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"Sloane, now you're really starting to sound like a broken fucking record," I say. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a fucking warning," he replies with seriousness. "If you want to stay out of the papers and avoid a media shit storm bigger than anything you've ever seen, you'll remove yourself from her life, and you'll do it now."
He doesn't wait for me to reply and instead, I watch him storm out of my office, slamming the door behind him. He slams it so hard, a framed picture rattles on the wall.
As soon as he's gone, CJ opens the door and peeks her head in. "Is everything okay?"
"It's fine, thank you."
Hearing this, she gives me a weak smile and shuts the door again.
Honestly, I'm more than just fine.
My entire body is buzzing with an electric jolt that I haven't felt in a long time.
I should be mad—Sloane barging in here like a toddler having a tantrum, making impetuous demands and threats.
But instead, all of this has just made my fucking cock hard.
Sloane
After what happened this afternoon, fuck the Yale Club. I need to stay away from anyplace that Drake is part of. Otherwise I can't speak to what my actions will be.
Drake isn't part of the New York Athletic Club. I know that. Because when he tried to join, I was already a member and I blackballed his membership. He never got in. I told him about it afterward, how I fucked his ability to join one of the premier New York City clubs.
So this is the place on Central Park South that I come to today.
To work out.
Have dinner.
Get my thoughts together over Natalie and Drake.
Fuck, to just get the fuck over Natalie.
I mean, I'm Sloane fucking Hardman. I don't fucking get broken up over women. I don't pine away. I don't have a broken fucking heart.
That's not who I am. That's not what I fucking do.
I fuck women. I make them cum. I give them the best fucking sex they've ever had in their lives. I change their world. I shoot them into orbit and take them to paradise. And when their feet finally touch the fucking ground, I'm gone. I've moved on to the next girl.
So then what the fuck am I doing here, all by myself? Retreating into the NYAC?
You think I got the answer to that, don't you? That I'm going to have some deep explanation of what's going on that'll fucking put everything into perspective, won't it?
Sorry darlin'. Life doesn't work like that. You can't break it into chapters to read in your spare time.
Instead, the most I can tell you is that I'm sitting here, enjoying my steak. It feels good to cut the meat with my knife. I just want to cut something. Destroy it.
I've been drinking my scotch like there's no fucking tomorrow.
Why am I so frustrated?
It makes no fucking sense.
"You're acting like an animal," a voice says from beyond my vision. I should probably explain that even if I'm sitting here in the dining room, my head's been bowed and I've been looking at my plate. My entire vision has been this New York Strip and the creamed spinach I had with the Macallan 12-year single malt to the side.
That's all I was staring at as I was cutting th
