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“So, what’s the plan?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you haven’t got one. You always have a plan.”
“I’m going to get to the eighteenth floor,” I say. “That’s where he is.”
“And then what? Hope he likes stripy caps and polyester?”
I shake my head, and it seems funny again. It all seems funny again.
I throw my crappy cap at Dean’s head. “And then I’m going to sniff his seat.”
He catches it easily. “I’m not even sure you’re joking,” he says.
I shrug. Smile. Make our tea, but say nothing.
Because, truth be told, I’m not even sure I’m joking myself.
CHAPTER TWO
ALEXANDER
BRENDA, my assistant, has a voice that makes my ears bleed. I’ve pondered it a great deal during idle minutes, and the closest comparison I’ve so far drawn is that of a poorly tuned trumpet, played through the nose.
It would be comedy, if she weren’t so thoroughly fucking prissy with it.
It would kill me to hear her squeal my name in the bedroom, and since my personal assistant is the very last person I want in my bedroom, that is fortunate. And quite possibly one of the main reasons I decided to hire her in the first place.
That and the fact she’s really fucking good at what she does.
Mr Austin is here to see you.
I’m sure her voice sounds even worse through the internal telephone system, as though some of the depth of tone is lost in transmission.
Believe me, she finds me as unbearable as I find her. But we tolerate each other. A courteous professional disdain that gets us both through the working day. I think it suits us both that way.
“I’ll be down. Get him a coffee.”
Yes, Mr Henley, sir.
Mr Austin is an arrogant, weasel-faced prick, and I’ve already seen more than enough of him this week. Another weekend late-night call, another visit to his local police station to bail him out when I should be busy spending money, not earning it.
Mr Austin is CEO at Lux Air, the pompous private jet firm, and believes owning an airline gives him special privileges.
Mr Austin believes he can drive his sports car while under the influence of alcohol at over double the speed limit through residential areas, without giving a shit for any lesser mortals who may share the same road space as him.
Mr Austin also believes I can get him off the hook every time, just so long as he pays me enough money.
He’s right.
Like I said, he’s an arrogant prick, but so am I.
And so we go again. The firm handshake, the pat of his hand on my arm, the warm, fake, professional smile. The same old routine as he bleats about how thankful he is that I came to his rescue last night, how it wasn’t his fault. They’ve set him up, again. Jealous assholes. Barely even a double shot of whisky.
I take the same old notes and nod in the same old places. And then I do what I always do.
“I’ll deal with it,” I say.
“Good man,” he replies, just like always.
And just like always, I deal with it.
This business is as much about connections as it is about the law. It’s about saying the right things to the right people, with the right air of confidence. That and knowing all those tiny little loopholes that infuriate the prosecution every fucking time.
They hate me more than Brenda does, just as much as they hated my father before me. But that’s okay.
You know what they say. You’re no one unless somebody hates you. And judging by those rules, I really am someone. Just ask my ex-wife.
Today is like any other day at the office. An endless carousel of the same old faces making the same old fuckups.
Mr Austin, and then Mr Rand, the oil tycoon with a penchant for picking up women on street corners. Mr Kingsley, the dot com boomer who does far too many drugs and gets into scrapes with the law far too often for sanity. Some court paperwork, and a crappy board meeting that sees me staring numbly at my officially retired father for an hour across the boardroom table, and I’m done.
Once upon a time, before life – divorce – turned me into the cynical, jaded asshole I am today, getting people off the hook was all the exhilaration I needed. The rush of a serious court case, the heated negotiations behind the scenes, the high-end networking, and the money, always so much money. I loved it. All of it.
But these days it’s not enough.
I’m barely out of the office foyer when I pull my second phone from my inside pocket. It’s identical to my work handset in virtually every way, except this is an unregistered pay-as-you-go, topped up using cash only, and never in the same location twice.
My fingers feel clammy as I unlock the screen.
I scroll through my previous messages, the ones that I should have deleted minutes after bidding is closed, as per the rules. I used to follow them. I used to be careful, guarded. Sensible.
This week’s offer is still in my inbox.
Britney Jane. 26. Brunette. 5’10. Athletic. D-cup tits.
The pretty girl stares out from the handset, lips pouted like a cheap porn star, legs spread to show the pretty pink slit of her pussy. She’s had surgery, that cunt is far too perfect to be natural.
I hate perfect, but that isn’t why I haven’t placed a bid on Britney Jane. The list of ticked boxes beneath her photo show her as far too vanilla to warrant any kind of investment.
Far too vanilla for me.
I scroll back through the listings.
Candice. 21. Natural blonde. 5’2. Curvy. C-cup tits.
She’d been worth every penny and then some. The girl had very few hard limits listed under her photograph, and she’d been telling the truth. Believe me, I know. I pushed her on all of them.
I arrive at my car, and my mouth is dry and my jaw feels tight, waiting for the thrill that zips up my spine whenever a fresh listing appears, like an addict craving a hit. It’s about time I went cold turkey for a few months, logged out of the network and weaned myself back to a state of mind closer to equilibrium.
But the thought is unwelcome, the prospect one of nausea.
I need this.
Need.
That’s the downward spiral before me. The cycle of dependence and escapism that leads me down the rabbit hole. The same cycle I see every day in my office, rich men taking ever greater risks to get their rocks off, chasing the elusive thrill that comes from the shadier side of wealth.
Gambling. Drugs. Fast cars.
I’ve seen billionaires shoplift costume jewellery just for the rush of it. I’ve seen calm, responsible fathers snort a gram of coke from a hooker’s tits and take them out for a joyride through leafy London suburbs. I’ve seen men with beautiful wives at home, hovering outside public urinals for the chance to shove their dick in some seedy guy’s asshole before teatime.
I’ve seen it all, and I’ve excused it all, and somehow, somewhere along the line I became caught in the same rancid headlights.
I don’t do drugs. I don’t drive my cars at excessive speed. I don’t visit bars and drink myself into oblivion. I don’t even smoke expensive cigars.
I do sex.
Dirty, filthy, brutal sex.
I should sign up for some anonymous self-help group. Go along to some grotty community centre in the dregs of London for a Styrofoam mug of cheap coffee, and the pleasure of perching myself on one of their grimy plastic chairs as I psyche myself up to say it.
My name is Alexander, and I am a sex addict.
I’d get a round of applause, and then I’d have to tear up, eat a biscuit, and tell them all how good it felt to face down my own demons.
I have no intention of doing any of those things.
I remember the glorious pained grunts as Candice took my cock dry. I remember the soft flesh of her hips yielding to my grip as I held tight and pushed in all the fucking way.
I remember the way her pretty tits bounced, her big nipples so fucking ripe for my mouth.
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I remember the way she wriggled and squirmed with my hands around her throat.
Paying Candice was a delight. Money well spent.
But I think I’ll go with Elena this evening. I haven’t seen Elena in a while.
I slip into my Mercedes and fire off a text message before I start up the engine.
Elena. Tonight. Nine thirty.
Sent.
I wait.
The handset vibrates in my hand as the message icon flashes.
Room sixteen. Harley’s tavern. Your name is Ted Brown.
I’m smiling the first genuine smile of the day as I pull out of the car park.
MELISSA
It takes us three weeks of back-breaking effort to get a compliment, let alone a promotion. Another two weeks on top of that to get a regular smile from our line manager at the start of shift.
Week seven of scrubbing steel and grouting and toilet bowls until our hands are blotchy, and both Sonnie and I are questioning just how sound our ambitious little scheme is turning out to be.
She drops her sponge in the canteen sink and shoots me a look of pure apathy. “Whose idea was this?”
“Yours.” I smile as I wipe down the air conditioning vent. “And mine. Alexander Henley’s seat, remember?”
She takes a deep breath. “Mmm, I hope it smells half as good as I imagine.”
“Oh, it will,” I say. “He smells incredible.”
“And there she goes… never quits with the bragging…” Sonnie’s laugh makes me laugh too. “Tell me about it again, hon. I need the motivation.”
