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“I agree, sir,” Gerard says. “We wouldn't want to sell to someone who is completely disreputable, but I also want to point out that there will be a certain level of…”
“Seediness?” I ask with a smile.
Gerard smiles at me. “A certain type of character who will come to define the market, yes,” he agrees with me. And yeah, he’s got a fucking point. I mean, you’re not going to see blue chip companies like Disney try to buy the Sex Palace on 3rd Avenue that my Dad built in 2010, or the Swinger's Club in Miami. That’s not going to be purchased by Coca-Cola. But still, I want some type of fucking standards.
“I mean, who is this guy representing? Is it a company? Or a person? Something, anything, is all I’m looking for,” I tell Gerard.
“Maybe we should start our transactions with a limited subset of properties then and try to ascertain more information,” Gerard suggests.
That’s a pretty good idea. Give this Mr. Giannoni something and then dangle the prize in front of him in exchange for more information.
“I like that,” I tell Gerard. “Why don’t we sell the entire strip club portfolio first and see what we can find out?”
I’m not worried about selling the strip clubs. The only real employees in a strip club are the managers and the bouncers and they’re all tough as fucking nails. Dad had strip clubs from Myrtle Beach to San Francisco to New York City. Even if its fucking ISIS buying these clubs, the girls will all be able to simply move on and the guys that work there—heaven help anyone that tries to fuck around with them.
“Agreed, let’s get the paperwork sorted on that. And what do you think the earliest we can prepare for signature would…” I don’t get a chance to finish because Gerard interrupts me.
“I think we can discuss this a little later on today, sir,” he says and my eyes flash up to see him on the monitor. He’s looking past me, somehow. “I didn’t realize I was bothering you, Arsen. Thought you normally slept alone.”
I turn around and see Ashley standing at the door to my bedroom. She’s looking into the living room, wearing one of my collared shirts.
God, she looks so fucking cute.
I barely get a chance to register as Gerard says goodbye and hangs up. He probably felt a bit awkward, which is a fucking riot considering that we were talking about selling off pieces of a sex empire.
But who cares about business deals when the hottest fucking girl is standing just a few feet away from me wearing nothing but my shirt?
“Who were you talking to?” Ashley asks, as she takes a step closer to me.
“My lawyer, Gerard,” I say, desperately aware that my cock is starting to harden and stick up. Ashley notices too.
“I overslept,” she says, rubbing her eyes.
“That’s okay,” I say, standing still. “I was going to come back to bed …”
“No, that’s okay,” Ashley says and I can see her hands come up and begin to fiddle with the buttons. She’s got a bit of bed head, and for the millionth fucking time I think how goddamn cute she looks.
“What was he talking about?” Ashley asks me, coming up to me. “Selling strip clubs?”
Oh. Fuck.
Here it is, isn’t it. I never fucking told her what I do. Where all this money comes from.
But what have I always told you?
That I’m going to be fucking honest. No matter what.
“I own the strip club that you used to work at,” I tell Ashley and I see her large eyes grow wider as she looks at me. “The night that I ran into you in the cab, I own that club.”
“You own a strip club?” Ashley asks.
“Among other things,” I reply. “My dad was a big deal in the sex industry.”
Is she going to leave? Is she going to ask me why I do what I do? Is she going to be a prude?
God, I don’t think after what we did last night, she can even be a fucking prude.
But being a billionaire sex trafficker is sort of different from say, being a billionaire banker. I wonder what her reaction will be?
