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Like he would understand…
Instead, it’s my father’s voice I hear…
Silly girl.
Chapter 3
Jackson
A possessive fury has my jaw clenched. My temples pound with a sort of agony I’ve not felt before.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
I scan the bar as one of the Houston group laughs and nuzzles his pair of prostitutes’ necks. I catch him sliding a hand up one of their skirts, and distaste makes me turn away.
I’m embarrassed to be surrounded by these fucks. All of them wearing wedding rings.
At forty-one, I’ve never married. Never even got close.
I own homes in Manhattan, Thousand Oaks, a private island off the coast of Grand Cayman as well as a monstrosity of a house I built to surprise my parents back in Cleveland where I grew up. They refused to move into it though, they were more than comfortable in the little bungalow they bought together just after they married. So, there it sits, empty, except when I visit.
I spend the majority of my time here in Manhattan running my businesses from several offices in the city.
I know a lot of people in my social circles figure I’m a womanizer. A manwhore as I’ve heard it called. I don’t bother to correct them. I don’t give a shit what people think, I give a shit about winning. About making money. About coming out on top.
I have busted my ass trying to get to where I am. I wasn’t born with a silver spoon in my mouth. It was stainless steel, and fine enough. My parents, adoptive as they are, were great and taught me about hard work.
So that’s what I did.
Worked fucking hard for everything I have.
Who knows what my life would have been like if my birth mother hadn’t dropped me off in a laundry basket at the Catholic charity center? I don’t dwell, but I’m sure if I ever bothered with therapy there would be quite a few sessions on abandonment issues that have led to a lack of an ability to become attached to most humans.
During the day, I sit on the board of several Fortune 500 companies. I'm also the CEO of my venture capital investment firm—my first—that I started from the ground up. But for all my success, I’ve kept a low profile. I’m not one for interviews, buying sport’s franchises, flashy nights out, fast cars or anything that draws attention.
I draw enough attention with my size. Six feet six inches and built like one of those Nordic strongman competitors, with a face that would never grace the cover of GQ. I’m off-putting in my own special way, I suppose and I like it that way.
Work is my drug. That’s been my wife, mistress and purpose, and until the last few years I’d come to accept it would be like that forever.
Then, as success after success came for me, my passion for the work decreased.
So, I’m venturing into a more serious philanthropic arena. I’m starting an organization that manages microloans and mentorships to small business owners. And, to be honest, mostly to women.
It’s brand new, but I’ve got my new office set up in one of the buildings I own, which also houses a PR and marketing company that is under a wing of my venture capital organization, and I feel like once again I’m finding my stride.
We shall see.
“You're looking glum this evening, J.” A voice cuts into my thoughts, setting my teeth on edge with the over-familiar tone and the presumptuous nickname. “You know what you need?”
I raise a brow at Roland Powers, the biggest decision maker of the Houston group. He’s a power-tripping twenty-five-year-old who has never had to lift a finger to make a living in his life. A shipping heir’s son who’s always had whatever he needed fall into his lap. I don’t begrudge him the privilege into which he was born, but I am glad I’m not like him.
“Goddamn it.” My frustration is mounting. I slam my glass down on the bar and Roland gives me an amused smile.
“Something wrong?” He mocks sipping his drink eyeing me.
I look at each of the Houston decision makers and shake my head. “I’m going to call it a night, gentlemen.” I’ve given them more than four minutes by now, and it’s clear no one but me wants to talk business.
“We’re just getting started!” Roland looks at me like I’m the parent ruining the party.
One of the escorts giggles as he slides a hand down the neck of her dress.
I avert my eyes. I'm tempted to punch him in the face.
“You all have a good night,” I finish, my eyes already scanning the crowd.
Francois must notice the angry twitch in my jaw, because he’s quick to step between us. “Jackson has a crazy early-morning meeting with some investors from Japan.”
I don’t give a fuck anymore. The lie will do. “Hope you gentleman can come to terms. Keep me in the loop.”
