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Chapter 5
David
“Shit. David, your day is packed,” Charles says to me while he rummages through some papers on a clip board.
His tone is dry, but I can tell he’s hesitant to elaborate.
“Fuck, really? What in the hell does she have me doing?”
I don’t like it when people tell me what to do, and this is the first time we’ve had to deal with a broad like Vivienne. Charles and I never had to answer to anyone or follow anyone’s fucking schedules, even though he’s the one who organizes and puts all the shit together.
I wouldn’t say that he planned my pussy rendezvous, but I also wouldn’t say that he didn’t, if you catch my drift.
He’s been my right-hand man—or assistant, whatever title suits you—since fucking forever. Or at least, since I can remember. It’s one of the reasons why he calls me David.
He’s been with me through the thick of it and never wavers, staying with me through each tragedy or bullshit circumstance. He’s a solid lad, and I trust him with my life.
But enough of that sappy shit, we apparently have shit to do.
Charles starts listing everything we have to get done today.
“Lord Frankfurt wants to meet at noon to discuss foreign diplomacy, so be ready.”
“You mean, Lord Fuckface? The man whose wife I’d like to fuck.”
“Luckily, she won’t be there. Just keep your dick in your pants—at least, for the meeting,” he jokes, feeling proud of that little dig of his.
“Ha, clever Charles. So, what else is there? Do I have to go to a fucking gala as well?”
“How’d you know?”
He grimaces and immediately looks down, trying to avoid eye contact.
“Are you fucking serious?”
“At least it’s for your Dad’s charity, Locking Hearts.”
“Uhhhhhhh fuck me!” I lean my head back on the chair. “Why did we hire this woman?!”
“Because you look like a straight up asshat, King. Unfortunately, your reputation proceeds you beyond the glossy pages of the tabloids.”
He’s fucking right. And I hate it. It pisses the fuck off me.
But now I know that something’s being done about it, hence the fucking bombshell of a woman sashaying around my manor in those tight ass dresses and five-inch stilettos. Oh, and telling me what the fuck to do.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. My advisors are fucking stupid.
If they know me at all, they should realize that they just sent a fucking lethal cocktail to an AA meeting, and I’m the fucking addict. I have no willpower when it comes to a woman like that.
I squirm in my chair, trying to hide the bulge growing at the thought of her.
“What is Vivienne doing all day?” I ask Charles, genuinely interested.
He gives me a stern look and arches his eyebrow. His curiosity is now peaked, but it’s mainly concern in his expression.
“Why do you care?”
“I’d like to know what my employee is doing. What’s it to you?”
