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“I hope you feel better,” he says, instead of taking me upstairs. In fact, he takes a step down, and looks up at me with those smoldering eyes. They stay on mine, which, in this dress, has to be an act of will worthy of Viking ballads. “Have a good night, Janie.”
“Yeah,” I say, numb with need, taking in his cheekbones, his square jaw, his ruffled hair. His broad shoulders. “You too.”
A last smile, and then he’s gone, and I’m rushing inside to get ahold of myself.
I’m in the elevator, totally alone — except for whoever eventually watches the security tapes — before I sag against the wall and let my breath catch up to my racing heart. Heat surges between my legs, and I’m swirling away in thoughts of Jake Ferry, of his large, warm hands, his soft-looking mouth and… whatever else he’s got to work with.
By the time I get to my floor, I’m ready to ooze out of the elevator and leave a trail all the way to my apartment door. I rush to get into my place, shaking slightly until I can finally unzip my dress and recline on my couch, my fingers quickly working to get Jake out of my mind — or deeper into it, depending on your point of view, I suppose.
Flicking and stroking myself, I imagine those eyes looking up at me from my wet pussy as he laps at me, his tongue teasing me, and I can already feel the growing heat and tension beginning to build and —
As if he can hear me thinking dirty thoughts about him, my phone chimes loudly from inside my bra and I jerk my hand away from my sex like I’ve been caught by my grandma. It’s Jake. How did he even get my number? Never mind. There’s probably some billionaire boys’ club you just dial up like 411.
“You getting some rest?” he asks.
I roll my eyes. “Something like that. Trying to relax. Unwind.”
“Good. Sorry. Just thinking about you.”
Just thinking about me? I half wonder if he’s jerking off in his car the same way I was about to rub one out. “Don’t think too hard,” I text him. “Dangerous to drive one-handed.”
Once I hit send, only then do I realize what I’ve just done. It’s a long time before he texts me back.
“Fine now, both hands on the wheel.”
I get the image of Jake in my mind, stroking himself while he imagines me in the passenger seat, rubbing my clit for him. The image comes unbidden, out of nowhere, and with it comes a pile of misgivings. Do I really want to get sucked in by Jake Ferry? Everything he does comes with strings attached — Reginald Ferry’s strings, whether Jake means it or not.
No… it’s better if I don’t. So, I won’t. I turn my ringer off, and put my phone on the table facedown.
I won’t.
Jake
Reginald’s invitation to what he calls the “Big Boys Club” — his shareholder meeting — is the first I’ve received, but it’s not precisely an honor. “You need to meet these men,” he tells me, “if you plan on taking over my company when I retire.”
The implied consequence, of course, is that failure to attend is tantamount to turning down that offer. And I almost do. But then again, being there means I know what they discuss, and for all I know my absence means they’ll be discussing how to establish someone else as Reginald’s heir — or worse, how to blacklist me entirely in every venue they can.
Instead, they discuss plans for Janie Hall’s location. The meeting is at a massive cabin upstate, about an hour’s drive into the foothills at the edge of a sparkling lake. One of Reginald’s vacation properties. Seated around the large meeting room at the back of the luxury cabin, his fifteen principle shareholders pass around Cuban cigars, hundred-year-old whiskey, and discuss the men’s lodge they plan to put where Red Hall currently stands — as if it’s a foregone conclusion that Janie will be out of business any day now.
“It is, Jack,” Reginald tells the one man who bothers to ask that very question. He claps me on the shoulder. “My boy is on it. Janie Hall’s pussy is so wet for him, he’ll have her right where we want her in no time.”
“Not right where we want her,” Paul, a man old enough to be my grandfather, says lasciviously. He laughs as he makes the universal sign for blowjob, and the rest of the shareholders join in.
Reginald laughs along with them, and winks at me. “I’m sure Jake wouldn’t mind passing her around — would you, son?”
I don’t answer, but I don’t need to. My father claps me on the shoulder. “Jake is finally ready to run with the big dogs.”
“Congratulations,” pour in from the group, along with “about time,” and “welcome to the big leagues.”
I try to smile, and probably do a convincing job of it. To sell it, I have to shut down inside. Reginald may be smiling, but I can tell it’s just as fake as mine. Except he isn’t shut down, and in his eyes is the warning that’s been there for days now, nonstop. Don’t even think about failing or fucking me, they say.
After a little more banter, Reginald calls the meeting more or less to order. “Carl, you said you got blueprints in. Lay them out, let’s see what your guys came up with.”
Carl grins, and goes to retrieve a long white tube, from which he produces a roll of stacked papers. In the middle of the room, on the wide table we’re all seated around, he rolls them out and uses paperweights to pin them down.
I can tell just by looking that the plans aren’t meant for renovations. This is for a new building. They want to tear down the existing structure and build something new on it.
“Casino’s on the ground floor,” Carl explains, “with a lounge on the second floor. General admission in the front, VIP in the back, of course.”
