Wallstreet God (The House Of Creed Book 1) Read online

  Wallstreet God

  The House of Creed Series

  D.M. Burns

  Copyright @ 2020 by D.M. Burns

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. Resemblance to actual persons, things, living or dead, locale, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  About this book

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  D.M Burns Note

  Acknowledgements

  Connect with D.M. Burns

  Preview of Seed Of Sin.

  Brealyn Mia Winters

  Bolting up in my bed, I stare at those eyes, cataloging them to memory. Those icy eyes staring out at me from my TV screen touches something deep within. There familiar in a way that makes no sense at all. I know… Oh, I know at this moment, for the first time since moving to Manhattan, that my location destination decision was not in vain. That settles within and I feel vindicated.

  Brogan Creed is a business death wish to those that catch his interest. The Grim Reaper in the flesh enveloped in a fresh stylish suit. I knew the rumors were true. Ironically enough, the city that loves no one and nothing, covets him like some type of mythical God. Their nicknames for him prove as much. He’s known by many but the more prevalent are…

  Wallstreet God.

  Boardroom Boss.

  Creed Of Corporate Cruelty.

  Call me a crazy country girl, but I know this man is destined to alter my life. I sense it just like I feel his eyes etching out his initials into my soul through the HD glass divider hanging on my wall. Little did I know just how profound my instincts truly were. My life will never be the same, ever.

  Brogan Malic Creed

  Is it natural to want to toss a perfectly peaceful southern girl out of my high-rise building? Maybe… My thoughts are wicked and let’s be honest here; It’s not out of my character to think such things. Hell, it’s no rumor that I’m a business bastard with fatal follow through. Those are simple facts. But her silent thoughts are delivering a brutal beating to my cranium, ball bat mutilation style. Her hushed sweet southern accented opinions of me are bursting out like a neon broadcast for the hearing impaired.

  Breaking Down My Barriers.

  Sweet Southern Comfort Style.

  A Beautiful Butterfly Caught Up In A Hailstorm.

  This woman doesn’t belong in my boardroom of doom with her last season sales rack rendition of cost-cutting style. She damn sure doesn’t fit in here at The House of Creed. Frankly, this lady doesn’t belong in my hate-fueled city at all. Let’s see if I can save her from becoming a New York slaying statistic by sending her back to the countryside where she rightfully belongs.

  This book is dedicated to those that wait a lifetime for the love of their life. Embrace it with open arms and enjoy every second that God allows you. That all-consuming love is flawlessly fashionable residing inside a flawed outside world. Paint your life together beautifully.

  A faith to live by determines a righteous path. Choose your footfalls wisely.

  CREED:

  A set of beliefs or aims which guide someone’s actions; A Faith to live by.

  chapter 1

  brogan

  I was always the one on the outside looking in, detached. The one trying to figure out the chemical code that rushes through life around me. People… Humanity as a whole. What makes them unique? What are their motives? What’s their overall riddle and rhyme? What makes them so different from me? When I was younger, I wanted all those pieces of the puzzle. It once mystified me. Downright intriguing to say the least for an uneducated, wide-eyed, and innocent kid.

  As time passed, I learned that most were fueled by certain traits. Power… Greed… Money… Lust… And above all others, control. With control comes power, with power comes money. With those traits at your disposal and aiding your cause, anything else is pretty much obtainable. Its basic monetary and mental manipulation for the most part. Learned by association and observational habits whether trained, engrained, or sustained.

  Now, every single individual I come across is all the same. Like a plethora of lab-produced, and engendered shit soldiers. I see it in their eyes, smell it in the air around them, and feel it in their energy. After all my years of being surrounded by some of the most deviant sharks’, day in and day out, their typical desires and thirsts are easy to pick up on, readable. Not that I need to read you. You tell me everything without opening your mouth.

  I know you’re probably wondering what the hell’s up with this guy. Is he a vampire? Maybe a shapeshifter? One of those furry, cuddly werewolves? To that, I honestly snicker while shaking my head. Even though that shit is mildly interesting in concept. Not to mention, lucrative as hell on the big screen. The answer is simple, fuck no.

  But I’m no Edward Cullen or Jacob Black. That’s a laughable notion. Being a blood-sucking vamp or an ass sniffing dog is enough to make me want to leave this lifeless existence. That’s not my MO and fuck, if it were, I’d shoot myself in the damn face. Swallowing that bullet burial with a smile. But hey, I was feeling that Alice Cullen chick though.

  All of you silently speak to me. Yeah, I can hear your dirty secrets, all of them. But I learned long ago how to turn that feature off. Hearing the same bullshit over and over again became boring. I like the idea of someone-someday having the ability to surprise me. And after thirty years of the same shit filtering into my head unwanted, I still hold firm to the possibility that maybe, further on down the road, one of you, fundamental fucks will shock me. Is there anyone out there that can capture my attention and chokehold that bitch? Laughable.

  Sleep’s not a necessity but when my body needs refueling the slumber that finds me is like breathing new life into my cells. Rejuvenating and somewhat like recharging an iPhone to full power. It’s the update needed to fix all my bugs. Everyone would miss my asshole attitude if I were anything less than at my personable peak performance. That alone requires me to be on my toes, asshole extraordinaire. I damn sure wouldn’t want to disappoint my New York fan base.

  When I was a kid my favorite attribute by far was the ability to move through objects and become invisible. A transparent trip of crazy shit. Let’s just say playing hide and seek with me was an epic fail. Especially for my childhood best friend, Carson Brooks. Tag your it two seconds in was heard a lot and the son-of-a-bitch spent hours trying to find me. All the while I stood at his side unseen. Hell, I could’ve held hands with the bastard like a friendly Casper the Ghost.

  Carson is the only one that knows about my attributes and keep
s them firmly locked in the vault. Crazy fucker that he is, still holds my adolescent “flaws”, as he likes to call them, against me for his life-long losing streak. Yeah, it was unfair but entertaining as hell for me as a kid to fuck with him.

  My dad said we were special and the only ones of our kind. As a kid, I kinda liked that idea. I thought that shit was cool but now, it’s a desolate notion that hits me sideways at times. Am I actually cursed instead of famed by the abilities I was born with? I guess we’ll fucking see, right?

  Back to my point, my dad said we were granted these gifts from the universe. Not from an enhanced genetic creation derived from a test tube but from the God’s up above themselves. He said we should protect our abilities and not abuse them. We’re not supposed to use our special talents to gain out of deceit, harm, or trickery of any kind. Where’s the fun in that shit?

  Above all, he said we stay to ourselves and out of the limelight. Understandably so because let me tell you something, becoming a human phenomenon or an out of this world scientific problem to solve is not happening. Not to mention, I’ll mind fuck a bastard until they’re sniffling in the confines of their therapist’s office walls begging for that white strappy jacket and a nice padded room.

  Bottom line, I’m called a Lone Walker. Mainly because we, as in I, prefer to be alone. But know this, I can show up in the blink of an eye, without warning, unannounced, and unnoticed. Lurking around silently, soundlessly. Hearing all your minds whispered events and secrets, that is if I choose to. Waiting for what? I’m not even sure anymore but seeking something that’s usually not found no matter where I end up. If you ask me the name is spot on. It’s exactly what it means; I’m to walk this place alone-period.

  Oh, here’s a little side note… I possess super strength like a well-built Hulk without any flaws or the gangrene colored balls. I have other whimsical powers but let’s save some fun facts for later. Less is more, right? Full control over my abilities with no drawbacks. Epic shit, huh? If all that’s too much for you, simply call me by my given name, Brogan Creed.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’m mortal. I bleed. I feel most everything, but the concept of pain is foreign to me. Hell, talking about emotions of any kind is a pointless subject matter for me because I have none. With a great amount of effort and concentration from an outside force, I suppose I’m capable of death. I’ve yet for anyone to attempt it but I assume it’s possible.

  I don’t age like thoroughbred humans do and haven’t since I turned twenty-five. And I won’t until I find my match. My kindred spirit. My other half to my whole. Or at least that’s what my dad said. And here’s the kicker, once a Lone Walker finds love we start to age and it’s ultimately our killer. Our demise. Our cancer. Fucking ironic, huh? Love=Death. Hell, I’ve seen some bumper stickers tossing out those words of wisdom.

  My parents, Grant and Macie Creed, paired up and I’m the byproduct of their love. My dad was a full-blooded Lone Walker and my mom was a human through and through. Combined the two and here I am in the flesh.

  My parents shared connection produced this six-five boardroom bastard of merciless business practices. I’m a powerhouse with nightshade hair and an uncanny signature blonde streak over the curve of my left ear, birthright. Weird as fuck but unique, I guess. My white ice-blue tinted eyes unfortunately see everything. I miss nothing, even when I wished I could. Not that I need sight. Your mind's loudest riddles echo from the halls and bounce off the walls intruding in on my thoughts.

  It’s those powerful lingering secrets that consume a person’s being the most though. They leak out and filter down on me like rain breaking way from a dry spiel, soaking into my skin. Even when I try to flip the switch your most desired closed mouth whispers swarming around in your subconscious, slips from the wishing well, hitting me like a bolt of energy. A fucking beacon warning. When I can no longer cut the white noise out from invading my peace of mind, that’s my body's telltale that my time for sleep is closing in.

  As I mentioned before, my senseless search for anything that will hold my attention longer than ten minutes at a time is in vain. So, I turn my efforts over to a more profitable pastime. Where the rewards produce diamonds that shine with shimmering results. Giving me the rate of return I’m searching for, sorta. A substitute thrill that fills the black empty hole within. I love a fucking challenge and the hunt for business adventures that prove difficult or unattainable is my cue. It’s the only thing I look forward to anymore.

  A boardroom boss hunt so to speak. My kind of country boy backwoods entertainment without the tree stand and deer piss, thank fuck. When the boardroom suits surrounding me say it can’t be done, I make that shit happen with a smirk of satisfaction and little effort. Like many other things in my life, lucrative business decisions are a God-given gift.

  Women are no longer a fascination for me. They only seek money and Prada purchases that they think comes with loving me. Fucking clueless. It goes without saying, I surpassed concurring the cunt-coats ten years ago. They’re good for wrapping my dick in warmth temporarily and after that, nothing else. Sounds cold but honestly, in New York, these women are diabolical and fucking ruthless, much like I am. As with so many other things, that phase of my life lost its luster long ago.

  That’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the act of powering my dick endlessly into a nice tight channel for momentary relief, I do. But the lifelong give a fuck’s for relationship bliss is not what I’m about. Remember, as I said before, that shit’s a killer for me, literally. So, you want to fuck, call me. You want a husband, disconnect the line, and keep it moving. Death in this decade doesn’t interest me. As soon as the sun rises, if not before, your ass has got to get gone. I’ll even splurge and have my driver escort you home.

  Most of my time is spent at my Manhattan boardroom. That’s my domain. My powerhouse. My warzone. Along with Carson and my other partners in business, we dominate the fucking place. Its business and our thirst for blood is not partial, prejudice, or bias.

  We Come.

  We Take.

  We Concur.

  There are no prisoners of business wars behind those doors at The House Of Creed. If you get caught up beyond them then know your corporate lifeline is about to flatline. I’m a God damn Boardroom Boss and the hunt begins as soon as I step through those redwood stained doors.

  Welcome To The House Of Creed.

  chapter 2

  Brogan

  One of my best business decisions to date was investing in the prime high-rise real estate that currently lies under my feet. Staring out of my skyscraping window wall view, my eyes scan the fascinating beauty of a well-lit buzzing city. It’s captivating, even for me. No doubt, I’m encased at the top of BC Towers. My place is nothing more than a clinically cold masterpiece of unfamiliar but mind-altering art where warmth is nowhere to be found.

  My personal assistant, Geneva Adams, insisted on decorating the damn place even though I protested. I told her she was wasting her time. I was fine with the bare walls as long as the bar was well stocked with my cognac. I could give a shit less about anything else. But Geneva being the fantastic lady she is, saw to it that the space was inviting. She looks out for me, which is incidentally what I pay handsomely for her to do.

  Regardless, she’s a valuable employee. I went through twenty-five unorganized asshats before Geneva. I’ve grown fond of having her around. If decorating a bachelor pad is her thing then by all means, who am I to stand in her way. Simply hand me the cognac and I’ll make myself scarce.

  Geneva made sure that the grey stained walls housed the finest white-clothed furniture. Add a couple of large gray fluffy rugs with matching red pillow sets, frilly bullshit, and it became her masterpiece. As she put it, it’s all the stuff that the ladies will fall in love with. Unbeknownst to Geneva, no woman has exited my elevator twice. Attachments to the coats is not a problem I have, ever.

  Still, the place around me is frigid and mechanical to my daily routine. It’s where I spend my down
time. A place where I toss back my raw umber brandy waiting for the little hand to tick around on the clock so I can take on the next day at The House of Creed.

  The House of Creed is my headquarters away from home. We employ over five hundred of the most talented and cutthroat real estate bloodthirsty sharks in all of New York. All cultivated by the one and only Carson himself. I, on the other hand, handle the mergers and acquisitions side of things. Spearheaded and operated by me, myself, and I. Not having anyone near my personal space is the key to my mental sanity. I don’t want to hear any verbal fuckery, or more importantly, anyone’s uncensored silent bullshit.

  Oh, before I forget, I’m big in Wallstreet. To be exact, a healthy dose of my downtime is spent fucking around in the financial playground of stocks and bonds. Some referred to me as the Wallstreet God. If I’m honest, that shit simply strokes my ego, not that it was needed. My ego’s platinum white gold and flossed to sparkle like the finest diamond, blinding even.

  Carson’s a fiery red-haired jokester with emerald green eyes that beam out with the optimism of a five-year-old having just woke up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed on Christmas morning. Mr. Funtime. The guy everyone loves to see coming. He personally makes it a priority to know each and every one of the employees before and after they’re hired into The House of Creed. He’s a people person who still manages to see good in this world.

  That’s probably only because he’s unable to hear the sick and twisted thoughts racing through their minds, unlike me. I envy that about the bastard. He has those built-in blinders when my eyes and mind are always wide opened to the fuckery right in front of my face. Up-close and personal everyday bullshit invading my peace.

  The guys a testimonial to work hard and play hard though. He does both equally well with devotion. He starts the workday right after his morning run and workout then ends it with his love for expensive brandy and brunettes. Come to think of it, I believe his last bed bouncing bitch was named Brandy too. He filters through the opposite sex much like the alcohol he consumes, quickly and unapologetically. He’s healthy, wealthy, and uncommitted. So, no judgments will be found here.