2. Atticus
ATTICUS
The grandfather clock in my living room has ticked exactly forty-two times since I sat down with this glass of Dalmore. I know because I’m counting. The chime at six o’clock came and went. Still, I linger in the club chair like a museum exhibit titled Man Confronts Retirement and Loses.
The room is immaculate. Not a coaster out of place, not a magazine corner curled. I oversee the vacuum-bot schedule the way I once oversaw quarterly Pwink Please manage expectations accordingly.
A grin—wide and genuine—pulls at my mouth. Noted, SnowLass. Consider expectations managed.
And my name is Thalassa Howard, by the way.
My grin goes wider. A pleasure to meet you, Thalassa. See you then.
I forward her messages to Colin and Dean, adding: Gentlemen, commence spoiling.
Colin replies with a GIF of someone tossing money like confetti.
Dean simply types: On it.
I lean back, letting the leather chair creak.
Against the glass, the city lights smear, jewel tones on a dark canvas.
My mind wanders to Slash—the private club hidden behind an unmarked door in Castleberry Hill.
Candlelight, velvet drapes, the hush of negotiated cruelty. The memory surfaces unbidden.
The redhead’s wrists were bound to a suspension bar, her eyes fluttering as Dean cropped soft welts along her thighs, Colin kneeling to soothe each mark with his tongue.
I’d taken the vantage point behind them, orchestrating the tempo with a metronome to signal each smack. Years of command taught me how to calibrate pressure—too much and a system breaks, too little and it stagnates. That was the last time I felt in command of anything.
The grandfather clock chimes seven. I down the remaining Dalmore—now warm—and stand. Muscles protest. I’ve been motionless too long. I stride to the wall panel, dim the lights. I should be readying for bed, but my mind is too busy with memories and hopeful possibilities.
Tomorrow I’ll finalize logistics, instruct the chef on menu—something nostalgic, perhaps Swiss raclette to honor her snow dream.
No sense in not spoiling the girl. Massages are in order too.
The hotel has a delightful spa—I’ll schedule us some treatments there.
The long weekend will be orchestrated for maximum pleasure. I won’t stand for less.
I pause, thumb poised to draft one more email, and realize I feel…alive. It’s not the whisky. It’s the alignment of a plan, the promise of novelty, the prospect of orchestrating an experience no algorithm could autopilot.
I pocket the phone and survey my immaculate domain.
The room suddenly looks less like a mausoleum and more like a staging ground.
The Copeland brothers will meet an island girl with warm hazel eyes and a laugh like a gull, and we enjoy each other’s company the way it should be enjoyed—unhurried, languid, hot.
The clock ticks—one, two, three. For once, I’m glad it’s counting. Each second is a step closer to her.
“Game on,” I tell the empty room, and for the first time in weeks, the words taste right.