Chapter 2
Alex
A little earlier
"You're running late, boss," my personal assistant, Dilara, greets me as she opens the front door, offering me a view of her ample cleavage.
"I know. The chopper wasn't ready to go, again. There's always something broken on that thing. Why do I even have it?" Annoyed, I wave her off, catching myself staring a little too long at her cleavage and wondering why I haven't slept with her yet, like most of her predecessors.
To hell with it. I'm not in the mood to think about it right now, because I'd actually wanted to make a grand entrance for this event. After all, this is my estate and I'm the host.
Now I'm sneaking in through the front door and no one, except my assistant and the security guard who was standing outside and gave me a silent nod, is taking the slightest notice.
"Let me pin on your name tag, sir," Dilara says, placing her left hand on my chest and fumbling with the golden tag on my lapel with the other.
"As if I need it," I grumble, but I let her do it, my gaze wandering.
There's only one word for what I see: Boring!
Whose idea was it anyway that rich people want to waste their time at charity galas? Don't any of these people have friends?
All I see is a bunch of pot-bellied, balding men with what's left of their gray hair, accompanied by their usually much younger wives, more than half of whom have surely had their breasts enhanced by the local plastic surgeon.
In the back, a small band is playing boring music next to a boring buffet where guests are helping themselves.
Maybe these people want to be here as little as I do.
I know this crap is essential for maintaining my company's image.
So I'll shake a few influential hands here and there, smile nicely, and make a few compliments so I can open a few more locations of my fast-food chain in New York, which is pretty much the hottest shit in the city right now and soon to be all along the East Coast. And when that's done, then. ..
"Well, look at that," I murmur softly as my eyes fall on a flock of women whose dresses seem to cling even more tightly to their slender bodies than Dilara's.
Maybe they're the wives of those men who've just retired to the next room with cigars and brandy. Or they're single, and my assistant invited them because she knows my reputation and what I want. But I don't really care why: they don't interest me.
What does interest me, however, is that fuck-me look on the little one with the fiery red hair. Our eyes meet, she throws her hair back over her shoulder and grins at me, and I catch myself wondering when I last had a redhead in my bed.
I almost have to grin when I remember it was just last weekend.
And come to think of it, she bears a striking resemblance to the little one who's walking toward me right now.
Maybe her twin sister? That would be kind of crazy.
I glance at the small name tag on the redhead's lapel.
The name seems familiar, but I can't place it.
Then the little thing is standing in front of me, still grinning. It's crystal clear what she wants. It almost seems too easy, and I wonder if she'll let me spank her ass too, like the one from last week who looks so damn much like her and...
"Ouch!"
That was fast. I have to admit, I didn't see her small, flat hand coming, and my cheek actually stings a little from it.
"For last week," she snaps, turns on her heel, and walks back to her giggling friends.
"What a bitch," I mutter to myself, rubbing my cheek absently and looking around. Why didn't Dilara warn me? Where is she, anyway?
Then I see her shaking the hands of some men, who are of course also mainly staring at her cleavage, and I realize again why I hired her.
Maybe she did it on purpose to distract them from me?
Although, I don't think she's that clever.
Still, the horde of men she's gathered around her didn't notice a thing about the incident with the redhead.
But of course, it didn't go completely unnoticed.
Here and there, I catch some furtive glances from the invited guests, and the gazes of the female companions linger on me longer than usual.
Either because they'd like to sleep with me too, or because they think I'm a simple-minded playboy. Usually, it's the former.
I don't care about their opinions, though. What I do care about are the building permits and the approval for my new locations, and if her husband happens to be a big shot at city hall, then the lady will, of course, get the full force of my charm.
Then Dilara approaches me, holding an iPad in her hand.
"The gentlemen over there were quite impressed with your expansion plan," she says.
"But will that be enough for the next meeting if the undersecretary finds out you fucked his assistant?
" I don't know exactly what she's getting at.
"The redhead who likes to hand out slaps," she says, nodding toward the group of women.
"She didn't mention any of that," I reply, trying to sound innocent, but I can't help but grin.
"It's all just a game to you, isn't it?" Dilara says sullenly.
"But you like it, don't you?" I smile, place my hand on her hip, and pull her toward me. Our eyes meet and I know I could have her if I wanted. But not now.
"Do you have the analysis of our business figures for me?" I ask her, amused by her irritated look. She probably expected anything but that business-related question.
"Of course," she says, taking a step back, seemingly struggling for a moment to compose herself.
Then she switches the app on the iPad. On it are a few columns of numbers that might be confusing to an outsider.
However, it's a detailed analysis of my business and also includes a comparison with the fast-food chain that my former friend Jake founded a little over a year ago after he left me, taking several employees with him.
Or rather: After he stabbed me in the back like Judas, copied my business, and turned into a backstabbing bastard.
And all that, even though I had wanted to make him my partner.
I try not to get worked up about it again, but I don't like what I see here at all. Jake's business is growing faster than mine. The profit per location seems to be higher. His stores are apparently positioned in more heavily trafficked areas.
"Everything okay, sir?" asks Dilara, who of course neither understands the numbers nor knows the history between me and Jake. She hasn't been with me long enough for that.
"Escort the lady out through the back exit," I say to Dilara, nodding my head toward the group. "And write her a fat check. Tell her to buy herself some shoes, get her tits done... or whatever. Although, no, I think the tits were just fine."
"But, sir, I can't just..." she stammers.
"Yes, you can," I interrupt her. "You take care of my trash.
That's what you're here for. Forgotten already?
" I pause for a moment, waiting for her nod.
Then I continue. "I'm going to have a quick word with the city councilman now, give his wife a few compliments, because that's the only reason for this event.
Looking at the rest of the guests, they're nothing but puffed-up wannabe influencers I've never seen before. "
"Got it," Dilara says obediently and turns on her heel.
******
"Just call if you need anything," says the councilman kindly.
Then I say my goodbyes, kiss his wife's hand, which makes her giggle with delight as if she were twenty-five again, though that's more like half her age.
But the councilman apparently likes it, and I've achieved what I wanted.
Now it's just a matter of bringing the event to a close soon, without. ..
"Sir, there's someone else here who wants to speak with you," my assistant says after I've left the councilman and his wife. "He says he knows of an interesting investment and..."
"No more business for today," I say, waving her off.
"But..." Dilara begins, but is interrupted by a tinny voice from her walkie-talkie.
"Dilara. There's a delivery here for Mr. Rodgers. Flowers with glittery stuff on them."
"That's the security guard outside the door. I gave him a walkie-talkie so he wouldn't ring the bell in case there was another one of those pranks."
"Good thinking," I agree, and for once, I actually mean it.
Because strange incidents have been piling up at my door lately.
At the last event of this kind, the security guard came in a good five times because some delivery boys were at the door.
Sometimes with pizza, sometimes with sushi, then it was sex toys.
The whole thing started when the camera was spray-painted, so you could no longer see who was at the door.
Until a company took on the task of cleaning this strange special paint, all sorts of doorbell pranks took place.
Usually, no one was at the door, sometimes someone had left a bag of trash there, another time a bag with dog shit in it.
Typical things that kids do. But all the neighbors who were questioned had no children and swore their innocence.
Or was it one of the many women I'd spent a night with?
The redhead had slapped me; maybe there was another vengeful woman out there?
The thing with the delivery services at least pointed to an adult. But why the hell flowers?
"Did you order flowers?" Dilara asks me.
"For God's sake, no," I say, annoyed.
"Send her away," Dilara snaps into the walkie-talkie, nods at me, and we consider the matter closed.
"The woman is pretty persistent. Maybe Mr. Rodgers did order flowers?" we hear the security guard say over the radio a few moments later.
"I'll handle this," my assistant says, rolling her eyes, reaching into her bag and handing me another walkie-talkie. "Just in case there's any trouble," she explains, leaving me standing there.