Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Menace
“Jesus, Menace,” Sya clucks her tongue. “What did you do to your face?” She runs a soft finger over where the makeup artist expertly covered the bruise I got from head-butting Denton.
I gently grab her hand and kiss the back, making her shoot me a deadpan look before snatching away. “It’s not even noticeable.” I pick up a random spoon and check my reflection.
She scoffs and takes it from my hand, muttering something like that’s not a fucking mirror under her breath.
She pulls my arm so we can walk deeper into the room, wanting to show me off.
The rich and famous mingle around, trying to out-wealth each other.
The new money tries to flex on the old money, and the old money tries to impress the god-tier wealthy.
It’s fucking exhausting.
I love being rich—it solves a lot of problems. But all this pretentious bullshit annoys the fuck out of me. In my younger days, I loved showing off my money and throwing bands at the strip club, buying bottles, tipping strippers extra generously. But now, it grates on my nerves.
“What did you do?” Sya asks. “Run into a wall?”
I take her excuse with both hands. “Shower door. I was on the phone and—”
“Whatever you were doing,” she talks over me like the question was rhetorical, “don’t do it again. You still have a few years in you, and we need that pretty face. We also need you to look good for the auction.”
I forgot about the fucking auction. It’s for a good cause, but I wish I could be anywhere but fucking auctioned off on a date with someone that will probably get on my fucking nerves as they talk about their money, who they don’t like—while also smiling in that person’s face—and trying to get into my pants.
The good thing about this auction is it’s chosen by random ticket draw. Those that donate to my charity get a ticket and hope they win a date with me. So I don’t have to stand in front of people like a piece of meat.
Lucky winner.
I roll my eyes as Sya drags me behind her, forcing me to mingle.
I keep a smile pasted on my face as I talk about my charity and its mission statement.
Though I don’t need anyone to donate money to it—as I have several private donors that make very hefty donations every quarter as well as my own funds—Sya says it’s best to diversify my options.
Sya is a smart woman and a fucking godsend, so I listen to what she says.
In the years she’s been my agent and manager, she’s never led me astray.
I’m sure that’s because she’s a retired model and knows the business like the back of her hand.
She’s made it so no one takes advantage of me and if they try, their career is ruined.
It’s nice that she still has such good friends that take her word over some other scumbags.
Sya discovered me in a mall of all places. I was walking off my nervous energy, afraid that someone would see me and know. I was in my head, hoping I didn’t get caught when she approached me.
I stared her down, because she was at least thirty years older than me and I didn’t date women.
With all the confidence in the world, she stuck her hand out and said, “I’m Sya. You look like you could be a model.”
I scoffed and looked down at my gangly frame. I hadn’t started to fill out yet, so I was all knees and elbows.
I shook my head and brushed past her. “I don’t date women,” I tossed over my shoulder.
Her high-pitched laugh stopped me in tracks and I turned to her, glaring. “Please, little boy,” she sneered, hands on her hips. “I haven’t dated men since the first Bush administration.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I liked her attitude.
She bought me lunch, we talked and she said she’d set me up with a photographer friend of hers.
She told me I had to get some headshots to start a portfolio and that I had some kind of it factor she could see right off.
I didn’t believe her, but after what I’d just done, I had nothing left to lose and my life as I knew it was over.
I took her offer without hesitation. The rest, as they say, is history.
Now that I have money and means, I can do my real work all over the country. Even if she couldn’t tell what I’d just done when she met me, Sya opened the door for me to continue plying my craft.
As Sya and I walk around the event, I spot a man that I’ve had my eye on for a few months now.
Robert Beningfield the fifth. Old money. Snobbish.
A serial abuser.
He’s put three girlfriends in the hospital, paying them off so they don’t press charges. He has money to burn, so he can pay whatever obscene amount will keep them quiet.
But I think Mr. Beningfield the fifth needs to be put down permanently.
I make my way over to him, interrupting his conversation with a beautiful woman. With how he’s looking at her, he wants to make her victim number four.
Not today, fucker.
Stepping in front of her as if she’s not there, I hold out my hand and say, “Mr. Beningfield. It’s an honor.” He’s too much of a gentleman to leave me hanging. “I was hoping I could discuss my charity with you.”
The woman scoffs and puts a soft hand on my arm. “Excuse me, we were talking.”
I peer down at her as if I hadn’t seen her.
“I apologize. If you’d like, we can discuss it together.
It’s a domestic violence charity.” I look back at Beningfield and see his eyes widen just a fraction.
I keep my face blank as I give him my charity’s mission statement and the needs of the shelters I have all across the country.
By the time I’m finished, the woman looks interested and Beningfield looks both guilty and as if he wants me to go the fuck away. But he can’t turn me down in front of his date without looking like a heartless asshole.
A grin stretches my face as he pulls out his checkbook and makes it payable to my foundation.
“Thank you, Mr. Beningfield,” I say, placing my hand over my heart, bowing slightly. “Your generosity is much appreciated. I know it helps many…many women. Especially those that can’t speak out.”
He narrows his eyes, anger making his jaw tick. “Of course, mister…” He looks at me pointedly. I know he knows my name. Even the ultra-wealthy know celebrities. But he wants to embarrass me in front of his date.
None of that bothers me. As long as I rattle him, he can say what he wants.
“Grant. Menace Grant.”
“Menace. What kind of name is that?” he sneers.
“A name my father gave me when I terrorized my mother in the womb,” I say with a smile. “He knew I’d be trouble and he wasn’t wrong.”
The woman and I laugh, and Beningfield looks as far from amused as one could get. “Well, if you’ll excuse us,” he says in that uppity tone only the old-money wealthy can perfect.
Before she leaves, I take the woman’s hand and shake it gently. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Leesa. Leesa Buckley. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Grant. I’ll be sure to get with my financial manager to donate to your charity every quarter.”
“Thank you, Ms. Buckley. Enjoy your night.”
They leave and I keep my eyes on her, hoping I won’t see her in a hospital room.
I subtly watch Beningfield as I check out some of the art positioned around the room.
He and Leesa continue to talk and I’m slightly dismayed that he seems to be charming her.
I’m hoping against hope that she doesn’t fall for his shit, but Beningfield is a slippery bastard.
He’ll spin his web and she’ll get caught in it.
The most I can do is plan his death and hope that I off him before he hurts her.
The two of them exit the room, but I stay a little while longer, not wanting to look as if I’m following them. I bid on a few statues, just to give money to a good cause.
As I’m leaving the room, I spot the journalist that caught my eye outside.
I’ve never seen a man like him at an event like this. He looks like he’d belong at a tattoo convention rather than a stuffy party with people that could buy and sell him without batting an eye.
I like how authentic he looks. How, even though there is more money in this room alone than he’ll see in several lifetimes, he looks unimpressed.
And it’s not a put on, like he’s trying to play it cool to not look so eager.
He really looks like he could give a fuck less about the wealth around him and just wants to go home.
That intrigues me.
He’s looking at a painting that a local artist donated. Walking over to him, I stuff my hands in my pockets and study the picture as well. “You know art?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he answers with a quick laugh. “But it’s pretty. Bright colors.”
Glancing down at him, I point to his visible neck tattoo. It’s primarily blue and green, the colors bold and in your face. “You know something about bright colors.”
Smiling, he tips his head back so I can see the entire tattoo. It’s a waterfall so detailed I can almost hear the rushing water.
Reaching out, I lightly brush my fingers down his exposed throat, touching his soft skin. He gasps when I touch him, his mouth open as he pulls in air. “It’s beautiful.”
The journalist swallows roughly when I pull my fingers back and the touches where my fingers just were. “Thank you.” He meets my eyes, the intense brown anchoring me to the spot. “I’m Hill.”
“Menace Gr—”
“Menace Grant, I know,” he finishes. “I think everyone here knows who you are.”
“You’d be surprised.” I grab his lanyard, looking down at the press pass. “You looking for a good headline, Mr. Journalist?”
His smile is slow, though his eyes hold a hint of excitement. “Actually yes. I was wondering—”
“Menace!” Sya says, appearing out of fucking nowhere. “Come, you’re needed.” Before I can continue my conversation with Hill—and hopefully get his number—Sya drags me away.