Gambling For The Virgin:A Dark Billionaire Romance(78)

"Ashley, what are you doing here?" Peter asks again.

I say nothing. No, that's not true. I think I shake my head.

Yes, I'm shaking my head.

"Ashley," Peter says again, as if saying my name again is going to mitigate what I'm seeing.

And what I'm seeing is searing into my memory. I see Peter get up off of whomever he's with. His dick is hard and slimy.

He tries to cover himself, but the woman grabs the blanket and raises her head.

She's blonde like me. She has huge boobs. Not so slender. Kind of a fucked-up face.

Yes, okay, I'm being unfair. Whatever. I have the right to be unfair right now.

"Ashley!" Peter says again.

I wish there was something I could do to make everyone see what an asshole my ex-boyfriend is.

I'm not thinking. That's why I pull out my phone.

I turn on Facebook. I select the option to go live.

Sure, I'm young. I have thousands of friends on Facebook. So does Peter.  We have so many mutual friends in common. People from Peter's work are  my friends.

I push the button and voila. We're live on Facebook.

"Everyone," I say pointing my iPhone toward Peter who is standing there  frozen, his dick is hard. "Say hello to my ex-boyfriend. He used to be  my boyfriend, but I just got home from work a few minutes ago. I'm about  four hours early. And I found him in bed with … "

The woman doesn't seem fazed at all. She gets out of bed and I wince as I  see her tits sway. Did he cheat on her because I don't have as big of  tits as her? I mean, I have D cups. She's definitely older.

She looks to me.

"Hey, love bug," she says with a wave as she picks up a pair of panties.  "I'm Laura. You can find me on the corner of 42nd and 8th Avenue. I  charge $100 for the half hour. $150 for the hour. Do you want my website  or something?"

A hooker?

A fucking hooker?

Peter Theller, my boyfriend, was cheating on me with a hooker who stands outside of the Port Authority Bus Terminal?

"Peter Theller," I say, surprisingly calm. "I just want to make sure all  my friends know, so they don't have to ask when they find out why we  broke up, that I caught you cheating on me with a hundred dollar whore  that you found outside of the bus terminal!"

I zoom into his face. He's sputtering.

I move the camera down.

Peter's cock, which was as hard as a 5-inch cock could be, starts to  deflate. Despite myself, I can't suppress a smirk. This is insane.

"Ashley, turn that off!" Peter says angrily.

Doesn't matter. He can try to turn my phone off. Hell, he can break it  if he wants. It's already gone live. And it'll play forever. And ever.  Till the end of time.

"I have nothing else to say to you, you stupid, selfish, piece of shit," I say to him. My voice is even calm. Still.

Am I acting crazy? The jury's gonna be out on that one, babe. But I  don't work 8 hours grinding my ass on other guys' cocks not to be able  to roll with the punches. And I'm not gonna put up with this shit.

Not when there are guys who look like the Gorgeous Jerk walking around out there.

I turn off my phone and turn around.

"Nice to meet you!" the hooker calls out. "I'm Laura. In case you didn't get that."

I don't know how, but I'm out the door.

Peter is calling out to me. But I couldn't care less at this point.

I run down the stairs. They go by in a flash. All of a sudden I'm  outside. I run across the street and down the stairs into the subway.

I catch the downtown C from Port Authority. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm glad that at least I'm headed home.

I sit down on the bench in the train car and I think about crying. But no. No tears for him! Never for him!

I will survive this. I will fucking survive!





64





Arsen





"I'm sure that had my father been here at this point, he would've been  the first to join me in congratulating the Board of Directors of the  Metropolitan Museum of Art on their opening of their new Impressionist  Wing," I say to the polite applause and some knowing laughter. "I'm sure  he would've been particularly taken with the nudes."

The laughter is a bit lighter now, people more at ease.

"On behalf of the Met, I am honored that his last act was to grant this  gift," I finish and this time the applause is spontaneous.

Of course it fucking is. People will take money from anyone, no matter  how fucking wealthy they already are. Never mind that half the people in  this room would've never fucking allowed my dad to come near their  daughters when he was alive. And could you fucking blame them? I  couldn't. The guy literally made billions of dollars selling smut. I  must've had at least six stepmothers in my life. I lost track after a  while. Each one came all giggly, then watched as they fell into neglect  as their bodies aged, until they left with their suitcases that they  came with, and a fat settlement check.

Now they're dedicating a wing of the fucking Met to him. Don't get me  wrong. It cost money. But it's the least I could do, allocating a  portion of the money from the sale of the live sex webcams that he  controlled and writing a check to the fucking Met.

That's right. It's only been ten fucking days and I've already started selling pieces of my dad's smut empire.

Don't get me fucking wrong. I love to fuck. I mean, the first time you saw me, I was fucking two strippers, remember?

"You're father would have been very proud of you," some random old guy  says as I descend the podium. I have no idea who the fuck he is, but he  takes the stage after me. I navigate around all the fucking leeches that  surround this place. As long as I'm making a name for myself by  distancing myself from my dad's smut kingdom, and giving away some money  to them, they're content to come let me inside. But the moment I start  going against their rules, they'll pull back the red carpet and leave me  out in the cold.

I find Gerard waiting for me outside the Met on the steps. He's looking  through his phone, checking emails. Always a good lawyer. Always on top  of things. Hell, he basically raised me after my Mom died and Dad  started marrying women left and right. When I moved out of the house  before college because I just couldn't get into Dad living with three  other women, it was Gerard who fucking made sure I didn't go off the  deep end. Sure, I like to party. I like to get wild. But trust me when I  tell you that I'd be having a lot more than tattoos on my body if  Gerard weren't there to bring me back when I started to stray.

"Luca Gianoni's left two emails and a voicemail while you were inside,"  Gerard says. "He's still talking about the rest of the strip clubs as  being on the table."

Great. Does no one in this fucking city buy into the sex business except  the fucking mob? I'd rather not sell to them if I can help it, but if  no one else is at the fucking table, I can't really help it.

"We have no more other offers?" I ask, incredulous. "The strip clubs  bring in close to five hundred grand a night when you combine them."

Gerard shrugs. "They also cost roughly three hundred grand a night combined when you add it all up," he says.

He's got a point of course. Strippers aren't cheap. In fact, they're  fucking expensive. But oh my fucking God, what a great fucking expense  to throw money at.

I've always been a fan of strippers. But I swear it's like ever since  that night a week and a half ago, I can't get strippers out of my  fucking head.

I sigh as I get into the car and Gerard gets in next to me.         

     



 

"You thinking of heading to Scorcher's again, Arsen?" he asks. He's got a  touch of fucking pity in his eyes. I can't blame the guy as I nod.

"I got to find this girl," I tell him. I've been searching high and  fucking low for the stripper who was on the pole. I don't know her name.  I don't know when she works. No one else at the club seems to either.

You want to know the bitch about the whole thing, though? It's that same  night I shared a fucking cab with her. I could've asked her for her  name at least that night.

Don't you knock me for being quiet that night. I'm sorry, it was just  that my Dad had just died, okay? Sex wasn't really going through my head  at that point. This isn't like some fucking plot hole or something you  can mention in the review. You try getting news that your estranged  family member has just hit the fucking bucket and you have to manage a  sprawling multi-billion dollar sex empire and see if you remember the  small details.

The car pulls up outside the strip club where I had first seen this  gorgeous, blonde haired, perfectly curved woman ten fucking days ago.  With a name like Scorcher's, I'm not sure what I'm going to find  instead. But fuck it. If I come up empty, maybe I can fuck another  stripper.

Way to look at the fucking bright side, eh?

I walk in, and instantly I'm greeted by the House Mom, Yasmine.

Yasmine's been eyeing my fucking cock for years. She's got to be the  oldest one in this joint. And a fucking vet too, seeing girls come and  go.

"You're here for another one of my girls tonight, Arsen?" she asks me with an arched eyebrow.

"I'm looking for someone," I tell her. Sure she's been eyeing me, but  I've never really given it up to her. Never really know why. Just the  circumstances weren't right probably.