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“I don’t like being played with,” I snap.
“Or maybe you’ve never been played with before,” he responds, innuendo thick in his words. “Maybe every man you’ve ever known has been too intimidated to play with you. Well, I’ll happily play with you.”
Gus is like sexual radiation. The longer I remain in his proximity, the more he surrounds me, seeps into my skin, poisons me.
“Who the hell are you?” I demand, shaking my head like the motion will make everything clearer even though nothing, not a gale force wind, could free me from his all-consuming presence. “Where do you get off speaking to me like that?”
“Gus Winter,” he replies, feigning an introduction. “Founder and CEO of FundRight—the company that currently has your namesake and fortune by the balls. Nice to meet you.”
“Ugh, you annoy me.” I snatch the bottle of wine by the neck, pour myself another glass—and down it in record time as well. “And what kind of grown man is named Gus?”
“It’s short for August.”
It’s the first bit of personal information he has ever divulged to me—or anyone, I assume—because after hours of scouring the internet, I never once saw any mention of his real name.
Sitting down on a different sofa, I frown as deeply as the Botox in my forehead allows. “That’s so much better than Gus. Why don’t you go by August?”
“Because I built my career on the name Gus. I can’t change it now.”
“Sure you can. People may talk about it for a day, but they’ll get it eventually. It’s basic reinvention.”
Gus finishes his own glass of wine and motions for me to push the bottle towards him. Of course, I ignore his request, so he sighs and rises to pour himself another glass. After a long, leisurely drink he says, “It’s different for CEOs. People want stability from me. Consistency.”
“So this is what happens when your career peaks at twenty-four. You get stuck being the person you were then, even in your forties.”
“Maybe.”
He’s still standing, still watching me with outright fascination. With two shots of vodka and two glasses of wine in me on an empty stomach, I’m steadily finding his interest more than palatable. When he stands like that—so commanding, and muscular, and self-assured—he looks extraordinary.
Get. It. Together.
I swirl my glass and tilt back a sip before I say, “Well, I was a train wreck at twenty-four. After I graduated college, I basically fucked around the world until my father finally sent someone to bring me back to Boston. I stuck around for a couple months, but started traveling again. Fucking around again. Dad hates it, but he tolerates it.” A drink. “He finally realized I'm not one you can tie down easily.”
Gus’s jaw tightens, and I wonder which part of my admission bothers him.
“I’ve fucked a lot of men, August,” I go on, using his real name like a weapon, the same way he used mine like a sex toy. “Name a time zone, and I’ve fucked someone in it.”
His shoulders tighten inwards. He turns and takes a seat on the sofa once more, but his eyes have locked onto me in a glare. Jealousy? Disgust? I can’t read him, not yet. The liquor isn’t helping.
He doesn’t speak. He finishes the bottle by topping off his own glass and then he silently exits the living room. When he returns, he has another bottle of wine—another one of my favorites. More expensive. More delicious.
He goes through the show of opening the bottle and puts a small amount in my now-empty glass. When he places the bottle down, I pick it up and give myself another couple of inches, all while he watches.
“Julia.”
“Yes.”
Gus’s blue eyes are so focused on me that I nearly shift in my seat, but shifting would expose a weakness—a weakness for him. And I don’t do weakness. Ever.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and says, “These men you fucked. How many made you come?”
I’m not often speechless, but his words rattle me. I can tell by looking at him that he wants an answer. This isn’t about innuendo—he wants me to tell him.
“All of them,” I answer, lifting my chin. “Every. Single. One.”
“Don’t lie,” he nearly snaps in response. “I don’t like liars.”
I raise my brow, wanting to meet his challenge. “I don’t owe you an answer.”
