For work, I hustled on the streets. I sold counterfeit luxury goods until I could buy a car and continued to work my way up.
All of that changed though, when I sold an employee of Mr. Anton Gold’s a fake luxury purse for his wife for her birthday and she knew immediately. He hunted me down on the streets for weeks, but I was always one step ahead of him. That was, until he caught me at my weak point one night, sending a working girl after me, making me believe she was genuinely interested in me, but in reality, as soon as I dropped my trousers in that hotel room, he burst in. Then, once he was done whipping me around and beating me to a pulp, he offered me a job in his agency.
A most peculiar job interview, wouldn’t you agree? Alas, that’s the allure and beauty of New York City.
He told me that if I was able to dupe him and his associates, the biggest bullshit detectors in New York City, that I was going to be a valuable asset to his company, which just so happened to be the top sports agency, Gold Talent & Management. I told him to stop being such a fucking cheapskate and if he had more money than anyone in the whole lot, to take his wife into a top brand storefront and say the words ‘Anything you want, darling’.
I don’t know what that man saw in me, but I’m forever grateful. He started me low, teaching me how to earn my keep but that didn’t last long. My days as a janitor were numbered, because he and I both knew the real talent I possessed. So, before I knew it, I went from washing piss off floors and lightly overseeing deals, to getting pissed on marble floors and creating multi-million dollar deals.
Getting pissed on as in steaming drunk, darling. I may have a load of fetishes, but golden showers are not one of them.
In a way, this stranger, Anton Gold, became an all-encompassing person for me. He became my best friend in the city, my sole source of support, my golden ticket to a life of financial security and most importantly, the only father figure I’ve ever had.
He passed away about 5 years ago, and left the company to me, in its entirety. He and his wife had no children, so what didn’t go to her, family or charity, went to me. She hated and still hates me to this day, but luckily for her, I didn’t want anything else. I came to New York City to work. With this newfound responsibility in my life, I wasn’t stopping anytime soon. Not for me and especially not for him.
When Gold was under his control, it was the second best agency on the East Coast and now that it is under my power, we are the best agency in North America but I’d argue, the entire world. We have over 75 clients, all of them superstars in the sports world, over 300 employees, multiple locations all over the continent, consistently on Forbes list and one of the top employers in the world. And all of this in just under 5 years. I’d like to think he would be proud of me and so would my mum.
I’m also in the process of renaming the company from Gold Talent & Management to Rose Gold Talent. I fancy it has a nice ring to it, don’t you?
The only problem? Alliance Sports Management, our biggest rivals, are on the verge of surpassing us, yet again. I’m fighting tooth and nail every day, to ensure that doesn’t happen.
My clients range from tennis stars to football pros to guys who can’t even hit a free throw in a basketball game but rake in the millions anyways. It’s my job to get them drafted. It’s my job to make them stars. It’s my job to make them rich. They are my job.
Where there is good, there is also bad. As much as I love to admire my wealth accumulating each day, my employees living lifestyles of the rich and the famous of their own, I don’t love getting phone calls from hospitals that a client overdosed, or read online about someone assaulting an under aged girl, or see on TNZ that someone broke someone’s nose in a bar fight. After I lost my mum, I told myself I never wanted children, but fuck if it doesn’t feel like I have them sometimes.
Those pesky little ankle biters.
So when I’m not either relishing in my latest success story, shoving my fingers down a baseball player’s throat to get them to vomit up prescription pills or waking up in the middle of the night with the sweats reliving my mother’s death, I’m just trying to get my dick wet.
Can’t blame a guy, can ya?
Sex is my sport.
Sex is my drug.
Sex is mine.
The alloy metal of my phone’s casing vibrates against the chipped mahogany desk, snapping me out of this temporary hypnosis of self-loathing. I look down at it and read the name flashing alongside the option to decline or accept the call.
DEMARIUS ADAMS
I can feel my lips curling into a smirk. This call couldn’t have come at a better time. Well, at least let’s hope this call makes for a better time. A call from Demarius Adams, basketball’s newest prodigy star, New York’s most fuckable bachelor, other than yours truly, naturally, and my biggest client at midnight on a Friday night can mean one of two things:
1. He’s in trouble with the law.
2. He wants to get me into trouble.
Fingers crossed it’s the latter.
My index finger swipes across the glass screen and I bring the phone up to my ear. “Demarius, my man, do tell me what bail is set at this time?”
“Slither, if you don’t get your ass down to The Ivy right now, you’re missing out on the best night of your whole damn life.”
Okay, I know what you’re thinking. What the fuck kind of a name is ‘Slither’? Is it the best nickname I’ve ever had bestowed upon me? Or the worst? I’ll let you decide.
Adams calls me Slither not only because I’m a venomous snake when it comes to closing deals without puncturing skin and leaving a trace, but also because I gave him some insight on this tongue trick I know when it comes to eating pussy and well, after he tried it, he hasn’t stopped calling me it since.
So, not only has he sacked the biggest salary of a starting player in history, he has a new woman or several begging for his touch nightly. I’m not entirely sure which event has resulted in the nickname, but I’ll leave it open for interpretation.
“The Ivy, hey?” I laugh into the phone and stroll over to the oversized window here on the 50th floor, bringing in the sights of the city that never sleeps nor ever even becomes remotely drowsy. “What kind of trouble are you getting into over at The Ivy?”
“Baby, meet me in the bathroom in 5 minutes okay?”
I laugh. “Adams, please tell me you’re not courting me into having sex with you and if you are, you’re going to have to do better than whisking me away to the toilet. I surely deserve better, wouldn’t you agree? At least a private loo for this princess?”
“Sorry boss, I just got this honey all over my dick right now.”
Classic Adams.
“Anyways, I don’t know what you’re doing right now but I promise you, it’s nothing compared to what’s popping off here.”
I stay silent on the line and look down at the erection I’m barely able to contain in my pants, the disheveled sheets on the bed of this empty hotel room and my reflection in the mirror above the desk, admiring all that I have left of that hot blonde - a big juicy hand indentation on my face.
Yep, he’s right. Not much going on here.
“Boss! You there?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m still here.” He brings me back. “I’ll be there in 20.”
three
“Be gentle with her, or I’ll snap your neck,” I toss the ring of keys to my beloved Aston Martin into the hands of the greasy valet fellow as the cold autumn wind coming off the Hudson River encircles us, here, in the heart of Manhattan.
He flashes me a nervous lips-only smile as he receives them and nods his head in agreement, failing to make eye contact with me. He’s scared and rightfully so; he should be. It’s one of my main tactics when it comes to running business and making deals. If you’re afraid of me, there’s a better chance you won’t want to piss me off so in turn, there’s a greater chance you won’t fuck me over and trust me – I don’t like to be fucked over. It’s only happened once in my life and she’s long gone.
&n
bsp; I stop him with my left hand, placing it upon his chest, just above the mustard stain on his white uniform dress shirt. I stop his momentum as he fearfully tries to dodge any further interaction. “I’m serious. One scratch and I’m coming for you. Understood?”
He finally faces me, looking up with those timid, tired and underpaid eyes. “Yes, understood, Mr. Rose. I promise. Not one scratch.” The words are barely audible and hushed.
I pat him on the shoulder. “Good boy. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
I walk past him, the heels of my onyx leather dress shoes colliding with the pavement beneath me, making an audible sound with each step. I readjust my suit jacket, thread the three buttons through their holes once again and walk towards the crowded entrance when I spot an all too familiar face. “Jimmy. Long time no see. How have you been, mate?”
“Well, if it isn’t thee Oscar Rose, and what do we owe the honor?”
Right, I suppose that was an important bit of information. Name is Oscar Rose. Pleased to meet you.
“Just here to babysit my client, Jim. What else is new?” I grab his outstretched hand and we bump opposite shoulders.
He’s what you would expect in a quintessential New York City luxury club bouncer. He’s tall, burly, tattooed and looks like more of an ex-con than someone who is employable. In spite of his rugged exterior, Jimmy is just a teddy bear with a few fetishes that would make you blush.
How do I know this? Well, I was host to this impromptu after-party in my apartment about a year ago that involved mascot costumes, Shibari and far too much sake. In the belly of the beast, lapping up every ounce of it was Jimmy - on all fours with a Japanese dominatrix at his reigns.
You really get to know a person on nights such as those.
I digress.
We release our embrace. “Pleasure to see you as always,” I can’t help but smile as my mind is flooded with brilliant reminiscing images of Jimmy and his Dom.
“You too, man. After you.” He releases the clasp on the red rope, holding back the wild cattle anxiously trying to get into the club, giving me priority entry.
When you’re this good at your job and surrounded by the most famous people in the country constantly, you start to become quite well known yourself. I’m sure that the fact that I’m devilishly handsome has also contributed to that.
Meals are free, gifts show up to your door, there are no line-ups, and if you want something done, there is someone else who will gladly do it for you in a heartbeat. Life has changed a great deal for me in the past few years and don’t assume for one second that I take it for granted.
I pat Jim on the shoulder one final time as I enter into the darkened hallway that is the entrance to The Ivy.
I’m not entirely sure what attracts hundreds of horny people to this club on a weekend basis, but whatever it is, they just keep coming back like bees to honey. In my honest opinion, this place is kind of a cesspool of loneliness. It’s packed wall-to-wall, but the longer you stay here, the more alone you feel.
I think Demarius enjoys it because this is probably the cheapest place in the city where you can pop bottles of Cristal and not go bankrupt the next day. It serves his purpose beautifully; it just has never done me any favors. I don’t mean to sound pessimistic. I’m just being forthright.
I’m not one for the nightlife to begin with though, so maybe my bias is skewed. On a Friday night I’d much rather be in the hotel room where I was earlier, with much better success, obviously, or alone in my apartment with a good book and a dram of scotch. I lived the playboy lifestyle when I got my first taste of success and just as expected, it became very tired very fast.
I know a lot of people find a lot of solace in that kind of environment, night after night, but I wanted money to be my best friend, not cocaine and seeing men vomit on the nightly or women stumbling around with powdered noses. Needless to say, my interest was lost very quickly.
I suppose some would argue that I kind of still am living like a frat boy, just without the drugs and alcohol and a nicer apartment. I don’t think that way though. Before, it would be an expectation to fuck more than one woman at a time or in one night without a care in the world as to what my dick did for them. Now, their pleasure is equitable to mine and well, I just haven’t been blessed with the opportunity to have more than one woman in a night in a while.
Sad face.
I scan the room and as suspected, the wanker himself is nowhere to be found. It wouldn’t be the first time Prince Charming has left me stranded at the dance. I find myself instantly regretting stepping foot into this place and agreeing to his offer to begin with. I should have trusted my gut; jacking off repeatedly in my multi-million dollar apartment would have been way more fun than this.
Just as the fleeting thought vanishes in my mind like a cloud, something very blonde, very petite and very sexy catches the corner of my eye. I cock my head in her direction, and trust me; it’s not the only thing on my body that is intrigued.
She stands alongside her friends, but none are nowhere near as attractive as she. The stilettos strapped to her feet give her the appearance of height, and cause her calf muscles to flex slightly. She has taut little legs, and a very delicious looking ass, which is obvious under that skin tight little black dress that is hugging her in all of the right places. Maybe she’s a runner, or just athletic or in these days, drinking some fucking magical tea potion. It’s hard to say, but all I know is that daddy wants to take a bite.
So maybe this Friday night won’t be a bust after all.
I set my scope on her and head directly towards my target, having to carefully navigate through the spilled drink riddled dance floor and far too many drunk folks for it only being midnight.
I pull up beside her at the bar, and get a whiff of her perfume. It’s floral, with a hint of patchouli and I wouldn’t mind it lingering on my sheets in the morning. I pretend to fixate my attention on the bartender, but I quietly sneak a peek of her up close.
Her raven hair is pulled back from her face into a perfectly executed low ponytail that I can’t help but fantasize about wrapping my fingers around while she’s bobbing on my cock. Her skin glistens slightly in the bar lights and her make up looks professionally done, but what woman’s doesn’t these days? I don’t know the difference nor care much for the new fad of contorting and highlights; just as long as it doesn’t smudge up my dress shirts. I don’t mind it all over my sheets though, as just so long as she doesn’t look entirely unrecognizable beneath it all.
The epitome of a hipster bartender and I lock eyes and the words “scotch and soda” come from my lips. Trust me, I’m not usually this sacrilegious when it comes to scotch but I know that they are pouring something from a well that is going to taste awful neat. On the other hand, I had a bad bender with rum 3 years ago in Jamaica and then another with tequila while I was partying in Los Cabos and well, let’s just say, I’m sticking to what I know.
Scotch it is.
The glass is cold when it hits my hand and I slide a generous bill towards him, not expecting anything back and enough to suggest I might have another. I cradle the glass in my hands and bring the black straw up to my lips to take a sip. As suspected, it’s pretty awful but it’ll give me something to play with until I can hopefully play with her.
I turn my body toward her, wait for a pause in her conversation with her friends and unleash the best pick up line I can think of.
“You know, I didn’t order a tall drink of water, but now that I think of it, I am feeling quite parched.”
Okay, so it’s awful but that’s the point, right? Get them laughing?
“Oh gosh, Kassandra. You’re on your own.” Her friends all giggle in unison and abandon her, leaving her stranded at the bar in her lonesome with me.
See, I told you having a threesome was hard these days.
She continues to face forward, her gaze falling slightly and she lets out a hushed laugh. “Please don’t tell me that actually works?”
&nbs
p; I reciprocate the laugh, bringing my scotch and soda up to my lips for another taste. “I don’t know. You tell me.”
She shakes her head and scoffs slightly. “No. God no.”
“And she doesn’t even look at me,” I clench my face and suck in air sharply between my teeth. “Oh, c’mon. It couldn’t have been that bad?”
Her eyes widen, still refraining to meet with mine. “Oh, oh but it was.”
“You know. I should have asked the bartender for you to sit in my drink.”
“And why is that?” She turns to look at me, finally unable to resist her curiosity and locks me in with those beautiful chestnut eyes. She studies me, trying to decipher my words or maybe, she’s just trying to picture me naked. Regardless, her gaze is locked and not waning in intensity and it’s exactly where I want her.
I lean in toward her, a smirk forming on my lips before I’m even able to get the words out, just because I anticipate her laughter. “Because you are far colder than any cube of ice.”
The intensity breaks and she laughs. Hard. “Now, that was witty.”
I stretch my hand out toward hers. “Oscar. Oscar…”
“Rose. I know who you are.”
Fuck.
Now, I usually like when women know who I am. It makes my job a little easier. I can boast less about my expensive tastes or lavish lifestyle, but this article recently came out about me in the tabloids and well, let’s just say it involved yours truly on this 300 foot private yacht in the company of about 30 supermodels and there was an incident.
I’m hopeful, though. Maybe she isn’t the type that keeps her focus locked on the latest who-is-fucking-who or must-have-lip-injections. Maybe she’s not like that. A bloke can dream, right?
I brace myself. “So then, Kassandra, tell me what you know about me.”
“Well,” she takes in a huge breath of air, like she’s about to speak non-stop for the next 45 minutes about what a shitty human being I am. “I could tell you what I think I know about you, or you could prove me wrong?”
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