Page 1 of Soul of Discretion

CHAPTER ONE

Blink. Blink. Blink. The flickering cursor on Simon’s cell phone screen was irritating as fuck.

Aristocat69, you there? What you up to? BigDick88

Christ. The guy wouldn’t take no for an answer. Simon picked up his phone and stabbed out a vicious reply. Maybe this would help BigDick88 get the message.

BigDick88, fuck off. You sucked my dick once. Doesn’t mean we’re married. Move on.

He stared at the screen then growled as the cursor flickered again.

Aristocat69, don’t be like that. I thought we had a good time last night?

As much as Simon loved his new gay hook-up app called crUIzer (a project in which he’d invested a significant amount of money as an amusing side-line to his core business), he wished the developer could find a way to remotely blow up past sex partners when they got needy.

Perhaps he’d bring it up at the next board meeting.

Irritated, he pulled down his jock shorts, shot a quick dick pic, and sent it to his stalker. He’d just jacked off, so the douchebag got the half-hard version, complete with dried spunk.

That’s as much as you’re fucking getting. Now get lost. I don’t do repeats.

Simon flung his phone onto his bed and headed for the shower, ignoring the plaintive beep of yet another incoming notification.

He showered and dressed for his meeting. He was about to call the office to check if his overseas visitors had arrived before going downstairs to meet them, when there was a soft knock on his bedroom door.

Only one person had access to his penthouse in the quirky office building he owned on the Plymouth waterside.

“Enter,” he growled as he tied the perfect Windsor knot in his tie and gave his appearance a critical look-over.

I don’t look too bad given I drank too much last night and fucked someone.

He surveyed his floppy pale blond hair, artfully styled of course, and a scab on his chin where he’d nicked himself shaving. Eyes the colour of sienna stared back. The whole image in the mirror was one of a powerful man with a look that said, “Don’t fuck with me.”

The pale beige fitted suit and crisp white shirt looked suitable for purpose with his pale blue silk tie. He wasn’t sure about the red scarf in his pocket though; he thought he might change it for the spotted blue one, if he could find the damn thing. He scowled at himself in the mirror.

Someone chuckled behind him. “My Lord, you know your face will stay like that if the wind blows the wrong way? I can’t see that expression being conducive to your oh-so-active sex life.”

The dry sarcasm in the man’s voice caused Simon to turn around and glare at the deliverer.

“And that fucking tone isn’t conducive to your remaining much longer as my personal assistant, you wanker. And don’t call me My Lord. You know I hate it.”

Peter Sinclair laughed softly. “Someone isn’t looking forward to his meeting. I’d best tell Collette to put an extra dash of whisky or two in the coffeepot.”

Collette was Simon’s office secretary. In her early thirties, competent, cheerful, and smart, she was indispensable to both Simon and Peter, though in different ways. She was also Peter’s wife.

Simon grunted. “Even that isn’t enough to take the edge off. These men are coming to tell me my company in Canada is being defrauded so I doubt any amount of whisky will stop me blowing my fucking top.”

No one fucks with my business. Nobody. These guys had better be prepared.

Simon’s love of robotics and mechanical engineering as a child had spurred him to receive a master’s in engineering in robotics, honours of course, at Plymouth University. His dream had been to create prosthetics and AI systems that would benefit people at a more affordable cost. So, seven years ago, at twenty-eight, he’d created his own company, Breakforce Limited, to do exactly that.

Hailed as the new face of interactive technology and innovative ideas, after some difficult times, a lot of networking and hard work, the company had grown to a multimillion-dollar tech giant and was now inundated with orders, both from military and private contractors. Breakforce was also the recipient of many research grants.

Peter drifted over to the huge chest of drawers in Simon’s bedroom and deftly plucked out a spotted blue pocket square.

I swear he plucked the damn thing out of thin air. I could have sworn that wasn’t there when I looked.

Peter came over and murmured under his breath as he tucked the square into Simon’s shirt pocket and withdrew the red one, “That looks better. That red one jarred a bit although it would have been a suitable warning to them of your mood.”