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Bottom line: I didn’t completely fuck the company…but it’s pretty close.
“Look,” I level, “I know it’s your job to make money for dad. If you had the time and the right printer, you would counterfeit bills for the rest of your life just to make him that much richer and that much prouder. I, on the other hand, don’t give a shit about Davenport-Ridgeway.”
“You don’t?” he asks, surprising me.
“Not really.”
“But you care about me, right? I’m not even being manipulative. You do care about me.” His voice comes out small like he’s unsure if he actually wants me to respond.
“You know I do,” I reply, mildly annoyed that my brother could ever think I don’t care about him. “But you’re asking me to sleep with a man I don’t even know.”
Davis lets out a humming sound. “I don’t really want an answer to this question, but…haven’t you done that before?”
Obviously, I have. My early twenties were the stuff of legend, constantly dominating the homepage of The Carraway, a vile gossip website specializing in the niche affairs of wealthy New England and New York twenty-somethings. But things are different now. Connection and passion. I need both—no exceptions. Clearly, Gus Winter and I have no connection.
“I’m not sleeping with Gus Winter,” I tell Davis flatly, evenly. “You’re an asshole for asking and he’s disgusting for demanding it.”
“Julia—”
I hang up on Davis and send him straight to voicemail when he calls back. I repeat until I’m at the airport, boarding my flight to Ibiza, and eager to forget about the angry billionaire who would gamely trade his empire for one night with me.
What an idiot.
***
Jay Raymond stares at me over the rim of his glass. Loud music pulsates around us, bass lines thumping in time with the flashing lights that envelop the dancers in the middle of the club. His bright green eyes meet mine.
He’s really so damn pretty.
I’ve only been in Ibiza for two hours. I went straight from the airport to the hotel where Jay and I are staying, and then to a club called Pacha. We’re here at the request of a new brand of vodka: the brainchild of a supermodel and a DJ—or maybe a video gamer. …Or maybe a streamer. Shit, I have no clue. Either way, it’s some duo who knows nothing about making vodka. But their marketing team offered me twenty thousand dollars to take a picture of myself drinking the stuff in Pacha’s VIP section, so here we are.
Another night, another club, another shameless shill. Jay and I are no strangers to this song and dance.
Like Peter, Jay is a lot of things to me: old friend, best friend, travel buddy, and yes, occasional fuck buddy. We met in high school and have co-built a reputation for jet setting and posting dreamy, rich kid pictures on social media.
Over the years, our relationship has been a saga in and of itself. Clandestine and prolific. On and off. Hot and cold. These days, we’re mostly platonic, and I’m perfectly fine with that arrangement.
I mean, sure, Jay gives me the emotional connection I need in spades. After thirteen years of friendship, he knows me better than anyone. The sex was another story though. The times we were together were always passionate, borderline loving…but not quite in line with my predilections.
To put it simply, sleeping with him was like the candle section of a Bath & Body Works in the late nineties: all vanilla.
Jay lowers his drink and runs his hand through his brown hair. These days, he wears it too long, if you ask me, but it doesn’t detract from his magnetism. His chin tips in my direction, and our unshakable bond facilitates the tacit question: What’s bothering you, Jules?
I take a drink of my vodka and grimace. It’s awful. Like, so awful. Like I should use the twenty thousand dollars they gave me to buy up their inventory and shoot it into outer space where nobody has to encounter it ever again. Sure, it’s so horrible that if other life forms came across this vodka it would lead to an intergalactic battle royale—but at least I would never have to relive its taste.
Wrinkling my nose, I place my glass on the low table in front of me. Jay is still watching me, illuminated by the green and blue strobe lights. They dance across his skin, somehow making him look more modelesque than he already does.
My phone buzzes—a fifth message from my brother. He’s so decent, he’s been frantically texting apologies to me for hours and hasn’t mentioned trading me for a fintech company again. I’ll forgive him eventually, but for now I’m going to make him squirm. He’s lucky I love him enough to not do worse.
From the other side of the couch, Jay beckons me over with a tick of his fingers, mouthing come here in a way that’s entitled, yes, but also sexy. When I slide over to him, he wraps his arm around me. The gesture isn’t entirely casual, but not possessive either.
“Everything okay?” he asks, even though it must be glaringly obvious that everything is not okay.
Briefly, I consider telling Jay the truth: There’s a billionaire seeking revenge against me by practically extorting my brother. I imagine the truth would make him furious though. After all we’ve been through, some guy trying to buy me would give Jay a coronary. Plus, with perpetual drama from his estranged father, he doesn’t need my shit clouding his time in Ibiza.
He leans in and a camera flashes from somewhere close. Briefly, I shoot daggers at the photographer, but swiftly realize the vodka team must have hired him. I get to work. I straighten my spine and tilt my head to accentuate my highlighter fabulously. Jay does something similar, not for the sake of his nonexistent highlighter, but to make his all-American-boy features appear a bit more cutting. Edgier.
Once the photographer is gone, my coy expression immediately disappears and I face Jay once more.
