Mister West by R.J. Lewis (animal farm read .TXT) 📕

MISTER WEST

R.J. Lewis

Copyright © 2021 R.J. Lewis

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

ISBN-13: 9781234567890

ISBN-10: 1477123456

To every person who is on the brink of leaving a toxic relationship – you’re stronger than you think.

One

Aidan

I’m a jackass.

But you know what? At least I’m willing to admit that. I’m not like these imposters walking around, wearing their false identities to the public. They don their business suits and pretend they’re reasonable fair men in the world of cutthroat business. These douchebags will fuck you over the second your back is turned to them.

Not me.

I’ll fuck you over while I’m looking straight into your eyes, and I won’t hesitate to do it.

The only way to get far in life is to be powerful, direct, and in control. The minute you let one person walk all over you, the rest of the scoundrels that make up the population on this pathetic ball of waste we call Earth will too. That’s just how it works in life. Which is why most people don’t get ahead. They’re not strong enough. Their skin’s not thick enough. They don’t hunger the better life enough to sacrifice the good for a long while. They only think of the now, and that becomes their greatest downfall. And then, by compensating for their insecurities, these people like to think I’m some lonely rich man surrounded by money.

Unhappy.

Depressed.

Secretly plotting to end my own life because I’m so alone.

It’s pretty much that recycled Hallmark crap of “Money can’t buy happiness.” Yada-fucking-yada. It’s just not true. I love being rich. I love all my money. It has made me happy, and the last thing I am is alone. In just under a minute I can be in the company of a beautiful woman. Or surrounded by equally successful people. Or enjoying my time with the few family members I have left, ensuring I’ve given them everything they desire, knowing it’s my hard work that’s responsible for their security and good health.

No, I’m not unhappy. I’m not depressed. And I’m most certainly not alone. But what am I right this very second?

Pissed.

“Look, I’m not asking you to keep me in Economy class, I’m demanding you to.”

This incredibly slow check-in agent is looking at me like I’ve lost the plot. “But you can have a first-class ticket, Mr –”

“Don’t tell me what I can already have,” I cut in sharply. “I’m standing here, sober, completely in control of my faculties, and I’m telling you I want that economy seat. I’m sure they need to be filled. How many people are flying across the country this time anyway?”

“Many, actually –”

“That was rhetorical.”

“But the airline wants to ensure you fly the best, Mr. West. Your experience matters a lot to us, and once you get this seat upon check in, there’ll be no changing it this last minute.”

“It’s precious you care about my opinion.”

That’s all I say. My eyes remain hard on hers, waiting.

She finally does as I say, albeit with confusion written all over her face. When I’m finally given my last-minute booking in an economy class seat, I make my way to my gate. I’m cursing under my breath, glaring at anyone who’ll look my way.

I’m not in the mood to be recognized. Being here, in Vancouver, has been good for that. It won’t help I’m about to be in the back of a plane without any privacy, and that could spell disaster if I’m found out.

Calm down, I tell myself. Thomas just wants to get under your skin. Don’t fucking let him.

No, I won’t let him.

Like he said, with that smirk on his face, what was six hours among the “plebeians” anyway?

*

I’ve nearly forgotten how cramped a passenger plane can get. I make my way down the barbaric aisle to my confined seat in the far back of the plane. Right in front of the fucking toilets. Fantastic. I look at the two seats, grateful I don’t have to sit in the middle aisle among three other people. Not that the aisle is big or anything, but at least I’ll be against the window and not forced between two people.

It’s the small things. Like microscopic small things.

I like space. Space is good. Space makes me forget the nights I slept in storm culverts as a kid. And space is the last thing I am being awarded now.

I open the above luggage compartment and take my time storing my bespoke Leather suitcase inside. It was a gift I was given at the end of my first successful merger, and I can’t have it tumbling around with all the important shit I have inside of it.

“Hey, man, we’re waiting on you!”

I look to my side and at the long line-up of people who are begrudgingly waiting for me to take a seat so they can get to their own. I glare at the teenage boy with his ridiculously shaped hair, all gelled up like he’s a princess in a boy band.

“Yeah, you’re waiting on me,” I retort icily. “Which means when I’m done, it’s your turn to go. And I’ll go quickest if you wait the quietest.”

I hope I didn’t use too many long words for this little shit. I fit the briefcase in place, never breaking eye contact with this suddenly uncomfortable Justin Bieber wannabe. Then I slowly make my way to the window seat, prompting the man-child to look away and hurry down the aisle. As the line resumes, I pull out my phone and check my email.

Thomas Dorf

Subject: Enjoy your flight

Hey Champ,