Chapter One
Trevor
“Just another fucked up day in paradise,” I mumble, walking out of my lavish eighty-two hundred square foot beachfront palace overlooking the crystal-clear beaches of the Tampa Bay shores. The sarcasm of my statement dripping with bullshit as I jump into my Aston Martin One-77 and speed off. Weaving through the sunny Florida rush hour traffic, I manage to avoid hitting a pedestrian chasing after a dog running across the street. It wasn’t just luck, though. It’s because numbers are my thing. My brain is fucked up. Constant numbers, calculations. Formation of fractions, equations. Shit, I can go on and on. Science of patterns. My brain never sleeps.
Math is in fucking everything. Orderliness, balance, logic—all the shit I need to do my job. All the mental traits it takes to live.
Therefore, when my brain doesn’t sleep, I don’t sleep.
Picture that cartoon figure walking with the constant bubble above his head figuring out equations. Got it? That’s me. Math prodigy.
I pull into the underground parking lot of my company, Four Fathers Freight, and park in my reserved spot. The one that says Owner. I’m tempted to have maintenance change it to Motherfuckin’ Owner, because when you’re the boss, you can do whatever the fuck you want. But I’m just one of four—four powerful men who created an empire.
I jump out of my car, grab for my phone, and lock her. Yeah, she’s a her. Because she purrs like a kitten in heat when I get her up to a hundred in less than sixty seconds. I wish some of the women I brought home purred as nice as she did. That thought reminds me of one of three voicemails I have sitting on my phone. Some of many fires I have to put out today.
Entering the private entrance, I press my open palm up to the scanner, accessing the elevator designed just for the seventieth floor. When the ding notifies me the ride’s over, it opens just in time for me to witness the usual fucked up shit I try to avoid.
“Morning,” I grumble as Levi Kingston, one of the partners, makes a half ass effort to pull himself away from our receptionist without bothering to remove his hand from her thigh.
Of course, the asshole just smiles at me. “Ahhh, in early I see,” he says, bringing his predatorial eyes back to the girl, not caring he just got caught breaking a shit ton of employment regulations. Not that everyone else in this fucking company doesn’t break rules. It seems as if I’m the only levelheaded one around here when it comes to women. Simply because I stay the fuck away from them.
A reminder of the second message sitting on my phone I have to deal with.
I step forward, allowing the receptionist to hand me the mail. “Good morning, Mr. Blackstone. I forwarded all the calls that came in over the weekend to your personal line,” she stutters, her nerves getting the best of her. Good to know she at least realizes fraternizing with her boss is frowned upon in the workforce.
“Trev, we were just discussing a company team builder. What do you say, a work party at one of your beachfront properties?” I look at Levi, surprised he’s even sitting on her desk. I haven’t seen a wrinkle in his top-of-the-line suit since the day I met him. Two hundred and twelve seconds have passed since I’ve walked into the office, and with the tilt of his lean, add on the abrasion to the fabric, he’s creating seven creases in his pants, three in his suit coat, and one in my forehead at the lawsuit when our admin learns all the heavy shit he’s into and screams assault.
“I’ll have to check to see what’s available. Got work to do.” Waving them off, I head to my office, shut the door, and throw myself into my leather chair. With a swift twist, I face toward the wall of glass windows and stare out into the water.
I love the fucking water.
It’s why I moved to Tampa. Why I forced Eric Pearson, my best friend and partner, to start up Four Fathers here and not in New York. I handle all numbers for the company. I’ve handled them since back in college when starting Four Fathers was just an idea Eric and I conjured up one night while drinking expensive bourbon his father sent for him passing yet another class with flying colors. Little does his rich asshole father know, it was me taking those tests.
I watch a few surfers hit the water, wishing I was on the other side of the glass not dealing with bullshit at work, when my phone alerts me to a new voicemail. Looking at the missed number, a small sigh of relief floods through me. One good thing: my realtor. Hopefully she locked down the last property on Flanders Bay—the last house on the mile-long oceanfront subdivision I don’t own.
First things first, I listen to the voicemail that’s been sitting in my inbox since late last night. I know this isn’t gonna be pretty. I press play, and close my eyes, waiting for the bitching to begin.
“Trevor, this is Susan. You know, the one you blew off tonight, you fucking prick! I waited for almost three hours for you. Hope you choke on your own dick, loser!”
Pretty much what I expected to hear. Maybe I should call her back and tell her she should update her fucking photo on her dating site so her future dates know she looks more like a cow than a high school varsity cheerleader. Christ. Then, when I got to the restaurant last night after unwillingly being set up by my ex, perhaps I wouldn’t have walked right out after seeing what a hot mess she was. I don’t know what it is with women and Botox nowadays. The sight of her lips didn’t turn me on. They fucking scared me. The image of her suffocating my poor cock with those gigantic things had me turning around and running south.
This leads me to the second voicemail. The call I missed this morning from Darlene, my ex. I wish that bitch would stop meddling in my life by trying to set me up on blind dates with women who look like lab experiments. I take a deep breath and hit play.
“Trevor, what the fuck? I just got off the phone with Susan and she told me you blew her off last night! She’s a great gal. Gives great head, from what I hear. You need to start dating, Trev. It’s not good for our son to see you always so closed off. Bringing home random girls doesn’t set a good example for him. Anyway, call her. I think she’d be willing to reschedule. Kiki and I give our love. See you Sunday!”
My dick and I both say no thank you to the reschedule. And Kaden, our son, is almost twenty-one and away at college. He’s old enough to mind his own business. If anyone should be worried about our son, it’s her and the way she swapped for the other team.
Yeah, that’s right. Darlene, after twenty-one years of marriage, went through a midlife crisis, took off to Vegas one day, and came home weeks later in love with a stripper. Female stripper. I thought it was just a phase. I let her ride it out—or ride out the chick twenty years younger she was experimenting with. I told myself I would back off while she snapped out of it. I was always so damn busy with work, I could understand. She was just lonely. Needed the affection. I was glad it wasn’t another dude. It was actually hot, I thought. But then, one night, I was drunk as a skunk and came home to them on the couch eating each other out like fucking carnivores. Tried to get in the middle of that, and her lover punched me in the dick while Darlene just cried, telling me she wanted a divorce.
So, while I ended up with a really sore dick and blue balls, they ended up with my house, alimony, and partial custody of our son.
It’s been five years, so my balls have recovered, but I’m not sure my dick has. When your wife leaves you for a woman, you start to wonder what was so wrong with the big guy in the first place. I wasn’t a cheater or a beater. I didn’t verbally abuse her or step out on her. I may have been absent for a lot of our marriage, but that’s what came with being on top. I worked twenty-four hours a day, and she wanted for nothing. Well, apparently, what she wanted was more pussy in her life.