Peter is calling out to me. But I couldn’t care less at this point.
I run down the stairs. They go by in a flash. All of a sudden I’m outside. I run across the street and down the stairs into the subway.
I catch the downtown C from Port Authority. I don’t know where I’m going, but I’m glad that at least I’m headed home.
I sit down on the bench in the train car and I think about crying. But no. No tears for him! Never for him!
I will survive this. I will fucking survive!
Arsen
“I’m sure that had my father been here at this point, he would've been the first to join me in congratulating the Board of Directors of the Metropolitan Museum of Art on their opening of their new Impressionist Wing,” I say to the polite applause and some knowing laughter. “I’m sure he would've been particularly taken with the nudes.”
The laughter is a bit lighter now, people more at ease.
“On behalf of the Met, I am honored that his last act was to grant this gift,” I finish and this time the applause is spontaneous.
Of course it fucking is. People will take money from anyone, no matter how fucking wealthy they already are. Never mind that half the people in this room would've never fucking allowed my dad to come near their daughters when he was alive. And could you fucking blame them? I couldn’t. The guy literally made billions of dollars selling smut. I must've had at least six stepmothers in my life. I lost track after a while. Each one came all giggly, then watched as they fell into neglect as their bodies aged, until they left with their suitcases that they came with, and a fat settlement check.
Now they’re dedicating a wing of the fucking Met to him. Don’t get me wrong. It cost money. But it’s the least I could do, allocating a portion of the money from the sale of the live sex webcams that he controlled and writing a check to the fucking Met.
That’s right. It’s only been ten fucking days and I’ve already started selling pieces of my dad’s smut empire.
Don’t get me fucking wrong. I love to fuck. I mean, the first time you saw me, I was fucking two strippers, remember?
“You’re father would have been very proud of you,” some random old guy says as I descend the podium. I have no idea who the fuck he is, but he takes the stage after me. I navigate around all the fucking leeches that surround this place. As long as I’m making a name for myself by distancing myself from my dad’s smut kingdom, and giving away some money to them, they’re content to come let me inside. But the moment I start going against their rules, they’ll pull back the red carpet and leave me out in the cold.
I find Gerard waiting for me outside the Met on the steps. He’s looking through his phone, checking emails. Always a good lawyer. Always on top of things. Hell, he basically raised me after my Mom died and Dad started marrying women left and right. When I moved out of the house before college because I just couldn’t get into Dad living with three other women, it was Gerard who fucking made sure I didn’t go off the deep end. Sure, I like to party. I like to get wild. But trust me when I tell you that I’d be having a lot more than tattoos on my body if Gerard weren’t there to bring me back when I started to stray.
“Luca Gianoni’s left two emails and a voicemail while you were inside,” Gerard says. “He’s still talking about the rest of the strip clubs as being on the table.”
Great. Does no one in this fucking city buy into the sex business except the fucking mob? I’d rather not sell to them if I can help it, but if no one else is at the fucking table, I can’t really help it.
“We have no more other offers?” I ask, incredulous. “The strip clubs bring in close to five hundred grand a night when you combine them.”
Gerard shrugs. “They also cost roughly three hundred grand a night combined when you add it all up,” he says.
He’s got a point of course. Strippers aren’t cheap. In fact, they’re fucking expensive. But oh my fucking God, what a great fucking expense to throw money at.
I’ve always been a fan of strippers. But I swear it’s like ever since that night a week and a half ago, I can’t get strippers out of my fucking head.
I sigh as I get into the car and Gerard gets in next to me.
“You thinking of heading to Scorcher's again, Arsen?” he asks. He’s got a touch of fucking pity in his eyes. I can’t blame the guy as I nod.
“I got to find this girl,” I tell him. I’ve been searching high and fucking low for the stripper who was on the pole. I don’t know her name. I don’t know when she works. No one else at the club seems to either.
You want to know the bitch about the whole thing, though? It’s that same night I shared a fucking cab with her. I could've asked her for her name at least that night.
Don’t you knock me for being quiet that night. I’m sorry, it was just that my Dad had just died, okay? Sex wasn’t really going through my head at that point. This isn’t like some fucking plot hole or something you can mention in the review. You try getting news that your estranged family member has just hit the fucking bucket and you have to manage a sprawling multi-billion dollar sex empire and see if you remember the small details.
The car pulls up outside the strip club where I had first seen this gorgeous, blonde haired, perfectly curved woman ten fucking days ago. With a name like Scorcher's, I’m not sure what I'm going to find instead. But fuck it. If I come up empty, maybe I can fuck another stripper.
Way to look at the fucking bright side, eh?
I walk in, and instantly I’m greeted by the House Mom, Yasmine.
Yasmine’s been eyeing my fucking cock for years. She’s got to be