Gambling For The Virgin: A Dark Billionaire Romance

by Dark Angel

  Jesus fucking Christ. So much for fucking small talk I guess.

  I look around me. Jonathan is talking to some girl that’s sitting next to Sarah.

  The other three friends have somehow gone off in their own direction.

  I’m here by myself. Usually, not a problem.

  But it gives me a chance to look around me. I mean, really look around me.

  To girls who wear as little as possible and go out at night, hoping they find someone to go home with.

  To guys looking for something cute to stick their fucking dick into.

  To people looking to drink and forget.

  To others looking to just forget.

  Too many people talking too loud, trying to drown out the fucking silence.

  I sound like I’m fucking high right now or something, don’t I? Well, I’m not. Because it’s starting to make sense.

  These aren’t bad people. Strippers aren’t bad people. Hell, hookers, phone sex workers, models, web cam girls, these aren’t bad people. The people who provide and the people who consume, these aren’t horrible evil people.

  I mean, I remember my Dad started out by writing smut and selling it online. That grew. He didn’t stop. Sure, he was sexual. I mean, I still remember the day outside Starbucks. I was just about to talk to some random gorgeous girl—what little of her that I remember reminds me of Ashley—when I saw him with his two new girlfriends.

  I remember we fucking fought. That was the last time I saw my Dad. I traveled and stayed busy for the two months after that. And he died.

  Because I was too proud to realize that Dad was making people happy.

  We’re all fucking lonely. And some of us are lucky to have that one person or group of people who complete us. Who make us realize that someone out of 6 billion people cares whether we’re alive or dead. It’s a basic foundation of being a fucking human.

  And that’s why we crave it. We read about it. We watch movies about it. We join Facebook to connect. Because as human beings, we want to connect on a deeper level than anything else.

  Dad was providing one avenue for it. Sex.

  Sure, there’s other ways. But I never realized how important that connection was because; up till Ashley I’ve been one of the most disconnected motherfuckers on the planet.

  All of a sudden I have to go.

  "Where are you going?" Sarah asks.

  "Gotta get something done, babe," I say, drawn into the conversation. “I need to see about a girl.”

  "Can I come with you?" she asks.

  And there it goes. Boom. Why would I take you home with me when I’m going to go look after a girl? After just meeting you? What kind of fucked up alternate reality are you living in?

  "No," I say, basically figuring a question like that only deserves a one word answer.

  "Can I?" Deb asks, her face lighting up.

  What the fuck? She thinks because I didn't take her friend, she now has a better chance?

  I sigh and take a large drink of my scotch.

  "Do you want to fuck me?" she asks me, batting her eyelashes.

  At least Dee is a bit more reserved. She just brings her fist to her mouth and makes a blowjob motion, then smiles at me.

  I know what you're going to say to me, okay? Not every girl is like this. There's some with great personalities. I know what you're going to say. Three months ago I would have told you that you were just trying to be nice.

  But now, knowing what I know, I agree with you. Because I’ve met the girl for me.

  And I’d rather fucking die than give up on her and let her go without even trying.

  “Goodbye, ladies,” I say and within seconds I’ve walked out of the club.

  Twenty minutes later, I meet Gerard at his house.

  “Gerard,” I say, giving him a piece of paper that I hastily scrawled a note on in the back of the limo. “Can you make sure Ashley gets this letter?”

  Gerard looks at me. It’s obvious he just woke up. I’m at his front door in the hallway on the 17th floor of his condo.

  “You wrote a letter?” Gerard asks me. “By hand?”

  I shrug. “She won’t take my calls or texts and won’t answer emails. And she won’t see me, so you know, next best thing is to pass a note.”

  “Very well, sir,” Gerard says. “I know just how to get it delivered to Miss Ashley.”

  I thank Gerard and walk to the elevator and then out the building.

  Sure, it’s a shot in the dark. But somehow, I’m feeling good about this shot in the dark.

  Now the ball is in her court. Let’s see how she plays.

  85

  Ashley

  I won't lie when I say that I’m not surprised when the doorbell rings that Saturday morning. Would you believe me if I told you that I’ve been looking forward to but dreading this moment ever since I thought there was a chance that Arsen might show up.

  I’m pretty sure he will show up. I mean most guys can’t hold out that long. And they break down and go show up, even if they say they’re not going to. That’s just the power that women have over them. Remember Peter? You remember, my ex-boyfriend who was cheating on me? Roughly 60,000 words ago? I didn’t answer his texts for a several days and what did he end up doing? Stalking me and attacking me outside the Simulated Pleasures office.

  Now I don't think Arsen is going to attack me or anything. He may be a bad boy, and may be too tough and cocky and arrogant for his own good, and he may have lied to me in the most horrible way possible, but I somehow still know that underneath that tortured exterior is a good man. A solid man.

  See what I mean now about looking forward to while dreading this moment at the same time?

  The bell rings again and I go to the door. I’m dressed to kill, with a white short skirt that I know hugs my ass, a black silk t-shirt that accentuates my curves very nicely, beautiful pearl earrings, and white heels.

  I’ve been dressing up like this every morning, on the off chance that I run into Arsen. It’s not a big deal. It’s just something I do to feel good about myself, okay?

  What? Don’t look at me like that. It has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that I’m so completely horny right now, alright. If that’s what you’re thinking, I would appreciate you taking your mind out of the gutter. I’m a good girl. Really!

  I don’t even bother looking through the peep hole but just open the door. I wonder if Arsen will be on his knees.

  I open the door.

  He’s not on his knees.

  He’s not even here.

  Instead, Yasmine from Scorcher's is standing there, and I’m guessing she’s just gotten off work.

  I know Scorcher's will have Last Call at 3:30 am, and then officially turn the lights on and close at 4 am. Getting the people out of the VIP Room and private booths can take as long as 4:30 am. Cleanup and tipping out of the club probably takes Yasmine till 5:30 am. If she doesn’t go home with any of the guys, she’ll probably get breakfast, which will take her to 7:30 am. And then she must have taken a cab over here.

  I’m usually up and changed by 7:30 am nowadays too, so it must have worked out perfectly.

  What?

  If you’re wondering, yes, I’ve become an early rise ever since I walked away from Arsen and his alter-ego King Henry and quit working at Simulated Pleasures.

  I think it has to do with the fact that I’m not…you know, getting fucked. At least that’s what Arsen would say if he were here. And I’d scowl at him and he would smirk at me.

  Stop it!

  “You’re thinking about your man?” Yasmine asks me standing at the entrance to my door. She’s wearing surprisingly modest clothes—skinny jeans and a tank top with a fur lined jacket. She’s got her Louis Vuitton bag, and her gold hoop earrings, but that’s the only level of ostentatiousness that she’s displaying today. She could be a typical New Yorker from below 14th Street with that outfit. I back up and let her into the apartment. She comes in and promptly drops her bag on the floor and
stretches out on the couch.

  “Here,” she says, pulling an envelope out of her bra and handing it to me. “Your man asked me to give this to you. Says you won't take his calls, that you’ve blocked his number and his email from reaching you.”

  It’s true. I’ve blocked all aspect of Arsen from contacting me. The rational part of my brain says I did it to not have to deal with someone who deceived me so cruelly. But the reptilian part of my brain is telling me it’s because I wanted him to come to me. Apparently I didn't figure he could go through my friends to reach me.

  I take the letter and against my better judgment start reading it. It’s only a few lines, scrawled in the confident, collected hand of Arsen Hawke.

  “He gave it to Gerard last night to give to me,” Yasmine says yawning on the sofa and kicking off her boots. “Told him to tell me to give it to you. I told him it felt like high school, passing notes along in recess, but you know how guys get.”

  I’m reading it.

  And it takes everything I have to not cry.

  I try to compose my thoughts, but my brain is going a mile a minute. My heart is beating even faster.

  I pull open my laptop sitting on the dinner table and open the spreadsheet. Call it a habit, but I kept track of every minute I spent on the phone. I do some rough calculations and all of a sudden it makes sense to me.

  Everything makes sense.

  “Yasmine,” I call out. “I need to go see your man.”

  “Whaaaa….” Yasmine drawls and I can tell she’s falling asleep.

  “Where is Arsen’s lawyer?” I ask. “Where’s Gerard?”

  “He’s usually playing racquetball in the mornings…I think,” Yasmine says in a whisper. “New York Health and Racquet Club.”

  I thank her and get my coat as well as the letter that Arsen wrote me.

  By the time I’m out the door, I can hear the soft breaths coming from Yasmine as she falls into sleep.

  The New York Health and Racquet Club is located on 51st Street Between Park and Madison Avenues. It’s also one of those old boys clubs that doesn’t allow women. So I wait.

  Around 8 am, I see the front desk man point to Arsen’s lawyer as he emerges from the interior of the club and approaches me.

  “Can I help you, Ashley?” Gerard asks.

  I take a deep breath. We’ve never actually formally spoken. Sure, Arsen’s mentioned Gerard in almost every other conversation and I’ve seen him around and been in his presence numerous times. He even saw me almost naked during a video conference after our first night being together. But we’ve never directly spoken.

  Now, however, we have cause to.

  I hold up the letter Arsen sent me.

  “Do you know what’s in this?” I ask.

  Gerard looks at the letter and then he looks at me. “I do not, but I can only assume it’s Arsen trying to give an explanation of his behavior.”

  “Let me read it to you,” I say and I pull open the letter. Gerard takes my arm and takes me over to a sofa so I can sit down.

  I clear my breath and begin. “Dear Ashley,” I start and look over at him. He gives me a look and I smile and keep going.

  “The last few days without you have been fucking terrible,” I read. I smile as I read and look over to Gerard. He’s shaking his head with a little bit of a smile too. He has a sense of humor it seems and all of a sudden I can see what someone like Yasmine finds attractive in this older, much more distinguished looking man.

  “I gotta be honest. I went out to Pasha today hoping a nightclub with the boys would get my mind off things, but nothing is the same when you’re fucking gone. I know it was fucked up of me to make you call me King Henry and not tell you it was me you were talking to,” I continue reading and I see Gerard raise his eyebrow. That’s what I thought. I keep going. “The Russian mob has been after buying the company for as long as Dad’s been dead, because it’s one of the only profitable outfits in the region, but I know how these guys treat their employees. And I could never put you in that sort of danger. I could never let you work for them. I sold everything else but Simulated Pleasures and I I held onto it because you were there. But as I kept talking to you, I sort of realize now why Dad did what he did and why it was so successful. He was lonely. And by providing the things that he did, he helped other people out there in the world who were lonely find at least a little bit of temporary happiness. A small pleasure. Not a replacement, that’s for sure. But maybe a small escape. Maybe a chance to not have to think about real life. Because babe, real life without you is so fucking boring, and it took talking to you on a pay-per-minute line for me to understand that. But you don’t want anything to do with me, so I’m letting you know that as long as you’ve quit, I’m going to sell Simulated Pleasures in the morning. Gonna sign the paperwork. So you never have to worry about me again. Just know that I fucking love you.”

  I fold the letter away and look at Gerard. He looks at me.

  “It seems that Arsen has realized what drove his father at last,” Gerard says. “And it seems he has you to thank for it.”

  I nod and smile. I never knew how much Arsen cared for me. I mean I guess I knew. But I never consciously acknowledged the fact. But there’s more to this mystery.

  “Arsen mentioned something about this being the only profitable operation in the region?” I ask Gerard.

  The elder lawyer nods. “That’s correct,” he says to me.

  “What are they basing that on?” I ask.

  “Well, it’s all very complicated, but usually they base any sort of company profitability on the prior quarter. That’s why companies report quarterly earnings…” He tries to continue but he’s just confirmed what I was thinking.

  “Where is he, Gerard?” I ask. I have urgency in my voice.

  “He should be getting into the office in around half an hour for a meeting at 9 am and then he should be meeting with Luca Giannoni to finalize the deal later on this evening at 5 pm at Del Frisco’s,” Gerard says.

  I get up from where I’m sitting. “Are you supposed to be there?” I ask.

  Gerard nods. “I should hope so,” he says with a smile. “Considering I have the paperwork.”

  I smile and feel like hugging him. “Then let's go, Gerard. I’m coming with you tonight, but first I have something I need to get ready.”

  Gerard looks questioningly at me as I beam brightly at him. “It’s time for the company to meet Misty with the silky voice.”

  86

  Arsen

  To be quite honest, I’m actually a bit relieved that the Russian mob tries to affect gangster living based on what they see from The Godfather and such. I mean, we could be fucking sitting at a Russian restaurant in Brighton Beach to sign these papers if they had suggested it instead of Del Frisco’s right in the heart of Times fucking Square. I mean, what would they even serve at the Russian place if we had to schlep all the way over there? Borscht? Dumplings? I’m no fucking Cossack, if I’m going to be doing a deal with the mob, let it be at least at a world famous steak house where they pour good wine.

  We’re seated at a large table by the window, overlooking Broadway. Ever since the mayor turned Broadway into a 24/7 pedestrian zone, it’s gotten a lot weirder and crazier in Times Square. Ever walk by and see the women with just the body paint? The angry Elmo? The Naked Cowboy? Thankfully I don’t have to look at a naked fucking cowboy as I decide what cut of meat I want to be putting in my mouth tonight.

  Gerard is sitting next to me and Luca Giannoni and his employer, Dimitry Mozorov are sitting across from me. Mozorov is red-faced from the vodka he’s been drinking and with his dark suit with red tie and grey hair on his portly body he looks like a fucking corporate Russian Santa Clause.

  “Ever since Luca here told me about your late father’s empire, the Simulated Pleasures business is one that’s caught my eye,” Mozorov is saying with a thick Russian accent. “I’ve looked at the 90 day charts and I’m impressed at how this small operation has such
high margins, Mr. Hawke. You should be commended.”

  I take a sip of my scotch and laugh sardonically. Sure, I should be fucking commended. For causing the love of my life to quit the job she was using to get on her feet and then selling it off to mobsters after she left. I’m a real fucking saint.

  “How about we wait until after dinner to sign the papers?” Gerard asks the table and I look at him with surprise. This is the same guy that several days ago was asking me why I was dragging my fucking feet?

  Mozorov shrugs. “Whether we eat first or eat later makes no difference to me,” he says, grinning and rubbing his hands together. “Tomorrow morning, we will be new owners of Simulated Pleasures and a new day will dawn for the callers.”

  “What is it that you plan to do?” I ask, more out of morbid curiousity than anything else.

  Mozorov looks at Giannoni and nods.

  “Since it doesn’t matter much if we tell you now that you’re going to sell, we can be a bit more upfront with our plans,” the lawyer says. “We plan to cut the percentages that the operators make in half,” Giannoni says to me, taking a sip of his wine. “Then after a period of time, we play to make them salaried workers.”

  “How do you know they’ll stay?” I ask.

  “We plan to start them off with lucrative contracts that they agree to, with steep payments to the company if they decide to quit,” Mozorov answers for him. “It will work similar to the way your gentlemen’s clubs operate eventually, where we’ll just provide the infrastructure and expect them to pay us to use our services.”

  “The operators will be responsible for advertising themselves and doing their own promotion, significantly lowering the total costs to the company,” Luca Giannoni says as he drains his wine. “And should the operators not be able to turn a profit for themselves, the only way they’ll get out will be through a sizable payment to the company to break their contract.”

  They’re going to fucking prey on the women doing the work. Not on the johns. But the women. Jesus fucking Christ.