NIC'S POV
The downside of staying friends with your childhood companions into adulthood was the sheer number of embarrassing stories they had—and their willingness to share them at gatherings. Something my childhood friend, Asher, was currently doing.
"And then, Nic ran through the house naked, dripping water all over the floors and scratching every inch of his body like a feral animal," he burst into loud, raucous laughter that echoed among the seemingly million people in our suite.
"I remember that," another childhood acquaintance, Jason, said.
"You were such a dork," Asher added, still laughing as he lifted a glass of amber liquid to his mouth.
He was sprawled across one of the leather chairs opposite me, watching with glassy, unfocused eyes—courtesy of the countless tumblers of vodka, rum, gin, and God knew what else he'd consumed over the past few hours. He finished the glass and poured another. He was drunk enough, and I wanted to stop him—but I didn't. Let the idiot make a fool of himself tonight.
We were in a private suite at one of the upscale clubs in Manhattan—the kind that sprang up overnight. This one belonged to Asher. I usually made it a point to stay out of his clubs, but he'd dragged me here tonight.
"So," Asher smirked, "does the birthday boy have any birthday wishes? Anything you want, it's yours." He made no effort to hide the implication.
I knew exactly what he meant. Asher loved women in all shapes, sizes, and forms. I used to love women too—possibly more than he did. Until something changed a few years ago. Now, I couldn't even remember the last time I took a woman to bed.
Don't get me wrong. I could still appreciate beauty. I could still recognize a beautiful woman when I saw one. In the past, I would've even approached. But the follow-through—the seduction, the sex, the departure a few hours later—it all started to feel like too much work for such fleeting pleasure.
Or maybe I was just lazy. An insult Asher lobbed at me weekly, which was ironic considering how much of a workaholic I was.
"I'm surprised you're alone tonight," slurred a low voice from the other side of the room. "The notorious Nicholas, alone on his birthday. Who would've thought?" The voice chuckled.
There were five men in the room. I'd known some since childhood—like Asher and Jason. The others I met in college. But it had always been Asher and me. The rest were only considered friends because they were useful. They were about as close to me as a zebra to a lion. But I didn't say that. Instead, I asked, "Do you have someone for me, Fred?"
I pushed away from the dark brown leather sofa I'd been leaning on, steepled my fingers between my knees, and stared pointedly at him. He squirmed under my gaze, lifted a tumbler to his lips, and turned away.
I laughed, then lifted the scotch I'd been nursing all night to my lips and drained it in a single gulp, the liquid burning a path from my throat to my gut. I swallowed the burn, rose, and picked up my suit jacket from the couch's armrest.
I walked to Asher and clapped him on the back.
"Thanks for this," I said and headed toward the door.
"No. No. Wait." He bolted up and grabbed my arm. "Stay a bit more. Your present is on her way."
"I have an early meeting tomorrow. You can keep her for yourself. She'll probably like you better."
I exited the suite.
The noise from the club slammed into me the second I stepped outside, growing louder as I moved down the corridor toward the main floor.
The suites were on the upper floors. The entire ground floor was a dance space with a few side tables and a bar. From the top, I watched. Women danced below, bodies gyrating, faces glowing with adrenaline, and ecstasy. As I watched, a familiar stirring awakened—the thought of having a woman beneath me, the rhythm of thrusts, her gasps, the scratch of nails against my back. But as always, the heat died as quickly as it came.
I turned away and headed down. I left through the back entrance, where my driver waited.
Fred hadn't been wrong, dumb as he was. It was unlike me to be alone at a club—especially one that reeked of sex like this one. At eighteen I'd had way more sexual experiences than men twice my age..
And they'd loved me—or at least, they had before and during sex. Afterward, they hated me. It wasn't my "no cuddling" rule or refusal to let anyone spend the night. They'd known those rules going in. It was because I turned cold after. According to Asher, I was a devil and a brick wall—except while fucking. I was notorious in the circles I ran in. And yet, women still came to me in droves.
Why?
Because I was a fucking good lover. So much experience at so young does that. Being with confident, vocal women taught me what to do—and how to do it.
We reached my apartment building, and I took the private elevator up to my penthouse. The lights turned on automatically when I stepped inside my apartment. I went to the kitchen, drank a glass of water, then poured a whiskey. I took a sip and set it down on a coaster—one of the few signs a human actually lived here.
My apartment was functional. I'd picked the location. Gretchen had hired an interior designer to handle the rest. I didn't care what she chose. My only requests were for a comfortable bed and a practical office. I barely spent time here. It was a place to sleep. I didn't give a damn how it looked.
I picked up the glass and walked to the floor-to-ceiling windows lining most of the apartment. I stared down at the city, trying to see it as someone else might. But all I saw were lights—bright, busy, and hollow.
I finished the drink and headed to the shower.
In th shower, ice-comd water pelted down on me. It was almost sensual, the way water ran down my skin and I tried to imagine a woman running her hands down me. Tried to conjure up any of the women I'd been with. I tried to picture gasps, cries, a body moving beneath me. My hand moved to my cock, stroking, coaxing, my hand moving along its length—but it remained flaccid. Nothing.
I cursed, rinsed off, and stepped out of the shower.
The man staring back at me in the mirror across the room felt like a stranger. I recognized the tan skin, the close-cropped dark hair, the muscular torso with a towel slung around the waist. But the green eyes? They weren't mine.
Swearing again, I yanked the towel off, pulled on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed my MacBook from the bedside table, and headed to the living room. I poured another glass of whiskey and collapsed onto the sofa.
I already had over a hundred emails since leaving the office four hours ago. The last one was from HR. I opened it, half-expecting another issue.
"Sir, we have a shortlist of potential candidates for the assistant position. We are currently carrying out the first round of interviews, but we're wondering if you'd like to review them yourself."
It took a second to register what they were talking about. When it did, irritation bubbled up.
I remembered my new assistant fumbling her way through the day. It had been her first day on the job, and maybe she deserved some slack. But in my world, slack meant millions of dollars lost—livelihoods gone.
She'd been an hour late and it would've been much worse if I hadn't been tied up in a two-hour meeting with my father. By midday, I'd already emailed HR to find a replacement. Thankfully, they were competent.
"Send the top three to me. I'll interview them myself."
Gretchen had chosen her replacement. She'd assured me she was the best, and I'd believed her.
Never again. This time, I'd choose myself.
I hit send and opened the next email.