marched into his office, kept behind a closed glass door and brilliant silver lettering… "Master Nicholas Howard – Personal Assistant to Mr. Mason," it read. His stomach churned as he read his name and official title. Just the thought that he was a modern day slave to the most stupid individual on planet earth made him sick. He pushed open his door and slammed it behind him, locking it. He stomped to his desk, a modern chrome and glass thing that was supposed to be ergonomically correct. He didn't really give a shit. He flopped onto the black leather couch that sat against his far left wall and sighed deeply with frustration.
It wasn't a matter of money. God knew Mason paid him handsomely, even if he was a monster. Nicholas had shared a two-bedroom apartment with 13 people growing up on the streets of London, and now he lived in a plush studio apartment with every amenity known to man. He could have whatever he wanted. Except freedom from Mason. No, it wasn't money. It was a matter of principal. He would easily surrender his hefty income and Armani suits to be free of Edmond Mason.
Nicholas was indeed Mason's personal assistant. He was Mason's right arm practically. Mason was no one without him. Nicholas knew all his numbers, made his reservations, set up and cancelled his meetings, managed his women, handled his media coverage, hid his scandals, everything. He did absolutely everything for him. And yet, Mason had never once told him he was doing a good job. Oh he had said thank you to be sure, but it always felt empty. Not like real gratitude. Which, regardless to popular belief, went a long way.
Mason had always taken care of Nicholas. When Nicholas had first come crawling on his belly to Mason, begging for a job and dental insurance, Mason had given him the world – and an Oxford education to boot. Nicholas knew he owed Mason his life, but he had never once imagined that he would be forced to give him his soul. He worked 24 hours a day, seven days a week. When he wasn't in the office, he was still very responsible for whatever Mason needed from him. Even if he needed a cappuccino from Hong Kong at three in the morning.
Despite his intense hatred for Mason and his company of cutthroat pirates, he still showed up for work every day. He never understood why, but he believed it might have something to do with what his therapist was calling, "DENIAL." Apparently, Nicholas realized what was happening on the outside, but subconsciously, he didn't really believe there was anything wrong with being Mason's jackass. He supposed it was for the better. He didn't understand a damn word his therapist said anyways. He just liked spending the money and getting to bitch like a little girl for an hour and a half.
This new acquisition Mason had planned had Nicholas on the edge. Ever since the first information had been received, Mason had been behaving like a little boy at Christmas. Making plans and reservations, calling in favors left and right, assigning research teams all over the world in search of new information. Nicholas had had his fill of it. And he hated the idea of bringing in Lara Croft. It would prove to be bad for business. Nicholas had never had the pleasure of meeting Lady Croft, but what he had read about her and her endeavors suggested that she wasn't one to tolerate bullshit. And Mason was nothing but bullshit. Even his politics were bullshit. But that was another matter entirely. He hoped that the stupid thing would be found and the mess would be over with. He couldn't help but worry about what would happen to his clients if Lady Croft were to stop tomb raiding on their dime.
He sat up on the couch, looking around his sparse office, which was all done in the same modern style as his damn desk. He got up and went to the window. Although it wasn't as grand as Mason's, it was impressive nonetheless. He thought about tossing his desk chair out of it, shattering the glass and sounding the alarms. He thought about leaping into the air for his first – and final – moment of pure freedom. He thought about smiling as he plummeted to his death below on the concrete streets of London. He imagined himself splattering on impact, his innards flying out and landing, bloody and slime-coated, on some innocent bystander. He thought of the screams, the news coverage, and how his death would be forgotten the very next day. He imagined Mason in his ivory tower, being told of his fatal jump to the streets below. He thought about how Mason would look, how he would cringe at the thought of trying to find another asshole desperate enough to surrender their soul to him.
And then he stepped back from the window, taking a deep breath. He cleared his mind of all things Mason-related. Instead, he filled it with thoughts he preferred to dwell on. He thought about going home, drinking himself into oblivion with the finest liquor money could buy. Or maybe cocaine. He had come to discover that illicit drugs – especially ones as addictive as cocaine – were quite the escape tools. He thought about lining until the inside of his nose melted. He thought about spending a night in good old-fashioned sin, maybe fucking some hooker he found on the way home. Money went a long way in the city. It could get you just about anything your heart could desire.
So he smiled. Smiled because he knew that however miserable Mason was making his life, Mason was the one paying for Nicholas's personal variations of anger management.