Gargling with mouthwash, I swished and spit. The things I’d do for my grandmother. Put on a button-down shirt with a collar, that was one. Sure, it was still black and I wore it with jeans, but I tucked it in and wore a belt. Plus I combed my hair and covered up the smell of alcohol on my breath with minty wash.

I still had to have a drink before I headed out to meet up with the family, that went without saying. If I knew Gram she’d be doing exactly the same thing right now, sipping a good, strong G&T with Plymouth gin and two slices of lime. We were all gathering together that afternoon at her Upper East Side penthouse, due to arrive in 30 minutes. It was our annual pre-holiday get together, just the intimate nuclear members prior to the Kavanaugh family fete for 500 tomorrow night.

Today the featured speaker would be our family attorney, Nelson Armistead. Nothing packed in the members of a wealthy family more than a lawyer discussing the terms of inheritance. More British than the queen, Nelson divided his time between London and New York. He’d managed our family’s affairs since the beginning of time. I trusted no one else with my money. He kept communications brief, direct and infrequent, and required absolutely no direction or oversight from me whatsoever. He was perfect.

Since my father’s passing from cancer in August, Nelson had had a lot to figure out. Not that Dick had left much to chance. He’d had everything mapped out. That was the upside of a horrible, painful, unforgiving disease that slowly wasted and ultimately killed you, you had a bunch of time to plan for the end.

My father and I had always butted heads, and that was putting it mildly. Just before he’d entered the hospital for the final time, he’d invited me to join him for lunch. I’d done it, knowing it would be our last. He’d explained to me, calmly and cooly, that he was leaving me nothing. First, he did this on principal. He didn’t approve of me or the choices I was making with my life. Second, I didn’t need it. I’d made millions upon millions from my own “messing around” as he’d called it.

To be honest, it had choked me up. He was right on both counts. It was refreshing to have someone say it instead of kiss my ass.

I’d craved his approval for the first half of my life, until I was about 13, the year my parents had divorced. My brothers, Gigi and I had been shunted off to England to live with Gram while our mother ‘regrouped’ and our father concentrated on his business. We barely saw either of them for almost two years. I believed that was page one in the “Get Your Kids to Hate You” manual. The only one of us who hadn’t turned on them was Gigi, but she only seemed capable of deep, abiding love so I didn’t hold it against her.

Mom had gotten back with the program, remarrying a stodgy lawyer and settling into an estate in southern Connecticut with her Gardening and her Hounds, capitalization intended due to the seriousness with which she treated both endeavors. Gigi had gone to live with them and, from what I’d seen, she’d lived out a fairly normal, happy childhood.

But by the time Mom straightened out, I’d gone round the corner already, off in boarding schools and launching phase two of my life: doing anything and everything I could to piss off my parents. Get kicked out of school? Check. Shave my head, pierce my ears, get tattoos? Check, check, check. Refuse any and all engagement with anything remotely resembling academic achievement? Well, I was a natural at that one. I guessed I had ADHD or something, nothing held my attention for long, but once you found a way to channel all that energy no one bothered giving you a label, diagnosis or meds. I’d discovered early on, if you put a guitar in my hands I’d never tire of it.

John Mayer had talked about it in a bunch of interviews, behind every great guitar player there was a nerdy teenager with no friends who stayed up all night perfecting his licks. I preferred not to reminisce about those lean years, the years I’d grown past six feet tall but still weighed 130 pounds. The years I’d been sent to prep school in England and had the shit kicked out of me more days than not. I was crap at football—both the American and the European versions—couldn’t sit still in a class for the life of me. Basically I was a hot mess until I met Connor.

The dirty Irishman and the unwashed American, we were a perfect pair, him on bass and me on guitar with a rotating cast of mates on drums. It didn’t matter, it was me and Connor that figured shit out, me and Connor that started our band, staying up all hours, playing everywhere and anywhere we could, from school parties in gyms to neighborhood fairs to busking on the street.

It was Connor who was still my best mate, my partner in crime, the bass player to my lead singer in our band The Blacklist. He’d even come up with my name, Ash Black, much cooler than Asher Kavanaugh. He was back in S.F., probably just starting his day since it was only around one o’clock on the west coast. I wished I were back with him instead of about to head out to the chopping block.

Except if I were in S.F. I wouldn’t have met Ana. Anika. That brought a smile to my face. I hadn’t met a girl that delectable in a while. I couldn’t remember the last time. Those mile-long legs, the swell and curve of her breasts above her trim waist. Even that prim and prissy collar on her high-necked dress got my motor running. It made the thought of undressing her more fun. Her pretty little dress and trim cardigan left more to the imagination, more wrapping to remove. What I could see I definitely liked, those wide, light toffee-colored eyes, her silky brown hair that slipped through my fingers. The way she opened up those lush dark pink lips for me, giving me full access.

I wanted a lot more of that. Tonight, I’d see her again. The thought of that would get me though our cozy family get-together. Then Ana would meet me at the hotel, first in the lobby and then up in my room. I couldn’t wait to see her naked, feel her beneath me, see if she liked it rough the way I guessed she would. I wanted to mark her, take her, fill her, hear her pant and scream and beg. How quickly could I melt that chilly exterior? She had a lot of heat right beneath the surface, a swift running stream just under the thin layer of ice. I couldn’t wait to break on through.

And get her to agree to pretend to be my girlfriend then fiancée and dump me publically, that too. That was the most important thing, of course, because nothing mattered more than my image, my reputation. But the second most important thing was Ana, her scent, her mouth, her skin, all of her, all mine.

I paused in front of my grandmother’s building, standing under the awning with the doorman. I didn’t want to go inside. I wished I hadn’t quit smoking. A cigarette would have given me the excuse to loiter.

“Cold tonight,” one of them noted.

“Yup.” I didn’t really know what I’d just agreed with, I just knew I needed another minute before I went in and up. They’d all be inside, all the beneficiaries of my father’s will. And me.

My father had passed away four months ago and you’d think that might have brought us together as a family, but, no, a massive inheritance brought out the worst in us. Aunts and cousins and people I’d never even heard of were all clamoring for a piece of the pie. Some guy claiming to be his out-of-wedlock son had even surfaced, a ranching dude from Montana. What a fucking circus. No wonder my younger brother stayed the fuck away from all of it, a mountain man in a cabin with a beard the size of a watermelon. He’d turned his back on it all the same as me, only where I’d sought the spotlight, he’d retreated as far as he could.

My older brother, well, he’d done exactly what Daddy had wanted. He’d gone to Harvard Business School and now stood at the helm of Kavanaugh Incorporated, the massive empire our father had built. Did he enjoy doing it? I had no idea. My older brother was a complete mystery to me. Except for what he thought of me, that he made crystal clear. I was a screw-up, an embarrassment, a child masquerading as a grown up, yada yada.

The only two people I enjoyed seeing were my little sister Gigi and my grandmother. They could do no wrong. At 19, Gigi had everyone wrapped around her finger, myself included. She didn’t even try to do it. That was her secret. She’d clearly taken after my grandmother who always got exactly what she wanted simply by being the kind of person you really didn’t want to disappoint. She believed in me. She always told me that at exactly the right moment, as if she saw right into my soul and discerned some quality of character or potential even I didn’t recognize I had.

With one last deep breath of cold, fresh air, I told myself there was no time like the present. I bit the proverbial bullet and headed up into the fray. The elevator doors parted directly into my grandmother’s home.

“Asher. So good of you to come.” A butler held open the door to the Upper East Side home, but Gram met me at the entrance, her bright blue eyes brimming with pleasure at the sight of me.

“Hi, Gram. Looking good.” My grandmother could wear a wool suit with pearls like nobody’s business. Like they were made for her. Actually, they probably were, custom tailored from a tiny shop that mostly catered to the royals. Gram’s father had been in the House of Lords and she had married a peer, though he’d passed before I was born.

She kissed me on both cheeks, then drew her arm through my own. I took comfort in her vigor. At 83, I knew she was old on paper, but Gram seeming old in person would really fuck me up.

“They’re gathering in the drawing room. Shall I have Thomas fix you a drink?”

“You read my mind.”

“And old fashioned, if you please,” she spoke to the side. Thomas nodded, then tucked into the butler’s pantry to do her bidding. “Colton’s fuming about you,” she informed me in classic Gram style, somehow managing to make me feel as if she were on my team, warning me without judging. “He’s extremely vexed over something or other.”

“Yeah, there’s this video on YouTube. Makes me look pretty bad.”

“Oh, well,” she scoffed. “People wasting time on that kind of drivel aren’t worthy of your attention, now are they, dear?” She patted my hand. Case closed. She really was a golden egg in the midst of a mile-wide trough of pig slop. In my experience, most people in this world tended to disappoint. Better to expect it than get blindsided later. But that had never happened with Gram.

“Asher!” A small bundle of strawberry blonde hair and a huge smile came flying at me.

“Gigi!” I gave my little sister a huge hug. She’d taken after Gram, petite and ladylike, yet also somehow unpretentious. “How you been?”

“Missing you!” she exclaimed, linking through my other arm.

“Allow me to show you in.” Gram led me into a high-ceilinged room with ornate draperies framing floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park. Paintings in giant frames, each with its own lighting, covered most of the remaining walls.

My older brother, Colt, stood by the fireplace, drink in hand, looking like he belonged in a period piece set in Victorian England. OK, mostly it was the setting around him but he truly fit in, shoulders back, spine straight, chin angled such that he looked down his stern nose at me. Vexed, indeed.

My younger brother, Heath, lurked over in the shadows in the furthest corner of the room, dark and angry with a giant beard. He clearly wished he were anywhere else. Last I heard he was living in Vermont in a one-room cabin with no running water. At first that had sounded insane to me, but lately I saw the appeal in getting away from it all. I nodded at him briefly and he gave me a swift nod in response. I hear you, bro, I wanted to say. I don’t want to be here, either. We weren’t close, but I’d always respected Heath. At 24 he’d become one badass bearded mountain man. I wouldn’t get on his bad side.

My great-aunt Gertrude sat ramrod straight on a richly upholstered settee with a teacup suspended mid-air en route to her mouth. Perhaps etiquette required pausing one’s consumption of beverages upon the entrance of a new party into a room. A year or two younger than Gram, I knew Great Aunt Gertrude was a stickler for manners, preferably the absurdly outdated kind.

The leather chair my father had favored—as large and overbearing as his personality—remained empty. It felt so strange to not see him in it. I’d fought him so hard all my life. Now that he was gone I almost felt unmoored.

“Allow me to introduce you to our newest arrivals.” Gram turned to another couple in the room.

I knew who they were straight away, before she said another word. The big, dark guy had to be the Montana rancher who claimed to be my father’s long-lost son. The pretty little thing by his side looked like Miss America, all blonde, blue-eyed and glowingly pink-cheeked.

“Declan, Kara, this is Asher.” Gram offered me up to them. I tried to get away with nodding my hello, but the beauty queen wasn’t having it.

“Hey! Oh my goodness! It’s so fun to meet you!” She rushed over with enthusiasm, taking my hand in both of hers. “This is all such a surprise, learning about Declan’s family, and then when we found out about you! Ash Black!” She put her hand to her chest in pantomimed shock and I had to admit, she gave me the start of a smile.

“I love your music! I really do. My favorite is singing along with you when I’m driving in my truck!”

“Cool.” I had to love it. She was just what the Kavanaugh family needed, a truck-driving Ash Black fan. They looked around my age, Declan maybe a few years older. He had my father’s big bear of a frame, and I saw the Kavanaugh stubbornness written all over his face. His jaw set, he didn’t look like he wanted to be here either. Huh. He might be legit after all. My brother Colt had to be livid. I decided to like them.

“You guys should come to one of my shows. I‘ll set you up back stage.”

“What?! That’s crazy! You’re the best!” She flew back to Declan’s side, looking up at him adoringly. “I knew he’d be great!” she declared.

Declan nodded at his wife, clearly somewhat less of an Ash Black fan but just as clearly a big fan of Kara.

“New Year’s I’m playing Vegas. You guys should come.”

“Maybe. Thank you.” Declan gave me a tempered thanks. OK. My new Montana half-brother. Interesting.

Then my stepmonster Brandi swept in, all boobs. My father hadn’t exactly broken the mold with his second wife, opting for the 20-years-younger surgically enhanced model. It was like buying a flashy, cherry red Porsche in your middle age, only my father had always been more of a Bentley or Aston Martin guy so Brandi had come as something of a surprise.

“I’m so sorry Dominic isn’t here,” Brandi apologized to nobody in particular. “He really wanted to come. But something came up.” They’d gotten married about five years ago and I’d met her son, my stepbrother Dominic, maybe twice. His glowering, dark and silent presence made Heath look like a social party animal.

“Now that we’re all here.” Gram drew everyone’s attention, standing fireside with Colt. Her butler Thomas slipped me an old fashioned. Just in time. “Let me first say, I’m very excited to see you all at tomorrow’s Christmas party. It’s going to be spectacular. Thank you very much to Gigi for all of her help with the arrangements.”

Starting to pass the mantle, I got it. She’d skipped right over my stepmother, Brandi. Gram was right, Gigi would be the one to keep up the tradition.

Nelson, our attorney, slipped into the room, silent as the grave. He had to be in his 60s, maybe 70s by now, but he still looked slim and spry. I caught his eye and mouthed the words, “Did you get my message?”

He nodded briefly in affirmation, then swiftly returned his attention to Gram. He didn’t want to be the one caught being naughty in class. Earlier, I’d messaged him about Anika Ivanov, requesting a standard background check. My gut told me she was squeaky clean in every way, but we needed to be 100% sure. Nelson’s people were the ones to do it fast and with discretion.

Nelson took the floor and got right to it, addressing the ramifications of an additional beneficiary to my father’s will. His British accent made him sound either awfully formal or a bit sarcastic. Sometimes both. Honestly, I didn’t listen. I wasn’t inheriting anything, anyway. I was there for Gram. But I did like seeing Brandi squirm with displeasure and I got a kick out of watching the smoke come out of Colt’s ears. He didn’t like this new development one bit.

“You two are roughly the same age,” Nelson pointed out, looking at him. “Declan’s 27.”

“I’m 28,” Colt declared, and even he must have known he sounded like an arrogant jerk, engaging in sibling rivalry, pulling rank. CEO Colt was as alpha as they came. All of us guys were, really. Maybe that was why we knocked heads so much.

After Nelson had said his piece, Gram resumed the stage. She also got right to the point. “As you all know, I am currently 83 years old. Yet the only one of you married is Declan.” She looked over at Declan and Kara. “May I again offer my congratulations to you both. Refresh my memory, when was the happy day?”

“Two weeks ago.” Hey, Declan could smile. A big, broad one, too.

“Well done.” Gram gave her blessing. But then she turned to the rest of us. “As for you, Colton, Asher, Heathcliff and Georgiana.” Such a mouthful, what had our parents been thinking when they’d named us? I was sure Gram had a strong hand in it. “I expect each of you to be married in the next five years. The thought of turning 90 without all of you properly settled is preposterous.”

It wasn’t the first time she’d reminded me of British actress Maggie Smith. Giving us a marriage ultimatum, was she now?

“Asher,” she turned to me just as I was taking a sip of my old fashioned. “I’d like you to get married first.”

I nearly choked. Hand to my mouth, I looked up at her for a sign of humor. Unfortunately, I saw nothing but direct sincerity in those sparkling blue eyes.

“He’s too busy breaking hearts,” Colt mumbled. I rolled my eyes.

“I’m sure it wasn’t as bad as it looked,” Gigi hushed him. Always the peacemaker.

“If he could just keep out of the headlines for a single goddamned day,” Colt grumbled.

“Please refrain from using profanity,” Gram chided.

“OK.” I clapped my hands together, ready to leave. “I’ve got my marching orders. Think I’ll go get started right away.” Heath was already at the door, beating me to it.

“If you must.” Gram allowed Heath and I to exit. She knew how to choose her battles. “We’ll all reconvene tomorrow night.” Gram began walking us out, though the rest of the family stayed put.

Nelson appeared alongside me. “The information you requested has been delivered.” Then he was gone. The man should have been a spy.

Looking in my eyes, Gram reached up to place both hands on my shoulders. “There’s more to you than others know.” I’d like to believe her, though there was no proof of it.

“I’m not getting married, Gram. Just so you know.” I leaned down so she could give me a kiss on the cheek.

“We’ll see about that.” She kissed, then patted me on the cheek, content in her own superior wisdom.

In the back of a chauffeured car, I clicked on my phone and opened up the e-file I’d been waiting for from Nelson’s office. Anika Ivanov. She’d grown up in Wallingford Falls, NY, a town of 6,000 about an hour and a half north of the city. Her parents were Russian immigrants, an engineer and a seamstress, no known mafia ties. She’d transferred from community college to SUNY New Paltz where she’d gotten her BA in music, then did her Master’s in Library and Information Studies at Queens College. She was 24, had been working at the branch library in SoHo for eight months, taught piano to ten families in Manhattan, and lived with two roommates in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn. Limited social media presence, no criminal record. Perfect.

I called Joel. “I’ve got it figured out. A librarian here in New York. She’s 24 and teaches piano. Clean background check.”

I could practically feel the relieved drop in his blood pressure through the phone. “Goddamn, Ash. Where did you find her?”

“Long story.”

“I’ll talk to Nelson and send over an NDA. When can you get her to sign?”

“Tonight.”

“That’s my boy. I’ll tell Lola.”

Phone back in my pocket, I looked out at the city streets, dark at five thirty though still bright with lights. Tonight, Anika. I had a sudden image of her bound, naked, twisting beneath me on the bed. Her pale skin against the dark sheets, her nipples hard and aching under my fingers. A blindfold across those lovely eyes, those lush pink lips open, calling out my name as I slipped a finger down into her dripping wet pussy.

But first I needed to get the non-disclosure agreement signed. I had to lock that down, get the business end of things tied up. Then, I could tie her up. She’d be mine for the month. This would be a fun month. She’d have to spend all kinds of time with me, every minute, really. Then the month would be over and I’d be off and onto the next stop on the Ash Black train ride. But until then, I’d have plenty of time to undo the laces on that Victorian bodice of hers. I could seduce her sweetness into complete submission.