Total pages in book: 204
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 193115 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 966(@200wpm)___ 772(@250wpm)___ 644(@300wpm)
“Too early for a drink.”
“Fuck you,” I mutter under my breath, flipping the shower on. It’s never too early for a drink. Never too early to escape.
“You have an appointment with your lawyer at three, remember? To sign the papers for your new place. I’ve arranged for the transfer.”
“When am I moving in?” I ask, stepping into the shower and standing there. Just standing there, letting the hot water wash away last night’s shame, at the same time wishing this water could wash away my regret. My past. Wash away me.
“A week Saturday. The developers have the launch night on the Friday, then it’s all yours.”
I look at the bathroom door when Sarah appears, leaning on the frame. She seriously needs to stop with all that stuff she pumps into her face. It’s having the reverse effect these days, making her look older instead of younger and fresher. “So my new apartment will be full of strangers wandering around messing it up?”
“It’s in the contract. The developer has assured us it’ll be left as good as new for you to move into.”
I set about washing my hair. “What else?”
“We need to talk about the new rooms. Décor, design, layout, equipment, that kind of thing.”
I work up a lather, closing my eyes and trying to enjoy the spray while Sarah bothers me. “John’s sorting the equipment,” I tell her. “As for the décor, call the company who did my new place.”
“You want the Lusso designer?”
“Yeah, why not? All that Italian shit looks great.” Really great. The penthouse I now own is fucking incredible, but the décor? Yeah, whoever did that knows what they’re doing. It’s good. Very good. Tasteful. And if The Manor is anything, it’s tasteful. Past the orgies and illicitness, of course. I smile as I rinse my hair, thinking Carmichael would be proud of what it’s become. Then it drops when I think about how disappointed he’d be by what I have become.
I flinch and shake my head free of those thoughts. “What’s the time?” I ask as I step out of the shower. Sarah doesn’t control her roving eye.
“Still too early for a drink.” She pulls a towel off the rail and chucks it at me. “I’ll call Rococo Union,” she says as she leaves me in peace.
I frown. “Who’s Rococo Union?”
“The designers of your new swanky penthouse,” she calls. “What should I say when they ask what kind of establishment this is?”
I go to the mirror and immediately look away from the drained-looking man staring back at me. My green eyes look dull, my skin sallow. “It’s The Manor, that’s it. No need to give them a rundown of everything that happens within its walls, Sarah.”
“Why? Are you ashamed?”
I don’t entertain her. She knows I couldn’t give a flying fuck what people think of me or my establishment. I just can’t be bothered to feed their curiosity.
* * *
As I descend the sweeping staircase to the lobby, John wanders out of the bar. His wraparounds are perfectly in place as always, but I know his eyes will be narrowed behind them. I reach the bottom and stretch my hamstrings, nodding to staff as they pass. “All right?” I ask.
His face remains impassive. “Stayed the night again?”
I give him a tired look but hold back my retort, because if there’s one man on this earth who deserves my respect, it’s John. “I’m going for a run.” I need to clear the cobwebs off. And the drink. And the sin.
I head for the doors.
“Just tell me,” he says, pulling me to a stop. I don’t turn around. “Why the fuck have you spent millions on a penthouse apartment when you crash here every night?”
It’s a reasonable question. I turn to face him, pulling my heel to my arse to stretch my thigh. “It’s an investment.” What else should I spend my money on? My car’s paid for, my bikes are paid for, this place is paid for, I don’t need to pay for gym membership, food, and drink.
Or sex.
And I certainly haven’t got anyone to leave my money to.
“We’re here for a good time, John.”
He shakes his head, and I know he’s thinking Uncle Carmichael would turn in his grave. “Or,” he starts, “perhaps you’ve bought it because a tiny part of your fucked-up brain, which makes a brief appearance most mornings when you wake up with a pounding head and a few women in bed, is telling you that you need to get the fuck out of this lifestyle.” He turns and wanders toward the bar.
Yeah, and maybe that too.
“Go on holiday, Jesse,” he calls back.
“I just got back from Cortina.”
“That wasn’t a holiday. That was a change of scenery.” He disappears into the bar as I drop my heel from my arse. He’s right, of course. But in my defense, I went with good intentions. A detox, if you will. Then I found the minibar and a few hot Swedish women. It spiraled from there.