With that, I stood, shrugging out of my jacket, draping it over her arms that were pebbling with goosebumps, turning, and leaving.
It was a risky move, I knew, to leave it like that.
But sometimes in life, you had to take a gamble. And me? I liked my hand.
People didn't fight so hard to push you away without ever truly making a stand unless they were interested, just denying it to you, and likely themselves.
Why?
I had no idea.
I couldn't claim to be someone afflicted with such reservations. When I wanted something, I went after it with everything I had. Until I lost interest, or moved onto the next thing, of course.
Apparently, Wasp was someone who denied herself the things she wanted. To what end? Possibly to always be the one holding the reins, always the one with all the power.
But where the hell was the fun in that?
If she showed up—when she showed up—I would make it my mission to shake her up a bit, show her a good time, get some of that ice chipped away.
Sure of the situation, I went back to my room, making the necessary calls as my assistant, Alvy, carefully tucked away my belongings, slapping my hand away if I tried to help because 'remember what happened last time?'
In truth, I didn't.
But they made it sound grave enough for me to drop down in the chair by the sliding doors to watch the city one last time.
"So, what's her name?" Alvy asked, carefully rolling one of my suits in their hands.
Alvy had been with me for going on three years. Which was a lot of staying power for someone who typically had their personal assistants rage-quit after a few months, no matter how handsomely I offered to pay them to stay on.
Alvy was short and slight with close-cropped medium-brown hair, and knowing brown-black eyes. They dressed as they lived, non-binary, sometimes in jeans and a flannel, other times in a nicely tailored suit that was neither masculine nor feminine in design. Today, they wore a pair of black skinny jeans, a white and gray button-up three-quarter length sleeved shirt, and Chucks that had to have been custom made with a pattern of green frogs on the outside and a bright purple tongue and laces.
"Wasp," I told Alvy, shrugging.
"She wouldn't give you her real name, but you are chartering a private jet to take her out to your yacht?" Alvy asked, brow arching up as they went into the bathroom to grab my shaving kit, tucking it into one of my suitcases.
"She doesn't like me, Alvy," I told them pressing a hand to my heart. "Can you imagine?"
"Judging by the three-hour rant phone call I got from your previous assistant when I first started, yes, yes, I can imagine."
"Michel had very strong feelings on proper REM cycles. Feelings I clearly do not share. That's why we work so well, Al, I never sleep. You are an insomniac. It's a perfect relationship."
"Did she tell you that she was going to come?"
"Not in so many words."
"Did she say it in any words? In sign language? In Morse Code?" Alvy asked, smirking.
"Her eyes told me she was coming."
"Oh, for Christ's sake," Alvy scoffed, reaching for their phone.
"Who are you calling?"
"The pilot."
"For what?"
"To warn him that you will likely need to make a last-minute flight plan change to somewhere less romantic, and more party-focused when she stands you up." With that, they moved out into the kitchen area to do just that while brewing a new pot of coffee, being a fiend themselves, and knowing I was always up for a cup. "Okay, so what is it about this one?" Alvy asked, handing me my coffee a few moments later.
"Hm?"
"Is she the daughter of a drug kingpin? A princess of a small country? A retired movie star. In her sixties?"
"That was one time," I insisted, smiling at the memory. "And she was a hell of a time."
"Until she slashed your tires when she found out you moved onto the woman who was playing her in the remake of her classic movie."
"Don't be ridiculous," I said, lips twitching. "A movie under twenty years old can't be considered a classic."
"I was the one who had to handle the tire replacement and the press," Alvy reminded me.
"I believe I got you an I'm sorry gift for that."
"You bought me a ten-thousand-dollar living room set."
"That sounds nice of me."
"I don't have a home," Alvy told me, rolling their eyes.
"Well, why not? Do I not pay you enough?" I asked.
"If you paid me anymore, I'd have to start moving money offshore," Alvy told me. "The issue isn't that I need more money. It is that it is pointless to get a home when I am literally never there to spend time in it."
"So? I have a home. I have... six? Is it six?"
"It's eleven," Alvy told me. "Though three of those are family estates, not fully yours."
"Where are the extra two houses?"
"Let me preface this with saying that if you don't know the cities and countries of your residencies, it might be smart to unload them. The most recent was a lodge in Colorado."
'That doesn't count. That is a business."
"A business with a six-thousand square foot home for the owner. That you keep fully staffed, but never visit."
"How could I visit when I forgot it existed?" I shot back, smiling. "Maybe we should arrange to have someone rent it out. Or do one of those house shares there. Would that make it less ostentatious of me to keep it in my portfolio?"
"Slightly," Alvy agreed. "And the other one is the condo above your favorite bar in Boston. So you can just drag your drunk ass up the stairs and pass out."
"That seems like a solid investment. Anyway. I have houses that I clearly never visit. You could have one."
"I could. But I don't want one. Not until I can move into it full-time."
"It sounds like you plan on leaving me one day, Alvy," I observed.
"I am eventually going to burn out."
"How shall I go on without you?" I asked dramatically, making their eyes roll.
"You'll find a way. You always do."
"My suits will likely always be wrinkled."
"You can hire someone to be your personal clothing steamer."
'This is true," I agreed. "And they likely won't lecture me about my choices in women."
"I wouldn't either. If you chose one who was a good option for once."
"Oh, they have all been very good."
"For the pocketbooks of those you employ to fix your messes, I suppose that is true. I will have the art you purchased shipped back to the main estate," Alvy said, waving at the canvases.
"That should do. We should visit the estate sometime this year. Pick the pieces to distribute to other places. It must be getting rather crowded by now."
"You have purchased one-hundred-and-twelve paintings so far this year, so I imagine that is true."
"Pencil it into the schedule."
"Will do," Alvy agreed, zipping my suitcases, then turning their attention to their phone. "Your flight attendant, Joy, wants to know if there is anything she needs to pick up for you and your guest?"
"What can I get that would impress a woman who appears wholly unimpressed by me as a whole?"
"A free trip back home."
"Well, that won't work. You're supposed to be on my team here, Alvy."
"Does she eat? Or is she like that poor girl last year who I caught nibbling on napkins to stay full without gaining any weight?"
"She eats. But not French cheeses."
"That really narrows it down," Alvy said, snorting. "I will tell her to get things to impress a woman. She can figure that out."
"What would I do without you, Alvy?"
"Employ that team of fixers of yours a lot more often than you already do."
"I miss them. It's been over a year since I've needed to hire them for anything, hasn't it?"
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Create a problem as an ex
cuse to see them. Some people have barbecues or host dinner parties."
"Well, I can't do that now, can I?"
"Why not?"
"First, I'd have to pick a home. Second, Miller made it very clear that if I step foot in Navesink Bank again, she is going to pay me back for that pig whoopsie."
"Really, you didn't think to check to make sure it was a pet, not a farm pig?"
"I blame you."
"Of course you do."
"You abandoned me that summer."
"I took my mandatory three-week vacation."
"What moron made a mandatory three-week vacation rule?"
"That moron would be you."
"Oh, right. Good corporate policies are one of my many positive traits," I told him, smirking.
"It somewhat makes up for all your personal failings," Alvy agreed, shooting me a smile, eyes dancing.
"Are you ready for some fun in the sun, Alvy?"
"I am ready to watch this woman eviscerate you," they shot back.
"Don't be so keen. You'd be the one having to deal with the mess," I told them, rising out of my chair, making my way toward the door, finding myself uncharacteristically anxious about the plan.
This anxiety only intensified as I waited there beside the private jet.
For twenty minutes.
Thirty. Forty-five.
"She's cutting it close," Josh, the pilot, commented, rocking on his heels.
"Yes, she is," I agreed, stomach tightening.
I'd been so sure.
"Don't worry, Mr. Arlington," he said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "You know some women. Late for their own funerals, they'll be."
With that, he moved back inside, heading into the cabin, anxious to get moving.
While I was just anxious.
I'd never experienced it before.
I couldn't say I was a fan.
Feeling sweaty with a hammering heart and a flip-flopping stomach with the lingering sense of insecurity and embarrassment. Definitely not something I wanted to experience again.
"Should I tell Josh to change the flight plan?" Alvy asked, checking their phone, confirming what I already knew.
She didn't make it.
She wasn't coming.
I was losing my edge.
"Well, I'll be damned," Alvy said, making my gaze lift from the tarmac, following their gaze to the approaching car.
Relief washed through me in a wave, leaving the uncomfortable anxiety in a puddle at my feet.
The car pulled to a stop, the driver climbing out, opening the back door.
I watched with bated breath as a set of long, tan legs slid out, heels hitting the pavement.
Then, the rest of her body emerged.
In a skintight black tank-top that showed a sliver of stomach, paired with a red and black rose-printed skirt. Of the short variety.
She turned, looking over in our direction, doing a once-over of me, then Alvy, then me again, seeming wholly unimpressed with us both, then finally making her way in our direction.
Slow.
Deliberate.
Knowing that we, the plane, the whole damn world would wait for her if she demanded it do so.
Her gaze slid to Alvy once she was in front of us. "I'm sorry," she told them.
"We don't mind wait—" I started, getting cut off as her gaze slipped to me, cold, sharp.
"I wasn't apologizing to you. I am apologizing to your staff for having to work for you," she informed me, pushing past my shoulder, and making her way into the jet.
"I can see you," I informed Alvy as their grin spread, elated, amused.
"She's going to destroy you," Alvy told me, sounding pleased at the prospect.
"Oh, but how I am going to enjoy the destruction," I told them, turning, making my way into the jet.
I had no idea what to expect.
But I was excited to find out what was to come.
FIVE
Wasp
I had to go.
I mean, not even my innate stubbornness would allow me to screw up a job worth so much. Even if it was stupid as hell.
So stupid, in fact, that I straight-up lied to Raven about what was going on. I never lied to her. Not about important things.
Traveling internationally with a complete stranger fell squarely in the important category.
But I didn't want her to stress out.
I didn't want her talking to my brothers, having some giant issue raised.
Sure, Fenway Arlington was a stranger. And strangers always lent an air of danger. And, yes, he was the rich of the filthy variety, which meant he could pay to have anything done and covered up.
But, really, my instincts said Fenway was a giant puppy dog with a wandering dick and a big ego.
He was harmless as far as I could tell.
So I didn't need my family and friends freaking out because of this job.
If everything went to plan, it would be two or three weeks tops. Then I could be home, investing my newfound small fortune, preparing for earlier-than-planned retirement.
So I had to go.
I was starting to question my decision on the drive from the hotel to the airstrip—in a car that had been sitting outside my hotel waiting for me, because Fenway prepared for everything, it seemed—wondering if I was giving him the upper hand over me.
But one look at the sheer relief I saw on his face when the car pulled up almost late, was all I needed to see to know I was still in control here.
I moved into the jet, trying not to seem impressed. But I was impressed.
I'd flown first class once and felt fancy as hell.
But first class and a private jet were worlds apart when it came to luxury.
The inside of Fenway's jet was bright and welcoming with its sand-colored couches and chairs and the white oak table tops and storage bins.
There was a door opened in the back to a bedroom, the bed itself taking up the entire space, covered in all white bedding. To the side of that was what appeared to be the bathroom. Across from there was a small kitchen space where a woman in a tame gray and white flight attendant outfit stood.
This was Fenway Arlington here.
I half expected the staff to be wearing those dresses and hats straight out of the fifties.
I moved to the couch, settling down in the center of it, making it clear I wanted it all to myself.
Surprisingly, Fenway got the hint, dropping down across from me in a bucket seat with a table in front of him, pretending to ignore me as his assistant brought my luggage inside, and the flight attendant rushed around to make sure everything was just right.
"Fenway," I called, making his head jerk up, turning to look at me.
"Yes, darling?"
Darling.
God.
Could anyone actually pull off that endearment nowadays?
I knew the answer immediately.
Somehow, Fenway could.
"I have two brothers," I told him, lifting my chin. "They are both arms dealers," I added, watching his assistant jolt to a stop in the aisle. "And they are both afraid of me," I finished, watching as the facts settled in.
There was the expected surprise, a small flash of worry, but it was all replaced with his signature carefree, boyish smile that made his eyes brighten.
"I do adore a powerful woman," he told me, making my eyes roll.
"Isn't it rude not to introduce me to your assistant?" I asked.
"Alvy is going to spend most of the flight in the cabin."
"To get away from you?" I teased.
"Most likely, yes," he told me as Alvy did, indeed, disappear into the cabin, shutting the door.
"Hey, I don't want to get it wrong. Alvy...—" I started, not sure how to ask, what was PC, how to broach a potentially sensitive topic.
"Alvy is non-binary."
"Which means I should..."
"Use they/them pronouns," he told me. "And don't ask about body parts, or who they like sexually."
&n
bsp; "Right," I agreed, nodding. "Because it is ever appropriate to ask someone if they are hiding a penis or vagina in their pants. Or ask if they like to suck dick or eat pussy."
The way I phrased that was a test, wanting to see how he responded to dirty words. As much as porn wanted us all to believe every man liked foul-mouthed women in bed, there were a lot of men who didn't like women who used those kinds of words.
I watched as Fenway's eyes got just a tiny bit bigger, surprised, before they smoldered as he turned, leaning forward like he was going to share a secret with me.
"In case you were wondering," he started, lips curving up devilishly, "I like to eat pussy."
It was my turn to have my eyes widen, to feel the smolder.
Because I hadn't expected him to repeat it.
I don't know why.
His fine breeding, his likely prep school education, the fact that he was so boyish that it was a little hard to imagine very grown man words coming out of his mouth.
Whatever it was, I didn't expect it.
Nor did I expect the impact of the words.
Namely, the tightening between my legs, the deep longing, the way my heartbeat tripped into overdrive.
It wasn't just the word.
Nope.
It was the smooth, confident, sexy way he said it.
I knew right that moment that not only did he like doing it, that he was probably amazing at it too.
Damnit.
"Joy," Fenway called, addressing the flight attendant. "I think our guest could use a stiff drink," he called, lips quirked up, making it clear his emphasis was purposeful.
He knew I did want something stiff.
But it damn sure wasn't a drink.
"It's fine," I called. "I'm not thirsty," I added through my cottonmouth.
"Oh," Fenway said, eyes bright, voice low, sexier than it had any right to be, "I think you are thirsty. Should I tell Joy exactly what it is you are thirsty for?" he asked, eyes daring me.
Oh, damn him.
He was not going to be as easy a target as I originally thought.
Who the hell would have thought that superficial, troublesome Fenway Arlington would have layers?
I should have known.
"Pink champagne," I told him, watching as his brows furrowed.
"Pink champagne?"
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