Ryan

 

 

 

Three fucking hours and twenty fucking minutes to go.

This is the part I hate most about my job. Socializing, networking, and pretending to be this generous-hearted guy, all the while shaking their greedy hands with a fake smile plastered on my face. I know what most of them want from me, and they can’t hide their intentions behind friendly smiles, no matter how hard they try. Most of them want a piece of my success. They propose deals and play nice for their own  benefit.

I don’t blame them. It’s the smart thing to do, and I know because I was in their shoes not too long ago. I’m not the heir to a fortune; I‘m a self-made man, who did the right thing at the right time. Toss in a little luck, and you can grow big very quickly.

Five years ago, I was nothing but an eager college graduate, a young entrepreneur willing to go into debt to get where he wanted to be. It could have gone terribly wrong, but it didn’t.

I had an idea, I invested in it, and then I sold it to someone who was willing to grow the business into something bigger. Selling came easy to me. Many say that selling your first company feels like selling your baby, but it didn’t to me. My heart was never set on advertising automation, it was just something I understood and so I came up with a good idea. One that someone was willing to pay a lot of money for to buy. It was a means to an end, because selling the company left me with enough money to switch sides. I was no longer the one who needed to find someone to invest, but the investor. I have a knack for business and can tell which idea will succeed and which one won’t. The Onyx Corporation has prospered under my leadership, spanning its web further and further across the country.

I know how to make deals, and I know how to work the human psyche in my favor.

It’s what I do. And I’m damn good at it.

But I’m not good at socializing.

I can act, shake hands, smile, engage in redundant smalltalk, but none of it comes as naturally to me as business does. Evenings like this feel more like work than what I do during actual business hours.

I take every moment of peace and quiet I can get, retreating after almost every conversation, just to be able to breathe and rid myself from the idiotic conversations I’m forced to have in order to do business.

There’s nothing and no one here who holds my attention for longer than a few forced seconds.

Except for her.

The long-legged fairy who meanders through the crowd with mechanical movements that make her appear as if she was in trance. Her pretty face is perfectly oval, her chin too small for her pouty, doll-like lips, and her eyes are strikingly prominent and big. They are green, I can tell that even from across the room. I’ve never seen an eye color like that before, a dark fir green that stands out against her porcelain skin. She’s long and lean, towering over all the other waitresses and most of the guests, and the uniform she’s wearing fits tight and short on her slim body. I caught her fixing her skirt with one hand as she tried to balance the tray with her other one several times, but it keeps hitching up her leg as soon as she starts moving again, giving her an inadvertent sexy look.

She stands out in the crowd, and I’m not the only one who notices.

Unlike the other girls, she doesn’t look like a waitress, discreetly offering drinks while moving in the background and hardly drawing attention away from the conversation, as she should.

No. Not her.

She looks like a girl who dressed up in a naughty waitress costume for Halloween, pulling the gaze of almost every person she passes. I’ve seen heads turning, men leering, women rolling their eyes and ruffling their noses at her in jealous disgust.

And she doesn’t even try. There’s nothing particular about the way she walks, nothing seductive in her motions, or the expressions on her face. She moves almost like a robot, careful, deliberate, and reserved. She’s trying to blend in, but her tall and naturally alluring appearance doesn’t let her. It doesn’t help that her blouse is stretching seductively over her full breasts, leaving little to the imagination, even in a purposely conservative outfit like the one she’s wearing.

I can tell she’s a timid girl, quiet, and careful. She’s not seeking the attention she’s drawing. Unlike the other girls, she’s not striding around on too-high heels, swaying her hips provocatively to lure her prey. No, there’s none of that.

Yet she’s driving me insane.

I’ve had to leave the room twice to give myself a chance to fucking calm down. The bulge in my crotch was becoming too obvious, too painful. My cock is craving her with such need, such a lustful urge, that it almost robs me of my sanity.

This is what I get for leaving the house with blue balls. It’s been too long. Almost a year. It’s almost time, and my body knows it.

I’m already on the hunt. I’ve been browsing through the agency’s catalog for weeks, searching for the perfect girl to meet my admittedly high standards. It’s a one-time chance, a once a year treat I allow myself. Of course, the girl has to be fucking perfect.

But none of the trite beauties have caught my eye the way this girl has.

What the hell is it about her that won‘t let me look away?

I’ve tried to pull myself away from her, engaging in smalltalk with random investors in an attempt to occupy my sex-craving brain.

But she appeared within eyeshot again and again, drawing my attention even from across the room. There’s nothing I can do about it. My eye wander back to her alluring body, following her every movement as she continues serving my guests with the same stoic expression on her mesmerizing face she’s had since I first spotted her. The smile she displays once in a while when a guest accepts her offer for a drink only flashes across her face for a split second before disappearing again.

It’s a pretty smile.

A sad smile.

“Oh, fuck it,” I hiss to myself, as I make my way in her direction.

There’s only one thing I can do to eliminate the temptation: I need to talk to her. Realize that she’s just another dumb, pretty girl with an empty gaze and a hollow soul. She’ll say something stupid soon enough, stare at me like a deer caught in the headlights, stutter incoherently, and then ruin the illusion forever.

Yes. Talk to her.

That’ll do it.

For sure.

“Get it over with, Ryan,” I mutter to myself. “Talk to her, so you can move on.”