Remnants of Riley

Chapter 2

“Yeah. Yeah, right there. Harder.”

I cringe as I slam into the blonde in front of me. I’ve got her bent over the restroom counter, dress pulled up over her hips. She throws her head back and moans, her ass pushing into me, but I can feel myself getting soft.

Ashleigh and I have been going at it in the club”s restroom for the last half hour, and I’m no closer to coming now than I was when we started. She moans again and I grind my teeth, gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. Her moans are as fake as her oversized tits.

She’s exactly the type of woman I typically go for: full of plastic, too much makeup and hair product, expensive clothes paid for by the husband twice her age who can’t get it up anymore, thinks she’s the hottest thing to ever exist.

They’re all the same. Fake and forgettable.

And it’s exactly what I look for in a hookup. Someone so fake there’s no chance of getting attached, and no guilt when I inevitably stop talking to them.

So why the fuck is it not doing it for me anymore?

“You going to come for me?” she coos.

“Shut the fuck up, Ashleigh,” I snap, pulling out of her and tugging her dress down. “We’re done.” My eyes meet her shocked reflection in the mirror.

Finally realizing I’m serious, she gives me a huff before standing up and turning on me. “You’re a real asshole sometimes. You know that, Emmett?” She storms off toward the bathroom door, unlocking it, and slamming it on her way out.

I brace my hands on the countertop and let out a sigh. I’ve been hooking up with Ashleigh since moving to DC, but lately, it always ends the same way. With me unsatisfied.

Pulling the condom off my now soft dick, I make myself look presentable before stalking out of the bathroom. There’s a short hallway between the bathrooms and the main area of the club, and the second I step out from the dim protection of the deep red walls, I’m greeted by flashing lights and tightly-packed bodies.

All the tension I had hoped to get rid of with a good fuck intensifies. I tilt my head to the side, cracking my neck, and make my way through the packed crowd to the back corner of the club.

My buddy, Jax, is waiting for me at the VIP booth we’d gotten earlier in the night, a pretty redhead practically in his lap. He frowns when he sees me approach. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying some post-nut bliss right now?”

I shoot him a glare. Jax Lundquist has been with me through thick and thin, even agreeing to move to DC with me when I asked. We grew up next door to each other in a rough neighborhood, had to fight our way through our entire lives, and hustled 24/7 to get to where we are today. He’s just as responsible for our success as I am, and I told him as much when I started thinking about leaving New York. It was a no brainer. Whether we stayed in New York City or moved to DC, we’d stick together.

Jax has always been skilled at reading and manipulating people. He could convince a nun to suck his dick if he wanted to. It’s why we’ve been such a successful team. He’s the smooth-talker who will reel in the client, and I’m the pit bull who will close the deal.

Once we realized how much money the two of us could make in real estate, we opened Lundquist Ventures, and Jax started investing our profits into tech companies. When that took off and we started seeing the massive return on investment we could make, Jax stepped back from real estate and started working full time on investing, while I continued building up the high-end clientele and dominating the real estate market.

Sliding into the booth, I grab the overpriced vodka bottle in the center of the table and give myself a generous pour. The liquor goes down smooth as I throw the drink back in one go, then pour myself another. At least we got quality alcohol for the price we paid for the bottle service.

“That bad, huh?” Jax asks, barely even attempting to hide his laugh.

Leaning back into the booth, my phone vibrates in my pocket and I pull it out, setting it on the table without looking at it. “You have no idea.”

Jax chuckles and turns his attention back to the redhead who is now actually in his lap. I watch his hand slink below the table as I take a sip of my drink. The redhead freezes, glancing around nervously, and I throw her a wink, knowing exactly what Jax is doing under that table. She blushes and tries to squirm away, only for Jax to grip her tighter around the waist.

I turn my attention out toward the rest of the club and make eye contact with Ashleigh. Her eyes shoot daggers at me from the bar, and I raise my glass toward her in salute. I can practically see the steam coming off her as she grabs her friend”s hand on the stool beside her. With a quick tug, she drags her friend along and storms toward the front door.

Ashleigh’s the type of woman who’s used to getting her way. She feeds on getting men to do her bidding, on flaunting her body and using it to get what she wants. So the fact that neither of us got off is probably eating at her right now. But I don’t give a shit. She might be able to con other men into her schemes, but I’ll always be the one she tries and fails to get any pull over.

Because I would never be foolish enough to let a woman have control over me. Or anyone else, for that matter.

A soft moan comes from the redhead across the table, and I take that as my cue to leave. Downing the rest of my drink, I grab my jacket and give Jax a nod before heading to the exit.

The crisp October air hits me as I step outside, the chill settling over my skin. I shrug on my jacket and shove my hands into my pockets as I head down the street, electing to walk the five blocks back to my penthouse instead of getting a cab.

It rained earlier, and the city glistens beneath the streetlights, giving the illusion of a beautiful city on the surface that’s anything but underneath.

DC is a shit hole. Sure, the city itself is nice with a lot to offer, but it’s full of less-than-honest politicians, special interests, and the power hungry elite. The city breeds corruption, and it’s precisely why I moved here.

Crime families, drug lords, corrupt politicians–all of them need a place to live, and all of them need a place to launder their dirty money. Jax and I built a career out of catering to these exact people in New York, and I plan on doing it again here.

The morally bankrupt love me. I don’t know what that says about myself, and I don’t have time to dwell on it when my phone vibrates again. Pulling it out of my pants pocket, I see a string of text messages from an unknown number. Curious, I open the thread.

Unknown:Thanks for closing me.

Unknown:I mean helping with my closing.

Unknown:Loook frward to melting u

Unknown:Ths is Riley Miles btw… Hopefuly Tracy gaveyou my info

I close out of my messages and lock my phone, stuffing it back into my pocket without bothering to answer. It’s too late in the evening to respond to a client I have no relationship with. Which makes me wonder why the hell she’s texting me at 11 p.m. on a Thursday. Not to mention the increasingly bad spelling makes me think she’s probably drinking.

I had completely forgotten about the favor I agreed to earlier today. Normally, I’d ignore these kinds of requests, having enough shit to deal with already. I’d built such a reputation in New York that I already had a waitlist of clientele lining up in DC. It’s a reputation Jax and I spent years building. Networking with the right people, kissing the right asses, doing ethically questionable and straight up illegal bullshit to make a deal go through. We’ve done it all, and it’s why we got an open invitation to the top luxury brokerage in the DC area, The Frenshaw Group. An invitation less than thirty people nationwide have received since the brokerage”s conception ten years ago.

I can’t say our broker, Blake Frenshaw, runs the moral high ground either. He’s got just as much of a reputation as I do. Basically, don’t fuck with his business, or he’ll sink you.

When I flew down to meet him, Blake had just won a lawsuit against a title company for missing an issue that threatened the ownership rights of one of his prominent clients. Needless to say, that title company no longer exists. Oh, and that client? Now working on getting rid of a low income housing community so Blake’s brother, Skye, can build luxury condos in their place.

People think money runs the world, and in a sense, they’re right. But what they so often overlook is real estate. Own the land, own the people. It’s why Jax and I consistently buy up property ourselves. We have four apartment buildings we’re researching right now in the DC metro area, and I’ve got a meeting tomorrow with the man who owns two of them. My job? Convince him to sell off-market to me.

So yeah, my plate is fucking full at the moment.

But when Tracy Smith reached out earlier today, I couldn’t turn her down. It’s just for a final walk-through and closing–not a huge time commitment–so I took the opportunity. Not because I wanted to help out of the kindness of my heart, but because it would mean Tracy owed me a favor. And that’s exactly where I want people. Owing me.

My phone vibrates again in my pocket and I let out a sigh. I pull it back out to see yet another text from an unknown number.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I open up my messages again.

Unknown:Ok, i texxt him. Is that stupid? I’m stupd. Hes probably 2 atractive for me. Not that i want to hook up with him. Wy did u put the idea in my head?

A slow grin finds my face as I read Riley’s text. Oh, she’s definitely drunk texting. But this just got interesting. I send her a quick reply.

Me:Glad you think I’m attractive. Sure you don’t want to hook up?

My phone is silent the rest of the way back to my place, but I can see that she read my message. Suddenly, I’m a bit more excited to help Tracy with her client.

Here’s to hoping Riley Miles is attractive.

I make a mental note to get all the info from Tracy tomorrow, so I’m actually prepared for when I meet Riley next week. And who knows, maybe we will hook up. Lord knows I need a better fuck than Ashleigh.

Reaching the entrance of my building, Frank, our doorman, opens the front door for me with a smile and a cheerful, “Good evening, sir.”

I give him a nod and head toward the private elevator on the back wall that takes me directly to my penthouse on the top floor. When the elevator dings and the door opens, I step off into the small entry for my penthouse and unlock the front door. Stepping inside, I slip out of my jacket and shoes and head straight for the shower, wanting to wash the night off me.

Turning the shower on, I strip out of my clothes and am just about to step in when my phone starts vibrating on the counter. Caller unknown.

My chest rumbles with amusement as I reach for my phone. “Miss Miles,” I drawl. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Miss Miles,” the man on the other end of the line says, his voice all low and intense. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

If I could melt into the floor right now, it’d be a better option than this phone call. I am such an idiot.

I didn’t mean to call Emmett. I was just confused when I got his response, then horrified when I looked back at our text thread and saw what I last sent him. That text was meant for Tracy. And now I seem like some kind of creep, texting him about hooking up and how I thought he was attractive. We don’t even know each other for crying out loud.

Damn Tracy for getting it into my mind that maybe I did need to meet someone. And damn my drunk self, for deciding now was the best time to reach out to him. Like I’m some kind of desperate hussy. And then to send him that last text on top of it? I was in the middle of dying of embarrassment and swearing I would never drunk text again when I accidentally hit the fricken call button.

And now, here I am, mortified that he actually answered.

God, just kill me now.

“I’m sorry!” I rush out, while simultaneously dying a little more inside at the way my words are slurring. This guy probably thinks I’m drunk calling him. Which, I guess, technically I am. “I didn’t mean to call you. Or send you that last text. Please ignore it, and I’ll see you next week at the walk-through.”

I hang up before he can even get a word in and flop backward onto my bed.

“Ughhhh,” I groan, half tempted to call Tracy so I can make her find someone else to help me next week.

My cheeks heat from embarrassment, and I can only imagine how awkward this will be now when I do meet Emmett.

As if I needed any more help to be awkward with men.

Plugging my phone into the charger, I toss it into the top drawer of my nightstand and close it, refusing to look at it for the rest of the night. I grab the blankets down by my feet, pull them up over my head, and fall into a restless sleep.

The blaring of my alarm wakes me the next morning. I squint my eyes against the light filtering into my room from around the blinds, and pull open the nightstand drawer to silence my alarm.

My head is pounding. Those three glasses of wine last night were a mistake. For many reasons.

Forcing myself upright, I damn near crawl across the hallway to the bathroom and into the shower. I turn the water to scorching, and spend half my shower just sitting on the tub floor, as though the hot water can somehow wash away both my hangover and my shame from last night.

By the time I emerge back into my bedroom an hour later, I”m at least feeling functional and can pass as a contributing member of society.

Throwing on a flowy, mustard yellow jumpsuit and black wedges, I make my way out to the kitchen and down a glass of water and a couple painkillers. I swipe one of my now perfectly ripe bananas, then grab my purse and jacket and head out the door.

The drive to work is thankfully faster this morning than it was trying to get home last night. I still have to finish preparing for this morning’s meeting that my boss, Adam, so kindly dropped on me ten minutes before closing last night. I have no idea who to expect for this meeting, but judging by the financial reports I pulled last night, they’re someone important. And wealthy.

Entering the office through the rear entrance, I head up front to my desk to drop my bag and jacket. We don’t open for another thirty minutes, so I don’t bother unlocking the front door before I head into the break room and make a cup of coffee. I’m still toying with the idea of texting Tracy and begging her to find me another realtor to work with in her absence as I make my way back to my desk.

I spend the next half hour printing the financial reports I worked on last night, binding them, and getting the conference room set up for the meeting. I’ve just returned to my desk after unlocking the front door when it chimes, notifying me someone has come in. Plastering on my brightest smile to welcome the mystery meeting guest, my stomach drops when my eyes collide with piercing dark ones.