by Amy Brent
Kyle got to his feet and stuck out his right hand. “Thanks for doing business with Cassidy Event Management, Mr. Patron. We hope you have a very successful event and a lovely day.”
“Fuck you,” I said, pushing out of the chair and walking to the door. O’Shit grunted at me as I walked past him. He reeked of cigar smoke and cheap cologne.
“Oh, Nicky, I almost forgot,” Kyle said. “I have an invitation for you.” He handed a white envelope to O’Shit who handed it to me.
“What’s this?” I asked, holding up the envelope, which had my name embossed on the front in gold leaf.
“A VIP invitation to the charity benefit my parents are holding tonight at the Ritz,” he said, lowering himself back into the chair. “Wounded vets or sick kids or something like that. My mom asked me specifically to give it to you.” He gave me a condescending smile. “For some reason, she likes you. Or more to the point, she likes your money.”
I wanted to tear the invitation into a hundred pieces and shove them down his throat, but I tucked it inside my jacket instead and opened the door.
“Should I tell her you’ll be attending?” he asked, lacing his fingers together on the desk and leaning over them. “I know you’d hate to disappoint the old girl.”
“Will you be there, Kyle?” I asked. “With your pet gorilla?”
He chuckled and cut his eyes at O’Shit. “Fuck no. We’ve got better things to do.”
“Fine. Tell her I’ll come.”
CHAPTER THREE: Fiona
I paid the cabbie and stood on the sidewalk in front of The Haven Club for a moment to get my bearings. It was nearly midnight and it had been a very long day, but the adrenaline pumping through my body wasn’t going to let me sleep anytime soon. I was too keyed up to even think about sleep.
I was also still a little rattled and more than a little pissed off. The one thing I wasn’t was hurt. It was too late for hurt. I was hurt the first time I found out that Kyle was cheating on me. I was hurt the second time, the third, the fourth. Now, I wasn’t hurt. I was just pissed off. Not at him for cheating, but for fucking her in my home on my bed when he knew I would be there to catch him. He wanted me to walk in to find him fucking Wendy. He wanted me to see him committing adultery. I think he simply wanted to see the look on my face. I trusted the look of shock and disgust did not disappoint.
I also felt a huge sense of relief, mainly because our marriage was finally over. And it was over, make no mistake. No amount of begging and bribing and cajoling could convince me to stay. There would be no more pretending. No more putting on a brave face for his parents and our friends. No more keeping up appearances for the sake of the business and the Cassidy family reputation. No more smiling on the outside when I was dying on the inside. No more pretending to be happy when I was, even on the best of days, absolutely fucking miserable.
I had stayed married to Kyle for ten years not because I loved him, but because we had a mutually beneficially relationship. He liked having me on his arm and I liked spending his money. I liked living in a penthouse in the city. I liked have chauffeured limos drive me anywhere I needed to go. I liked having a house in the Hamptons and trips around the world. I liked having a humongous closet full of designer clothes, purses, and shoes. I liked having money to burn and the status that went with it. All it cost me was ten years of my life and most of my dignity.
I was basically a whore. A very expensive whore.
And now I wasn’t. And it felt amazing.
It was a warm fall night. The sky was clear and the air was crisp without being cold. I closed my eyes and lifted my nose to the sky and took a few deep breaths, letting them out slowly. The fresh air helped drive some of the tension out of my body. I was sure alcohol would drive out the rest.
I heard a deep voice behind me. I turned to find a very large man in a black suit standing at the club’s front door. He was standing at parade rest with an earpiece in his right ear like a member of the Secret Service. You’d almost expect the president of the United States to be inside.
The Haven Club was a private establishment, like a country club in the heart of the city. Its members included many of the so-called social elite in the city; millionaires, billionaires, politicians, entrepreneurs, socialites, professional athletes, movie stars, maybe even a few Mafioso (according to Kyle).
The Cassidy family had held a membership for decades. Within the very private walls of the club was a small restaurant and bar with a dancefloor, a cigar bar for the men, a spa area for the women, several large party rooms, a business center, and supposedly several private rooms members could use for other things, should they be so inclined.
“Going in, Ms. Cassidy?” the doorman asked with one hand on the large oak door that had the words THE HAVEN CLUB engraved in small letters on a silver plaque. It was the only signage for the club. If you hadn’t known it was there, you might have never have noticed it.
“Yes, thank you,” I said, offering him a smile as he held open the door for me. There was a concierge stationed just inside the door, standing at a desk in a room smaller than my walk-in closet. The concierge was there to scan your membership card before allowing you entrance into the club through the locked door to his right. If you weren’t a member, you did not get in. Tonight, the concierge was an older man wearing a tuxedo and a curt smile. He looked a little ridiculous, standing behind the desk like a butler waiting to serve. He gave me a nod as I walked in the door.
“I’m afraid I don’t have my membership card with me,” I said, giving him a pitiful face. I found my driver’s license in my purse and showed it to him. “My name is Fiona Cassidy. I’m a member.”
“Of course, Mrs. Cassidy, just let me manually check you in,” he said, turning to the computer on the desk. His thin fingers flew over the keys. A page with my membership details and photo came up on the screen. He made a grand gesture of hitting the Enter key. The door buzzed and I heard the sound of a lock disengaging.
“Can you tell me if Mr. Patron is inside?” I asked before going through the door.
He tapped a few keys, then stood arrow straight and put his hands behind his back. “Yes, ma’am, Mr. Patron is in the bar. I believe he is waiting for you.”
* * *
I had heard Nick Patron’s name for years but had somehow never met him until earlier today. Mainly I’d heard what an arrogant asshole he was from Kyle and what a pussy hound he was from a few of my girlfriends who had supposedly been with him, or knew someone who supposedly had. Kyle calling someone else an arrogant asshole was beyond hypocritical, so I took everything he said with a grain of salt. The pussy hound accusations, however, came from some pretty reliable sources.
“Nicky Patron’s a fucking god in bed,” Patricia Weston said after supposedly spending a weekend with him in Atlantic City after some boxing match or something a few years ago. Patricia was a fifty-year-old society slut who only fucked hot younger guys and rich older men. Nick Patron was young and rich. She called him a “two-fer” as in two for the price of one. She gushed about Nick over Sunday brunch with me and a few other girls.
She said, “The guy has a body like chiseled marble and a cock that you can feel from your cunt to your throat. I’m telling you girls, if you ever get the chance to fuck Nicky Patron, DO IT!”
I had no idea who Nick Patron really was until that day. I Googled him later and found that he was not only rich, good looking, and the CEO of a company my husband often did business with, but was also connected to dozens of women; models, actresses, athletes, and a reality star named Sasha Smith who had taped herself having anal sex with Patron in a Vegas hotel room and posted the video on the internet for everyone to see.
I couldn’t resist watching. The video was jerky and grainy, shot with an iPhone in a dimly lit hotel room. Sasha was holding the camera while getting ass fucked, aiming it so that you could see her plump ass in the air over her shoulder and Nick Patron standing behind her. He had his fingers clenched into her ass and was r
amming his cock in and out of her. The girl gasped each time his cock went deep into her ass. I couldn’t tell if it was a gasp of pleasure or pain.
I paused the video to get a look at Nick’s body. I couldn’t see his cock of course (it wasn’t an x-ray, duh), but I could make out the shadow of his hard abs, the thick chest, and the round shoulders covered in tribal tattoos. His eyes were closed, his face serious, as if he was concentrating on holding back his orgasm until the girl was ready for him to cum. Considerate was the word that came to mind. I know, it was an odd thing to think while watching a guy buttfuck a girl. But he seemed… considerate.
It would be another year before I met Nick Patron. Odd that it would be on the same day that I decided to divorce my cheating piece of shit husband. Maybe it was just timing. Or coincidence. Or fate. Whatever the reason, the moment I saw him standing alone at the bar at the charity event, I had a feeling that we were destined to meet. And perhaps do other things.
I was working the ballroom, going from table to table drumming up donations for Kyle’s mom’s charity of the moment when I saw him standing at the bar. He was really tall, with broad shoulders that tested the seams of his black Armani suit. He was wearing a white shirt with a stiff collar and sky blue tie. His dark hair was cut short. His tanned face was clean shaven. Patricia was right: he looked like a god. He also looked like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he was at that moment.
He was leaning on the bar with one elbow and a drink in his hand. He looked like a magazine ad out of an old Esquire Magazine. I approached him from his blind side and ordered a glass of champagne. He either didn’t hear me or didn’t see the need to turn around. I was pretty sure he wasn’t there looking to get laid. Most likely he was just fulfilling a professional obligation to Kyle’s parents. I knew he wouldn’t be there on Kyle’s behalf unless it was to pound him in the ground. I could only assume that Nick Patron detested Kyle as much as Kyle detested him.
“You look a little bored,” I said. He didn’t respond at first, then slowly turned to face me. When our eyes met, his lips parted for a moment, then he smiled.
“Do I?” he asked. “I’m trying hard not to.”
“Well, maybe just a little,” I said coyly, batting my eyelashes at him. I held out my hand. “Fiona.”
“Nick,” he said, wrapping his long fingers around mine and giving my hand a little shake. He brought his drink to his lips and glanced around the room. “So, Fiona, what do you do?”
What do I do? What a great question. I couldn’t tell him that for the past ten years I’d been a doormat for Kyle Cassidy, so I came up with a convenient lie.
I held up my glass to the large banner hanging on the far wall that featured the name of the organization we were raising money for. I said, “I work for the Northeast Animal Rescue Fund. I do PR.”
“Awesome,” he said, tipping his glass to mine. “And are you here to solicit a large donation from me?”
I couldn’t tell if the question was filled with innuendo or was it just wishful thinking. I let my eyes drift across his face. For a moment, I pictured him fucking the girl on the video; his chest heaving, his torso covered in sweat. The thought made my juices flow a little.
“We would love to have your money, Mr. Patron,” I said. “The larger your donation the better.”
“You know who I am?” he asked, a frown knitting his manicured eyebrows. “Why do I feel like I’ve been targeted?”
The champagne glass froze at my lips. “I’m sorry?”
“You called me Mr. Patron,” he said, giving me a suspicious look.
“Didn’t you tell me your name?” I asked, working up a frown.
“No, I said my name was Nick.” His frown melted into a smile. “Don’t worry, you wouldn’t be doing your job if you didn’t know the name of every guest with deep pockets. I didn’t catch your last name.”
“Cassidy,” I said without thinking. The smile was immediately replaced by a deep frown. A little vein popped out of his right temple and he worked the muscles in his jaw.
“Cassidy? As in Kyle Cassidy?” he asked. His nostrils flared at the mention of my husband’s name. I quickly back peddled.
“Hardly,” I said, huffing, rolling eyes. “Same pronunciation, different spelling. I’m Kassidy with a K.” I leaned in and lowered my voice. “You don’t sound like a fan of Mr. Cassidy.”
“Kyle Cassidy is a piece of shit cocksucker,” he said, practically growling the words.” He narrowed his eyes to stare at me for a moment, then he took a deep breath and his features softened. He chuckled and shook his head. “Sorry. The guy just sticks in my craw. We do business together. Rather, I do business. He just sees how hard he can fuck me.”
“Do you like to be fucked hard, Mr. Patron?”
I know, I couldn’t believe I said it either. It sort of just popped out. The champagne was going to my head and Nick Patron was going to my crotch. I hid behind the champagne glass and held my breath. I was coming across like some horny party girl.
“I do not like being fucked by Kyle Cassidy,” he said, the corners of his lips curling into a smile. “You, on the other hand…”
“Fiona, dear, we’re ready to start the silent auction!”
My mother-in-law was calling to me from across the room. She spotted Nick and gave him a little wave. I looked back into his eyes and sighed. “Well, duty calls. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Patron.”
I held out my hand and he took it between his hands. This time he didn’t shake my hand. He just held it there for a moment. “I’ll be at The Haven Club later,” he said. “If you’d like to have a nightcap.”
“Oh, um, well, I don’t know,” I said, stumbling over the words. “I might be here late.”
“I don’t mind waiting,” he said, bringing my hand to his lips. He pressed his lips to my hand and gave me a smile. “I’m sure you would make it worth my while.”
* * *
The concierge came around the desk to open the door that led from the small lobby to the restaurant/bar. He wished me a good evening and gave me a little nod when I passed. He had a look in his eye like he knew something I didn’t.
The room was dimly-lit this time of night. Most of the restaurant patrons had gone and the staff was vacuuming the carpet and changing table clothes. The bar was to the right of the restaurant. There was still a number of drinkers sitting at tables and lining the long bar, men in expensive suits mostly, and young women in party dresses who were not their wives. I wondered how many nights Kyle had spent here, trolling for his next sexual conquest.
There was a row of booths along one wall. I saw Nick Patron sitting at the last booth in the corner, the most private. When he saw me, he gave me a smile that cut through the darkness and slid out to greet me.
“I was hoping you’d come,” Nick said as I approached. He held out his arms like we were old friends and pulled me in for a kiss on each cheek. He held out his hand to direct me to slide into the booth across from him.
“I’m sorry it’s so late,” I said, mussing my hair, brushing it out of my eyes. “I must look a mess.”
“You look amazing,” Nick said, smiling with his eyes. A waitress appeared and I ordered a whiskey sour. Nick ordered another bourbon on the rocks. We made small talk until the drinks arrived, then Nick gazed into my eyes and asked for my life story.
“It’s really not that interesting,” I said, taking a sip of the drink and licking the drops from my lips. “I was born and raised in Ohio, college at Vassar, grad school at Brown, Masters in Business…” I caught myself before I mentioned that I’d been married for ten years to one of his most-hated associates.
“How long have you worked for the non-profit,” he asked. He took a sip of his drink and let his eyes drift around my face. There was a small candle on the table between us. The candlelight flickered in his eyes. God, he was sexy, without even trying.
“Um, I’ve been working with non-profits for a long time,” I said.
“Eve
r married?”
“Once,” I said. “Ten years ago. It didn’t work out.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. He was an asshole.”
“Most men are,” he said with a grin. “He must have also been a fool to let you go.” He reached across the table and put his hand on my arm. His fingers gently stroked my skin. Beneath the table, he slid his foot in between mine and began to rub against my leg.
“Mr. Patron…”
“Nick,” he said, fingers playing with the little hairs on my arm. “Call me Nick.”
“Nick, I’m really flattered by the attention, but I’m not sure I can do this.”