March’s parents died our junior year—plane crashed into the peaks of the Ecuadorian Andes—and around then my dad won his U.S. Senator gig and left for D.C., so we said fucks to the frat house and moved into what we dubbed West Manor.
Marchant claimed the entire downstairs, parading women in and out like cattle. The weird thing was, they always stayed friends after, so he had a lot of chick pals. Sometime in our senior year, I bedazzled some of his inheritance, and he decided to use the money I made him to open a Vegas brothel. A very Marchant thing to do. And Marchant being Marchant, he doesn’t go for something reasonable like Radcliffe Ranch; he names it Love Incorporated.
It’s a two-thousand acre, dusty, barren strip of Nevada desert, but the three sprawling English manor houses and the forty or fifty acres around them—Marchant’s got that shit looking like the Garden of Eden. He sold that image to a lot of people, too. Mostly people with dicks.
I’m not charmed when I give my Aston Martin to the valet and follow Krista, one of my least-favorite escorts, into the vast Love Den. She’s got her strawberry-blonde hair thrown back over her shoulders, and it’s kind of curly. Her blue eyes twinkle with a genuine smile, something I just don’t understand.
Tonight she doesn’t stop me in the den, with its many cozy alcoves, to ask me how I’m doing and bat her lashes. In fact, I’m staring at the back of her head as she leads me down the nearest of four wide, candle-lit hallways. I watch her black silk dress sashay around her upper thighs, listen to her designer heels tap on the hardwood. Against the soft brown wallpaper, her pale skin looks ghastly white.
For some reason, her silence makes me feel compelled to speak. “You doing alright tonight, Krista?”
“Just fine, Mr. West. Thank you for asking.” She says it without missing a beat. “How are you?”
I rub my forehead, trying not to watch the crease between her thigh and ass. “I could be worse.”
It dawns on me that most people would probably be happy with my weekend. I just won five million dollars. But one of the strange things about being rich as shit is five million’s just not that exciting.
What most people don’t know is that I haven’t gotten my pocket of gold coins from great-granddaddy West. Not yet. Not until I’m thirty-five. When I turned eighteen my father gave me one of his stock portfolios to manage. He’s fond of trial by fire, and I think he wanted to see if I would sink or swim. Before I graduated college I was able to triple what he gave me. Since then, I haven’t stopped.
March’s suite is behind a large mahogany door at the end of the hall, but I can’t see it because there’s a film crew camped outside. A few of them must recognize me because they tip their hats or nod as we squeeze through. I nod back, and Krista knocks briskly when we reach the door.
The camera mounted on the wall makes a creepy-ass mouse squeak as it swivels, and I hear Marchant’s voice over the intercom. “Good to see ya, West. Krista, thanks.”
I press a Benjamin into her palm, because that’s what any other guest would do, and the door swings open as she walks off.
Marchant is grinning. I can see relief and jubilation on his face as he pulls me into a bro hug. As always, I try not to wince.
“Thanks for coming, West.”
I roll my eyes after taking in his black silk robe and spiky, dark blond hair. “Thanks for inviting me to the slumber party.”
From behind March’s wide shoulders, I hear a feminine laugh that makes my skin crawl.
“Hunter West!” I see a slim, tanned arm reach around Marchant’s robe, and then she steps out from behind him. Priscilla Heat. Tonight she’s decked out in a zebra striped teddy with red lace garters, black thigh highs, and six-inch heels. Her breasts are perkier than melons, and my eyes go there on their own before I jerk them back up. Priscilla’s eyes are pale blue. Her smile is lasered, her teeth veneered. As she clasps my hand, I smell a whiff of sex.
“Hunter West.” She smiles coyly. “I’m so glad to finally meet you. I’m a big, big fan.”
I try to smile. I swear to God, I really do, but my mouth muscles aren’t working. I’m pretty sure I wince instead. This is confirmed by the small notch between her thin, dark, drawn-on brows.
“I’ve seen some of your films,” I said. “You run a tight ship.”
She bursts out laughing, then grabs my arm and jerks me toward the giant, claw-footed dining room table. Tonight, it’s piled with hors d’oeuvres and liquor. I’m eying a meatball, thinking how hungry I am, when she grabs my ass and squeezes. “Christ, you’re tight.”