“Well, I rely on my fundraisers and high net worth individuals for the money to become governor,” Laurel says. “And we’re relying on you to show the world what they already know.”
“You’re the key to all this, Penny. You’re probably the best reporter I have, and we need you to do some digging on him. If we find something juicy enough, the public will turn against him and it’ll be a walk in the park for the city to pull his eligibility for all future contracts.”
“He has slept with a lot of women, so maybe this won’t be hard. Maybe a sexual harassment suit? That’d be enough to get the ball in our court. You’ll probably have to find a way into his personal life, and I know you probably don’t want to, but --” I don’t let Laurel finish her sentence, determination welling up to the surface and turning into sound as it climbs up my throat.
“Yes,” I simply say, looking from Laurel to my mother, “I’ll do it.” If they need my help to bury Magnus, they’ve come to the right person.
Now, there are two things you probably need to know about me, and I’m going to tell you what they are. The first one is, I hate Magnus with a passion. The second is that he’s my stepfather.
Yes, you read that right: Magnus Davion is my stepfather.
My father died when I was only three, and it took my mother long enough to find love again. I was over the moon when she told me she’d be remarrying. I was eighteen at the time, and I barely knew the kind of man she had decided to tango with. You see, even though their marriage didn’t last for long, he still managed to hurt her badly. The bastard cheated on her at every opportunity he had, making her life a living hell. He was lucky I was away for college at the time; I’d have kicked him in the balls so hard that he’d still be whimpering now.
So, yeah, if I’m offered a chance to make Magnus Davion feel all of the pain he caused my family and New York, there’s only one possible answer: a resounding yes.
“We’ll get him,” I tell both Laurel and my mother, a deep certainty making my heart pulse steadily.
I’m coming for you, Magnus.
Magnus
“Fuck, where is it?” I grumble under my breath, trying to find my boxer briefs. I know they’re somewhere in these sheets, but I can’t seem to—ah, here are the fuckers! Swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, I put on my boxers and then bend over to pick a pair of discarded jeans from the floor. I wriggle myself into them and then go around the bed, grabbing my phone from the bed stand.
Fuck, I overslept. It’s already 9:30, and I was supposed to meet my lawyer at 9. I’ll never hear the end of it now. Joyce is always harping about punctuality, and she lives and dies by it. That woman needs to get laid, that’s my two cents on the whole punctuality debate.
“Alright, ladies,” I say to the three naked woman sprawled on my bed, their curves calling to me. “This breaks my heart, but I gotta go.” One of them stirs in her sleep and rolls to the side, and I feel my cock twitch as I see her large tits coming into sight. My fingers twitch, and I’m already walking toward the bed when a moment of clarity suddenly grips me.
I’m late for the meeting, which means …
“No fucking pussy for breakfast,” I whisper regretfully, and make my way out of the bedroom, careful enough to shut the door softly. They might be strippers, but that doesn’t mean they don’t need a restful sleep. Es
pecially after last night—I really fucked them to exhaustion. Maybe I should’ve brought one or two extra strippers home with me last night. At least that way I could’ve kept the party going for an hour more.
Hey, I can hear you fucking snickering right now.
You’re probably thinking that I’m too full of myself, aren’t you?
Well, you’re welcome to pay me a visit, and then we’ll see who’s too full of himself.
Hint: it’s going to be you.
Oh, don’t make that face; you’d love it, you just don’t know it yet.
“It’s 9:30, Magnus!” I hear a woman’s voice yell at me from the living room, and I almost have a heart attack as I see the two women in there. Joyce Walker is standing right by the couch where her assistant, a young hot brunette, is sitting.
“Jesus fuck, what the hell are you doing in here?” I groan, making my way into the kitchen still half-asleep. The living room opens into the kitchen, and the two women stare at me as I pull a bottle of thick green juice out of the fridge and take long deep gulps out of it. Yeah, these rock-hard abs don’t come easy, and a healthy diet and all that shit is a necessity. Sure, there’s nothing I’d love more than to down two glasses of whisky for breakfast, but let’s face it: I’m not a fucking 18 year old anymore. I’m a respectable businessman (well, I try) and I need a clear head to slay down the long line of assholes that want a piece of my company.
“You were late,” Joyce states matter-of-factly, her arms crossed as she taps her foot against the floor.
“I’m never late, babe,” I turn to her and show her my multi-million dollar smile, but she just rubs her left temple.
“I told you not to call me that. I’m your lawyer, Magnus, for God’s sake!” she breathes out, but I can tell by the slight red coloration on her cheeks that she wouldn’t mind being more than just my lawyer. I wouldn’t mind either: Joyce looks fine as fuck, her red hair and tight body making her look fierce and untamable … two qualities I love when it comes to the bedroom. But, whatever you may think of me, I have my limits. And I don’t mix business with pleasure: nothing good ever comes of that.
“Anyway, what are you doing here? I gave you a spare key so that you could come here in case there was an emergency, not for you to wake me up whenever I’m late. You’re too expensive for that, you know?”
“Emergency, uh?” she asks, a frown making a few creases show on her forehead. She takes two steps toward the kitchen counter and slams her briefcase on top of it; she opens it and then fishes out a newspaper from the inside. “And what do you call this?” she hisses, opening the newspaper and heavily stabbing her finger over the gossip column.
“Harmless fun?” I shrug, looking away from the blurred picture of the Jumbotron, my naked body glued to the cheerleader. Ah, the memories.