Chapter 5: Isaac
“So, she sucked your cock? Right here in the office? Son of a bitch!” Denny waved his arms in the air and grinned at Sammy, who was lounging on the other end of the oversized sofa in my office with his sandaled feet on the coffee table and a large iced coffee resting on his flat stomach. Denny shook his head at me. “Shit, I guess I should have done that interview rather than point her at you.”
“Maybe you should have,” I said, leaning back in the chair across from them with my fingers laced behind my head and a big smile on my face. “Next time she calls I’ll refer her to you. You’ve always loved sloppy seconds.”
“Seconds and thirds,” Denny said, snorting.
“I have an interview scheduled with Ben Greene from the Wall Street Journal on Monday,” Sammy said casually. “I’d be happy to defer that one to you. He has quite a set of man-boobs, as I recall.”
“I’ll pass on getting a blowjob from a chubby, fifty-year-old man,” Denny said, making a sour face. He slumped back on the cushions and sighed. “Oh well, I’ll just have to make up for it this weekend. He held out his hands and pushed his eyebrows up. “You guys wanna three-way Carina this weekend? A little Founder’s Day celebration among partners?”
“I’m in,” Sammy said, holding up the iced coffee to suck on the straw. “Hard to believe Club D is three years old.” He smirked at Denny. “Time flies when you’re having fun.”
“It certainly does,” Denny said, grabbing his crotch and grunting like the pig he was. “Best fucking investment we’ve ever made. Too bad all the proceeds go directly to charity. The place is a motherfucking gold mine.”
“We make enough money right here,” I said. My phone buzzed in my pocket. I tugged it out and glanced at the screen. It was Stacey what’s her name, asking what I was doing this weekend. What the fuck? I didn’t recall giving her my cell number, which I gave out to almost no one. Then I remembered that I had left my phone on the desk while I was in the john taking a leak before we went to Amy Rossetti’s seminar. Maybe this girl was slicker than I thought. I’d have to keep that in mind if I saw her again.
“Fucking-A right we do,” Sammy said. His cellphone was on the couch next to him. He picked it up and wiggled the screen to life. “You guys see the stock price this morning? We print money faster than the fucking US Mint. I’m thinking about buying a small South American country. Who’s with me?”
“I’m in,” Denny said, pointing toward his head. “Do I get a dictator’s cap?” Denny was dressed in his usual business attire: a blue Oxford shirt open at the neck and cuffs, wrinkled khakis, woven belt, expensive loafers with no socks. He was lean and muscled, with buzzed black hair and dark eyes that sparkled when he was up to no good, which was most of the time. He was the marketing piece of the IDS puzzle. Mr. Personality. The life of the party. Everybody loved Denny. And he used it to his full advantage, whether negotiating a marketing deal with Google or negotiating a weekend rate with a Specialist like Carina.
“You can be co-dictator,” Sammy said seriously, his buzzed head bobbing with the straw between his teeth. “And yes, there will be caps and hats.” They both gave me an expectant look, waiting for me to jump into the joke with them. “Isaac, you in?”
I gave them both a scolding look, knowing full well how little effect it would have. I had always played the part of the thoughtful one, the level-headed stooge, the one that tried to keep the others on track. I was Mo. They were Larry and Curly. It had been that way ever since we were kindergarteners figuring out ways to look under the teacher’s skirt.
I had a thick rubber band around my left wrist. I snapped it a few times to keep myself on track. “You guys don’t forget why we started Club D in the first place.”
“So, we could fuck beautiful women without TMZ finding out?” Sammy offered. He held up his hand and Denny slapped it.
I smiled, unable to deny the truth. “Well, yeah, that, too, but…”
Denny’s hand shot into the air and he grunted to get my attention. “I know! I know! So we could have a place to hang out where we could make total idiots of ourselves and not worry about word leaking to the board?”
“Guys, seriously, focus.” I leaned forward with my elbows on my knees and my hands spread. “We started Club D for all those reasons, yes, but also to raise money for our charitable foundation. And thus far…” I picked up my phone and swiped open the spreadsheet program. I held up the phone and wiggled it at them. “In three years, we have raised twenty-three-point-two-million dollars.”
“Holy shit, that’s a lot of pussy,” Denny said, whistling. “I wonder how much of that came from me? I still think we should get shit for free, considering that it was our money that funded Club D in the first place.”
“Pussy sells well,” Sammy said, nodding as he sucked the last of the iced coffee through the straw. I watched the thick muscles of his shoulders go up and down as he breathed. Sammy was a bull, 6’4, two-twenty, built like the star linebacker he was in high school and college. You might never assume it to look at him, but he also had one of the most brilliant business minds in the tech industry. He was also a total horn-dog with a schlong that made mine look tiny. The girls at Club D loved him because he never failed to please and never failed to tip thousands of dollars for their time.
“Anyway, the point I’m trying to make if you two shitheads will shut the fuck up,” I said, struggling to keep the grin from my face. “Club D is a success from a money making point of view, but I’m starting to think that it’s just a matter of time before the news breaks that we’re the ones behind it. That would bring not only heat from the IDS board of directors, but the cops, the attorney general, the DA, the public.”
“Ah, fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” Denny said with a dismissive wave.
“Seriously, Denny,” I said. “Shit always gets out. It’s just a matter of time. We’ve always known that.”
“The members would never let that happen. We have some powerful motherfuckers on the list. There’s no way they’d let anything that would associate them with Club D get out. No way.”
Sammy nodded with a deep frown on his face. “Denny’s right. We have half a dozen senators on the membership rolls, not to mention big city mayors, governors, congressmen, millionaires, billionaires, venture capitalists, lobbyists, athletes, actors, fucking priests… and the CEOs of just about every Fortune 100 company west of the Mississippi. Even if the existence of Club D was somehow verified to the public, the cops and attorney general aren’t going to do shit to us because that would mean they’d have to go after their own, and that will never happen.”
“That may be so, but the public might shit on our stock,” I said, directing my words at Sammy, our Chief Operating Officer, the guy charged with keeping the business on track. “Not everyone would support what we’re doing at Club D. I mean, let’s face it; basically, Club D is an illegal brothel and we’re peddling pussy.”
“Ah, but it’s primo pussy,” Denny said, snorting a laugh. He held out his hand and Sammy slapped it again.
“It’s still illegal,” I said.
“Isaac, dude, lighten up. The lawyers tell me that we have enough legal loopholes to jump through that we could tie it up in court for years,” Denny cut in.
I glanced at Sammy. “Still, it wouldn’t be good for the company.”
“So, what are you suggesting?” Sammy asked, dropping the smile.
“I’m suggesting we divest our interests in Club D,” I said. “Turn over formal ownership to an offshore, blind trust and set it up so that it would take the fucking FBI, SEC, and whoever else decades to crack the nut.”
“I’m fine with that,” Denny said with a shrug. “Long as we can still be members.”
I looked at Sammy. “You good with that?”
Sammy thought about it for a few seconds, then shrugged along with Denny. “Sure. I’ll get the lawyers on it first thing Monday.” He leaned forward and rubbed his palms together. “Now, can we talk about this weekend?”
“Third anniversary of Club D,” Denny said, bumping Sammy with his elbow. They looked at me and waited for me to reveal my plans for the weekend.
Sammy asked, “So, what do you think we should do?”
“Two words,” I said with a smile. “Masquerade ball.”
* * *
An hour later, the plans had been made and Sammy headed to his office to call his uncle Monte to make the arrangements. Club D would host a huge masquerade ball over the weekend starting on Friday night at nine and carrying the theme through the entire weekend until midnight on Sunday. All the Escorts and Specialists would wear nothing but masks to cover their eyes and jewels to adorn their bodies.
There would even be an auction at midnight on Friday so the members could bid on the girl—or girls—they wanted to spend time with. By Monday, we’d have raised tens of millions of dollars for charity and hopefully, everyone would have had a good time.
“Hey, I forgot to ask earlier,” I said as Denny and I were walking down the hallway toward our offices. He was on one front-facing corner of the fifth floor and I was on the other. “Tell me what you know about Amy Rossetti.”
He stopped to give me a curious look. “Amy Rossetti, the consultant that spoke this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Well, let’s see, if you heard her speak you know she’s obviously brilliant, not to mention very hot in a subtle librarian sort of way…”
“Is that it?” I asked.
“Who the fuck am I? Google?” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes, that’s all I know about her. Why do you ask?”
“I just met her this morning for the first time,” I said with my hands in my pockets. I shrugged. “She just seemed… interesting.”
“I’ve met her a few times,” he said. “Interesting is one word you might use to describe her. Along with cold, icy, condescending, arrogant, bitchy…”
“Okay, okay,” I said, smiling, patting him on the arm. “I get the picture. I’ll see you later.”
He went his way and I went mine. My way led me to my office with the door closed and a browser open to Google. I typed in Amy Rossetti’s name and spent the next hour perusing articles she’d written, watching videos of talks she’d given, and staring at photos taken at various events where she’d lectured.
Sadly, there was no secret sex tape or hacked naked photos.
But Denny was right.
She was beautiful but looked arrogant, bitchy, irritated, and completely unapproachable.
But there was something about her.
Something in her eyes…
Sadness…
Regret…
Perhaps the ashes from a long-smoldering fire?
Fuck, just listen to me.
Who was I?
William freakin’ Shakespeare?
I was more like Edgar Allen Poe.
Regardless, I would not have been able to explain it if you had asked me to at that moment, but something inside told me Amy Rossetti was a woman I would enjoy getting to know, though sadly, I probably never would get that chance.