I quickly dress and hail a cab outside. When I tell the driver where I'm going, he gives me an odd look. Is it a look of judgment, or something else? I can't tell. I decide to ignore it and place my ear buds into my ears and stream music through my phone, drowning out the outside world.
After 20 minutes, the cab pulls up to a large, non-descript white building. If it weren't for the address, I'd never know that this is the headquarters for one of the largest phone sex companies in the country. I don't know what I was expecting, but it wasn't this. I'm still listening to my music, and decide to leave my ear buds in. I hand the driver the money and give him a curt smile. As soon as I leave the cab, I walk toward the building, rounding a corner.
And then I feel it-like taking a bowling ball to my back. I'm struck in the back and I try to turn around but my arms are pinned behind my back. Without my hands, I can't remove my ear buds or stop the music streaming through my phone, so it's impossible to hear what's going on around me. I'm screaming and thrashing my head from side to side, and the movement causes the ear bud on my right side to fall out. I can now feel a man's hot breath on my neck, "Shut up! Just shut up right now!" He's placing his hands over my mouth, muffling out my screams, and I bite down as hard as I can. It's my only option and it's instinctual. I feel the flesh of his fingers pinched between my teeth, and that's when he hits me; he hits me hard enough on my head to shut me up. I'm feeling dazed, but when I finally get a look at the man's face, I'm shocked.
"Peter?"
"Shut up! Just shut the fuck up! You want to humiliate me on Facebook live and then ignore all of my calls for a week? Well, I'll show you what I'm going to do about that!"
The look in his eyes is one of pure rage and a battered ego. I'm also surprised at his strength. He was never one to work out much, and I attributed his soft body to weakness, but he's stronger than I anticipated. It's shocking, really. Without saying another word, he brings his hands around my neck and squeezes. I place my hands on top of his, trying to pry them loose, but it's not working. I can feel myself running out of breath and in a tiny voice I manage to squeak, "You're hurting me, stop!"
And just when my entire world starts to fade to black, he stops. I can't believe it. I open my eyes just in time to see another man between us now. He's big-tall, muscular, and broad shouldered. He's not the kind of guy you want to fuck with, and I watch as his fist crashes into Peter's face, breaking his nose.
"If I ever see you around here again, I'll fucking kill you," he growls, clenching Peter by the collar of his shirt, and when he lets go, Peter turns around and runs, not bothering to look back.
"Are you okay?" the man asks.
As he looks down at me, I get the vague feeling that I know him from somewhere. I'm rubbing my throat and besides being emotionally rattled, I'm fine. "I want to thank you-what you did-most people wouldn't get involved, but you saved my life." When I finish talking, I look into the man's eyes again, and I realize where I know those intense icy blues from-the cab ride from the club.
"Wait … I've seen you somewhere," I say. "You're the guy who tried to steal my cab outside of the club the other night."
"It was an emergency. I don't normally jump into other people's cabs."
"Look, I appreciate your help but I have to go."
"Wait. I'd like to take you to dinner, I-"
"I'm sure you're a nice guy and all, but I hope you'll understand that I'm in no mood to be setting up a dinner … not after my ex-boyfriend just tried to murder me."
"Forget him. He no longer matters. Just say yes."
I look at him-his eyes the color of perfect weather, his strong, broad shoulders, and gentle smile-and even though I'm feeling bruised and frazzled, and I promised myself I'd never go out on a date with a man who frequents a place like Scorcher's, I surprise myself and say yes.
66
Arsen
With a last look in the mirror I close the locker door and head out of the locker room at the New York Athletic Club. Sure, it's filled with the same fucking fancy people that I spoke to at the Met-some of these people are still scandalized that I'm in their precious little club of theirs. But guess what? I'm now worth at least $5 billion dollars. If I want to go around joining all the most exclusive clubs in Manhattan, I have the money to buy my way in. They don't. They're sitting on their piles of fucking reputation and fake integrity that's as hollow as a fucking clam shell. Probably got their house mortgaged five times over and a mountain of fucking debt. They're probably just hoping that they die before the bill comes due so everyone will at least think they're prosperous and dignified now. Who the fuck cares once they're dead, right?
Well, fuck that. I told you once before when I was with Yasmine at Scorcher's and I'm telling you again. I'm always going to be fucking honest with you. You may not like what I have to say or how I say it, but I don't give a fuck.
I hand my gym bag over to the attendant at the bar, who takes it to the cloakroom.
"I have a young lady who will be meeting me outside the Club," I tell the maître d and he nods and proceeds to go check.
That's right. I figured what better way to put Ashley at ease than by asking her to have a drink with me while we're surrounded by a bunch of rich old men. Oh right. Let me clue you in on a few things. Gorgeous Stripper from Scorcher's whom I rescued a few days back-her name is Ashley Lane. Used to work at Scorcher's but literally, it was her last day working on the first day I met her. Now she works at Simulated Pleasures as a phone sex operator. She has no fucking idea who I am or the fact I own the whole fucking thing. And honestly, I'm not in any mood to tell her.
Just seeing me in the gym would've made you laugh hysterically. There I was with my tattoos squatting hundreds of pounds. Benching the weight of some people. And these ancient men, with their big egos out in the real world just stared at my physique as they walked on a treadmill. Each of them looked at me jealously. And when I went to shower, I knew all eyes were on me. Well on me, and my fucking foot long pleasure stick. It dangled from my crotch like a sex snake.
If you're rolling your eyes at me thinking it's fucking lazy that I invited a girl to have a drink with me at my gym, then you can fucking stop. The New York Athletic Club is more than just a fucking gym. It's got 2 bars, 3 dining rooms, a drawing room, 3 libraries, hotel rooms to spend the night, and two formal ballrooms for events.
It's also got a swimming pool, gym, shooting range, and fucking art gallery. A fucking art gallery. So yeah, you could say that it might be a fucking nice place to take a girl on a date. Especially if it's a private fucking club that she normally wouldn't have admission to.
"Your lady friend is waiting in the lobby, Mr. Hawke," the maître d informs me and I nod my head and walk out toward the foyer. Yes, I'm hurrying. Because I want to fucking see her, okay? Told you I'm honest.
And Jesus fucking Christ, this girl does not fucking disappoint. She's standing there in a black dress that's tight without being indecent. It ends just above the knees. She's got stockings and black heels on. Her hair is made and she's got makeup on and it makes her look fucking sexy.
I feel my cock twitch just by looking at her fucking gorgeous body. The way those slender legs are holding up her frame. I want to suck them one at a time until she squeals. That waist. Fuck, that ass. The dress is just tight enough to hug her curvy ass and I want to take each ass cheek in each hand and fucking squeeze them. God fucking dammit. Those fucking tits. Her dress ends in a wraparound strapless top but it showcases those marvelous tits like nothing I've ever seen before.
"The way you're looking at me, its like you've forgotten what I look like naked," she says to me with a smile as she walks up to me. She hesitates and I decide for her, leaning in and kissing her on the cheek. I can smell her perfume. It's intoxicating.
"It's like seeing you for the first time," I tell her. You notice what I did? I didn't fucking swear. See? I can be fucking civil if I need to.
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Mr. Hawke," she tells me with a teasing smile.
"Then what about vodka?" I ask, taking her hand and walking her into the bar that I came from. "Because this place makes the best dirty martinis in New York City."
Ashley gasps as she sees the interior. Yeah, this is how the fucking other half lives all right. The bar is fucking plush. The wood at the bar is polished to perfection.
And literally every fucking face turns to the two of us. To the son of the smut lord and the fucking gorgeous woman on his arm. Women stare at us hungrily, and their husbands look at me jealously. Fuck ‘em.