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She scoffs. “I doubt it. Dirty rich pervs like you, you either can’t get your dicks to calm down or you can’t get them hard at all.” There’s a dark glitter of amusement in her eyes as shespeaks, but something in my expression makes the smirk fade from her lips.
“Oh,” she says. And then, louder. “Oh!Surelynot?”
But unfortunately for Sasha, it’s been years since I’ve been able to get an erection. At only twenty-four years old, I find myself utterly incapable of finding anything to excite me anymore. Perhaps it’s my fault, I did too much too fast, or perhaps sex has simply lost its edge.
I shrug. “I’m afraid so.”
“Oh.”
She looks down at my crotch again, and then she throws her head back and bursts into laughter. And for the first time since I’ve met her, I find out the sound of her genuine laughter. It’s cold, cutting, and edged with cruelty.
5
Dirty Work
Willow
Luca Fletcher-Lowe, for allhis reputation, turns out to be just as weak and milky as any other man of his ilk.
This is what wealth does to men. It gives them the illusion that everything is within their control and the world bends to their will because of their strength rather than the cash in their bank accounts.
Remove the money from these men’s lives, and they’re just like any other men in this world. Prideful, pathetic creatures dedicated to the building of the most fragile of all man-made monuments: their ego.
Finding out that Luca Fletcher-Lowe isn’t the dangerous serpent he claims to be is hardly a surprise. Finding out he can’t even get it up is, honestly, fucking delightful.
When the laughter dies out of my throat, I pause and look down at him.
“All these rumours of satanist sex rituals and fucking girls half to death,” I tell him. “That’swhat those rumours were hiding? A rich fuckboy who can’t fuck?”
He watches me in silence for a moment. His white-blond hair, always so carefully slicked back, is a mess. It falls in pale strands over his forehead. His eyes, that pallid grey ringed with a circle of darker grey, fix me through the fallen strands.
To his credit, he doesn’t seem remotely ashamed of his secret.
“However are you going to get your footage now?” he asks finally.
He speaks with a morbid lack of inflection, his posh accent dragging out his syllables, almost nasal.
“I’m not,” I answer him honestly, climbing off him. “Footage of me bouncing around on your lap might be worth something to the tabloids, but given the shit they run about you, I doubt it would even be a blip on your radar.” I peer down at the useless thing between his legs. “Your impotence might be worth something, I suppose.” I grab my discarded dress and wings off the floor, turning to glance at him over my shoulder. “Who would ever have thought I could be foiled by underestimating how pathetic you really are?”
“It’s not an easy business you’re launching into,” he tells me, speaking as calmly as if we were in the midst of a consultation. “You should’ve done your due diligence. Proper research, not just flicking through tabloid headlines.”
I’ve done a lot more than that. But if Luca Fletcher-Lowe wishes to assume I know nothing about him, then maybe that’s for the best. Only incompetent villains reveal everything they know once they’ve been foiled.
Besides, it would hurt his feelings to discover that he’s not even my real target.
“But your headlines are always so much fun,” I tell him without even attempting to mask my sarcasm. I squeeze myself back into my dress, grab my purse and shove the phone back in there. “Don’t worry, Luca. Next time, I’ll be better prepared.”
He gives me a smile as cold and sharp as the pointy end of a knife.
“There won’t be a next time.”
“You don’t think so?”
Without waiting for a reply, I grab his pile of clothes, gloves, and phone included. I leave the hotel room only long enough to throw the pile down the rubbish chute at the end of the corridor. When I return to the room, Luca’s head is resting against the headboard, and he’s watching me beneath half-drawn eyelids.
Good for him for not freaking out and begging and crying the way so many other men do. At least he has some dignity to hold on to.
“I would say this has been fun,” I tell him, reaching into my purse for my lip balm. The drugged lip gloss, though highly effective and extraordinarily costly, always dries out my lips. “But we’d both know I’d be lying. So I guess it’ll just have to be goodbye.”
