Текст книги "Unmaking Marchant"
Автор книги: Ella James
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Unmaking Marchant
Love Inc. – 3
by
Ella James
Prologue
MARCHANT
NEW ORLEANS, LOUISIANA
SATURDAY, MARCH 17, 2007
The casket is gold. The color of the sun. The color of Marissa’s long, straight hair. I have the urge to open its lid, but that would be pointless. There’s nothing inside. Because there’s nothing left.
It’s my fault. I know that just as surely as I know my goddamned name, even though I didn’t kill her with my own two hands. I look down at them. They’re bloody hands. Blood is seeping from the broken knuckles.
Wonder how long before the cops catch up with me.
I run a fingertip over the lid of the sunshine casket. The crimson smear gleams in the lamplight like something precious. And all of a sudden, I want to see more of it. So much more of it.
I look around the small mortuary viewing room for something sharp. My hands are shaking with the need for it—the need to end it all right now. I could do it. The funeral director is in his office. I can hear him pecking on a keyboard.
I could do it right now. No one would know.
I’m in the perfect place for death, after all—and I deserve to die. Just ask Marissa.
I turn around slowly and stare at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on the left side of the room. So many books, and all the books so pointless. Like the casket, everything is pointless. Has always been pointless. Will always be pointless.
I try to push past the fuzziness inside my mind and think. Maybe I could use the glass on a frame to cut my wrists. I could even find the room where they embalm the bodies and use one of the knives. Whatever the way, I like the thought of dying here.
Right then, as if the gods ordain my thoughts, a letter opener pops out at me from among the books and trinkets. It’s long and brassy, pointed at the tip just like a dagger. It’s resting near the bottom of the bookshelf, right in front of a staunch, burgundy hardback called RESPECTING LIFE.
Even in my current state, I can appreciate the irony.
I step across the foot-worn rug and lift the cool brass gently off of its perch. I’m looking down at it, thinking how much duller it looks than the ones they use in movies to stab the villain, when the pecking stops.
The sweaty hair on the back of my neck tingles, like I just did a line of coke.
A second later, the double-doors burst open, and the cops pour in.
1
SURI
NAPA, CALIFORNIA
FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 2013
Dancing.
The last two hours of the Heels for Heaven charity gala are nothing but dancing.
That’s why Adam’s drinking tonight. At least, I guess that’s why. Since dinner ended and the dancing started, I’ve stuck to one side of the ballroom, while Adam has been burning up the other.
It wasn’t like this at galas past. Adam used to be a fabulous date. We would dance for hours, often commemorating our fun night by purchasing one of those cheesy dance floor snapshots: my head against his shoulder, Adam’s round face lit up in a huge grin as he spun me.
And then we would go home. My house. Adam’s condo. Maybe a hotel, if Adam was feeling dramatic and fun.
Where ever we landed, more often than not these last few years, trouble would start. I’d take care of Adam for hours as he lay on the bathroom floor, moaning and sweating. And in between bouts of being sick, he’d turn into someone mean; sometimes even cruel.
So, when he asked me to marry him a month ago, in a beautiful little ice cream shop in SOHO, I said yes—with a single stipulation: no more drinking.
Adam knows the extent of his issue—at least, I thought he did—because he didn’t even bat an eye before agreeing.
I was on cloud nine that night. Adam, my sweetheart since our high school days at Hargrove Day School, told me he was moving back from New York. Opening his own one-man literary agency in San Francisco so I can continue to grow my interior design business. And the ring he gave me…
A three-carat diamond surrounded by itty bitty fire opals. It’s so…me. Adam knows that. He knows everything about me.
So why is he on his sixth drink?
“You should just stop counting,” Charlene says.
Charlene is my cousin. Our moms are sisters. We’ve traded secrets since toddlerhood, and we enjoy one of those comfortable relationships where we’re able to pick back up after almost any length of time apart. Since I’ve chosen to keep Adam’s drinking a secret from everyone else I know—I don’t want people in our circle to judge him—I broke down tonight and told Charlene.
She’s a watercolor artist, and she’s jetting off to Sidney tomorrow afternoon for an extended showing, which is probably why I feel like I can confide in her. Unlike with my BFF, Lizzy DeVille—who’s currently in Vegas—or my other BFF, Cross, who’s in rehab after a major motorcycle accident, I won’t have to talk about the situation with Charlene again for months.
“I’m not counting,” I lie. “I was just…glancing over there.”
Charlene scrunches her long, straight nose. “He must know you’re pissed; he hasn’t looked at you once in the last half-hour.”
“Thanks, Char.”
She slaps my back, bared by the low dip of my black, Swarovski-accented Atelier Versace gown. “Just stating the facts, cuz.”
Maybe it isn’t six drinks. Maybe it’s only four or five. I tried very hard to not pay attention when he first started, so I could be off.
I glance at Charlene, who’s waving her arm around in front of my face. “What did you just say?”
“I said, when’s the wedding?” She tosses back some pinot grigio while wiggling her pale eyebrows.
“Oh, that. I’m not sure yet. I’ll let you know when we decide.”
“I will be flying home for it, wherever I happen to be,” she says, leaning against the wall behind her.
I wrap my arm around her tall, lean form, hugging lightly. “Thanks, Char. That really means a lot to me.”
She flashes me a thumbs-up, and seconds later, James Renfroe, from Charlene’s class at Hargrove—two years ahead of me—struts over and jerks her into a funky waltz.
He winks at me and says, “You’re next, Dalton,” and then they’re off, crisscrossing the shiny hardwood floor, weaving between more mild-mannered couples.
As I follow them with my eyes, I catch a glimpse of Adam. Regardless of how many drinks he’s had so far, he’s definitely tossing back another one just now.
I lean against the wall and grit my teeth. I don’t get it. I picked him up from his townhouse tonight, and we had a nice time together on the ride here. True, we haven’t seen each other for a week and a half—Adam isn’t moving back to Cali for five weeks—but that seemed to make our time together better. Lots of snuggling and kissing. He seemed into it. I know I was.
Dinner was good, too: chicken breast saltimbocca, served with Anson Mills farro verde, organic bloomsdale spinach, La Quercia prosciutto, artichoke "chips" and a caper jus. We sat with the Davidsons and the Blancs, and it was easy-going and fun. I told a funny story about a San Francisco zoo fundraiser where a baby elephant knocked an aging socialite on her butt, and Adam seemed amused. He rested his hand on my knee under the table and gave me several just-for-Suri smiles.
And then the dancing started. I went to the ladies’ room to adjust my tape-on bra cups, and when I got back, Adam was chatting up one of his college buddies and holding a glass of wine. I stuck around for a few minutes, saying “hi” to his friend, assuming Adam was only holding the drink for appearances. But then two more of Adam’s buddies showed up, and he downed the first drink and a second in the space of five minutes. That was an hour and a half ago. Shortly thereafter, Charlene popped up, and I’ve been on this side of the room ever since.
The next hour passes in a miserable blur as I try to listen attentively to Charlene’s Sidney plans. I dance a few times with various acquaintances and watch as Adam does the same, on the opposite side of the room. I watch him smile and laugh, animated and open, and I wonder what on earth his problem is. Does he plan to ignore me this way all night? People have surely noticed. Even worse, we said no drinking! Not because I’m a buzz-killing fiancé, but because Adam has a problem.
I’m on my second wine chute, wishing I could be like Adam and toss back five more in the next five minutes, when I see him gliding through the crowd. He stops to talk a few times, throwing his head back so his fluffy brown hair gleams in the dim globe lights. Smiling that handsome smile that makes him look so affable, so kind.
He strolls past a large, potted palm, smiling at me like nothing whatsoever is wrong, and when he’s close enough so I can smell his cologne, he holds out his hand.
“A dance, my lady?”
I bite my lip, barely succeeding at holding back my tears. “Adam…I want to go.”
“Home?” He bows lavishly at the waist, like an old-fashioned butler. “Then home it is.”
He holds his arm out. I don’t want to make a scene, so I thread my hand through it, and together we walk to the club’s valet room, where we stand in silence until one of the valets tells us the limousine is outside at the curb.
Adam leads me out the side door, down three brick steps to the curb line, and I can smell the alcohol on him.
My fingers burn holes in his worsted wool dinner jacket—one I’ve never seen. One he must have picked up in New York. And it occurs to me, as my body presses into his, that for the first time ever, I feel like I don’t know him.
The club valet, Mark, opens the limousine’s door for us. Adam waves his arm and I climb in, holding my gown so I don’t snag or step on it. I settle on the far side of the limo, near the window, my clutch in my lap and my body language clearly telling him to stay the hell away. Adam hops in behind me, lithe and seemingly sober. But he’s not fooling me. He gives Mark a little wink, and moves to close the door without handing out a tip.
“Hold on,” I tell him. I reach across Adam, holding my arm out as a placeholder, and when Adam pauses, confused, I pull a twenty dollar bill out of my clutch.
“Thank you,” I tell Tom, handing him the cash.
“Have a wonderful evening.” He smiles and gently shuts the door.
I’m opening my mouth to say something to Adam—I’m not sure what, but something—when he leans back his seat, kicks his feet up on the partition, and gives me a silly grin. “Thanks, G.”
I sink back into my seat and roll my eyes at my window. Really? “G”?
I feel the lurch of the car as Arnold takes off down the long, winding driveway, and I shut my eyes. I replay our conversation that night at Banana Beau's. Am I insane? Didn’t I tell him no more drinking?
As I wrack my brain, Adam’s clammy hand finds mine. I peek my eyes open, and of course, he can tell I’m irritated.
His thick eyebrows draw together, an exaggerated, drunken expression of concern. “What’s the matter, baby?” His pungent breath wafts over my face.
I’m not even sure where to start. I slide my hand out of his and drop my head into my palms. Maybe he forgot our agreement? Or did he simply start drinking because his old friends were there? Maybe he wanted to look ‘normal’? If he can’t withstand the pressure to drink around two men he rarely ever sees, he’s not going to be able to honor this agreement of ours.
Well, obviously.
I think of the last time Adam and I went to a party—the Napiers' spring swing dance. We decided to stay at Adam’s townhouse afterward. When I dared suggest Adam strip his vomit-covered clothes off and shower without—gasp—having sex first, he called me a bitch, and later that night, he called me a stupid whore.
“What’s wrong?” he asks again.
I tremble with anger, but I keep my mouth pressed firmly closed. If he doesn’t know, I’m not about to tell his drunken self.
His head falls on my shoulder, and he looks up at me through his eyelashes. “Don’t be mad at me, Sur. We’re gonna have a good night. You’ll see.”
I can’t tell exactly how drunk he is, but it doesn’t matter. He drank, and we said he wouldn’t.
“I’m not so sure about that,” I mumble, shaking him off me and scooting closer to the door.
I take a few deep breaths, gathering my patience. Preparing to discuss this whole drinking thing before Arnold gets much closer to my house, so if it turns into a fight, I can have him drop Adam off at Adam’s townhouse.
I’m about to broach the subject when Adam leans over, opens up the mini fridge embedded in the partition wall in front of us, and pulls out a bottle of my favorite Aubert Pinot Noir.
He dangles it in front of my face. “Want to half it with me? Your favorite, baby.”
“Of course not.” I glare at him. “Do you have selective amnesia?”
He drops the wine into his lap and puts on his petulant, I-know-I-messed-up-and-now-I-can’t-hide-from-it face as he makes another grab for my hand. I snatch it into my lap, setting my gaze on the partition in front of me. “Baby, I’m sorry. I won’t do it again. I didn’t have too much. I just needed…to loosen up, you know? You know how my social anxiety is.”
Which is why I keep suggesting that he find himself a therapist.
I don’t look at him. Not now, and not during the next fifteen minutes of our drive to Crestwood Place. I realize, belatedly, as we roll down my driveway, that Arnold brought Adam here, when I should have asked him to please take Adam home. I don’t want to talk to Adam anymore tonight.
My eyes sting with tears as the limo stops, and I glance at him. He acts like such a child sometimes. How can I marry him if he’s not willing to grow up? How can he really love me if he doesn’t care enough about the drinking issue to just stop? Especially since he calls me ugly names when he gets drunk. My parents don’t do that. Neither do my friends. Until Adam started drinking a lot, no one—no one—had ever called me any name.
I don’t deserve that—right?
I think again about something my mother once told me: Most people never really change, and after marriage, bad habits tend to get worse.
Adam is leaning over his lap, with one elbow propped on his knee and his face in his hand, like he’s upset. He hasn’t touched the wine, but does that even matter? A tear spills down my cheek as I remember all the names he’s called me during drunken moments—whore, bitch, cunt: things he would never call me when he’s sober, but he’s said them enough times when he’s drunk that I’m convinced he’s always thinking them.
How can I marry someone who thinks that I’m a cunt?
And isn’t that a nasty little word?
I imagine my father’s face. I would bet millions that he’s never, ever called my mother a cunt. Even “bitch” seems hard to imagine coming from his lips. It should be unfathomable for Adam, too. What’s wrong with him that it isn’t? Or is it something wrong with me?
Am I a cunt?
I’m not, right?
Most people who know me think I’m nice. I have my moments, sure, but so does everyone.
I remember slamming the door of Adam’s town house last time he drank. “If you name-call me again, I’m leaving you! I really am!”
Then he proposed and promised to quit.
I can no longer ignore my suspicion that he’s been drinking in New York, too. Like, maybe almost every night. What happens when he moves to Napa? When we live together? I can’t do this all the time!
As if he hears my thoughts, Adam raises his head and blinks at me.
“Adam,” I say, “you need to go home. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
I expect contrition. Understanding. Instead, his eyes widen like I’ve slapped him. His shoulders square, and he reaches out to grab my elbow. “No way, baby. I want to get in the pool.”
I frown. “You what?”
“Skinny dipping. It’s your fantasy.” He grins. “I’m feeling loose tonight. I think I can do it.”
Adam’s so uptight, he’s never been willing to take a naked swim with me, not even when we’ve been the only ones at home.
“Lizzy’s gone now,” he says. “This is our night.” He kisses the top of my hand. “Last night drinking. I fucking swear. I love you, baby. We can stop going to parties if we have to. I’ll make the therapist appointment. Just let me swim with your fine self.”
I struggle not to roll my eyes; then Adam kisses me gently on the lips. Despite the overwhelming scent of alcohol, I don’t pull away when his arms wrap around me. He pulls me close to his chest—a signature Adam move that always makes me feel safe and sheltered—and for a long second, I can tell myself that he’s my Adam. The guy I started dating in ninth grade. The one who could barely get a condom over himself when we lost it to each other in the fields behind Harvey Goldman's house.
I inhale his cologne and ignore the smell of the alcohol. I allow myself to ignore everything as he lifts me out of the limo and carries me around the back of my house. In the still of the night, I hear Arnold pull off, bound for the smaller, whitewashed house where he and the cook and my security guard have rooms.
The egg-shaped pool is crisscrossed by thousands of globe lights strung between the main house and the garden house. Tonight, the stars twinkle between them. It’s beautiful.
“Adam,” I say as he sets me gently on the pale tile. He looks down at me, and I wrap my arms around his neck and look at his familiar face. “It really hurt me that you did this after you promised you wouldn’t.”
I stare into his eyes, looking for some hint—any hint—that he gets it. That he understands why I’m upset.
He takes a step away from me and hangs his head, looking back up after a long moment staring at the Salvatore Ferragmo calfskin leather shoes I got him for his birthday. “I understand, Suri. I guess…I have a problem. Maybe I need to try AA or something.”
Tension leaves me in a rush. I can feel my shoulders deflate like a popped balloon. “You’ll actually consider that?”
“I guess I have to.”
Yes!
I smile. I can’t help it. “Adam, thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”
“Anything for my girl.” He grins and steps close enough to kiss me quickly on the mouth, then starts stripping off his clothes.
My body temperature skyrockets. I can’t help it. Adam is lean and cut. I’m not very tall—only five-foot-four—so at five-foot-ten, he’s just my size. His blue eyes and mahogany hair look great with his naturally tanned skin. His grandmother is from Spain, and you can totally tell.
My mouth falls open when he tugs his boxers off, revealing a stiff erection.
“Ohh la la.” I giggle and step over to him, and Adam does a deft job getting me out of my dress and slip. He kisses down my neck and over my bare shoulders. A brisk breeze blows, causing chills to pop up on my skin. He tweaks my hard, round nipple, and I gasp.
“Bad boy…”
He kneels, thumbing me through my panties before he pulls them down and tosses them over his shoulder. He takes my hand and leads me to the stairs at the shallow end of the heated pool. Steam drifts off the water, and I watch as it laps against Adam’s knees, then thighs, then hips. He’s submerged up to his chest when he turns and tugs me in behind him.
I sink down to my shoulders, glad my hair is swept up off my neck as I twirl around. It feels exquisite.
I look over at Adam. He’s up to his pecs now, smiling a sweet smile, looking soft and attentive: the nice drunk he’s never been.
“Come here baby.” He holds his arms out, and my eyes fly to a bruise on his left shoulder, thinking for a second that he’s finally gotten the tattoo I always fanaticize about.
Oh, well.
I step over to him, running my wet fingers through his hair and tugging his lips down on mine. As I do, I press my naked body against his and Adam groans a little.
“Baby… Oh yeah.”
He starts kissing down my neck, just the way I like it. He kisses my collar bone and down my breast to my nipple, which he teases with his teeth. Through my haze of lust, I tell myself I’m not going to let his drinking ruin things for us. He’ll go to AA. He did better tonight. He drank a lot in a brief time period and he’s not calling me names.
One of his hands cups me in the water and he slides a finger in. I gasp, wriggling against him.
“You naughty, naughty boy.”
I find him, too, stroking him as he moans.
He jerks out of my grasp, lifts me in his arms and presses my back against the side of the pool, lifting my legs so he can find my center. He spreads my lips, stroking twice before he takes himself in hand, and, holding onto the side of the pool, pushes inside of me.
It’s supposed to feel good in the water, but I know after a couple of strokes it doesn’t. I feel stretched too tight, and it stings.
He begins to thrust a little harder, kissing my mouth and stroking my neck with one hand as the other holds my hips.
“Oh, yeah…”
I bite my tongue, trying to get used to the sensation, but the pinching feeling just gets worse.
“Adam,” I gasp. I push against his shoulder. “Stop, it hurts.”
His eyes open, as he continues pumping. “Stop?”
“I’m really sorry, but it hurts.”
He pulls out and lets go of me. I sink into the water while he spins around. “Damnit, Suri. This is bullshit!”
A shiver sweeps me as the wind blows. I wrap my arms around myself and hope he’s just being a frustrated guy. This is my fantasy, after all. Something he’s never felt comfortable doing. And I just shot him down.
Shoving my worries aside, I put on my sexy face and beckon him closer, curling my finger in a come-hither motion as the water laps around my shoulders. “Come here,” I tell him, trying not to shiver as the breeze picks up. When he gets close enough, I’m going to grab his dick.
But he doesn’t come. Instead, he turns around, running his hands roughly through his hair. “Jesus, you sure know how to kill a buzz.”
“Come here, Adam.” When he doesn’t, I grab his bicep and turn him around. I grab his dick with one hand, stroking as my mouth finds his. He kisses me back roughly. Almost painfully, as if he’s trying to bruise my lips. I try not to say “ow”—I don’t want to put a damper on our sex life, especially when we only get to indulge several times a month—but he keeps it up, kissing so hard my teeth are almost cutting into my mouth, then moving down my neck and biting. Not sexy biting; real biting.
I can’t help it. I push his shoulders. “Adam, stop!”
He shoves one wet hand into my hair, wrapping a strand around his fingers. “Come on, it’s been a fucking week or maybe more.”
He grabs my hips and pulls me closer to him, easing me toward the side of the pool again. Lifting me up, so the deck is digging into my back. Putting my legs atop his shoulders. He strokes my thigh and licks me twice, then pulls me abruptly back down into the water and enters me again.
Again, it stings. I’m not sure why. I close my eyes and try to loosen up, but eventually I have to squirm away. I push against him, looking up into his dazed eyes. “Adam, I’m really sorry. It just hurts.”
He gives me a weird look, almost a sneer. It’s not a look I see on him often, so I’m not sure what it means. He laughs a little. “Don't you want to be a good wifey?”
The comment is so ridiculously sexist and entitled, I can't believe it came from Adam's mouth. I’m so disgusted, I almost want to hit him. Instead, I splash him.
“You’re being a jerk, just like you said you wouldn’t be.” I take a few steps back, already glancing at the stairs. There are no towels out here, but I don't care. All I want is to get inside, away from Adam and his issues.
Adam splashes me back, spraying water in my face. As I blink at him through my smeared mascara, I find he looks legitimately pissed off, as if I’m the one who’s ruined our night.
“Fuck you,” he mutters.
My jaw drops. I throw up my arms, shocked although I shouldn’t be. “This is what you always do! You have a drinking problem, Adam!”
“Fuck you,” he says again.
“Don’t talk to me that way!”
He sneers. “I’ll do what I want. You can’t blame me. You’re being a cock tease, Suri.”
“And you can get out of my house!” I splash him one more time, because I’m furious, then wheel around and splash my way toward the stairs. Unable to just go, I turn around to find him standing there, still as stone. “You need to get a handle on yourself and grow up!”
I hustle onto the bottom stair, then up the second one, and am holding onto the railing, poised to take a third step, when Adam’s hand closes around my left wrist. He doesn’t yank me, but he grabs me with enough force that I lose my footing.
I try to take another step and lunge out of the pool, but of course he’s got me by the arm, so I slip.
When I wake up, I’m lying on my back on the pool deck. My mouth is filled with blood, and one of my bottom teeth is embedded in my gum.
Adam is sorry, but I don’t care.
That’s the night I give the ring back.
* * *
MARCHANT
LAS VEGAS, NEVADA
FRIDAY, MARCH 15, 2013
I wish Rachelle would quit blowing up my phone. I should be grateful that she’s calling me rather than tromping over from the main house and banging on my front door—but I’m not. Not at all.
I toss the phone onto the mattress and drop my head down on my pillow. Close my eyes. Try to get back to the peaceful nothingness I was drifting through.
Sometime later, I sit up, because I can’t.
Of course I can’t.
Seven years, and it never gets easier.
Sorrow flows through me like poison. Sorrow and sickness. Sorrow and sickness and disgust and horror—and regret. So, so much regret.
Even with my eyes open, staring at the framed ace of spades on my bedroom wall, I see her. What she might look like now. The color of her hair…her eyes.
I look down at my bare chest, at the script along the lower left side of my ribcage, crawling vertically up me, just above my hip to just below my heart.
March 15, 2007.
It’s March 15 today, and it can’t be over soon enough.
I lean over, grab my phone, and shoot Rachelle a text: Got the flu; pretend you’re me. You have carte blanche, woman. Use it.
Hoping the text seems “normal,” I sag back against my army of maroon pillows. Let my eyes drift shut. Enjoy the way that gravity drags down on me, keeping me from moving. I don’t want to move.
Except the fucking phone is ringing again, and it’s not the Icona Pop ringtone Rachelle attached to her name. I grab the thing, flopping onto my back and holding it up over my face. Libby.
I press the fuck you button. Drop my arm on my chest. The phone vibrates when she leaves a message. Second one today.
I wonder dully about the likelihood that she’ll hunt me down. Then, from the depths of my cloudy memory comes a convenient bit of information: Libby is leaving for France on Friday, to visit her daughter.
Friday is today.
How long will she be gone?
Two weeks? Four?
I sit up again and rub my blood-shot eyes. I can’t remember.
That should make me concerned. I should hear alarm bells peeling from somewhere through the fog. But I don’t. Because I just can’t seem to make myself care. About anything. And least of all, me.
I slide my tired ass off the bed and walk slowly to my bathroom, where I open the medicine cabinet and remove several unlabeled bottles of prescription pills: my dirty little secret. I pour one bottle into the palm of my hand and stare at all the little round, white tablets. I wonder how many swallows it would take to choke all of them down.
Since I’ve forbidden drop-bys to my garden house behind the three main Love Inc. buildings, it’d probably be a while before I was found. I’m the one in charge here. I’m the boss. No one would defy me. Not because I’m an ass (although I can be). It’s because they’re all so goddamn well-paid. I’ve learned the best way to ensure loyalty is with lots of the green stuff; everybody at Love Inc. ranch is very loyal.
I’m still staring at my hand when the doorbell rings.
I roll my eyes and toss the pills into the toilet.
It rings again.
Go away, Libby. I’m not gonna answer you today.
I sigh and find my phone. Type out a text. Got the flu. Hook up next week? Skype?
Even finding the question mark key on my phone is so fucking wearying.
I hit ‘send’, then grab the other two bottles and empty them into the toilet.
This shit is over. It’s not working anymore. I need something else.
A good lay, maybe, or a game of blackjack. A fucking drink. Maybe something a little bit stronger just to pick me up.
And that’s how I end up at Tao, in the back room with the high rollers, gambling away two million dollars I don’t exactly have.
That’s also how I end up snorting a couple lines of coke and fucking twins named Elise and Elsbeth.
I feel on top of the world by the time I’m zipping up my pants. When that little fucking twerp Rex Hawkins finds me outside the men’s room and asks for what I owe him, I don’t give a shit. I laugh and tell him, “Later. I’ve gotta move the funds from the money market.”
The money is there; it’s just hard to get to. I give him one of my business cards, the little red ones with the sexy Love Inc. logo.
“You need it sooner, come to my place.” It’s a challenge, and he knows it.
I barely even feel it when one of his thugs smashes his fist into my face.
I’m up again. I’m back in business. The clock just struck midnight.
March 16.
