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“You’re an asshole, Quinton Starks!” she huffs as she’s tugging up her red nylon dress. “I can’t believe I blew you this morning.” She snatches her sandals over her heels. I can’t deny it, I am an asshole.
“Ouch, why you going to say such things? You enjoyed yourself last night,” I taunt following her towards the door. “I seem to recall you screaming I was the best you’ve had.”
“Shut up.” She yanks my door open as she shoves past my buddy, who was about to knock. He smirks as he watches the hot bombshell stalk toward the elevators.
“Well, I see you took the blonde home last night,” he says, walking into my apartment. “Damn man, I wish I had your life.”
“No, Andy you don’t.” I blow his admiration off immediately. “You have a wife.” He rolls his eyes, which I’ll never understand why—his wife is smoking hot. She’s actually way too hot for him.
“You missed our run this morning.” Which answers my question about what Andy is doing here.
“Yeah, I was getting head.” I walk to my fridge, get a water and chug it. I grab my protein powder and make my power shake for breakfast.
Andy laughs. “Well, are you hitting the gym before you head into the office?”
“Really, is that a question?” I ask, annoyed, flexing my pecs at him. “Do you honestly think I keep this killer sex bod by slacking off? I have to work out every day.”
Andy rolls his eyes. “You’re one arrogant son of a bitch, but you have rights.”Damn right I do, I nod as we both walk out of my apartment.
“I’ll catch you at the office.” I punch the button for my private gym on the elevator. One of the perks of being me: the luxury to own a private gym in the building. I love my life.
An hour later, I return to my penthouse to shower and dress for the office. I walk in as Lucinda is stripping my bed. She smirks at the smell of the cheap perfume. I feel somewhat guilty about not picking up my own condom wrappers, but only somewhat. After all, she’s very well compensated for her services. I wouldn’t survive without Lucinda.
She looks at me, suspicious, as I notice her emptying the trash from the bedroom. “What?” I grin. I know what she’s wondering. “Yeah I am that good Lucinda.” I am that good … extended sexual pleasure is my forte. I’m also going to make sure I blow my load every time.
I walk out of the shower, wrapping my towel around my chiseled midsection and towel dry my dark hair. I run my fingers through my hair, causing it to part naturally down the middle; I brush the sides first then the back. I grab some Aveda pomade to style my hair. I groom my mustache and beard to keep a controlled scruff look; women seem to go crazy over it.
Walking into my closet, I look at the array of white dress shirts, plenty of navy or gray suits.Hmmm, it’s Monday, I will go navy.Thirty minutes later I’m walking out of the building. The valet has pulled up my pride and joy—my red Mercedes AMG GTC Roadster. I toss the valet a hefty tip.
I whip into the parking garage of another building I own, Stark’s Industries. I would have made my dad proud, had he lived to see my success. My heart feels heavy remembering him; it’s the only weight that ever makes me feel anything. I hop out, tossing my keys to another valet, as well as another hefty tip. I saunter into the lobby, through the metal detectors and straight to the twenty-eighth-floor.
As I exit the elevator, the glass doors open for me to smiling, welcoming faces. I wonder if they really like me for me, or if they see me as the pompous ass who pays them. Regardless, I do appreciate the smiles. I turn the corner heading to my glass office, and there he is, my second righthand man, Gerry! There are two people in this entire world I know I positively cannot live without: Lucinda and Gerry.
“Gerry.” I beam. “How was your weekend getaway?” I grab the coffee he has waiting for me and hit the button opening my office door.
I unfasten my blazer before sitting behind my desk, overlooking the little people rushing to their jobs below. From my view, they look like ants in a colony, scrambling.
“It was fabulous,” Gerry sings as he walks his runway walk with a file in hand. He knows he doesn’t have to wait for me to offer him a seat, he graces his flaming purple suit on my stark white modern chair. Gerry and I met clubbing one night; he was as queer as a two-dollar bill, but I didn’t care. I liked him. He has style and pizzazz. Exactly what some stiff backs need to lighten the mood of the corporate world. When he entered one of my establishments a couple of ignorant ingrates thought they would work on building up their male testosterone by beating him down.
I was all too happy to show them how a real, six foot five, two hundred and thirty pound man acts. That night the ingrates were liberated, and I found the best assistant I’ve ever had. That was ten years ago, and we’re still going strong. He adds the color and flare to my gray and navy world; and I compensate him immensely for it. He knows what I’m thinking, sometimes before I do, which is freakishly weird.
“That’s great,” I chime. “What do you think of the area?”
“Such a lovely quaint town.” He crosses his legs, flipping through the file. “I don’t see a nightclub taking off there.” He poses, looking up.
“Oh,” I say, leaning back, “and why is that?”
“It’s a small island, the historic sector definitely won’t host a club such as your establishments here. It’s full of character and charm.”
“What about a beach front establishment?”
“I took the liberty of taking some pictures of local bars.” He laughs. “Or what they call bars on the beach. I also took pictures of empty plots of land, on the ocean front.”
I lean forward, taking the pictures and looking at them. I have some ideas immediately.
“There is not really much to do in the way of ocean front dining, dancing, or nightlife for that matter,” Gerry says.
“What about the tourist sector?” I ask giving his pictures back. “I mean are there hotels on the strip; resorts and such? I just wonder if, say we come in, open up an establishment, will it have enough revenue to thrive?” I’ve been to Amelia Island before, but it was years ago. I was in my twenties and it offered nothing to a philandering trust fund brat.
