by JJ Giles
Groggy, the old man stirred. “Brian? Brian, Boy, is that you?”
“Yeah. Can you take me to Alex’s?”
“Well, sure I can. Gosh, it’s good to see you.”
Brian smiled as the driver opened the door to allow him entrance. Brian fell into the back seat of his father’s limousine greeted by the fresh scent of new leather, the faint aroma of expensive bourbon. Sadly, he shook his head. The way he grew up, the way Morgan grew up. He knew Morgan would never accept him if she knew he was one of those prep school-yacht club-Billionaire Boys she hated so much. The kind that could buy and sell her a few thousand times and treated her like trash. That he never told her who he was or where he came from... He couldn’t tell her that.
Abject confusion muddled his mind until Cletus arrived at the Waterford and opened the door to let the last of the sun hanging low in the west fill the compartment. “I won’t be long.”
“I’ll be here,” the old man said smiling.
Brian trudged to the elevator that both Alex and Morgan might use, Morgan’s condo just a few floors below. He rode to the twenty first floor and rang the bell. The door was opened by a squirrelly little fuck wearing a scowl.
“What do you want?” Charles snarled.
“Is Alex home?”
“No,” he said dryly sneering at Brian. “What the hell’s going on with your family right now? You tell your father to leave my husband alone.”
It was filled with so much recrimination, Brian had to wonder. “Why would it be a problem if my uncle sees my father?”
“Get lost,” Charles rasped and began to close the door.
“Brian! Is that you, Precious?”
Brian’s gaze narrowed. Quickly, he stepped forward, the door unable to close over his foot. Without an invitation he pushed in, feeling pretty damned sick of all the attitude he was getting lately.
“Precious,” Alex mewed, coming down the hallway.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”
“Don’t be silly,” Alex said. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I was going to invite you to dinner.”
“Of course, I’d love it.”
Charles turned on Alex like a rottweiler. “You’re not going anywhere tonight. You’re staying right here with me.”
Alex straightened and folded his arms across his body, glaring back. “I’m going out with my nephew. Brian, call a car and wait in the lobby while I change.”
“I said you’re not going out tonight, Alex,” Charles demanded. “You got out of bed to go be with them this morning and you’re staying with me tonight.”
“Brian, I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
Instead, Brian moved into the living room and sprawled on an antique feigning couch. “I’ll wait right here, Alex.” He was just in the mood to do bodily harm to Charles.
“I’ll just be a minute.”
Charles turned on his heels to rail at Brian. “Why are you people screwing with us?”
Defiantly, Brian shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Charles. He’s my uncle and I want to spend some time with him.”
“No,” Charles said glaring. “There’s more to it. What’s your father doing?”
“What does my father have to do with this? We’ll be a few hours at dinner, that’s all.”
“Your father moved into the Tower last night, didn’t he?”
“So?”
With that, Charles turned to go rail at Alex.
Frickin’ weirdo, Brian thought.
The conversation spilling down the hallway was heated. Flushed, Alex pranced through it. “Let’s go.”
Brian stood, moved to the door behind Alex. He peered down the hallway to give an off-color and silent threat to Charles.
“That bastard,” Alex whispered as he ran toward the elevator. “I can’t stand this much longer. He thinks I’m laying down with everybody who merely looks at me.”
“What does Dad have to do with it?” Brian asked.
Alex shivered. “Nothing, Precious,” he whispered, although it was everything.
* * * *
“It’s been awhile since I’ve been here,” Brian remarked of Alex’s club.
“Just a bunch of old queens, Honey. But it's home away from home,” Alex said.
He led Brian to his usual table and sat comfortably behind potted ferns. But he knew something was on Brian’s mind and he asked.
“I’ve done the stupidest thing ever, Alex. I’ve walked out on Morgan.”
Alex gasped as if the earth’s oxygen suddenly escaped to deep space. “Brian, what the hell’s the matter with you?”
Brian gulped at the beer and shook his head. “Those diamonds you sent to Dresden for and that ring you designed...I put it on her finger while she was sleeping last night.”
Happily, Alex smiled. “That was my best effort to date,” he cooed, thinking of that magnificent ring.
“So I get back home this afternoon and she’s oblivious to the million dollars on her finger. She asks about the old man. How’s my mom. Has my dad been kidnapped. Didn’t even mention getting married.”
“I’m sorry,” Alex whispered wondering where the tragedy was just now. “Apparently she was worried about what you were worried about.”
Brian slouched over the table and rubbed at his eyes. “And then I told her that six months from today I’m getting married in her gardens...with or without her.”
“Oh, Brian,” he gasped. “You’ve told me she’s a jealous woman. You let her think you’re screwing around on her?”
“I think so. I only drank a six-pack on the way home, but I think that’s how she took it.”
Alex picked up the wine glass and drank it down. “Call her, Brian. Apologize and go home.”
“There’s more. I got kinda rough with her.”
“Oh, Brian, you didn’t!”
“I didn’t hit her or nothing. But I think she was scared. I don’t want her to be scared of me.”
“Brian, you need to put this straight now. Don’t let it go on.”
“How am I supposed to tell her I’m an idiot?”
“Just like that, Precious. Certainly she knows this thing with your mother has you upset. She’ll understand.”
“I don’t think she will. Beyond that, why won’t she marry me, Alex?”
“That I don’t know. But Brian, she doesn’t even know who you are. And now all this stuff is going on in your family has you messed up. She’s probably feeling pretty insecure that you’ve never offered to introduce us. Brian, you have to tell her.”
“Oh, God. She hates decadently wealthy people. Boors. I’m not real fond of them myself.”
“Then she should be happy to know that we live like everyone else. Wealthy women get beat up, too.”
“I don’t think she’d find that comforting, Alex. But...there’s more,” he said dismally.
“What, Honey?”
“The day I found Mom all beat to hell, I went to the Tower and told the old man he had to get some help or I was gonna go to the prosecutor. I gave him Morgan’s e-mail address.”
“Oh, dear God...please tell me you’re joking! Morgan is the sex therapist you arranged for him?” Alex broke into a visible sweat.
Sadly, Brian shook his head. “And then I go back to the Mansion today and Molly tells me my mom is out partying because it’s Saturday night.”
Violently, Alex shook. Of course, Cheryl was out. Cheryl wouldn’t pass up three grand on a Saturday night at the club just because her husband walked out.
But Cheryl wasn’t Alex’s concern. “What did your father say about Morgan?”
“When I talked to him this morning he actually thanked me.”
No. Something wasn’t right about that. To think of Jerry’s propensities and the rage he was harboring right now... Alex cringed to think what he might do to Morgan. But maybe he wasn’t giving Morgan enough credit. Maybe Morgan could handle Jerry. But if Jerry were to actually hurt Morg
an thinking she was a drug-crazed street-walker whom no one would miss the absence of... Brian would never forgive him.
“Dear God, what have you done, Brian?”
“It’s bad?”
Alex’s eyelids slid closed to find a way out of this one. Suddenly, it all came clear. When Jerry got through with Morgan, Morgan would be grateful for a man like Brian. Morgan’s presence might just rid Jerry of Cheryl finally. Six months hence there would be a wedding...a fabulous wedding...an Abernathy wedding and Morgan would have to agree to marry him having learned the contrasts between them. And maybe...just maybe, all those horrible things that happened thirty-seven years ago could be righted.
“Tell you what we’re gonna do,” Alex said. He drew out a pen and started to scribble on the tablecloth. “You and I are going to plan a wedding.”
“What the hell for?” Brian cried. “She’s not going to marry me, Alex.”
“Yes, she is,” with a sly smile. “Your father is literally going to sweep her off her feet. And you’re going to catch her.”
“Surely, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do, Precious.”
Brian peered down at the drawing, a wedding gown of impeccable craft.
“What’s her favorite color?”
With a little huff, Brian said, “Black and blue.”
Alex smirked. “Lavender it is.”
Chapter Eight
Father Romeo’s reasoning was sound, she was sure of that. This guy is dangerous. But reason wasn’t her best and only defense in this matter as she rode the elevator to the pinnacle of the money mountain, the penthouse offices of the CEO of Abernathy Acquisitions.
Such stodgy, pervasive lushness as she stepped out onto the hunter-green carpet. The scent of leather on the mahogany chairs framed by brass nails demanded her propriety and respect. It had the feel of a church, the quiet voices of women in prayer beyond the semi-circular panel concealing phone banks, computers and office equipment. The dark mottled paper clung to the walls giving an air of smog. Portraits of past CEOs hung in gilt frames, reminding her how old and smelly the money was.
In one of those chairs sat a women Morgan knew, her hair pulled into a French twist and wearing a pinstripe business suit, her legs demurely crossed ending in the very proper leather pumps. How cute that she was doing her nails just then.
Morgan approached the ten-foot-high double doors, the wood polished to a high sheen. The name Jerome Abernathy V, CEO blazed in gold letters. She laid her hand on the gold lever.
“You can’t go in there,” came a shout from behind the desk.
Morgan tried the lever but the door was locked.
“Tell Jerry that Morgan McFaye is here.”
The woman doing her nails peered up and cringed. Morgan’s eyes flared in her direction with a silent warning to be still. She went back to her work, her head bowed, her legs uncrossed sitting quite straight now.
“If you’ll just have a seat, please, I’ll let him know when he gets off the phone.”
“You tell your boss that he has exactly forty-five seconds to unlock that door or I’m leaving. And I won’t be back.” Her appointment was for two o’clock and it was already fifteen seconds past the hour.
Nervously, the secretary checked his appointment book and fumbled with the phone. A second later the door unlocked mechanically from inside. Morgan turned and stormed toward it and then threw the door opened only to slam it closed.
The same stodgy decor greeted her in his private office. The huge desk was of mahogany, the edging ornately carved into Grecian rope. A matching liquor cabinet sat against the far wall and a leather sectional against the opposite.
He studied her undeniable attitude of authority, a body held perfectly erect and very much under her control. This wasn’t any ordinary hooker, that was plainly obvious, but a very, very attractive woman, older than most. A woman he could certainly use to his satisfaction and not merely for the sexual aspects. “Have a seat, Ms. McFaye.” He indicated the chairs in front of his desk..
Her voice, low and commanding, stated, “The proper greeting is ‘Mistress Morgan, how may I serve?’ as you raise out of the chair and stand aside that your Mistress may have it, hold your hands behind your back and divert your gaze to the floor.”
He stared a moment, a sarcastic smirk filling one cheek. No woman had ever spoken to him like that since his mother tried it when he was a child. He watched the rigidness of her stance, her frame snugged in a suit, her feet bound by two inch pumps. Obviously Irish and quick to rage if the color of her hair meant anything. About five nine and a hundred and fifty well distributed pounds, most of it lying on her chest.
When she turned to go, he said, “Wait.”
Her eyes narrowed into viscous slashes.
It was a game after all, one he had never played. Women vied for his attention constantly but never a woman like this. Women didn’t and don’t tell him what to do. But this was just a game and maybe a little diversion from an increasingly stressful life.
Quietly, he rose out of the chair and stood aside. Suddenly he felt conspicuous in a way never before. Of course, he was conspicuous. He was one of the wealthiest men on the continent. But this was different. This seemed to reveal him in a way he didn’t understand as he watched her place her lovely ass in his chair, her knees locked together and order, “On your knees.”
Behind the lids his eyes rolled. Yet he dropped to his knees and his mindless hands clasped to each other in back.
“Much better,” she scowled. “I see you want my attention. My attention will cost you one thousand dollars an hour, Mr. Abernathy.” That was twice the going rate for him, just because. She loosed the single button closing her suit jacket. “You do everything exactly the way I tell you to do it. You do it without hesitation. And you endure my wrath as I see fit.”
His lower lip rolled into his mouth where he could better lick it and bite down on the laughter wanting to escape. He’d never found himself in this position, on his knees before a woman. On his knees in front of anyone. If she ran to the tabloids, no one would believe.
“Alright,” he said. To him this was merely a game and she the highest priced of them all. But where else could his dreams come true? All of his intelligence told him this was one nasty woman. He could get rough with her.
“When we have an appointment, you make certain I don’t wait. You hang up the phone, unlock the door at the appointed hour and you tell those squeaking little Pekinese pups behind the desk out there that they are not to speak to me. If I tell you to come to my office, you be there on time or you will find the door locked. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he said. Vainly, he attempted to retain a smile.
Impertinent bastard, she thought of his amusement. The flat of her hand landed across his cheek.
His anger flared immediately and he reached out for her wrist so that he could wrench that hand from her arm. But a stabbing pain assaulted him as the heel of her shoe ground into his balls. He dropped her arm to defend himself and fall away from her.
“Don’t ever touch me again, Mr. Abernathy. I’ll beat you senseless for it.”
“I’m supposed to be beating you,” he reminded.
The musculature around her eyes quivered with rage. Her voice hissed like a vicious snake, saying, “You need to learn how to pay attention. I’m going to teach you. Now, you may demonstrate how well you follow instructions.”
If she was going to tell him to bark like a dog and crawl on all fours around the desk to lick her feet, they were finished. He drew in a breath, still staring into those vivid green eyes, the dagger points of amber directing his attention to her glowering pupils. His fatal mistake...he averted his gaze.
“Much better,” she commended. “Take off your tie.”
Curious.
His hand raised to loose it from his neck and pull it over his head. At least she couldn’t choke him with it.
“Open your shirt.”
&
nbsp; One at a time, the buttons fell open to the belt but he didn’t offer to expose himself more than that.
“The belt...the trousers.”
Suddenly, he felt ridiculous exposing himself like this. On his knees in his own office, undressing for this woman.
“Push your trousers to your knees along with your underwear, which will no longer be worn on days you are to see me, and open your shirt and let it fall off your shoulders.”
His half-erect penis came into her view and he felt so ridiculous. It should have been hard now, ready to do battle and he looked away from her. He began to unbutton his cuffs to remove his shirt but...
“I said merely push it off your shoulders. I didn’t say take it off.”
He let it slide around his upper arms, still unable to look at her.
“The penis. Take it in one hand and the testicles in the other. Gently massage the testicles without stroking the penis.”
“You can’t be serious,” he gasped.
“Now,” she growled. “Or I’m leaving.”
He had done it thousands of times now, the phone sex after hours when all his girls were gone for the night and he didn’t feel like waiting for them to return. But no one was watching. This...this had him in a pant. To decide what he felt was impossible as the hand of an office worker, smooth and soft, cradled his balls.
Suddenly, he felt detached from it all. Someone else’s hand was stroking him at the moment. Someone else’s hand held to his dick. He closed his eyes, the better to feel it.
“Is the penis beginning to rise?” she asked.
“Yes,” came a breath of heated air.
“Does it want stroked?”
“Yes.”
“Very gently,” her voice soft now, “because you love it.”
“Yes,” he whispered. His hand clasped around it.
“Slowly.” She watched intently as his eyes rolled behind the lids lost in the sensation already. She opened her briefcase and removed a bottle of oil, held it over the penis to pour a thin stream over it. Gently, he worked it in, his hand gliding much easier now.
She saw the friction begin to rise and reminded, “Slowly, I said. Don’t you dare come until I allow it.”
