I freeze. Arsen had seen me at the club. And he had been looking for me. He had singled me out. And he had wanted me.
"Guy didn't even touch one hair on all this," she says, using her hands to gesture to her body. "I was ready to suck his cock right there on the main floor too – it was one of those nights. But alls he wanted was you, babe. Haven't seen him inside the club since."
"He just wanted me … " I say to her softly, but I'm speaking more to myself.
"Since the moment he met you, girlfriend. So I'd go a bit easy on him," Yasmine says, finally taking a bite out of her chocolate croissant. "If anything, Arsen was trying to protect you."
"How's that?" I ask.
"Well, he sold his company in chunks to the Russian mob. I'm sure he was trying to protect you for as long as he could. They probably would have pressured you for sex or something to keep working there."
Her words stun me. What if that's true? Could that be it? Was Arsen just trying to keep me safe and protected?
I ask, "How do you know all this?"
"I have my ways."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She thinks for a moment, as if she's not sure whether to say anything or not, but then continues, "Do you remember that slightly old lawyer who always hangs around Mr. Arsen Hawke?"
"Vaguely," I say, thinking of the times I've seen him on the video conference screen or he's come by Arsen's One57 apartment. ‘Gerard?"
"Well, he's the lawyer Arsen uses for everything, including selling the pieces of his company to the Russian mob. And he's held out selling Simulated Pleasures as long as he can because he's worried about how the mob is going to treat the girls that work there."
"How do you know that?"
"Let's just say I've seen him-both inside … and outside of the club."
"No-you two are having an affair?"
Yasmine motions her fingers over lips, as if she's zipping them shut.
"Fine, don't tell me," I say. But as soon as I say it, I realize that I may have everything wrong-yet again. If Yasmine is right, then Arsen hasn't just loved me. He's protected me. And all I've done is to repay him with scorn.
84
Arsen
I look out the window of the limo as it's drives down 8th Avenue toward my club, a hopping spot named Climax. It's on 31st Street and 8th Avenue and I can see that the line to the fucking club goes nearly one fucking city block.
Jesus Christ, I think. I'm making money hand over fist on this fucking club. But that'll be for only another month. Because in 30 days, the ownership of Climax will transfer over to Mozorov. And this will be his club.
"We're going to fucking crush it tonight!" my friend Jonathan says next to me and I look over. We've known each other since college. Same fraternity. One of my closest friends. But it takes effort for me to smile tonight.
It's been three fucking days since Ashley decided to say goodbye to me and never look back. Or has it been more? I don't even know anymore.
I know that she's not working at the agency; Simulated Pleasures received a formal letter of resignation from her a few days ago. Her line has been silent. She must have blocked my phone number because she doesn't answer calls, it doesn't go to voicemail, and she doesn't answer texts. I can't find her on Facebook. And no answer comes from my emails.
So like any good friend, when Jonathan saw the misery I was in during our racquetball game, he decided to gather three of our closest friends and go out on the town.
Normally, this is something Arsen Hawke would be ready for in a heartbeat. To go out into New York City and tear it up. Get drunk and fuck women.
"You just need to fuck it out of your system, man," Jonathan says to me in the limo, bringing me back.
"You're right," I agree. "I'm going to fuck it out of my system multiple times with as many bitches as I can find."
I really fucking hope he's buying it because right now I'm just faking this whole goddamn thing.
We exit the limo and the five of us start drawing looks from the people who are standing in line to get into the club. They may vaguely recognize me; I've been photographed a few times, but they can't place from where. Still, I look good tonight so its no fucking surprise that they take out their phones and snap pictures in case I happen to be famous.
That's right. They're taking pictures of me as I walk to the entrance of the club.
Because I look fucking good tonight, baby.
My 6 foot plus frame.
The way my jeans and shirt are untucked, with my shirt unbuttoned, showing off a part of my chest.
Everyone knows I have a fucking cut body. But tonight, these sluts are just going to love running their hands along my chiseled 8-pack abs and ripped pecs on the dance floor.
I'm going to make them lick me on the dance floor.
I turn and smile and don't stop the cameras at all.
If I was an asshole before Ashley and I'm miserable without her, well then, maybe it's time to go back to what worked.
The people outside of the club are staring at me right now. They're entranced. The way my shirt is tight around my ripped body, highlighting what needs to be highlighted. I know they can see the bulge in my pants, the 12 inches of thick cock that I have swinging between my legs. Ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice to fuck the stray female of the herd that crosses my sights.
I know they're staring at my face. At my strong fucking jawline. My deep, soulful eyes.
So Ashley wants to leave me, she's free to go. Doesn't mean I have to mope.
I swagger to the entrance, completely aware that I own the fucking club. But no one outside waiting in line knows that yet. Or if they do, they haven't said anything.
Time to show them just how big a deal I am.
I glance at the bouncer and he gives me a nod.
"Welcome back, sir," he says and I nod back, indicating to my four friends to come inside.
Inside the music is bumping and vibrating and I lead our way to the VIP area where a table is already waiting for us.
But in the time it takes to get there, Jonathan and our friends pick up a girl or two each, talking and spitting game out at the various ladies that we pass. They start with eyes for me, but once I pass, the friends swoop in and take over.
I shrug. This is just how the game is fucking played. The jesters in the court get the King's castoffs.
I look around me and see the women watching me. We've attracted a fair crowd of interest. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get.
Now, don't fucking worry. I haven't gotten all prudish and all. I mean come on, I'm in love with a fucking stripper or phone sex operator-however you want to call it.
But these girls, and there are five of them approaching me directly, are trying to dress themselves up so they can look like hookers or porn stars or something.
Because they think that's what the guys out in the world fucking want.
Well, I've fucked porn stars and strippers. And I'll tell you all I can think about right now is sitting on a couch fucking cuddling with a romance movie on.
Fucking Christ.
The gaggle of girls approach me.
Sure, I won't lie. They're cute. I won't deny that. But they're cute in a skanky way. Not in an Ashley way.
Fuck, I can tell I'm not in a good mood.
I need a fucking drink.
I open the bottle of scotch at the table and pour some into a glass. I sigh as the girls sit down at the table. I lean back, seeing what they're going to say. It may be too much to hope for, but maybe someone will say something the same way Ashley did. When she used to talk, it used to make me fucking think.
"Evening, ladies," I say, putting my arms back on the sofa. "I'm Arsen. What's your name?"
"I'm Joanna," the blonde next to me on my right says with a smile.
"I'm Lauren," next to her.
"I'm Sarah," her friend says.
"I'm Deb," the one on my left chimes.
"I'm Carrie," the one next to her says. She doesn't hold back though. "I give good head."
Jesus fucking Christ. So much for fucking small talk I guess.
I look around me. Jonathan is talking to some girl that's sitting next to Sarah.
The other three friends have somehow gone off in their own direction.
I'm here by myself. Usually, not a problem.
But it gives me a chance to look around me. I mean, really look around me.
To girls who wear as little as possible and go out at night, hoping they find someone to go home with.
To guys looking for something cute to stick their fucking dick into.
To people looking to drink and forget.
To others looking to just forget.
Too many people talking too loud, trying to drown out the fucking silence.
I sound like I'm fucking high right now or something, don't I? Well, I'm not. Because it's starting to make sense.
These aren't bad people. Strippers aren't bad people. Hell, hookers, phone sex workers, models, web cam girls, these aren't bad people. The people who provide and the people who consume, these aren't horrible evil people.
I mean, I remember my Dad started out by writing smut and selling it online. That grew. He didn't stop. Sure, he was sexual. I mean, I still remember the day outside Starbucks. I was just about to talk to some random gorgeous girl-what little of her that I remember reminds me of Ashley-when I saw him with his two new girlfriends.