CHAPTER SEVEN
COLT
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I wipe my mouth on the white linen tablecloth and reach for my whisky.
My father is receiving an award from the American Society of Anesthesiologists tonight here in Times Square. It’s boring as fuck, but I’m here to support him.
And I’m proud.
Proud of both my parents.
I may be different from them, and they might not understand me, but that doesn’t mean we don’t love one another.
The presenter waffles on about the award and what it has meant over the year. I’ve had two glasses of Macallan during his speech so far. Pretty sure I just saw a surgeon nod off to my left.
Mom and Dad share a look.
Yup, the guy is snoring, and we can all hear him.
Is anyone going to kick him?
“And now we can present the award.”
Thank Christ.
I might be a supportive son, but I don’t have all damn night or the patience to sit here for much longer. Nor do my parents and half the people in the room, by the way everyone just perked up.
Mom brushes make belief dust off Dad’s arm and smiles at him, pride filling her eyes.
Brrrrr.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and my top lip twitches. How I know it’s her, I don’t know.
But I do.
Riley Scott.
The girl I can’t stop thinking about. A girl I have never met, who was cheeky enough to drop into my DMs and roast me. A pretty little gardener with long tanned legs and wild red hair.
Not gonna lie, I thought about her the entire time one of the club girls was sucking me off after our chat.
The. Entire. Time.
So much so that when I woke up the next morning, my hand was back on my shaft, soaping it up in the shower. I imagined her on her knees in the dirt of one of her gardens, a dusting of mud streaked across her pink cheeks as she took me right down her fucking throat.
“Dr. Desmond Winters has an esteemed national reputation as a physician, a rigorous researcher, and has led by example for the next generation of academic anesthesiologists. His fundamental understanding of pain mechanisms sets him apart as a national leader in our field...”
I tune out.
Sliding my phone out of my Tom Ford blazer, I lay it on my lap under the table. I feel my body buzz when I see her name. I click on it and have to stifle my laugh with a cough when I read it.
People are staring, but I don’t care.
Not a monster, per se. More like...a troll living under a bridge that preys on young entrepreneurial girls.
Mom glances at me and I smile, glancing up at the stage as if my attention was only away for a split second.
“...the industry takes great pride in Desmond, or should I say,” the speaker laughs, “more appropriately, Dr. Winters' extraordinary accomplishments and contributions.”
The two men are friends, and his little slip up was on purpose.
Mom clutches Dad’s hand, and her eyes gloss over.
“So it is with great enthusiasm that I present this award to Dr. Desmond Winters, recipient of this year’s ASA of the Year Award.”
Everyone, including me, claps.
Dad stands. Mom follows. They kiss.
He glances at me, and I give him one of those manly nods. He moves, and a sudden urge to go hug the guy comes over me.
I won’t, of course. That would be frowned upon.
Fucking society and their rules.
I grew up with it and pretty sure it’s why I went a bit rogue. I mean, I get it, starting a sex club isn’t what they hoped for when they sent their son to Harvard. Not that they’re aware of that side of the business.
Dad straightens his jacket again and walks towards the stage, stopping to shake a few hands on the way.
“Take some photos,” Mom hisses at me.
I lift my phone and snap a few pictures.
“More.”
“Mom, there’s a photographer. Chill.”
“Oh. Yes.” She reaches and squeezes my arm. “I’m just so proud of him. So happy.”
I pat her hand, rip her claw off me and point to the stage. “Watch.”
Dad makes a dull and predictable speech, but it’s clear he’s emotional, which is unusual for him. When he returns to the table, I circle the table, shake his hand, and congratulate him. “Nice one, old man.”
“I’m not that old.” He grins, then sobers, patting me on the shoulder. “Thanks, Colt.”
I am proud of him. Medicine might not have stirred in my blood, but both my parents have been hugely successful and contributed greatly to the industry.
They donate to charities, and our name is respected in the New York social scene because of them.
But I’m tapped out. There’s only so much small talk I can make. Many of their colleagues have known me since I was a kid. They tell me the same stories every time I see them.
I leave just as dessert is being served.
My car is out front by the time I make it through the hotel lobby. Taking the keys, I slap a big tip into the guy’s hand, then walk around the red Lotus and slide into the driver’s seat.
The engine is already purring.
I give the gas pedal a nudge, and with a roar I head out onto the road at Columbus Circle and make my way across town to the club.
At a set of lights, I glance at my phone propped on the holder. Using voice technology, I send a reply to Riley.
Spending the day in the garden, are we? I assume that’s where you hang out with all the other troll hunters.
It’s a stupid reply, but I think it will make her smile. Which, for some reason, I want to do. I have no idea why I’m entertaining our conversation, aside from the fact my imagination resulted in two very nice orgasms.
A quick calculation tells me it’s afternoon in Australia. A Saturday. I wonder if Riley Scott has a boyfriend, which I don’t like.
My jaw tenses, and I hit the gas a little more.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
She replies, and the phone beeps.
“Read message,” I demand.
“Riley says,” my car announces. “What happens at Troll camp stays at Troll camp. Laugh emoji. I’m at a festival with my friends. I’ve had five glasses of wine, so anything I say now and for the next few hours, I demand immunity.”
I grin so big.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
“Draft message to Riley.”
“Tell me what you want to say,” the car replies.
“Oh no, you don’t. I never got immunity, so you don’t either. I want photographic proof of your drunk state, then we can negotiate.”
“Send?”
“Yes.”
“Message sent,” the car says as I speed through an orange light.
Riley replies.
My eyes flick between the photo and the road impatiently.
Goddamn it, I want to see it.
Finally, I pull into the parking lot outside the club in SoHo. My personal park is around the back so I can access my office through a side door and not have to go through the club. I also have an office in a high rise on Seventh Avenue and spend half my time between the two.
Ripping the phone off the cradle, I climb out of the Lotus and head inside, going straight into my office. I grab a bottle of water out of the mini fridge and sit down in my leather chair.
As if I’m savoring the moment.
Then, and only then, do I swipe and open the message.
God.
She’s.
Fucking.
Beautiful.
I take in every inch of the photo. Riley’s hair is down, and her skin sun kissed from the Australian summer. She’s blowing me a kiss while holding up a glass of wine.
My eyes drift down to the generous cleavage and the sexy tan on her shoulders. A peek of black lace is visible under her top, which I zoom onto like a rabid teenage boy.
I want more.
Right outside my door is a club full of horny men and women happy to fulfill almost any of my desires and kinks.
One of which, apparently, is fucking an Australian landscaper who is half drunk at a festival. I calculate how long it would take me to get the jet fueled and stuffed, and fly to Melbourne—knowledge I gained from her profile.
Too long is the answer.
Almost two days...her hangover and regret of sending me the photo will already have passed by the time I arrive.
But the night is still young for both of us. And drunk Riley is a Riley I want to get to know.
Looks like trouble, I’d hate it.
Yup! I bet you would. Trolls hate fun.
They like being naughty...do you like being naughty, Riley?
...
...
I love that I’ve ruffled her.
I’m too drunk for this conversation.
Not drunk enough, clearly. I wipe my hand over my mouth and feel my heart rate speed up. What is it about this woman?
It was a simple question.
Not it wasn’t. You’re flirting with me.
You are thousands of miles away; I doubt that I am.
You probably want phone sex.
Are you offering?
See!
I chuckle.
Who are you with?
Billie, Katie and Mark, she replies as if I should know who they are. Then adds, plus Damian, Kane, Rangi and Shane.
I open the laptop and search for Melbourne summer festivals. I find it. St Kilda Music Festival. Jesus, I hope she isn’t going to name everyone there, as there are hundreds of thousands of people.
...
Our friends Kara and Lara were going to come, but they decided to go tomorrow. The festival is over two days. Oh god, why am I telling you all this?
I sit back and grin.
Because she’s drunk, and I love it.
Why I love it, and why I hang on every one of her silly messages, I don’t know.
They make me smile.
They make me feel fucking alive.
I wish I was in Melbourne, able to see her in person. Watch her dancing, chatting to her friends, flicking her hair around. Smiling. Being free and wild.
Even if from a distance.
Are you still there, troll?
Yes. I’m just imagining you dancing in your gardening shorts and boots. Very sexy.
Oh. My. God. I don’t wear my work clothes out to festivals. Rude.
I laugh.
There was some madness to my method. I hope it will pay off.
Prove it. All I can see is the corner of your top. For all I know, you’re wearing dungarees.
Nobody calls them dungarees anymore. And okay, stalker.
Oh, she’s going to hate herself in the morning.
A raft of photos come pouring into my phone and my dick sits up straight.
Image after image of Riley wearing a short pink and black skirt and strappy sandals with pink toenail polish appears. Across her body she has a black bag which just seems to hitch the borderline illegal length skirt up.
Jesus.
In one photo, her arms are in the air, and I get my first glimpse of her toned and tanned stomach. Clearly her job keeps her body in good shape.
Fuck, it’s sexy.
I run my hand over my length. “Sorry, buddy, this girl is out of reach.”
That’s probably half the appeal.
I’m still not convinced. I bet you have shorts on underneath and a garden tool tucked behind your back?
She sends an emoji with the tongue sticking out, and I laugh.
You know, men like you are just as bad as my father. My job doesn’t mean I’m not feminine.
Never said it does.
You implied it.
Did I?
Yes.
Prove me wrong.
...
...
I can’t.
Yes, you can.
I’m not sending a nude.
I’m not asking you to.
Then what do you want?
I want you underneath me, naked, so I can enjoy your body for hours, sweetheart. I want to unwrap you and lick the lace of your bra and bite down on your nipple.
I want to spread your thighs and peel your panties to the side, exposing the juices pouring out of you.
I lift my face.
Fuck, do I?
Yes, very fucking much.
Oh, this is not good. I need to cut this out. I should be focused on making a decision about The Final Rose. Deciding on a wife. Or the process of getting married.
I should not be flirting with little gardeners in Australia.
Colt. Did you disappear?
Something in my chest pings when she uses my name. I don’t know what it is, but I want to hear her voice. I want to see her smile. I need more.
A lot fucking more.
I type out my number, something I never do. Then add: What I want, Riley Scott, is to hear your sweet voice. Here’s my number. If you share it with anyone, I will send SEAL TEAM 6 after you.
I push send and hope she does the right thing.
I wait five minutes.
Then ten.
By minute eleven, I’m pouring myself a scotch.
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
I shouldn’t have done that.
Pacing my office, I consider heading out to the club and forgetting I’d ever met Riley Scott.
And changing my number.
Then my phone rings.