Mr. President 1(75)

38





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.
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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.”