100 Days: A Billionaire Romance

by Alexis Angel

  Now I’m curious as Yasmine continues. “Comes in and I think oh, maybe it’s time for me to finally take big boy for a ride, and I’m flirting with him.”

  I wince as I think about Yasmine sharing the same man that I love but she continues. “Motherfucker completely shot me down,” she says. “Instead asks me if I knew where that pretty blonde haired girl with a nice tits and hot ass and blue eyes went. I told him she didn’t work at Scorcher’s no more. That I sent her over to work at Simulated Pleasures.”

  I freeze. Arsen had seen me at the club. And he had been looking for me. He had singled me out. And he had wanted me.

  “Guy didn’t even touch one hair on all this,” she says, using her hands to gesture to her body. “I was ready to suck his cock right there on the main floor too – it was one of those nights. But alls he wanted was you, babe. Haven’t seen him inside the club since.”

  “He just wanted me…” I say to her softly, but I’m speaking more to myself.

  “Since the moment he met you, girlfriend. So I’d go a bit easy on him,” Yasmine says, finally taking a bite out of her chocolate croissant. "If anything, Arsen was trying to protect you."

  "How's that?" I ask.

  "Well, he sold his company in chunks to the Russian mob. I'm sure he was trying to protect you for as long as he could. They probably would have pressured you for sex or something to keep working there."

  Her words stun me. What if that's true? Could that be it? Was Arsen just trying to keep me safe and protected?

  I ask, "How do you know all this?"

  "I have my ways."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  She thinks for a moment, as if she's not sure whether to say anything or not, but then continues, "Do you remember that slightly old lawyer who always hangs around Mr. Arsen Hawke?"

  "Vaguely," I say, thinking of the times I’ve seen him on the video conference screen or he’s come by Arsen’s One57 apartment. ‘Gerard?”

  "Well, he's the lawyer Arsen uses for everything, including selling the pieces of his company to the Russian mob. And he’s held out selling Simulated Pleasures as long as he can because he’s worried about how the mob is going to treat the girls that work there."

  "How do you know that?"

  "Let's just say I've seen him—both inside… and outside of the club."

  "No—you two are having an affair?"

  Yasmine motions her fingers over lips, as if she's zipping them shut.

  "Fine, don't tell me," I say. But as soon as I say it, I realize that I may have everything wrong—yet again. If Yasmine is right, then Arsen hasn’t just loved me. He’s protected me. And all I’ve done is to repay him with scorn.

  Arsen

  I look out the window of the limo as it's drives down 8th Avenue toward my club, a hopping spot named Climax. It’s on 31st Street and 8th Avenue and I can see that the line to the fucking club goes nearly one fucking city block.

  Jesus Christ, I think. I'm making money hand over fist on this fucking club. But that’ll be for only another month. Because in 30 days, the ownership of Climax will transfer over to Mozorov. And this will be his club.

  “We’re going to fucking crush it tonight!” my friend Jonathan says next to me and I look over. We've known each other since college. Same fraternity. One of my closest friends. But it takes effort for me to smile tonight.

  It’s been three fucking days since Ashley decided to say goodbye to me and never look back. Or has it been more? I don’t even know anymore.

  I know that she’s not working at the agency; Simulated Pleasures received a formal letter of resignation from her a few days ago. Her line has been silent. She must have blocked my phone number because she doesn’t answer calls, it doesn’t go to voicemail, and she doesn’t answer texts. I can’t find her on Facebook. And no answer comes from my emails.

  So like any good friend, when Jonathan saw the misery I was in during our racquetball game, he decided to gather three of our closest friends and go out on the town.

  Normally, this is something Arsen Hawke would be ready for in a heartbeat. To go out into New York City and tear it up. Get drunk and fuck women.

  “You just need to fuck it out of your system, man,” Jonathan says to me in the limo, bringing me back.

  “You’re right,” I agree. “I’m going to fuck it out of my system multiple times with as many bitches as I can find.”

  I really fucking hope he’s buying it because right now I’m just faking this whole goddamn thing.

  We exit the limo and the five of us start drawing looks from the people who are standing in line to get into the club. They may vaguely recognize me; I’ve been photographed a few times, but they can’t place from where. Still, I look good tonight so its no fucking surprise that they take out their phones and snap pictures in case I happen to be famous.

  That’s right. They’re taking pictures of me as I walk to the entrance of the club.

  Because I look fucking good tonight, baby.

  My 6 foot plus frame.

  The way my jeans and shirt are untucked, with my shirt unbuttoned, showing off a part of my chest.

  Everyone knows I have a fucking cut body. But tonight, these sluts are just going to love running their hands along my chiseled 8-pack abs and ripped pecs on the dance floor.

  I’m going to make them lick me on the dance floor.

  I turn and smile and don’t stop the cameras at all.

  If I was an asshole before Ashley and I’m miserable without her, well then, maybe it’s time to go back to what worked.

  The people outside of the club are staring at me right now. They’re entranced. The way my shirt is tight around my ripped body, highlighting what needs to be highlighted. I know they can see the bulge in my pants, the 12 inches of thick cock that I have swinging between my legs. Ready to be unleashed at a moment's notice to fuck the stray female of the herd that crosses my sights.

  I know they’re staring at my face. At my strong fucking jawline. My deep, soulful eyes.

  So Ashley wants to leave me, she’s free to go. Doesn’t mean I have to mope.

  I swagger to the entrance, completely aware that I own the fucking club. But no one outside waiting in line knows that yet. Or if they do, they haven’t said anything.

  Time to show them just how big a deal I am.

  I glance at the bouncer and he gives me a nod.

  “Welcome back, sir,” he says and I nod back, indicating to my four friends to come inside.

  Inside the music is bumping and vibrating and I lead our way to the VIP area where a table is already waiting for us.

  But in the time it takes to get there, Jonathan and our friends pick up a girl or two each, talking and spitting game out at the various ladies that we pass. They start with eyes for me, but once I pass, the friends swoop in and take over.

  I shrug. This is just how the game is fucking played. The jesters in the court get the King’s castoffs.

  I look around me and see the women watching me. We’ve attracted a fair crowd of interest. These women are dressed as skanky as they can get.

  Now, don’t fucking worry. I haven’t gotten all prudish and all. I mean come on, I’m in love with a fucking stripper or phone sex operator—however you want to call it.

  But these girls, and there are five of them approaching me directly, are trying to dress themselves up so they can look like hookers or porn stars or something.

  Because they think that’s what the guys out in the world fucking want.

  Well, I’ve fucked porn stars and strippers. And I’ll tell you all I can think about right now is sitting on a couch fucking cuddling with a romance movie on.

  Fucking Christ.

  The gaggle of girls approach me.

  Sure, I won’t lie. They’re cute. I won’t deny that. But they’re cute in a skanky way. Not in an Ashley way.

  Fuck, I can tell I’m not in a good mood.

  I need a fucking drink.

  I open the
bottle of scotch at the table and pour some into a glass. I sigh as the girls sit down at the table. I lean back, seeing what they're going to say. It may be too much to hope for, but maybe someone will say something the same way Ashley did. When she used to talk, it used to make me fucking think.

  "Evening, ladies," I say, putting my arms back on the sofa. "I’m Arsen. What’s your name?"

  "I'm Joanna," the blonde next to me on my right says with a smile.

  "I'm Lauren," next to her.

  "I'm Sarah," her friend says.

  "I'm Deb," the one on my left chimes.

  "I'm Carrie," the one next to her says. She doesn't hold back though. "I give good head."

  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.

  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.”