Drake entered his flat and threw his car keys into the Lalique crystal bowl in the centre of the foyer table.

The impact echoed through the open plan loft of polished hardwood floors and pillars. He sauntered to the living room and switched on the plasma television that dominated the wall. The Bloomberg channel and the faces of the anchors filled the flat screen. Two reporters from Wall Street and Bloomberg’s headquarters were talking about a hostile takeover bid for a bank by a bigger bank. Like big fish eating smaller fish before they were swallowed by a great white.

Drake wasn’t interested in that. He was more concerned in the shares of companies he had invested in, how they were doing, and automatically calculating his profit or loss margin. He had also joined the Bitcoin revolution and had amassed a fortune from it, taking out his money before the price plummeted. Rouen Abelard may deal with many of their group’s investment portfolios, but Drake enjoyed playing the stock market. He didn’t think he’d have the knack for anything other than street fighting and bullying the bullies, rising to the top as one of the toughest MMA fighters to beat. It wasn’t the life he had planned for himself.

Then again, he learned the hard way that nothing went as he wished.

His nostrils flared at the dull pain on his palm when he flexed his hand. The moment the anaesthesia that Malcolm jabbed into his palm wore off, his wound was going to fucking hurt. The blood Malcolm stemmed with his beautiful stitching seeped into the white gauze like the red tide scourge that was a fisherman’s misery.

You’re such a big pussy. You bash men’s faces until they don’t know where to find their noses and you’re scared of a fucking scar?

He let the TV drone while he went to the wet bar and poured himself a cognac. The clink of glass gently hitting glass ricocheted inside the flat. He drew an inward breath when the liquid slid down his throat to crash and burn his insides and hose down the clamminess inside him. It should have been enough liquid courage. Right, like it would give him the strength to look at his hand.

Fucking stupid masochist.

Malcolm’s stitches were so fine he could have been a tailor for all Drake knew, instead of being a member of Oliver’s team known for slitting men’s throats without a thought.

Drake sat his ass down on the fine grain leather sofa, his head leaning on the backrest. He was in no mood to leave the flat but had to be at the cage fight that evening. His fighters were counting on him.

Fuck.

Scowling, he knocked the remainder of his drink back and walked to his bedroom, shedding his clothes as he went before entering the bathroom. He adjusted the water’s temp and stepped letting the harsh and hot water drench him from head to foot. He didn’t wince when his wound got wet, too engrossed with moving his head from side to side against the soothing heat.

His thoughts returned to Bethany. Why did she change the colour of her beautiful hair? It never crossed his mind that his Bethany would change her hair. Why did she cover the sunshine with permanent dark clouds? What the fuck happened to her? Where did she go? And now, where the fuck was she?

Drake lifted his head to let the shower pelt him. Unconsciously, his forehead pulled to the centre.

After impatiently waiting for Malcolm to finish stitching him up, Drake went to search for Bethany. Did she think she could slide in with a bunch of tourists and he wouldn’t know? He had a personal homing device that beeped loud inside his head if Bethany was around.

Sure, it was rusty after he left Wood Park High fifteen years ago but it went back on line the minute it honed in on his golden girl. He had seen the woman who was with Bethany inside the pastrami shop. He had seen Bethany with her back towards the door.

He didn’t go in when he should have.

Then what, asshole? Tell her you’re sorry you left her to fend for herself against wolves and sly bitches?

He didn’t have time for this shit and fuck if he knew where to find Bethany again. He was beginning to regret not barging into their conversation.

Maybe Caius was right, Drake thought while absently soaping his body. Maybe he should sell low but make sure his fighters were cared for. Lowering the bar was just tempting if it stopped him from seeing blood. Maybe then, he’d be able to concentrate on finding Bethany once more.

The shock of seeing Bethany catapulted him back to a time where he wished their paths converged instead of splitting. He had taken stock of the minute changes in the girl he knew. Bethany exhibited a haunting quality on her face. Yeah, hard life did that to people.

Drake tilted his face to the shower. He liked the layer of mystery that surrounded her. He just didn’t like the idea that she may have gone through shit to get it and he wasn’t there for her.

He inhaled the cedar wood scent rising with the shower’s steam. His balls were heavy and he needed pussy. An image floated up: Bethany riding him to oblivion. Drake took himself with his uninjured hand, slowly sliding it across the length of his cock before rubbing his palm over and around his cock head before proceeding to find a pleasurable pace.

Bethany was smiling. Drake felt her pussy squeeze his cock. She leaned over, her breasts dangling in front of him. He took one tit into his mouth and she moaned as she rode him. Drake gripped her waist keeping her there while he widened his legs to pump his hips upward fast and hard. He felt her pussy suck him, submitting to his hard thrusts until his balls tightened. He came with a guttural groan all over the shower wall, pumping his cock until he was empty.

His fantasy receded with the normalising beat of his heart and he was alone once more.

Just like the existence he had been forced to accept the moment he lost her.

Towelling himself damp, he sauntered naked to his walk-in closet where his shirts were arrayed according to colour while his slacks and jeans neatly lined another closet. His phone rang as he took out a dark purple shirt. Annoyance rose like a spectre invading his personal space.

“I told you I’d be there,” he snapped. “What’s the fucking rush?”

“Just want to make a good impression.”

“This is my fucking business, Harvey.” He jerked the shirt from its hanger and swore when the shoulder ripped. “If your contact can’t wait and you piss me off with your whining, the deal is off the table.”

“Drake ˗˗˗”

He ended the call and balled the deader-than-dead shirt and threw it against the corner of the walk in. Who gave a shit if the ruined clothing cost the entire monthly salary of an administrative assistant in a school? The time of worrying where he’d get money to buy his next meal was long gone. He could throw money around and there’d still be more where it came from.

All dressed, he snatched his keys from the bowl. He was wound too tight. He needed to relax. He pressed a number on his quick dial for his go-to quick-fuck after the talks tonight. Why he still humoured Caius knowing what he knew about his dick-face friend was beyond him.

“Gemma…”

She wasn’t Bethany. She’d never be Bethany.

Because his sweet girl wasn’t the quick fuck kind.

She was his unattainable forever.