“What’s your name?” I ask when my breathing normalizes.
I’m making sure I remember this time, and fuck, her number is getting a priority checkmark in my phone.
She pulls her head back so she can look me in the eye. “It’s Riley,” she says, stretching her legs downward to stand on her own.
Something in her expression changes. I can’t put a finger on it, but it’s as though she has gone from laid back sex kitten to corporate executive in a New York minute. The look worries me.
“Did you enjoy fucking me?” she asks, steadying herself on her own two feet.
I nod. “Hell yeah.”
“How about my body?”
She smooths out the ripped dress, more or less covering her breasts, and turns in a slow circle. I have a hand against the wall, propping myself up because I’m still recovering from two back-to-back orgasms. But I watch her sinfully perfect body. Huge firm rack, tiny waist, thick ass, long, long legs.
“It’s a temple,” I say with my eyes glued to her.
I want to ask her why she thinks she made it here in the first place, but I keep that to myself. She caught my eye when my buddies and I were at a restaurant earlier, and I didn’t waste any time picking her. I had no doubts about my decision right up to three minutes ago. Now, I’m wondering whether I picked her, or vice versa. It’s that predatory look in her eyes. I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve worn it before, so I’m intimately familiar with the look.
“Do I…do we know each other?” I ask, following her as she returns to her winter coat, purse and stilettos at the front door.
“No, but you should. And I definitely know you, Mr. Malcolm Alexander.”
She reaches for the door. I have yet to mention my last name, so the fact that she belts it out doesn’t do anything to stop the lump from forming in my throat. I have to stop her and find out more, so I grip her shoulder and spin her around.
“What’s this about? What’s your name?”
“It’s Riley Hampton. Look it up. Now, can you let me go now? I’d quite like to get the hell out of here now that I’ve stared into the eyes of evil.”
I tighten my grip on her shoulder. “Who are you? You’re not leaving until I know exactly why you’d fuck me one minute, then call my name the next.”
“All I’ll say is that meeting you at the restaurant was not coincidence, and when I saw you, I decided I’d give you a taste of your own medicine.”
“And what kind of medicine is that?” I ask, working hard to control the grin that’s threatening to rise up my face that I can’t control. After all, she had just given me one hell of a blow job and made me come twice in fifteen minutes. I must have been damn good to her in a former life because that time on the sofa and against the wall was sweet as fuck. She hasn’t been anywhere else in my suite, so it’s not like she’s a thief or anything. I’m stumped.
“The kind where you and your family step in, take what you want, then leave a trail of disaster in its wake. Now, let me go right this instant, so I don’t have to add to your troubles.”
My hand immediately retracts. This hellcat has lured me into something, and fuck if I know what it is, but I can’t afford to get any deeper. I don’t even have words for her. Deciding it’s probably better to shut the fuck up, I let her leave. Stepping back a few steps, I fold my arms and I watch as she shoves the door open and sashays across the wide corridor to our private elevator. I notice how shaky she is on her feet. Normally, that after-effect would give me some satisfaction. Today, I’m not laughing.
Riley Hampton.
I won’t forget that name.
I force myself to wait a few minutes for her to leave the building. It’s not that I don’t want to confront her. I’m just trying not to fall further into whatever trap she has set for me. My phone buzzes in my pocket as I wait. It’s a text from Chauncey downstairs in the poker room. The guys are starting the game, and want to know if I’ll be in for this round. I send him a brief reply with just the word ‘yes’. At the moment, I’m distracted as fuck. I want to pull away and find out who this Riley Hampton is.
It turns out that I’m not the last one to the game. Still, the guys lay into me with a smattering of applause.
“What’s the hurry?” I mutter, looking around as I take my usual seat on the large, round poker table. One seat is still empty. I do my usual headcount before we kick off a game. Carter, Markus, Chance, Prentice, Jeff, Victor, Ted and I are all accounted for. “Are we waiting for Angelo? Wasn’t he at the restaurant with that twin chick he’s been seeing?”
“He sends his regrets,” Chauncey answers, shaking out his long, blonde hair and pulling it back into a man-bun.
One of the scantily-clad poker dealer dolls on staff appears from the service door. She begins to deal us in.
“Does anyone know a woman named Riley Hampton?” I can’t even try to act calm. I’m moving the cards around in my hand, but I’m on autopilot.
“Why the hell would you ask when you can just search her name on your phone?” Jeff barks the question as he scrutinizes his cards. He’s the resident self-made billionaire geek we let in as the ninth member of our tight-knit private clubhouse. Well, Angelo’s two brothers, Dominic and Franko could become the tenth and eleventh members down the road, but for now, we’re happy at keeping the group tight. Angelo’s brothers are still welcomed to come around, but with Dominic in Chicago and Franko off to college down in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, they’re honorary potentials at best.
“Because I figured I’d ask everyone here first,” I say defensively. I pull out my smartphone. The truth is, I didn’t think of Googling her name. Jeff has a damn good point, but I’m not going to stroke his already giant-sized ego right now.
“Don’t sweat it. And what the fuck was all that noise up there? Next time, just shove her panties in her mouth,” Ted suggests. “Or some Christmas garland. There’s more than enough of it around here.”
The rest of the men grimace because Ted is known for his fixation on the kinkiest, most disturbing sexual habits around the clubhouse.
“We’re not all as sick as you,” Jeff jokes.
“You’re into just as much freaky shit as Ted,” I say to him.
“How about you take your vanilla-as-fuck habits and your ten-pound Stetson cowboy hat and go fuck yourself, cowboy?” Jeff answers with a broad smile on his face. “Oh and it’s your move, so get the phone back in your damn pants. Riley Hampton can’t be that important.”
I hope to God that Jeff’s right.
Chapter 2
Riley
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Riley?”
I pretend it doesn’t bother me that it’s the fifth time Scott has asked the same question in less than five minutes.
“I told you. You’re free to back out if you have second thoughts.”
What I want to tell him is that I’d rather he does back out. There’s no room for wimps on the team. If he’s just going to chicken out at the last minute, he’ll make us look like weak, lame losers. We need to put on a strong front if Alexander Industries will ever listen to us.
Scott has a thing for me, though, and he may be here because he doesn’t want to look like a wimp. “No, no, I’m in,” he insists. You know I’m as committed to this as you are.”
No one is as committed to the cause as I am, but it isn’t the time to argue semantics. I smile and nod reassuringly, then I return to our review of today’s plan.
“We’ll get to the building entrance at three o’clock. Jeannie, you’ll have the spray paint. Scott has the chains. I have the bullhorn. Everybody else has a sign.”
I look each member of the group in the eye. There are twelve of us in all—not a huge number by any means, but a larger number of random passersby will attract too much attention. It’s clear to me now that I’m not dealing with a group of people who are highly skilled in subterfuge. We’ll be lucky if we get into the front courtyard without being spotted and physically ejected from the pro
perty.
“Are there any questions?” I look around the group, huddled in the living room of my tiny off-campus apartment. “Are we all clear on this?”
Trevor raises his hand. I have to smile to hide my irritation. Nothing about this plan is exactly D-Day level stuff, so why am I locking eyes with so many confused, anxious expressions?
“What if they tear gas us?” Trevor asks, and a few worried murmurs rise up among the rest of the group.
“Guys, is that what you’re worried about? No one is going to hurt us. We aren’t a large enough crowd and we won’t be causing a large enough disruption for tear gas. We don’t pose a physical threat to anyone inside or outside the building. And we’ll be chained together, so the building security won’t be able to immediately force us to disperse. That’s the only reason to they would escalate to that level. Besides, we’ll be too close to the building entrance. They would never release something that can injure the building tenants, or anyone who happens to be using the main floor bank or just standing in the lobby taking pictures under their world-renowned Christmas tree.”
I’m making it all up as I go, and my reasoning sounds pretty good to me. There’s no point for the authorities to go all out for a handful of peaceful protestors. Alexander Industries is a pretty cutthroat bunch of rich jerks, but they aren’t stupid. Ordering the cops to manhandle a few protesters is overkill. It would make for some seriously negative PR at this time of year.
I look around. It brings me some comfort to see slightly more excitement on the faces of my crew. I can only hope the police don’t prove me wrong.
“All right,” I say, clapping my hands together. “Let’s head out. Backpacks at the ready?”
Eleven bags raise skyward. I did my best to make sure they were all different styles and patterns. The sight of a dozen identical backpacks approaching the New York headquarters of one of the world’s biggest oil companies would set off alarm bells from miles away. Especially as we’re taking public transit.
I ask Steve to go over the plan from top to bottom. Just to be sure that I’m not the only one who has the bird’s eye view of how today will play out.
“Well,” he starts, scratching the side of his blond cropped head of hair. “You, Jeannie and I go first. We sit in the courtyard with our smoothies. Trevor comes in next with his book. Miko, Nadia, Brad, you’re next. Then the rest. Only around ten minutes should stretch between the arrival of the first three of us and everyone else.” He turns back to me. “Did I get it all?”
I nod, and I have to admit, I’m feeling like a proud mom. “That was perfect,” I tell him. “We’ll spread out our arrival to avoid drawing any unwanted attention.”
They all nod their agreement, but I don’t see the courage or passion that I saw two weeks ago when this plan was formed. As I take in their less than enthusiastic faces, I’m hoping they are better at following through than putting on a brave face. What is wrong with people? When I first broached the idea of organizing this protest against Alexander Industries, everyone was on board. Ideas flew. There was passion and excitement in the air. I even slept with Steve that night. That’s how carried away we all were.
The day is finally here. Yes now that it’s time to carry out the plan, passion is replaced with anxiety. I realize I’m dealing with a bunch of silver spoon kids with spotless records. Today, they look afraid of what Mommy and Daddy would say when they find out their little snowflake got arrested for staging a protest—even though the company we’re about to demonstrate against is one of the vilest blights on the environmental wellbeing of the entire planet.
It’s one thing to say you care about something, and quite another to promise to do something about it and follow through.
I follow through.
Like I did last night with Malcolm Alexander.
No one else knows about what I did. As much as it bothers me to use my body that way, the idea of some good old fashioned psychological warfare is right up my alley. The only problem is that I didn’t expect to enjoy my role that much. Now that my mind is on it, I have to stop myself from biting down on my bottom lip every time I picture myself going down on him, or the way he took me hard against that wall. My core clenches just from the image, and I have to press my legs together to focus again.
Following through can have some unexpected payoffs and drawbacks.
Still, my commitment to the task at hand had not wavered even a little bit. I want our voices heard. I need the world to know what Alexander Industries has been doing under our noses. They can’t keep getting away with bulldozing through the forests, farms, and lives of the little people.
We wrap up our meeting and split up to independently make our way downtown using various subway and bus routes. As the leader, I take the direct route—south from Columbia U on the number one South Ferry Loop train. I’m so pumped up and angry that my fists clench as I sit on the train. It’s carrying me like a bullet through the tunnels beneath New York’s streets, taking me to fulfill another piece of my destiny. I’m about to set the record straight today, and whether they listen or not, at least I’ll get to say my piece on behalf of my entire family, and perhaps for my home town too.
Once the public hears what’s going on, I will have played a part in starting the tiniest snowball which hopefully will turn into the avalanche that crushes Alexander Industries for good. I’m also counting on the fact that we live in a world where a fifteen-second soundbite can echo on ad infinitum, with a twenty-four-hour news cycle on TV, social media and online channels.
I get off the train at Penn Station and head east on Thirty-Fourth Street for the three-block walk. It’s a beautiful day to be outdoors around the holidays. It’s bright, the air is crisp, and I’m walking on sunshine. Pulling my long, wavy red hair out of my face, I find a hair band and put it into a ponytail. If Malcolm ends up seeing this demonstration in person or on TV, I want him to recognize me. I want him to lose sleep trying to figure out what I may have done to him, and what I’m likely to do.
Within five minutes of making it to our rendezvous point, Steve and Jeanie show up. They take their positions about fifty feet away from me as we wait. I’m impressed. Steve hasn’t chickened out.
Yet.
I start to feel an unsettling sensation in the pit of my stomach.
The closer I get to the building, the heavier this bullhorn in my backpack gets. Standing a few feet from Alexander Industries, I look up at the gleaming, imposing structure. Glass and metal loom up in front of us, seeming to stand out from the rest of the neighboring skyscrapers. Perhaps that’s just my inner awareness because of what it represents.
“I’m just gonna ask you again,” Steve begins to say to me. Does he realize he has left his post and is now jeopardizing everything we’ve planned?
I act like I don’t know him, but the novice puts a hand on my elbow.
“We’re not supposed to communicate here,” I remind him.
“I understand that. I’m just asking if the information you have is one hundred percent accurate. Like, we’re not committing libel against them, right?”
“You mean slander,” I correct him. I’m the freaking law school student with a specialization in environmental law and a minor in journalism, for crying out loud. I’m also scripted today, to make sure I don’t go off half-cocked in front of the media. “Libel relates to the printed word. Slander pertains to what we say. And believe me, I have the evidence. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t go through with this.”
That seems to satisfy Steve again. He’s been so twitchy all day. And what’s worse is, because I slept with him that one time, he seems to think we have a thing. It’s almost as though he believes he can influence me. I don’t have the heart to tell him that for me, fucking is fucking and nothing more. I’m not the kind of girl that gets all emotional after I sleep with a guy. It’s an activity, a damn pleasurable one, right up there with skydiving, zip lining and hiking the Grand Canyon.
At least it was until I let Malcolm
touch me. His skin was hot to the touch, and everywhere we made contact felt like he burned his invisible mark into me. Just like last night, I dismiss the ridiculous thought. I felt something because it’s personal, because I despise him. Nothing more.
Shaking my head physically to snap out of it, I tell Steve to get back to his station at the smoothie stand. While he and Jeannie orders for the three of us, I find a free table close to where we’ll kick off the action. Jeannie sits a few tables away, and Steve walks past me to drop off my drink before joining her again. Except he doesn’t join her. No, he sits with me.
“Would you please do your best to go according to plan?” I murmur out of the side of my mouth. “Stay wat your post until I give the signal. And try to look a little more relaxed.” I nod over at Jeannie, who is pulling off the ruse pretty well. She giggled into her phone, pretending she’s in the middle of a lighthearted conversation when in reality, she’s checking in with Trevor so that we time our movements precisely.
“Sorry,” Steve says. “This is new to me. I’m not an old pro like you. I just care about the environment.” He takes a sip of his smoothie and remains seated.
“Who said that I’m an old pro?” I ask. “This is my first protest too.”
Damn, I shouldn’t have said that. I should have let him keep thinking I have experience putting these protest events together. With that single statement, the concern he expressed before turns to terror.
“Are you serious? You’ve never done this?”
“Jesus Christ, Steve. We’re not bombing the place,” I hiss under my breath. “We’re standing out front. It’s not as big a deal as you’re making it out to be.”
Trevor arrives, and sits three tables over in the opposite direction, book in hand. He is a damned good actor, completely natural. Slowly, the rest of the group trickles in. I check the time. Almost ten minutes has passed. No one seems to pay us any mind. The guards inside the front door are easy to see from here. They’re not even looking our way.
The Billionaire and The Virgin Page 32
