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“Since the moment he met you, girlfriend. So I’d go a bit easy on him,” Yasmine says, finally taking a bite out of her chocolate croissant. "If anything, Arsen was trying to protect you."
"How's that?" I ask.
"Well, he sold his company in chunks to the Russian mob. I'm sure he was trying to protect you for as long as he could. They probably would have pressured you for sex or something to keep working there."
Her words stun me. What if that's true? Could that be it? Was Arsen just trying to keep me safe and protected?
I ask, "How do you know all this?"
"I have my ways."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She thinks for a moment, as if she's not sure whether to say anything or not, but then continues, "Do you remember that slightly old lawyer who always hangs around Mr. Arsen Hawke?"
"Vaguely," I say, thinking of the times I’ve seen him on the video conference screen or he’s come by Arsen’s One57 apartment. ‘Gerard?”
"Well, he's the lawyer Arsen uses for everything, including selling the pieces of his company to the Russian mob. And he’s held out selling Simulated Pleasures as long as he can because he’s worried about how the mob is going to treat the girls that work there."
"How do you know that?"
"Let's just say I've seen him—both inside… and outside of the club."
"No—you two are having an affair?"
Yasmine motions her fingers over lips, as if she's zipping them shut.
"Fine, don't tell me," I say. But as soon as I say it, I realize that I may have everything wrong—yet again. If Yasmine is right, then Arsen hasn’t just loved me. He’s protected me. And all I’ve done is to repay him with scorn.
Arsen
I look out the window of the limo as it's drives down 8th Avenue toward my club, a hopping spot named Climax. It’s on 31st Street and 8th Avenue and I can see that the line to the fucking club goes nearly one fucking city block.
Jesus Christ, I think. I'm making money hand over fist on this fucking club. But that’ll be for only another month. Because in 30 days, the ownership of Climax will transfer over to Mozorov. And this will be his club.
“We’re going to fucking crush it tonight!” my friend Jonathan says next to me and I look over. We've known each other since college. Same fraternity. One of my closest friends. But it takes effort for me to smile tonight.
It’s been three fucking days since Ashley decided to say goodbye to me and never look back. Or has it been more? I don’t even know anymore.
I know that she’s not working at the agency; Simulated Pleasures received a formal letter of resignation from her a few days ago. Her line has been silent. She must have blocked my phone number because she doesn’t answer calls, it doesn’t go to voicemail, and she doesn’t answer texts. I can’t find her on Facebook. And no answer comes from my emails.
So like any good friend, when Jonathan saw the misery I was in during our racquetball game, he decided to gather three of our closest friends and go out on the town.
Normally, this is something Arsen Hawke would be ready for in a heartbeat. To go out into New York City and tear it up. Get drunk and fuck women.
“You just need to fuck it out of your system, man,” Jonathan says to me in the limo, bringing me back.
“You’re right,” I agree. “I’m going to fuck it out of my system multiple times with as many bitches as I can find.”
I really fucking hope he’s buying it because right now I’m just faking this whole goddamn thing.
We exit the limo and the five of us start drawing looks from the people who are standing in line to get into the club. They may vaguely recognize me; I’ve been photographed a few times, but they can’t place from where. Still, I look good tonight so its no fucking surprise that they take out their phones and snap pictures in case I happen to be famous.
That’s right. They’re taking pictures of me as I walk to the entrance of the club.
Because I look fucking good tonight, baby.
My 6 foot plus frame.
