Page 75 of Maxim
I’d rather be on the sofa than picturing red paint and vile messages on the wall behind my head. At least this way I might actually get some sleep.
Chapter fifty-three
Max
Tonight’s event is a complete fucking waste of my time. The only reason I’m here is because Travis Stockton, one of the main investors in my casino development, insisted I come. I could have declined, but I’d rather not offend him without a decent reason.
The guy is an asshole. He’s rich, cunning, and gets off on manipulating those around him. He thinks he has a hold over me because of the money he’s investing in the casino, even though he stands to gain a fuck-ton of cash from it.
While it would inconvenience me if he pulled the plug on his cash injection, I’m not a dancing pony and he needs to learn that.
“Drink, sir?” A young woman in a traditional maid’s uniform, complete with a frilly white apron, offers me a glass of champagne from a silver tray. I struggle to contain my amusement.
Stockton likes to think he’s from old money, but the unseemly truth is that his mother, April, married into money by virtue of her looks and ambition. April Stockton is Henry Stockton’s second wife; the first died in a freak accident. Henry married April less than a year later.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking a glass. The waitress trots off, joining the other serving staff as they mingle with trays of canapes and drinks.
There’s no sign of Stockton thus far, but no doubt he’ll appear fashionably late. The guy loves to make a dramatic entrance.
Sasha is somewhere around, schmoozing and keeping his ear open for useful information. Stockton was kind enough to say I could bring a plus one. I’m sure he expected me to show up with some pretty vapid thing on my arm, but instead, I brought Sasha.
Stockton can make of that what he likes.
“Maxim, darling, Travis didn’t mention you were coming?” A familiar voice purrs in my ear like a well-bred cat.
I turn around to see Cecelia, Stockton’s wife. She’s a beautiful woman. Blond, sleek, and stylish. Far too attractive for Stockton, who resembles a lumpy potato stuffed into a Tom Ford suit.
Cecelia and I had a short fling a couple of years ago. She was fun in the sack but I prefer not to mix business with pleasure and cut her loose pretty fast. Judging by the way she’s drinking me up in my Armani jacket, she’s hoping I’ll rekindle things.
Sasha tells me Stockton’s tastes in females run a lot younger than Cecelia, who’s now on the wrong side of 40. But while Stockton is happy to stick his dick in anything that moves, Cecelia has to be a lot more discreet.
Stockton still has no idea I fucked his wife.
I’m keeping that to myself for now.
“Your husband insisted I come,” I tell her, keeping my tone neutral.
“Yes, my darling husband does like to flaunt his good fortune.” A flicker of discontent flashes across her flawless face before she forces a smile and places one perfectly manicured hand on my bicep. “Are you here alone this evening?”
In other words, are you free to service me?
“No.” I don’t bother elaborating.
Her smooth face falls, but there’s no sign of a wrinkle.
“Ah, that’s a shame.” A year ago, I probably would have fucked her without a second thought, enjoyed it even, but now? I feel nothing. Not even a twitch below my belt, despite the slinky dress she wears and the way her eyes heat when she looks at me.
Natalya has ruined me.
I’m fucking broken.
“Cecelia, you’re looking as beautiful as ever,” Sasha says, laying on the charm. He smiles flirtatiously as Cecelia immediately switches her attention from me to him.
Sasha’s not quite as broad as me, but he is a handsome bastard, and the ladies love him. It always amazes me how charming he can be with women, whereas he gives me nothing but shit.
I murmur my excuses and leave him to flirt with Cecelia.
He’s welcome to her.