UNDER THE LIGHTS of my private gym, the small beads of perspiration glistened on my skin. Faster and faster I pushed as sweat coated my body, saturating my shirt and shorts. Harder, quicker, one more mile… the internal commands kept me moving, kept my feet in rhythm as I continued my workout. Sometimes I wondered who I punished the most—me or the treadmill. I knew the treadmill wasn’t a person, yet sometimes I thought of it that way.
I’d assign it a name and beat it into submission: each slap of my foot was a mark, each pounding mile was the pushing of my designated person’s limits. Allowing my mind to imagine while experiencing the physical exertion was socially more acceptable than the actual acts I envisioned. The law frowned upon bondage and corporal punishment. As CFO, senior vice president, and heir apparent of Demetri Enterprises, acting out my desires in real life would meet more than the law’s disapproval. My father, Oren Demetri, CEO and president of Demetri Enterprises, would head the line to cast the first stone.
It didn’t matter that I’d spent the last six years learning the ins and outs of every company in the Demetri Enterprises portfolio. I knew the CEOs, as well as their assistants, by name. I knew which ones made profits and which ones reported losses, quarterly as well as annually. I knew the extent of our investment and the margin on our returns.
My father would tell anyone who’d listen how he’d built Demetri Enterprises from nothing. He’d talk about his great ability, even at a young age, and how others had used it for their benefit. Then he’d bore the listener with his one-man rendition recounting his subjugated life of underappreciation, until the day he decided enough was enough and he deserved the benefits of his abilities—the day Demetri Enterprises was conceived.
In all of Oren’s grand speech, he’d forget to mention how it all nearly came crashing down. He wouldn’t admit that he was unprepared for the crash that brought Wall Street to its knees. Experts have argued that it hadn’t been as bad as Black Monday in 1987; the difference was that the crash that almost ended Demetri Enterprises lasted longer.
Talking heads discussed the loss of paper wealth versus real wealth. That comparison was indistinguishable when margins were called and there was nothing to give. With financial institutions closing their doors and the unemployment rate soaring, panic became the norm.
Not long out of graduate school, it was my knowledge and understanding of the financial climate that kept Demetri from scrumming to the same fate as many other companies. My father may have birthed Demetri, he may have manhandled his way through board meetings and backroom agreements, but I had the education, knew the history, and worked my ass off to keep it solvent.
While Oren swam his way out of a bottle, I worked the new environment. It was a different terrain. Not unnavigable.
That’s not to say I didn’t take risks—I did. With me, Demetri Enterprises diversified. Every decision was calculated. It was a time when few businesses were investing. Therefore, even small investments were made with painstaking analysis. I didn’t approach an opportunity because someone in a dark room of a private club told me I should. I scrutinized the data, the market, the climate, everything. Not only did Demetri survive, it was now stronger than ever.
That dedication to Demetri Enterprises cost me more than I ever imagined. I sold a part of my soul and lost her in the process. Would it have made it better if Oren had acknowledged my sacrifice? It wouldn’t have brought Jocelyn back.
One more mile. Just one more.
The calves of my legs protested and my breathing labored, but the clock on the wall told me I had time. That’s what waking before the sun will do. It provided more hours of productive time—hours that others wasted in bed. I will have accomplished a ten-mile run, cleared the demons from my head—the ones that gathered in the night—and still be in the office before half of our employees.
Since Jo, the name I called Jocelyn, I didn’t waste time. I never slept late, never took my mind off the prize—with one exception. One week. My one true taste of what life could’ve been. I’d forgotten what happiness was, and now that I remembered, I wished I didn’t.
Although I still checked my private cell phone daily for any sign of communication, in what remained of my heart I knew it wouldn’t come. The first day and even the second after Del Mar, I’d hoped. Charli had shaken my world, made me forget who I was and what I believed. She’d also made me forget that hope was nothing but a vindictive bastard that took up residence inside and gave a false promise of something outside of your control.
In one short week, she’d made me forget that life was about control. Only I can control my own destiny. For a sliver of time I let myself have hope. With each passing day, I saw my error and worked to put that vindictive bastard back in the steel lined box it deserved.
In hindsight, I should never have allowed myself that luxury. I should have seen the signs. I knew them all too well. Shit, I carried them. They were banners written in a language that only those who share in it can read. There was a sadness and a drive in Charli’s beautiful golden eyes, that I recognized and understood. We never said more, never shared our demons. We played by our rules.
That didn’t mean I didn’t see her ghosts lurking and watching. I saw hers because I knew mine. Just like the companies and Demetri Enterprise investments, I knew the names of my ghosts. My prize for surviving, when Jo didn’t, would be that one day my ghosts would experience a punishment that only I could deliver. If Charli dreamt of the same fate for her ghosts, I understood how she was too focused to remember Del Mar.
Beep, beep, beep.
The treadmill’s speed slowed and the incline decreased. A five-minute cooldown and I’d get ready for the office. As my steps slowed, I tried to think about the screen on the wall—the television broadcasting the latest financial news from the European markets. I willed myself to concentrate on the financial crisis in Greece. Hell, I even thought about what I’d eat for breakfast.
None of it stuck. They were but fleeting thoughts as the scent of Charli’s auburn hair filled my senses—the sweet aroma as she slept, her back against my chest, my chin on her head, her soft curves wrapped in my arms, and her firm ass rubbing against me. Instead of running and pushing my legs for that last half-mile, when I closed my eyes, I was easing into her tight pussy, feeling her warmth as her body hugged me, contracting in warm waves.
Beep, beep, beep.
Fuck!
Not only would my shower be cold again this morning, but my legs wouldn’t be the only part of me getting a workout. Jacking off just got moved to the top of my morning schedule. I should have known. Since Del Mar it had become a permanent staple in my routine.
I’D TEXTED ISAAC, my driver, to be outside of the building at seven o’clock. Traffic was beginning to build and leaving early could save me as much as twenty minutes on the nearly eight-mile drive. It all depended upon the backup on the FDR.
I hadn’t looked at Isaac’s response until I was in the elevator. Every morning it was the same: YES, SIR, MR. DEMETRI, I WILL BE WAITING. That was why I was surprised when I read today’s.
Isaac: “MR. DEMETRI, MRS. WITT INSISTED ON ACCOMPANYING YOU TO THE OFFICE TODAY. SHE IS WAITING IN THE CAR.”
What the fuck?
Mrs. Witt wasn’t my housekeeper as Charli had surmised. Even Deloris laughed when I told her that. Deloris Witt was the head of my security. She wasn’t the muscle. Those were the people she hired. She was the brains. With a CIA background and computer skills that rivaled some of the best hackers in the world, she was the one who kept me informed on all things Demetri Enterprises. Hell, she kept me informed on all things Lennox Demetri.
We had a regularly scheduled appointment every Monday morning. During that time she briefed me on everything I would need to know during the upcoming week. Today wasn’t Monday. It was Wednesday.
Deloris was more than the brains behind my security, she was one of the few people I considered a friend. Jocelyn introduced us, and after I lost my wife, Deloris was the only one who understood. Although there wasn’t enough of an age difference, Deloris had thought of Jocelyn as a daughter. Since Jo’s family shut me out, and my family didn’t care, Deloris Witt was the one who acknowledged my loss—our loss. Sometimes I wondered if her current devotion was because of me or because of Jo. Either way, it was there.
Deloris had been with me in Del Mar because of the sensitive meetings scheduled during that trip and because she had family in the area. As the head of my security, she’d kept my detail intact and out of sight. As my friend, she’d been elated that I was interested in someone. It was impossible for her two roles not to meet.
From the time I met Charli at the pool in Del Mar, until hours before she entered the presidential suite, I had no doubt that Mrs. Witt knew everything about her. I didn’t need to ask. If she hadn’t known or had learned anything that she felt would be detrimental, she would have suggested I cancel the first dinner. Instead she made menu suggestions and helped.
Although I was curious when I asked the front desk to deliver flowers to Charli’s room and learned there was no one by that name listed in their reservation, I never asked Deloris for more information. Even after Charli ran off, I sought out Chelsea myself. I wanted to learn about Charli with an i from the fascinating golden-eyed beauty herself.
After the first night, after I found Charli in her suite, I specifically told Deloris that I didn’t want to know any more. The mystery of Charli was part of her allure.
“Good morning, Mr. Demetri. It’s going to be another warm one.” The doorman greeted me as he opened the door to the street. I didn’t need the weather app on my phone. I had Hudson.
Instead of replying, I simply nodded, letting Hudson know that I’d heard. I was too preoccupied with the reason Deloris was in the backseat of my car.
Hudson was right, as usual. Humid air blanketed me as I exited the cool building, instantly plastering my starched shirt to my skin beneath my suit jacket. The semi-circular drive only held a few cars at once. That limitation often required drivers or taxis to idle out on the street and be called when the riders were ready for pick-up. Isaac was never on the street. If I said I’d be present at seven o’clock, I meant six fifty-five. I never wondered as I stepped onto the brick walkway if Isaac would be there. He always was.
When I saw the large car, I knew it was Isaac, even though he wasn’t driving my usual Mercedes. Instead, he had one of the Demetri Enterprises limousines. The change in vehicle set my nerves on alert. Something was going down and whatever it was Deloris wanted to discuss it privately.
Stepping from the driver’s seat, Isaac met me at the backseat door. “Sir, good morning. Did you receive my text?”
“Good morning, Isaac. I did. I see Mrs. Witt wasn’t comfortable in the sedan.”
“No, sir,” he answered as he opened my door.
I tried to read Deloris’s expression as I sat, but with her experience she was a master of non-disclosure.
Once the door was closed and we began to move, she began, “Mr. Demetri, I considered calling you last night, and then I decided this information was best shared in person.”
“You have my curiosity piqued. Is it Oren? Did he do something?”
“No, sir.” She uncharacteristically took a moment to consider her words.
“Mrs. Witt…” When she addressed me as Mr. Demetri, it meant the matter was strictly business. “…out with it.”
“It’s about Infidelity.”
I clenched my teeth. I hated that company. Demetri Enterprises was one of its biggest investors. I wished I could blame my father for that one, say that he got involved one late night in a high-stakes poker game and ended up with a company that sold companionship, but I couldn’t. It was all me. It had nothing to do with the business itself. What I saw was a financial opportunity and took it. Demetri Enterprises was involved from the ground level of Infidelity and that partnership had netted us millions. My biggest fear was that one day the companionship side of Infidelity would be made public. The name, Infidelity, was bad enough. The exclusive website portion was a great cover and actually profitable. It was the companionship side that bothered me. Ashley Madison had been hacked. Infidelity could be too.
On more than one occasion, I voiced my concerns to Deloris. She agreed that while anything was possible, she personally worked with Infidelity techs to ensure that the latest firewalls and preventive measures were constantly in place.
“Was it compromised?” I asked, my question coming out more as a growl while I forced my shallow breaths to enter and exit from my nose.
“No, sir. The information is secure. It’s something else. Something that I found yesterday.”
She handed me a large manila envelope.
Releasing the clasp, I pulled out a picture, one printed on standard white paper. The medium made the photo grainy but that didn’t stop me from recognizing the woman. I knew her immediately, every inch of her.
“What the fuck?” I asked as I checked the envelope for more information. “What does Charli have to do with Infidelity? How the fuck…?” I couldn’t make the necessary mental connections to form articulate questions.
“I have more,” Mrs. Witt said. “I have her profile. But I thought maybe you might not want… well, you’d said you didn’t.”
“She has a profile?” I asked in disbelief.
“Yes, it was just created yesterday. From what I’ve seen, she was interviewed yesterday by Karen Flores. Ms. Flores’s comments were favorable. Her recommendation was to accept… umm… Charli’s application for employment, contingent upon the results of her medical and psychological evaluations. Miss Charli signed the agreement of intent.”
I turned my head to the window, trying to tether the rage flowing rapidly through my system. If this were a man delivering this news, I might very well have punched him, but it wasn’t.
“Lennox,” Mrs. Witt said in a more placating tone. “I found this before it was forwarded to anyone. No clients have been considered. Besides the customary employees—doctor, psychologist, Karen, photographer, and assistants—no one knows about this. All of those people are bound by confidentiality.”
“How? Why?”
“I’m not sure of how, other than that a gentleman named Cyrus Perry is her sponsor.”
“Cyrus Perry, that name sounds vaguely familiar.”
“He’s not employed by Demetri or any of its subsidiaries. I’ll look further into him,” she said as she scribbled a note in the margin of her notebook.
“Why?”
“From the profile, it appears as though she has had a recent loss of financial stability. She had a trust fund that’s now gone. She’s recently been accepted…” Deloris’s voice trailed away. “I’m sorry. I’ve probably already said more than you wanted to know.”
“She’s been accepted…?”
“To Columbia Law.”
Columbia Law School is here. Charli’s here in Manhattan.
“This profile was completed yesterday?” I asked. “Blocks from my office?” Infidelity had expanded to numerous locations throughout the country, yet Charli had been blocks from me.
“Yes, sir.”
If she had financial problems she should have called me. Why the fuck didn’t she call me? Did she delete my number? My jaw clenched and unclenched. Silence prevailed as my thoughts swirled. They were a tornado, a violent cyclone capable of massive destruction. Clenching my teeth, I tried to calm them, at least a little.
Finally, Mrs. Witt asked, “Would you like me to call Ms. Flores?”
And what? Tell her to reject Charli? If she’d been willing to do this for money, what would she do if this didn’t work? As much as I hated Infidelity, the people there did a good job of insuring the health and wealth of their employees as well as the anonymity of their clients.
“No, Deloris. Give me Ms. Flores’s direct number. I’ll call her.”
“Sir, I don’t need to remind you that using your office or home phone…”
“No, you don’t.”
Deloris reached into her purse and pulled out a flip phone. “This is a burner.”
I nodded. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing this directly to me.”
“Her profile?”
I sighed. “I would assume that if I asked Ms. Flores about Charli she wouldn’t know who I was speaking about?”
“That’s correct. The name on the profile is Alexandria Collins.”
Alexandria Collins?
Where the hell did Charli come from?
As memories of Del Mar and 101 settled the storm in my head, I began to form a plan. “This conversation never occurred, and after I speak to Ms. Flores, Alexandria Collins’s profile will be deleted permanently. Can you take care of that for me?”
“Yes, sir.”