CHAPTER TEN
Griffin
The board of directors is pissed off at me. It’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last.
I just couldn’t stomach it. Doing business with the Simpson brothers. Not after what Randy did to Kate. I didn’t handle it well at the time. I should have put him in the hospital and told Nathan to fuck himself and then trashed the deal. I can do Thorns anywhere. It doesn’t have to be the Simpson’s shitty pirate club. There’s plenty of real estate in this city, real estate that’s not associated with a goddamned rapist. It made me sick to think of him profiting off the deal. Making a decision, I ended it.
Now the board is making me explain myself. I don’t like answering to anybody. Since I sold off some shares to investors a couple years ago when I needed capital for new projects, I have to answer them. I have to answer their questions. I practiced looking humble in the mirror while I shaved this morning. I’m not very good at it, especially since my first instinct is to tell them to fuck off. I make the decisions. I’m the one who started pop up clubs in college and parlayed that into a chain of wildly successful nightspots in four major US cities. They’re just money men who want an explanation.
“Gentlemen,” I say by way of greeting, “I’m sure you invited me here today to speak to you about Thorns. The prospective location you approved purchase of has proven to be less than viable for our business model.”
“Is there any truth to the rumor that you backed out of the deal over a woman?” Charlie Price says.
“No, I withdrew from the agreement as a result of a felony. I witnessed Randy Simpson raping a waitress at a private dinner. I stepped in to prevent further assault, but even after the ink was dry on the contract, my conscience wouldn’t let me go forward.” I say. It’s a diplomatic way of telling them that I want to ruin the son of a bitch, not buy his club.
“Is there litigation in the case?” one of the lawyers says.
“Not currently. No criminal charges were filed, and Simpson’s office indicates there is no civil suit pending,” I say. “Regardless, it would damage our brand to be associated with the Simpsons. I hope you agree that we don’t wish to grant tacit approval to sexual harassment or assault by doing business with them.”
The board agrees, and I am fully empowered to scout a new location. Which is good since I found one already and put in a bid on it. I didn’t doubt my ability to sway the board. Just like I don’t doubt my ability to drive the Simpsons out of business and out of town.
I’m not just backing out of a deal.
I’m taking them down.
For Kate. For every woman Randy has mistreated, hurt, harassed, and raped. And for myself, because I know it’s the right thing to do—as much as revenge can be right. My mother didn’t raise me to be vengeful, but she did raise me to stand up for what was right. One might say I’m putting my own spin on those teachings.
It’s something I can do for Kate. She’s never far from my mind. I think of her all the time. When I wake up certainly. And during the day. I was in Tokyo, and I thought of her when my taxi drove past a McDonald’s. Of the crazy-happy smile she gave me over a couple of sausage burritos. When I could give her diamonds. I could give her the world, but she didn’t want the world from me. I gave her my card. She could have contacted me at any time during the last few weeks. Six. Six weeks and four days to be exact. Not that I’m the kind of man who wastes time keeping track of things like that.
I went out on a date. A couple of them, as a matter of fact. One of them was a pretty redhead, MIT graduate, didn’t laugh too much or talk about being a vegan all the time. Everything was in her favor. Except after dinner, I took off. Told her I had a headache or an early meeting or an emergency—I don’t remember which. I just knew where it was headed—she expected me to kiss her, to take her to bed. She put her hand on mine at dinner, and I pulled mine away like she’d scalded me. I didn’t want a beautiful and accomplished woman to touch me even for a second. I am not a man who has dry spells, who goes a month or more without having sex. Until now.
I haven’t touched another woman since Kate.
I haven’t wanted to.
That’s the scary part. I’m not attracted to anyone else. Usually I have to tell myself two or three times a day to be professional, to not check out some fine ass or great cleavage that I see. Now I won’t even talk to a woman who sends over a bottle of wine and her number when I’m at a business dinner. Back then I would’ve sent her my room key and made a night of it. Now, I just send back the wine with an apologetic smile and a note that says ‘no, thank you’. My secretary has overstepped the bounds of our working relationship twice to ask if I’m sick or secretly married. Because she’s not having to make reservations or send flowers or make orders from La Perla. I don’t think I’m sick. I know I’m not married. I just lost interest as if I’m already taken.
I would rather be alone with the memory of that night, of having her up against a brick wall, her flesh trembling under my hands. I would rather think of her on my own than be with another woman.
Nothing takes my mind off that woman.
I finalize the deal on the new club in less than half a day. Then I call in my design team to talk rebranding so Thorns will fit our aesthetic. I call marketing and tell them to get a teaser campaign placed in all the Rose clubs to whip up interest in the new club. I’ve done a good day’s work. So, when I head out to the gym and see a blond ponytail swish by, I’m surprised when it catches me in the gut. It’s not her, but I always think it will be. Every blond. Every woman I see, my eyes are searching for the mysterious and captivating Kate.
I could have my secretary call EA and have that waitress’s information on my desk within minutes, perhaps even seconds. Griffin Doyle does not chase women though. She made it clear she didn’t want more than one night, no matter how many times I made her scream. I couldn’t make her want to be mine. I’ve never had to learn to handle rejection, since she’s the first woman who’s ever seemed able to resist me. Maybe I just want what I can’t have.
But that’s not it, she has to want it too. I want the way she kissed me. The way her hands clutched at my shirt. The way she held me when we slept—the time she spooned up behind me, and it felt like paradise. I want her. I don’t know her name, but she’s in my head. I’m afraid she may be in more than just my head.
I haven’t been sleeping either. When I do, I dream about her. Not about the fiery intensity of our night together, but about trying to get to her when Randy Simpson had his hands around her throat. I dream about it over and over, and sometimes I don’t get to her in time. She haunts me.
When Gina calls, even she notices something is off with me.
“God, you’re worse than Cameron. I mean, he’s been nicer since we got back together, but he doesn’t listen. And neither do you. Men, I swear.”
“Did you just say ‘men’?” I say. “You’re a kid. Don’t go getting cynical already.”
“I got the flowers you sent, and the iTunes card. Thanks,” she says.
“You’re welcome.”
“What’s the occasion?”
“I missed you,” I say.
“You’re getting mushy in your old age, bro,” Gina says with a laugh. She’s not wrong.
I give up and ring my secretary, tell her to book a private dinner with EA to cater. To do it at a different club. To request the same waitstaff as the Simpson dinner. The exact same.
If she still works for them, I’ll see her.
In fifteen minutes, I get confirmation that it’s booked at the Rose Crown for Saturday night. I think about seeing her again. I wonder if she looks the same. I wonder what I’ll say to her.
Let me kiss you.
Let me do more than kiss you.
Stay with me.