Chapter 2
Damon
It's never enough.
No matter what I do, no matter what I achieve, no matter what I buy, no matter...
Nothing ever gives me that elevated feeling I crave. Nothing ever makes me feel full and accomplished. I've reached higher and higher, earning what others can only dream of making, and all I'm left with is this damn void. Nothing ever lasts.
I know what it feels like, that euphoria rushing through your veins when you get what you've wanted for a long time, when you finally make something—or someone—yours. But after that first rush is over, it’s gone, and there's nothing. Nothing, like the hollow emptiness that lingers after the effects of a drug has worn off, leaving me back to the shell of a man I was before.
Why does it come so easy to other people? Does it come easy to them? Or are they pretending? The smiles plastered on their faces might be as fake as most women's gasping orgasms when anyone fucks them except me. I know it's common for them to pretend to get off, but they can't lie to me. And they better not fucking try, either, because I will know. I hate being lied to. Who doesn't? But it's even worse for me, because I can smell a lie from a mile away. Betrayal reveals itself to me so easily it's almost tedious.
I pace back and forth in my living room, a tumbler of scotch in one hand and my phone in the other, restlessly pondering the conversation I just had. Is the revenue promised by this new endeavor going to make any difference in my life? Do I even care if it does? The call didn't excite me as much as it probably should have, but maybe that's okay. Maybe I shouldn't be excited about a mere business deal, an investment. It's the first time for me to consider doing something like this, so of course I'm curious, maybe even nervous. But excited? Hardly. I have very little to lose and a lot to gain if this investment turns out to be lucrative.
I sigh and then idly take another sip of my scotch, my gaze drifting across the bustling city skyline below. I literally live at the top of this city—at least it seems that way when I look down at it from here. Very few buildings are as tall as this one. My penthouse stretches across the entire uppermost floor, and about a third of it is an open terrace. I've only been living here for a few months, and I'm continually surprised that I haven't grown tired of this place yet. It's by far the nicest, most expensive place I've ever called home, and there's hope that it will calm my restless nature at least for a while. Before moving here, I could barely stand to stay in the same place for longer than three months. I was always on the move, quite literally.
I flinch in surprise when the buzz of my phone disrupts my rambling thoughts. I expect it’s Scott, the start-up guy I just spoke to, but am taken aback when I glance at the screen. I recognize the number, but it's not him.
"Hello," I greet, my voice subconsciously laced with caution.
"Mr. Graves, Belinda Barry here," a female voice pipes at the other end. "Calling from Violent Delights."
"Of course, Miss Barry," I answer. "What an unexpected pleasure."
"Don't worry, Mr. Graves, I'm not calling with bad news,” she responds with a defensive edge in her voice.
"Why would I think that?"
"Well, you wouldn't be the first," she says, and even without seeing her, it's easy for me to imagine the face she's making. It's been a while since the madam and I have met face to face, but Belinda Barry is a character to remember. "Most clients seem to anticipate bad news when I call."
So, I'm not the first one she's calling today about whatever this might concern.
"I'm simply surprised. We haven't spoken since—"
"Since you first signed the contract. Yes, I'm aware," she says briskly, finishing my sentence. "And I promised you back then that we'd only contact you outside of commissions if there was an urgent matter to discuss."
"Correct," I agree, downing the last of the scotch in my glass in one full swig as I wait for her to continue.
"I don't know if urgent is the correct word for this," she goes on. "But I was wondering if I could steal a few minutes of your time to discuss an opportunity that I'm sure you'd be interested in."
"An opportunity?" I inquire, surprised. "What kind of opportunity might that be?"
"An opportunity to enhance both your pleasure and business portfolio."
The taste of scotch heats my tongue as I wait impatiently for her to expand. Her vague tone agitates me, to say the least.
"Care to elaborate?"
"Of course," she enthuses. "But if you don't mind, I think it's best to discuss this in private. Here."
"You want me to come to the agency for this?"
"You won't regret it."
"If this is just about introducing me to a new girl, you could just—"
"No, it's nothing like that," she interrupts. "Mr. Graves, I would never consider inconveniencing you if I didn't believe you'd benefit from it."
I suppress a tired sigh, turning my back to the window. Heading in the direction of the seating area in my living room, I pass by the upholstered furniture and aim directly for the bar. One more drink tonight should be fine.
"Can you come by tomorrow? Around noon?" Miss Barry asks. "I won't take up much of your time, and I promise—"
"Noon, sharp." It’s my turn to cut her off. "I'll be there."