Total pages in book: 176
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 167940 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 840(@200wpm)___ 672(@250wpm)___ 560(@300wpm)
Saturday night will put an end to that. I’ll fuck, and I’ll move on. Leave her to her life. Stop my thoughts from bending to the image of her in my bed, her hair spread out like angel wings across my pillow, her eyes dark, and her arousal sweet and sticky against my lips.
One night and one brief interlude, and my body still remembers it all.
Remembers her.
I’m a fucking lost cause.
As my phone begins to buzz against the desk, I stalk across the office and snatch it up.
“Hi, I have a missed called from this number,” a somewhat familiar voice purrs in a terrible parody of a woman’s voice. “I’m ringing from Ardeo. A place where all your dreams come true.”
“I don’t remember my dreams being made of anal beads.”
Laughter rings down the line. “Don’t knock ’em until you’ve tried ’em,” the voice asserts, much more masculine now.
“Try them? I couldn’t even if I wanted to because I’m pretty sure my sphincter turned in on itself in panic.”
“I always said you were full of shit.”
“Full of shit and making you a fortune.”
“There’s no denying that.”
His response makes me smile. It’s strange how something that started out as a one-off thing, a way to cheer up my brothers in arms, is now an entity all of its own. I’m gladdened that I’ve been able to help them. Emotionally. Financially. The platoon and beyond.
“How are we looking for tomorrow night?” I ask, dropping into my seat.
“Things are looking good. Security has swept the place to protect the good senators and the other paranoid folk. Numbers are up on the Nice party, and we already have more interest in next month’s gathering in Berlin.”
“Gathering.” I find myself grinning. “I never had you down as the euphemistic type.”
“Okay, so business in the fuck fest industry catering to the rich and powerful is awesome. How does that appeal to your analytical sensibilities? Or even analytical.” Tucker snorts, entertained by his own puny pun. “And speaking of assholes, he applied again. Offered to triple the membership fee.”
“Fuck him.” I retort, my jaw already clenching.
“That’s pretty much what I said in my email. Only in more professional terms. Do you wanna know what the bids on your little sideline are up to?”
“Sure, but no names.”
“It’s all in the anticipation, right?” I stifle a sigh. Maybe it just used to be. “As of an hour ago, it’s at a hundred and fifty G’s.” He blows out a whistling breath. “Well, I gotta go.”
“People to do, things to see?”
“You know it.”
The call ends without either of us saying goodbye, and my phone buzzes immediately, this time with a text.
TUCKER: Addison says the list is in. He’s emailing it to you now.
Encrypted, of course.
ME: Copy that.
TUCKER: Hey, how much lube do you need to do anal?
ME: I’m sensing a punchline. Because a man in this business has tried it all.
TUCKER: You need a butt load
I find myself shaking my head. Tucker always was the joker of our trio, even when things turned bad. Reaching out, I fire up my laptop again, and sure enough, the invite list is available. Given that Ardeo was my creation, and I was our link to the so-called upper echelons and their depravities, and therefore, their purse strings, I still like to keep an eye on the invite list.
It’s handy to know who you have in your pocket.
Senator. Judge. Legislator. Philanthropist. Hedge-fund manager. Hollywood actor. Film producer and his starlet wife. Billionaire pastor with a congregation he uses as his bank balance.
Alden. Brown. Garcia. Jones. Marudas. Mickleburgh. Sanchez. White. Yalden. Yuen . . . the list of names goes on.
I make a mental note of first-time attendees, people to keep an eye on, and people of note. Just as I’m about to close the document, I double back as something snags my attention. I scroll back to the beginning of the document.
Surname: Alden.
First name: Fiadh.
My mind must be playing tricks on me. Fiadh is an uncommon name. I’ve certainly never heard it until this month.
Irish, she said.
It can’t seriously be her. This has to be a coincidence.
She’s living in my place, rent-free. She’s here for an internship, for fuck’s sake. Where would she get the money, even for a one-night invitation, which is what she’s signed up to as friend of a current member. A recent current member.
The more I think about the likelihood of this being the same Fiadh, the less likely it seems. But as a gnawing sensation continued to worry my gut, I decide to take the easier path of the two available to me as I pick up my phone again. In less time than it takes to consider the implications, I’ve opened the link to the file under the name and I’m calling Rose.
Abernathy, Fiadh. Guest of Bethany Aaron.
Still doesn’t ring a bell, though Bethany Aaron has only been a member for a couple of weeks.