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“This and that.” His eyes wander to the secretary-like receptionists picking up more women for their special anal cleansing slash massage. “I came to check on my properties, see if they’re well taken care of.”
“I’m sure they are,” I reply.
“I think they need a reminder on who their owner is.”
How long is this cleansing procedure going to take? I reply, “If youthinkso, it might be true. How’s your wife doing?”
“My wife? Or my fiancée?” I plaster a smile on my face. He goes on, “My wife’s doing great, I hear. I still pay for her rehab, so she’s alive and kicking. My fiancée, on the other hand, is a tricky subject. She’s being very bad, refusing to tie the knot. I haven’t heard from her in so long.”
“I’m sure she has her reasons,” I reply, contemplating whether I should drink the fucking cocktail I was served earlier.
“Whatever they are, on Katantia, her opinion’s irrelevant,” Hugh states. He rises from his seat, and I am nothing but relieved to be rid of the bitch. Time’s ticking, and Ivy’s bound to return soon. I’m tired and only here because she wants to try anal. I don’t have time for billionaire fools.
Hugh notices my silence. “What? Don’t you agree?”
“I’m not a Katantian. You do well to remember that,” I tell him. I sit back in my chair. “Leave. I’m not here in an official capacity. Therefore, I don’t have to listen to your bullshit.”
Hugh Abbott’s intense gaze of fury doesn’t mar me in the slightest. He’s wasting his energy while I sit here, unbothered and waiting for mygirlfriendto come back to me. I’ve got my priorities set right.
A full minute passes until he finally leaves me alone.
I haven’t touched my drink, and I feel proud about it.
The bar isn’t full because everyone’s inside already, fucking each other’s brains out. Our visit here was spontaneous and a little late. Instead of checking my phone, I study the employees and the few other men in here.
Katantians aren’t born. They’re made. It’s one of the country’s slogans, and I can see why. People from all over the world come here for an escape, a place to hide. Katantia has half a million inhabitants, and it battles massive cities like Singapore, Hong Kong, London, and New York City for the top spot on cultural diversity.
Not one man in this room has the same background.
I still stand out because they all know who I am. Meanwhile, I know who they are because I’m good with faces. Kamila entertains a lot of people in the palace, more people than I prefer. My men and I research backgrounds far more often than I’d like.
Before she even appears in my sight, I hear Ivy’s steps. She rushes over to me, jumping on my lap. Her face is blushed, and her body sweaty. She begs me, “Please, let’s go inside now. I can’t wait any longer!”
“What did they do to you?” I ask. I pick her up from my lap. I would carry her inside like that, but she politely asks me to put her down. When she flashes her needy eyes at me, all I can do is listen.
With my hand in hers, we head for the inside of the club.
“They rubbed cream on me, and I think it makes me horny! I feel wetter than I’ve ever felt. I don’t know how to contain myself? They cleaned me up with a douche or an enema or whatever, and I almost came. Like, what the hell?” she mumbles away, terrified and amused at the same time. “And the massage… I feel loose. You can put it in me. I’ll take it!”
“Slow down, little doe. We’re not even inside yet. You might be appalled at the sight of other people fucking,” I tell her, kissing the back of her hand. She blushes some more, and I memorize the image.
Chuckles and giggles aside, they let us into the club. Instantly, lounge music is muffled by moans and groans. People are scattered around the space, some in groups and some in pairs. They occupy booths, and there’s even a small open space for dancing. Of course, nobody’s dancing on the dancefloor. They’re fucking, as per usual, on Katantia.
Club employees are checking whether the couples are doing anal.
You get kicked out if you put it in the other hole for too long. It’s manic, and it’s certainly something I never thought I’d be a part of. I can hear people fucking, and it is disturbing to some extent. I’m a private person, and I don’t share the details of my personal life with anyone. Katantians know I’m Jordan, Alex’s father. That’s all.
They don’t know I spent years trying to get over my ex-wife. They have no fucking idea that I’m nervous walking into this place and trying to keep a straight face.
I’ve never been in handcuffs, but I’ve been held at gunpoint by men worse than the entire society of Katantia and their foreign rich investors put together. I’ve agitated men who wouldn’t hesitate to behead me if I weren’t of use to them. I’ve murdered in cold blood, and I’ve disposed of the bodies as if they were old shoes in the back of my closet. 3013 times.
This isn’t the worst anxiety I’ve suffered, but who’s ranking this shit anyway.
Perhaps I should’ve had a drink earlier.
I work in the darkness, and all this light, the open sexual energy, is getting to my head.
“What’s wrong?” Ivy asks, halting mid-step. She turns around, and she places a flat hand on my chest.
