Friction and Fire

Vondrel's Pride Part 1

Vondrel leans back in the leather chair, each shift setting off tiny detonations of pain in his groin, each wince of pain setting off equally sharp detonations of memory. She’s everywhere—in the crisp morning light, in the silence of the house, in the words he imagines saying to her. Every polished surface reminds him of her and how she doesn’t belong in his world of smooth edges and careful lines. “Insolent grease monkey,” he mutters, amused by his own frustration. It surprises him how much space she occupies, how much he doesn’t hate it.

His eyes stray to the stack of business documents on his desk, but the neatly ordered files are meaningless chaos. His home office is an altar to control, the very opposite of the unruly woman now haunting his thoughts. He picks up a report, then sets it back down with a grimace. The pain in his groin is less persistent than her presence.

A quick, amused smile flashes across his lips. He can't help it; he's replayed her words so many times they’ve become an anthem of insolence. "Most girls cower around me," he recalls telling her, the disbelief still fresh in his mind. Rhonda hadn’t flinched. She hadn’t run. She’d stood there, fearless and infuriating, and he'd been the one left stunned.

He runs a hand through his hair, then down to his lap, pressing lightly and remembering with a mix of admiration and irritation. His phone lies next to the papers, an invitation to distraction. He picks it up, his thumb hovering over Mark’s number. He imagines calling, spinning the tale, twisting the event into something that would still leave him victorious. He sets the phone down, unable to construct the fiction.

He leans back, eyes closing against the memory of her face, her fierce green eyes sparking as the taser did its work. He shifts again, the chair creaking in protest, the muscles of his body screaming an echo of her touch. The pain fades, but not her words, not the audacity of her presence.

Vondrel exhales, long and slow, his control slipping in ways he can't quite master. He’s a man accustomed to dominance, yet every attempt to wrest back his mind only tangles him deeper in thoughts of Rhonda. He lets out a sound between a groan and a chuckle, imagining her here, watching him struggle, delighted by his discomfort.

“Damn it,” he mutters, shaking his head as if it will dislodge the thoughts. “Who does she think she is?” But the question only amuses him more, because he knows exactly who she thinks she is. And the woman is utterly maddening.

He forces himself to sit upright, picking up a report and opening it with determination. Numbers and graphs stare back, lifeless and dull. It should be the language he speaks best, yet he finds himself distracted, the images of spreadsheets overlaid with the image of a leather jacket, of auburn hair tied back in defiant carelessness. He pushes the paper away, rubbing his temples and conceding, if only for a moment.

His gaze drifts to the wide window, the morning light spilling in, pooling on the floor like a spotlight on his weakness. He had intended to be furious, had been furious, but now it feels false, an act that fools no one, least of all himself. Rhonda’s nerve and audacity keep gnawing at him, her courage more disarming than the taser she wielded.

He almost laughs, imagining the look she must have had when she saw him drop to the floor, knowing she was the first person to unseat him so completely. “No permanent damage,” the doctor had said, not knowing how much more than his body had been shocked. No one else had ever done this to him—left him twitching in surprise, replaying every moment with reluctant respect.

The corners of his mouth lift, a traitor to his need for control. He’s less angry now, more intrigued, and the fact irks him even as it draws him in. “She won’t last,” he’d said to Mark, but now he’s not so sure. Maybe that’s what makes it impossible to let her go.

Vondrel picks up the phone again, contemplating a message. He imagines writing: “Mark, I don’t care how tough she thinks she is,” then deleting it before it’s even written. The silence is oppressive, pressing in like the doubt that he can’t quite dismiss. He shifts once more, the memory of her stubborn fire refusing to extinguish.

“Know your enemies,” he murmurs, echoing words he’s always lived by, finding they hold a new kind of challenge when applied to her. His lips quirk with the ghost of a grin, her defiance rekindling itself in his mind. It’s almost enjoyable, this new uncertainty, this feeling of being off balance in a way he never thought he’d tolerate.

“Insolent grease monkey,” he repeats, trying for scorn but landing on something closer to admiration. The files remain untouched, a monument to what he can’t quite force himself to care about. Rhonda’s name echoes in his mind, her voice the only thing cutting through the tangle of his distraction.

He gives in, at least for now, at least in private, her audacity setting a new rhythm in his life. Vondrel shakes his head again, surrendering to thoughts of her, to the chaos and the thrill she brings. It's so unlike him, but here, in the solitude of his controlled world, he allows himself to indulge. Just for a moment. Just until the thoughts lose their grip.

They don't.

Vondrel stands like an emperor in exile, a reluctant presence at the head of the conference table. His mind, a far-off territory, wanders to places unknown even to him. Associates exchange glances, the kind usually reserved for mistakes or miracles. They murmur amongst themselves, a subdued soundtrack to his silent distraction. He stares at the phone, expecting it to spark the connection he can't name. The room grows warmer with anticipation and unsaid things. When his assistant approaches, he snaps back to a world that feels foreign and full of unwanted curiosity. "Get me everything on motorcycle shops," he commands.

His voice carries authority, but it lacks the sharp edge they expect. She pauses, taking in the shift in him, then nods and exits with an uncertainty that hangs in the air like unfinished business. Vondrel's gaze lingers on the door, the seconds dragging until it's just him and the team of business associates.

He runs a hand over his face, attempting to scrub away thoughts of Rhonda and the memory of their encounter. "Where were we?" he asks, more to himself than to the room. They look at him, expectant, unsure. It's a standoff of confused silence, broken only by his restless movement.

"The expansion plans, Mr. Lancaster," one brave soul offers, breaking the ice with a tone that carries both respect and bewilderment.

"Right," Vondrel replies, though the word sounds distant. He picks up a document, eyes scanning but not seeing. The silence stretches again, filling with the weight of his inattention. They watch, fascinated by this new side of him, a side that seems as unsettled as the man they’re used to isn’t.

Vondrel shifts his focus, the effort visible and almost painful. "I want those reports finalized by the end of the week," he commands, trying to impose the order he no longer feels. "No delays."

They nod in unison, relieved to hear something familiar in his voice, but still wary of the storm behind his blue eyes. He tries to return to the present, his hands steady but his mind wandering to images that distract and disrupt.

The phone remains on the table, a siren call of distraction, and he glances at it too often. The associates exchange more looks, this time charged with curiosity and silent questions. Vondrel picks it up, as if expecting a message that will pull him back to reality, but the screen remains blank, as void as his attempts to regain his focus.

He stands, pushing back from the table with more force than necessary. "I need updates on those potential acquisitions," he announces, walking to the window and staring out at the city, the expanse making him feel both powerful and very small. "I don't want to be the last to know about opportunities."

His back is to them, but he senses their unease, senses that his usual command over the room is slipping. It's unnerving, this lack of control, this vulnerability he's not used to showing. He clenches his jaw, refusing to let them see just how far he's fallen into a territory he can't quite map.

"Of course, Mr. Lancaster," the same voice replies, hesitant but obedient. The sound is cautious, probing, as if they're dealing with an entirely new creature.

Vondrel faces them again, a renewed resolve masking his uncertainty. He picks up another report, hoping this time the numbers will speak louder than his memory of a certain mechanic's defiant stance. The associates settle in, the shuffling of papers a temporary reprieve from the charged atmosphere.

One mentions the motorcycle dealership acquisition, his tone careful, testing. "There's a new lead on the Richards account, possibly expanding into motorcycles."