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I’m needed inside.
Chapter Three
“Here he is, theplayboy prince and birthday boy, the Andersoneverybodyloves, the man behind the most expensive marketing campaign in history! Let’s scream for Rex-a-Million!”
My nickname. Short for a million orgasms. Dealer of pleasure.
Piercing screeches and catcalls erupt in the club, and I fight the urge to cover my ears. Instead, I make an exaggerated bow to the crowd as I climb the steps of the small stage by the central dance floor at Mystique.
Beautiful women in barely there dresses shake their assets and blow me kisses, no doubt trying to catch the attention of the last Anderson bachelor—for love, money, or a fuck, I don’t know.
Too bad. Love isn’t for me and my cock has been malfunctioning for months now. It’s like my body is saying goodbye by turning off my pleasures one by one.
You don’t deserve love or pleasure.
Mom’s dead because of me. Ava and Cora don’t have a mother because of me. My family suffered because of me.
How will you ever redeem yourself?
Ignoring the pressure pressing on my lungs, I wink at a buxom redhead, and she nearly swoons.
The Wall Street bros near the front whistle and point, and a few of them mouth,“Rex the Man.”
“Are we ready to party tonight?” I holler into the microphone.
The crowdroars.
“Are we getting plastered? Indulging in The Rose floors? Living tonight like it’s our last?”
More cheers and the finance bros high five each other. They’re definitely taking advantage of the five special floors, which house clubs and rooms designed for sex and kinks, from Noire, the primal play heaven, to Trésor, the fancy strip club. I’ve experienced and loved them all.
“Am I seeingyouon the biggest, flashiest, most exclusive, first inaugural international cruise from Fleur Entertainment next month?”
I need the cruise to be a success. For my family.
To atone for my sins. To be worthy of the impeccable Anderson name. To find purpose and fix myself.
Give it up. How is a silly cruise going to fix anything?
I grab a classic old fashioned with a Luxardo cherry from the deejay, who no doubt got it from the bartender earlier—they all know my tastes—and chug it down before tossing the tumbler behind me, the sound of glass shattering inflaming the crowd.
“Yes! Rex. Rex. Rex. Rex. Rex.”
Their chanting grows in volume, drowning out the voices screaming in my head. Thick fog bathes the club in spectral white mist as the pulsing lights add to the ambiance.
Murderer. Blood. Hollow eyes. The fear in them.
The damn memories won’t leave me alone. I should ignore them. I shouldn’t be afraid of them because the past is in the past.
Ishould. Fucking shoulds.
No.The pills and the drinks were supposed to drown out everything.
The crowd screams when I swivel my hips and moonwalk across the platform, my fingers moving to the top button of my shirt.
They’re looking for a show—the Rex Anderson show. I’m good at this—bringing on the party, giving people what they need.
I’m the flirt, the jokester, the fun Anderson in a family of stiff-upper-lip old-money aristocrats, courtesy of our English ancestors.
