Page 29 of Business vs. Pleasure

“You turn a phrase so colorfully, sweetheart.” August leaned back on his hands. “And you think he’ll be a problem?”

The fact that Ricardo didn’t answer immediately was concerning. When he did speak, his words were measured in a way that told August his husband had already considered the question. “Under normal circumstances, no. But with the way the last job went…” He shook his head.

August both liked and hated that they were on the same page about that. “So he could potentially get in the way. Or pull Redham away when I need him.”

“Or see you putting something in Redham’s drink.”

Scowling, August nodded. Fabulous. Fucking fabulous.

“Just be careful,” Ricardo said again. “We have to get it done, and the longer this gets drawn out, the more potential for disruption there is. Hopefully Redham will just drink it and fucking die.”

August snorted. And he concurred. “Well, I just hope Rachel enjoys herself.”

“You like her, hm?”

He shrugged. “I appreciate that she’s put up with a bad situation for a long time and is happy for it to end. Death is rarely the right answer for marital problems, but she’s not just being vindictive with this. Harrison is a shitty human being, and no one except perhaps his executive assistant will cry when he goes.” He smiled. “And my meeting with her earlier guaranteed us a great rating once we’re done.” Take that, NightPigeon.

Ricardo grabbed up the picked-over tray and carried it to the cart by the door. “I appreciate your sense of perspective.”

“You’ll appreciate my perspective a lot more when I’m on my knees for you.”

Ricardo didn’t trip, that would be too much, but he did pause before setting the tray down. “I’d like to see that,” he said as he turned back toward August. His pupils were already wider than a second ago, lust sharpening his gaze.

August had always had a weakness for sharp men, especially this one. He slid off the edge of the bed and grinned. “I’d like to show you.”

The gala was, objectively, quite lovely. It was an indoor lunch event, so black tie wasn’t required. That meant the men were free to don salmon-colored shirts and seersucker shorts while women matched tasteful jewelry to their tea-length dresses instead of going all-out with the bling. Food and drinks were quietly circulated, and while the speeches about the cause were being saved for the end, there were pamphlets about the charity itself and how the money would be used on every table and posted on free-standing banners. Subtle, for a billionaire.

No, the gala presentation was lovely. The emotional undercurrent, percolating through the party like a stream of piss in a swimming pool, was downright acrid, and the man responsible for it was making his rounds like only a dutiful little peon could.

“—so grateful you could come,” the animated dildo known as “Zeke, Mr. Redham’s executive assistant, yes he’ll be here soon, but welcome, welcome!” was saying to a couple by a massive hydrangea display near the front door. “You know, Mr. Redham needs the support of his closest friends during this trying time. Oh, you didn’t hear?” He lowered his voice. “Rachel has finally pushed him too far. He’s getting ready to file for…” He looked around theatrically. “Divorce.”

August ground his teeth as he listened to this conversation play out for the tenth time since he’d arrived. The impending separation of the Redhams was all anyone was talking about now, and most of the conversation was about what Rachel had done wrong. Sticks and stones, and all that, but August knew it bothered Rachel. She was here, being a gracious hostess and doing her best to ignore the whispers, but August was an expert at seeing through a smiling façade. She was mortified and clearly unprepared for her husband’s stealth attack on her credibility.

The little shit’s smear campaign was also cramping August’s style. He was trying to get people talking about his magic age-defying elixir, but they all smelled blood in the water. Juicy gossip was far more intriguing to idiot oligarchs than yet another means of thwarting Father Time.

As for Rachel’s soon-to-be-dead husband, he wasn’t here yet. Weird.

August took out his phone.

Any sign of the man of the hour?

Ricardo

Nothing yet. And why aren’t you talking to people about your miracle shit?

Because Secretary of the Year over here has them all riveted with gossip and I can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Oh, hello there!”

August closed his eyes for a moment, then squared his shoulders and turned to face⁠—

“I’m Zeke, Mr. Redham’s executive assistant, he’ll be here soon but welcome, welcome!” Zeke beamed as he held out a manicured hand, and August put on his own smiling façade and returned the gesture.

“Thank you,” he said as they shook briefly.

“You’re a new face at this event, aren’t you? Wherever did you meet Mr. Redham?” Zeke looked August up and down appreciatively. “You look like you’re part of the same health-forward community he is.”

I do not look like an anti-vax, raw milk, carnivore-diet motherfucker. Rude. But now wasn’t the time for umbrage.