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“It’s me, Dad.”
“About time, I’m starving.”
My father is on the older side compared to my friends’ dads. I’m an only child, born when my mother was thirty. She couldn’t be bothered with getting pregnant the conventional way, so I was created in a Petri dish and implanted into her womb. Meaning, I’ve been expensive since day one.
My mother and I round the corner to find a grinning Frenchman at the head of a long table already bedecked with an array of fruit and pastry.
“Your new doorman said I was right on time,” I tell my father, bending down to give him a light kiss on each cheek.
“New? Mark? He’s been here for years.”
“How come I’ve never seen him, then?” I ask, taking my seat on my father’s right.
My mother scoots up to the table across from me. Behind her, Jefferson helps push in her chair. “I think he was working evenings until recently.”
“Ah.” That explains it. “How is everyone?”
My father peers at me over his reading glasses. I blame him for my big nose. “Better rested than you, I imagine.”
No one misses a thing here.
“Who had the pleasure this time?” he asks. “A singer? Actress?”
“Actress. And a model.”
“Ollie!”
My mother’s shock is quickly snuffed by my father’s low chuckle. “Boys will be boys, Simone.”
She huffs. “Hardly an excuse. In this social climate? Be careful, Olivier. I won’t be supporting any bastard children of yours.”
“Of course you would,” I say with a smile. “They’d have our eyes.”
“Oh, you…”
Brunch passes with the usual jabs and laughs and an excellent hollandaise. Afterward, I walk home and immediately take my post-brunch nap. I wake up several hours later horny. Hard.
Aching to get off again.
Ever since I started growing pubic hair, I’ve been like this—sex-crazed. While I haven’t fathered any bastards, at least to my knowledge, I have fucked my way through at least a quarter of the available women in uptown Manhattan. I had a girlfriend briefly, but that ended after about three months when she questioned whether I wanted her for more than sex and it took me too long to answer.
While it had been nice having her available to me at all times, I’ve discovered it’s variety that really gives me life. While I’m not an obvious stud like Brewd, I don’t have any trouble finding women who’ll fuck me. Between Tinder and the City that Never Sleeps, I’m never out of options. It helps that I’ve gained a reputation for being well-hung and good in bed, proving not all rumors are bad.
Having the face of an angel and the wealth of royalty doesn’t hurt either.
I rub a sheet-soaking orgasm out to my own filthy thoughts before taking another shower and preparing for Odessa’s party. The rock singer knows how to throw a great shindig, but sadly lives in SoHo because no one’s perfect.
I dress in head-to-toe black for my trip to the other side of town and phone the valet to have my car ready. I don’t often drive, but sometimes I’m in the mood. Tonight, the idea of the powerful Porsche engine vibrating my ass and thighs sounds sexy, and let’s face it—it’s a chick magnet.
I get lucky with finding a parking spot in SoHo and with traffic in general. Since I learned to drive in Manhattan, it’s all I know, and I’m used to the stops and starts, the aggressive lane-changing, the constant flow of jaywalkers. But if I ever find myself on an open road—watch out, world.
It’s freezing out, but Odessa’s loft is packed, hot, and pulsating. I sniff out my friend group right away, in the center of everything, chatting up the band and falling all over each other for attention.
There’s Trip, my best friend since grade school—now a trader on Wall Street, Becca, that ex I mentioned—an heiress in her own right, and then there’s Dominick, who also went to school with Trip and me, but splits his time between New York and London where he does some genius-level finance job I don’t care enough about to try to understand, but I’m pretty sure is illegal.
The most important thing about my group of friends is we know how to party.
And this one’s a rager. Drugs, liquor, people fucking in dark corners.
