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Chapter 7
Reed
“Honey, I’m home!” Josh hollers as we enter the crowded bar, and Henn and I laugh.
All three of us have fond memories of this place, but especially Josh, since he’s the one who tended bar here in college, albeit briefly. Just long enough for Josh to realize he loved tending bar, but hated punching a clock. A few months into his first-ever stint as an hourly wage worker, Josh struck a deal with the bar owner: Josh could tend bar whenever he wanted, without notice, provided he paid for whatever drinks he poured—using only expensive top-shelf liquor—and generously tipped whichever bartender he’d screwed out of tips by showing up unannounced.
Some of the guys in our fraternity house razzed Josh for essentially paying to work. But I totally understood: Josh wanted the same thing I’d wanted when I’d paid that sorority girl to eat her pussy a few years before—all the pleasures of a job he thoroughly enjoyed, without any of the associated hassles or commitments. As far as I was concerned, Josh was a genius for striking that deal with the bar owner, Bernie. In fact, he was my fucking hero.
I nudge Josh’s shoulder and motion to the pool table. “You and Henn get next game while I get our drinks.”
“You bought dinner,” Josh says. “I’m buying drinks.”
“Fuck off, Faraday,” I reply, already walking away. “I could buy dinner and drinks for three lifetimes, and still not repay you for everything you bankrolled in college.”
When I arrive at the crowded bar, I elbow my way to an open spot at the far end... and promptly lose my shit. It’s her. The sultry, sassy brunette from the music school event this afternoon. She’s the bartender. And she’s every bit as boner-inducing as she was this afternoon. More so, actually, now that she’s dressed to maximize her curves—and, surely, her tips—in a low-cut tank top, push-up bra, and skin-tight jeans.
She’s standing in profile to me at the moment, taking orders from a rowdy group of frat boys, all of whom plainly think she’s as big a knockout as I do. And who wouldn’t? She’s a bombshell, this girl. A bodacious siren plucked straight out of a Fellini flick. Thick, dark hair. Full, tempting lips in the perfect shape of a bow. Eyes that blaze with confidence. Sass. Charisma. Her skin is olive. Her limbs long. And those curves! Jesus Christ. They’re enough to make a careful man do some seriously reckless shit.
When she left the lecture hall with CeeCee without saying a word to me, despite all the winks and smiles and heated smolders we’d exchanged for a full hour, I was shocked. Also, impressed. But, mostly, intrigued. Was she a wannabe pop star playing a master game of chess by ditching me—gambling I’d track her down through CeeCee? Or had I pegged the girl all wrong, and she was merely CeeCee’s new personal assistant or niece?
The latter scenario seemed like a long shot, given the nature of the event and the girl’s pop-star good looks—not to mention her brazen flirting with me. Nobody her age would ever flirt that aggressively with me, just because. They always want something. But I had to know for sure. Hence, my decision to do the very thing she was most likely counting on: I resolved to call CeeCee tomorrow to track the bombshell down, even if it turned out she was a music student wannabe pop star who was decidedly off-limits to me.
It’s funny. Dumbshit guys at parties always assume I fuck aspiring artists, the same way I snack on kale chips. All the time. Without a second thought. But that couldn’t be further from the truth. In actuality, I don’t touch anyone who’s hoping to further her career by fucking or blowing me, no matter how attractive she might be. It’s the same whether she’s an aspiring artist, an artist I’ve already signed, or one of my employees. They’re all off-limits to me. No exceptions.
See, what I’ve learned, after a few unfortunate missteps early on, is that even the hottest sex isn’t worth risking the possible fall-out—the risk that the same woman who throws herself at me on Tuesday will claim I’ve used my power and influence inappropriately with her on Wednesday, once it’s clear I’m not going to give her what she wants.
I mean, sure, I’ll fuck models or actresses who want to use me indirectly to boost their clout or Instagram following or finagle an introduction to a powerful friend. That’s the way of the world. But fucking a woman who thinks giving me a BJ will directly advance her career—whether that’s getting her signed to my label, or assigned to a headlining slot on a tour, or getting a promotion at one of my companies? Nope. I won’t touch that woman with a ten-foot pole. Ever.
