In reality, I’m a pretty fucking big deal as the owner and CEO of Lone Wolfe Pictures, one of the biggest production companies in all of Hollywood, even though I spend at least half my time in New York.
This guy should know that, right? Well, I sure as fuck think so.
The guy apparently doesn’t want to wait for me to give him an explanation because I see his fist coming at me in the next instant—only my reflexes and training in boxing give me the upper hand, like literally.
I block his punch and land a clean blow on his face, knocking the motherfucker backwards on his ass.
2
Owen
I light a cigar inside of my brand new red Aventador in the club’s parking lot. I draw in a deep breath of the glorious tobacco as it fills my lungs and calms me down.
I might be fucking over the line here, but I don’t want you guys to see me this way. I bounced from the club in a hurry, before blame could be cast on me.
I’m not one for negative press or limelight, and I’ll always bolt in a quick fucking minute if it means I can get myself out of trouble.
Right before I press the button to turn on my car’s ignition, a well-dressed man approaches the car. I have no choice but to greet him because my window is rolled down because of my cigar.
“I don’t give out change to people on the street.” I smirk at the guy with arrogant flare, even though I can tell by the way he’s dressed that’s probably not why he’s standing next to my car window.
“Excuse me?” the man asks in confusion.
I shake my head; apparently it’s going right past the fucking idiot’s brain. “Nothing,” I say. “Are you with the club?” I ask.
“Yes, sir.” The man nods.
“I can’t find my Gold Card,” I say, referring to my membership to the sex club on the third floor of the strip club. I lost it somewhere in the tussle with the man in the bathroom.
“Sir, your membership is going to be suspended,” the man says apologetically.
“What?” I shout. “I need to speak to Jay. He’s the manager. Go and fetch him,” I demand with a snap of my fingers.
“Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid there’s nothing that Jay can do at the moment to help you,” the man sighs, as if he’s used to dealing with jerks like me all the time and he has some sort of higher than normal patience threshold.
“Go and fucking get him,” I demand with more force this time.
The man rolls his eyes and sighs again.
“Fine.” He spins around and leaves. I notice that he’s tall and a little stocky and wears a large black leather jacket. He’s probably one of Jay’s little fucking minions, I think bitterly.
I take another drag on the cigar as I wait for Jay to come outside, which to my surprise he actually does. Jay is probably in his mid-sixties and has greying hair, probably from having to run this club all these years. He’s also dressed in a business suit and, like always, has professional poise.
“What is it, Owen?” He says, leaning in to talk to me through the open car window.
“What the fuck is going on? Why is my membership suspended?” I wail like the spoiled fucking child I am.
Jay takes a deep breath, gearing up to explain himself. “The board already kn
ows about your little run-in with Inspector French,” Jay says.
“What? Who the fuck is Inspector French?” I yelp. “More importantly, how does the board even fucking know what happened? It was only like five fucking minutes ago!” I shout, vaguely owning up to the fact that something actually did take place, and that it may or may not have been slightly sketchy.
“That leads me to my next point,” Jay says, and leans against the car, still looking down at me in the seat. “Inspector French is the man we just hired in charge of grading the club. He’s kind of fucking important, Owen.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling the shock sink in—but I’m still unconvinced that my actions warrant a suspension. “I still don’t understand what this shit has to do with me,” I state firmly.
“Owen, you fucking punched the guy. There have to be consequences,” Jay states patiently.