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“Mmmm. Axel.” A soft feminine voice at my side jolted me. I decided to risk it and cracked one eye. Mirabella was beside me. And shit, I still had my suit pants on from yesterday. At least my shoes had come off at some point. My white button-up hung open, revealing the latest ink I’d added to my chest, swirling letters that spelledJORDAN.
It was a tribute to one of my sisters. Both were long gone. The only visible reminders I had of them were their names inked on my body. Kaylee’s name stretched down the length of my right forearm. Their memories informed every fucking thing that I did with my heart and my hands.
My lips parted to say something to Mirabella, but my voice withered in the parched landscape of my mouth. I groped blindly for the bottle of water I kept on my nightstand. Just twisting to reach it from where I lay on my more-enormous-than-king bed was a struggle. All my internal organs seemed to protest. A wave of nausea arrived. Fuck this hangover.
“Are you awake, boo-baby?” she purred, pawing at the waist of my pants. She was one of those lanky runway models with naturally puffy lips, exotically beautiful, and always down to fuck. The touch of her made the nausea worse. I chugged water like I’d been living in the desert for a year. Water dribbled down my chin. I tossed the empty bottle on the floor.
I collapsed back onto my bed, pushing her hands away. “Too hungover.”
“Oh, come on. Youpromisedwe’d get freaky in the morning,” she whispered into my ear. We’d been hooking up for almost a year, but it was always on my schedule. The whole arrangement was strictly sex. She knew it. I knew it. We were both fine with it.
Sex was the way I took my mind off things. That and drinking excessively. Usually I didn’t have too much on my mind.
But yesterday threw a curveball into my status quo.
“Not today,” I grunted, my eyes drifting shut. Yes, I was too hungover. But the thought of being inside Mirabella was unappealing for other reasons, which I couldn’t articulate.
But part of me suspected—no,knew—that it had everything to do with seeing Cora.
I’d done everything right. I’d gone in there with enough swagger to capsize a boat. I’d been professional yet snarky as fuck. I didn’t even look at Cora or her disgusting husband.
So why did my insides feel like they were about to explode?
The last time I’d felt like this was after the trip to California to beg Cora for an explanation, to give us a chance like she’d promised. Begging did no good; she’d ended it, even though we were supposed to get married. Clearly, I needed to call my fucking therapist again, because just the shadow of a glimpse of her perfect face had reduced me to jelly. And that was unacceptable. Hell, it sounded insane.
“Come on, Axel.” Mirabella tugged at the fly of my pants. She’d find nothing interesting there. I couldn’t get a hard-on now if my life depended on it.Though if Cora showed up…
No. Those thoughts needed to stop. My cock would never participate in anything Cora Margulis had to offer. Even if my cockwantedto, my extremely complicated moral code would not allow it.
“Mirabella, that’s enough.” My voice was a hoarse croak. I draped my arm across my eyes. “Just go.”
“Axellll,” she whined.
“You heard me.”
She huffed. The bed moved slightly as she got up. Even that motion invited more nausea. I listened as she collected her things, grumbling.
“You gotta be kidding me. What’s the point of spending all this money on this dress if I can’t even get fucked?”
“Go,” I repeated, with more force and less hoarse.
“I’m going,” she snapped, her Brooklyn accent stronger than ever. “Hopefully your dick will work next time.”
Comebacks filled my head, but I didn’t have the energy to deliver them. My bedroom door opened and shut, and I drifted back into the semi-dreamscape of my hangover. The world beyond my bed seemed impossible to navigate. But I needed to get upright. Get some food in me. At the very least some damn electrolytes.
I heaved myself to sitting, regretting the brilliant idea to host last night’s party. It had been fun for the first ten shots. After that, things turned hazy. Someone had called the helicopter for a drunk air tour of Manhattan. My pilot may have received a lap dance. After that, it was anybody’s guess.
I stumbled the eternal distance between my bed and the door. I flung my door open. The scent of bacon and eggs drifted toward me, and my stomach rumbled. So there was hope. I began the long walk from my wing of bedrooms toward the common area of the kitchen and dining area.
“Ahhh, there he is!” Trace’s voice boomed through our enormous kitchen, and I squinted, shielding my eyes against the excessive amount of sunlight that filled our fifty-third floor penthouse. Technically, our penthouse occupied floors fifty through fifty-three, and our kitchen was somewhere in the middle.
“Do you have to scream?” I asked.
“Look at you. The walk of shame.” Damian clapped me on the back as I shuffled past them. Our private chef was just putting on a new round of bacon as I scooped up the last piece from the platter on the marble-topped island.
“It’s not a walk of shame if it’s your own house,” I pointed out, crunching into the bacon. Yes, that felt tolerable. Pig fat, good. “Thanks, Butch.” Butch was our chef. He lifted his spatula and nodded. We had a habit of hiring outsiders, and Butch was no exception. He was a down-south guy like ourselves, an unwitting NYC transplant who just didn’t quite fit in with the normal bourgeoisie.
“You need a Gatorade or what?” Trace asked.
