I didn’t want to contact Trevelyan over this, because if Rhode had managed to act with professionalism with his people, then I’d be stirring shit that had yet to be thrown. But if I didn’t get in touch with him and the bitch had fucked things up for us, then I needed to instigate damage control.
Because Kirkland was the spin doctor in the room, I pointed my finger at him and snapped, “Talk our way out of this one, John.”
He grimaced. “Rhode, have you said anything at all that might indicate you—”
“Are homophobic?” I inserted gruffly, watching as, with another grimace, he cleared his throat.
“Well, yes.”
“I haven’t spoken to his people since this entire mess began,” was her retort, one that came complete with a sniff. “Cassandra’s been dealing with them. I’ve been far too busy working on the campaign. What with the changes to the original launch, it’s been a nightmare.” Her eyes narrowed at me, and though she didn’t say a word, I knew she was thinking it. Knew she was tossing in slurs left and right.
If a woman was capable of talking with her eyes, she’d just turned the air blue around us all, gassing us with her poison.
Her attitude was enough to make me want to wring her neck.
Especially now I knew what she was capable of.
This woman wasn’t just a narcissist, wasn’t simply a shark in business, she was dangerous.
And blood had already been shed because of her.
Constrained by labor laws and the fact that she could afford to sue us if we didn’t have a watertight reason for firing her ass, my hands were tied. But the knots were beginning to unravel.
Before the year was out, I’d be hauling her out of the building myself.
That was a fucking promise.
Eight
Devlin
A few hours later
Still agitated from my Veep meeting earlier, I plucked at my bottom lip as I stared into my vanity mirror, pondering if I could be arsed shaving or not.
I had no real desire to do it, didn’t even feel like showering, not when I could still smell him on me.
Him.
Micah.
Lemongrass and citrus.
Maybe it was stupid to think I could smell him in the air around me when he’d left my office eight hours ago, but I thought I could.
Or maybe I wished it.
In twenty minutes, a new squeeze of mine was supposed to darken my door.
Emma.
Big tits, blond hair that streamed down to her ass, a face like a porcelain doll... she looked like a genteel porn star. At least, she had the figure for it.
I couldn’t be the only guy who looked at a person and thought about their facial expressions when they came, could I?
If they were quiet or loud, rough or timid.
Her abilities in the sack, I had a feeling, wouldn’t live up to Emma’s body.
I bet she was too busy worrying about whether her ass looked tight or if she needed to squeeze in her stomach to actually orgasm.
The prospect wasn’t enticing.
Which was why I wasn’t sure if I should bother shaving or not.
A woman’s hopes in a date could be revealed in whether or not she shaved her legs—front and back. Mine rested with my chin because having a model bitching at me over stubble rash was annoying. For whatever reason, the Astleys didn’t lose their hair even into their seventies, and their beard made an appearance about two hours after a grooming session—such was my fate.
Of course, fate had more cruelty in mind for me than just an unnatural attachment to my razor. True vindictiveness on a serendipitous level came in the form of an irate Brazilian model with a bigger ass than she had a brain.
Naturally, Carolina’s mental acuity hadn’t been of much interest when I’d decided to date her. That ass was what had interested me in the first place…
A fact she was taking advantage of because my phone buzzed, and a picture flashed up of said booty.
Complete with a shot of her pussy too.
Cartier obviously hadn’t worked its magic on Carolina. Apparently, she wanted more. Undoubtedly a wedding ring... ha. As if.
If I had to marry, it would be to an Englishwoman who understood that noblesse o-goddamn-blige still existed. Someone who was well at ease with being lady of the manor, even if I never visited the damn manor in the first place.
The thought had me frowning and I stopped playing with my bottom lip, stopped staring at my beard in the mirror, and left my phone on the vanity—there was nothing of interest on there anyway.
Heading out of the bathroom, I wandered into the hall and directly down to the living room.
There, I ignored the grandeur of my Park Avenue penthouse, veering directly to the wet bar. I held a lot of parties, so this took up the entire back length of the space, and had enough alcohol to make a bodega look understocked.
I grabbed a particularly nice vermouth, poured myself a shot into a glass that sparkled when I held the crystal tumbler in the light, and savored the rich aniseed as it blossomed on my tongue. The pale honey-colored liquid held no answers to my conundrum.
A quandary I had no desire to really resolve, because if I resolved it, there’d be repercussions.
Repercussions I couldn’t deal with right now. Maybe not ever.
The thought had me frowning into my drink.
Emma would be here soon.
If I wanted her to, she’d drop to her knees and suck me off much as Micah had. But I still had him on me. And I didn’t want her to clean that up.
There was my issue.
I couldn’t want a man.
They were for the night—for the dark. A secret. My secret. When I was stressed, exhausted, overwhelmed, to VICE I’d go, and that was where I could accept some hard truths about myself.
As well as accept some hard other things...
I wasn’t gay.
I just liked variety.
At least, that was what I’d told myself all my life, preferring not to think about how whenever I was down, I always sought out a guy to fuck away my troubles. I had a dozen women on speed dial, each of them booty calls that would drop everything—not their knickers because they rarely wore them in my presence—to fuck me.
Leaving my penthouse, heading into a club, putting myself in danger... none of it was necessary. But I still did it.
Every time.
The thought was a prompt I didn’t need.
Heading over to the landline which was propped on a side table over by the windows, I picked it up, leaned against the molding as I looked out onto the park. It was a miserable day, still so molten hot that I didn’t understand why anyone was sitting on the grass. As if this was enjoyable.
Insanity, that was what it was.
The dial tone rang a few times before it connected.
“Again already?” He heaved a sigh. “I’ll be around to take some bloodwork in the morning. You really need to put me on a retainer. It’d be cheaper.”
My nose crinkled. “I prefer to pay over the odds for discretion.”
“What, rather than have me go to the National Enquirer to tell them that the owner of Astley Publishing has a fetish for going bareback in gay clubs? I’m sure that would sell like hot cakes.”
I’d known Jeff Michaels since Eton, so even though his words were aggressive, I didn’t take them to heart. He was a doctor, a damn good one, and while he wasn’t my personal doctor, I used him for these little contretemps.