Chapter 6
Sleep. The necessary time-wasting activity I have a love/hate relationship with.
I love it when I’m well rested. I hate that I miss out on shit.
I’m hating this morning when I don’t find my wife in the bed with me so I can fuck her some more and maybe watch the History channel—where I received my education from—with her.
Nobody watches that shit with me, and I wonder if she would if only to humor me. It’s nice to share something I like with someone I like.
My wife is an addiction, and soon, she will consume me. Every waking second, my brain will think about her or think about how I could get closer to her.
When I like something, I want more of it, and I become obsessed with it and don’t quit even when I have it because I think there’s always the next level of more and, in the case of love, more depth.
I throw the sheets off and, after my bathroom business, head out to the kitchen, where I check the contract on the bar for the signature that’s not there. I already know she’s not in the house, but I’m gonna holler anyway. “Kaya!” Oh, this feels good. Let’s do it again. “Kaya!”
The coffeemaker hasn’t been used, so I figure she didn’t even make a cup this morning. Maybe she doesn’t drink coffee, but I doubt it. Chances are she does.
Most people do. I don’t know about the ones who don’t.
I can’t understand them, but to each their own.
I make a cup and scratch my balls on my way out to the patio, where my men stand on alert, all twenty-one of them lined up before the steps to the house.
They all heard me hollering for her, and I wave them off and dial my wife’s bodyguard.
A man must know where his wife is at all times. I’m old-school, and I gotta know because I’m also a control freak and my men know me. Rosti answers, and I bark, “Where is she?”
A pause on the other end tells me I need to adjust my tone. For the better part of my life, I have had to adjust my tone so people aren’t constantly thinking I’m gonna bite their face off. “Good morning,” I say. “What have you got?”
“Morning, Boss. Target left the residence around four thirty.”
“Which car did she take?”
“Red Mustang.” As if we need the red descriptor. There’s no other mustang in my garage, but whatever.
“Did she protest your presence, or are you in stealth?”
“Stealth.”
Stalker. My wife accused me of stalking her, and I denied it, and while yesterday that was the truth, today is a new day.
“And you’ve got your eyes on her?” Bile rises in my throat from the mere thought of another man watching my wife.
My instinct tells me to extract the eyes from all straight men in the continental US.
When the man confirms, I hang up and whistle.
Viktor, who I’m gonna start calling Pretty Boy, jogs over.
“Why are you here?” I ask. His eyebrows rise as if I’m the one whose presence makes no sense. I clarify. “Didn’t I put you on Ivana yesterday?”
“She’s not up yet.”
“It’s eight in the morning. She’s up, I’m sure of it. Wait, how do you know she’s not up?”
He takes out a phone and slides, swipes, pokes the screen, then shows me Ivana’s bedroom where she’s under the covers and sleeping. I glance at him. “If I wanted electronic surveillance, I’d ask for it.”
He frowns, looking genuinely confused. “Boss, nobody does human surveillance anymore.”
“We do, and if she finds out—”
“She’s not gonna find out.”
This might play in my favor, as electronics aren’t my style. New kids and their toys come in handy. I need to recruit more staff under thirty. “If she finds out, I can’t protect you because I never authorized this. You understand? You’re on your own there.”
“Got it.” He scrubs his jaw, shifts from foot to foot, and I wait him out. “There’s a shipment next week, and I’m wondering if I can get in on that.”
“Your only job right now is that woman you’re peeping on.” He’s fidgeting, uncomfortable. Jesus, I have to do the understanding, heartfelt caregiver again. I place a hand on his shoulder. “What is bothering you?”
“There’s a foreclosure on the house I want, but I’m short and need to make cash fast.”
“How much do you need?”
“Boss, I don’t wanna borrow money.”
“You’re not borrowing. I’m loaning.”
He smiles. “I’d rather not.”
I smile back. “Smart. That’s smart.” I could push, get him the money, charge interest, make a bit on the side, exploit him a bit more, but he’s my guy, so I won’t.
I have a care to give, see? “Get in on the shipment but don’t take those eyes off your target.
If she suspects anything, she’ll call Sokol, and then you’re fucked and you’ll fuck me along with you, and I don’t like to be fucked.
” I feel like a line from Pulp Fiction is coming, so I say a version of it.
“I only like to be fucked by my wife. Speaking of my wife, take my car and buy me a copy of Rogue. It’s a magazine. ”
“I know what it is.”
I definitely need more guys like this one. “Am I living under a rock?”
He purses his lips. “Yeah.”
“Well, shit.”
“You’re a little old-school. Outdated.”
“Okay, we’re done with the heart-to-heart here.
” He leaves, and I walk up and down my porch, itching for a place to sit.
Why is there no place to sit? Oh yeah, that one shipment of furniture that arrived late never got set up because the crew already left the project.
Late orders don’t please the customers, and since my wife owns the company, I should spank her for lateness.
Thinking about spanking her cheers me up, and I squint at the morning sun and scratch my balls again. They’re sticking together from all the cum and pussy juice coating them. Gonna grab a shower, then get some guys to fix the porch furniture, whatever that might be.
Viktor rolls my massive truck into the garage just as some of the guys are pushing the boxes out of the foyer and into the porch while I’m sitting on the steps going through my phone and answering emails.
Communicating with billionaire playboys with names like Bishop, Hunter, and Hawk who all think they’re at the top of the food chain makes me laugh.
They’re cute with their pretty names, and mine is old, after an archangel warrior.
If I have a son, and we gotta name the boy after a chess piece—which we won’t—he’s not gonna be Bishop but King.
If I have to choose a sport, he won’t be a Hunter but a Warrior, and if a bird, it’s an Eagle.
To each their own, and this naming business is gonna be my own.
I’m all about individualizing, parental self-expression, and freedom. Eighty some years ago, my grandparents didn’t come to America with a pair of suitcases so I could be suppressed. They came so the family would have the freedom and opportunity to grow.
Viktor stretches out his hand, and I take the magazine, then slide my phone into the pocket of my sweatpants.
Thick glossy pages. Black, gold, and purple colors.
This is some classy shit, and the cover shows a woman in expensive clothes with a purse that probably costs as much as my porch furniture.
Actually more. This furniture was pretty cheap. My wife needs to raise her prices.
Fuck, I’m itching to take a look into her business and finances and then go hire Ivana to make sure my wife profits, but the magazine she likes will do for now.
The first thing I do with the magazine is open it and bring it up to my nose. I sniff and groan. “Fucking love this smell.”
Viktor’s nodding as if that’s not at all weird and comes to sit next to me, leaning over my arm. I side-eye him and flip the fine pages, feeling one between my fingertips.
“There’s a digital version,” he says. “If you’re concerned about the trees.”
I blink. “It didn’t cross my mind.”
“It should.”
“You an environmental warrior?”
“Nah, but conscious of the advantage of technology.”
“Good. That’s why you work for me. I don’t need to worry about it.”
He chuckles, and I keep flipping pages, getting to know my wife's tastes. The magazine is actually keeping my attention, talking about billionaires and playboys, my local…clients and partners, in a way.
Right at the middle, I pause at the image of a woman on a bed, her long legs stretching across both pages. A full spread of my wife on the bed completely nude, propped up on her elbows, head thrown back, mouth slightly open. I know exactly what this pose looks like in real life.
Her foot—the injured one!—points forward like a ballerina’s toward a man in a suit standing at the edge of the bed.
I take a long hard look at his face and realize I know this asshole.
It’s not a Bishop, or Hunter, or Hawk, it’s a Blake who runs the hotel my wife’s family happens to occupy.
He also trains with my former coach and a good friend, which is how he first approached me.
Viktor inches away, and I close the magazine, then put it off to one side and tap the cover. “Call Morgan and tell him I need a clear pit.”
“It’s not a pit anymore. They’re calling it a ring.”
I glare.
He shrugs. “I’m here to introduce you to the new world. Also gloves only, no fists.”
“Fucking man-pussies have infiltrated the world. We are doomed.”
“Yeah, but are you gonna spar?”
“I don’t spar, boy. I fight. It’s either that or I kill the suit.” And my wife leaves me when she finds out what I did. I could order a hit on him with a single call, but secrets like those don’t stay buried often, especially not between married couples.
Not to mention I don’t need the heat right now when I’m on the rise again and money’s pouring in like a fountain of beautiful wealth that’s gonna make these men and their families real happy.
“Can we watch?” Viktor asks.
“Yeah.”
My men cheer as I stand.
“Whoever wants to bet, come along.” I get my phone out, dial the bodyguard I placed on my life, and say, “Bring my wife to Morgan’s in about two hours.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and all I wanna hear is Yes, Boss right now. “Did you not hear me?”
“Yes, Boss, I’ll do it.”
I roll my eyes and move toward the garage. “Fine, tell me what’s going on and why you’re reluctant.”
“Bad timing, that’s all.”
“And why is that?” The man’s scared, won’t talk, so I explain. “I know she models nude.”
“It’s a bikini day, and they worked all morning to set the stage. I had no idea how much work goes into this kind of thing.”
Like I give a shit. “Is she wearing anything?”
“Yeah. Aha. A gold bikini.”
I picture my wife in a gold bikini and see how that would complement her body. “I’m gonna stab the corner of your eye with a spoon, scoop out your eyeball, and eat it. Get my wife, put some clothes on her, and bring her to Morgan’s in two hours tops.”