Chapter Three
“Here he is, the playboy prince and birthday boy, the Anderson everybody loves, the man behind the most expensive marketing campaign in history! Let’s scream for Rex-a-Million!”
My nickname. Short for a million orgasms. Dealer of pleasure.
Piercing screeches and catcalls erupt in the club, and I fight the urge to cover my ears. Instead, I make an exaggerated bow to the crowd as I climb the steps of the small stage by the central dance floor at Mystique.
Beautiful women in barely there dresses shake their assets and blow me kisses, no doubt trying to catch the attention of the last Anderson bachelor—for love, money, or a fuck, I don’t know.
Too bad. Love isn’t for me and my cock has been malfunctioning for months now. It’s like my body is saying goodbye by turning off my pleasures one by one.
You don’t deserve love or pleasure.
Mom’s dead because of me. Ava and Cora don’t have a mother because of me. My family suffered because of me.
How will you ever redeem yourself?
Ignoring the pressure pressing on my lungs, I wink at a buxom redhead, and she nearly swoons.
The Wall Street bros near the front whistle and point, and a few of them mouth, “Rex the Man.”
“Are we ready to party tonight?” I holler into the microphone.
The crowd roars.
“Are we getting plastered? Indulging in The Rose floors? Living tonight like it’s our last?”
More cheers and the finance bros high five each other. They’re definitely taking advantage of the five special floors, which house clubs and rooms designed for sex and kinks, from Noire, the primal play heaven, to Trésor, the fancy strip club. I’ve experienced and loved them all.
“Am I seeing you on the biggest, flashiest, most exclusive, first inaugural international cruise from Fleur Entertainment next month?”
I need the cruise to be a success. For my family.
To atone for my sins. To be worthy of the impeccable Anderson name. To find purpose and fix myself.
Give it up. How is a silly cruise going to fix anything?
I grab a classic old fashioned with a Luxardo cherry from the deejay, who no doubt got it from the bartender earlier—they all know my tastes—and chug it down before tossing the tumbler behind me, the sound of glass shattering inflaming the crowd.
“Yes! Rex. Rex. Rex. Rex. Rex.”
Their chanting grows in volume, drowning out the voices screaming in my head. Thick fog bathes the club in spectral white mist as the pulsing lights add to the ambiance.
Murderer. Blood. Hollow eyes. The fear in them.
The damn memories won’t leave me alone. I should ignore them. I shouldn’t be afraid of them because the past is in the past.
I should. Fucking shoulds.
No. The pills and the drinks were supposed to drown out everything.
The crowd screams when I swivel my hips and moonwalk across the platform, my fingers moving to the top button of my shirt.
They’re looking for a show—the Rex Anderson show. I’m good at this—bringing on the party, giving people what they need.
I’m the flirt, the jokester, the fun Anderson in a family of stiff-upper-lip old-money aristocrats, courtesy of our English ancestors.
But I’m different. I’m sex on a stick.
Murderer.
Chugging down another drink, I relish the burn singeing my throat, and finally, the sharp edges dull in my mind. I close my eyes and let the audience’s roar of approval fan the wild flames licking my chest.
No more thoughts.
Just sensations.
Give people what they want.
The deejay turns up the music, a sexy club number, and a few blinding flashes light up the floor. A faint warning crosses my mind. Paparazzi are here. Get a grip. Everyone’s watching. Lana, my younger sister and chief of public relations, allowed them on site today to generate hype for the cruise.
You’re a fraud. No, stop it. I want the voices to stop.
I’m too far gone, too desperate for relief to care. Instead of climbing down the stage and finding a hole to crawl into, I shrug out of my jacket and toss it behind me.
The heat from the spotlight chars my skin, a surface-level burn that’s nothing compared to the inferno incinerating my insides. The heavy bass, a chaotic thump, thump, thump, deafens my ears.
Slowly, I unbutton my dress shirt, needing to feel the AC because I’m being burned alive.
The crowd goes wild, the women screaming at my striptease. I slide my hand down my chest and abs, gyrating my hips, thrusting to the sensual beats of the music.
Sensations. Just sensations.
Suddenly, two girls appear next to me, security fast at their heels.
“It’s okay,” I mouth to the guards.
Women. Maybe they’ll make me forget.
“Gorgeous ladies, are you enjoying yourselves tonight?” I direct my classic panty-melting grin at the voluptuous brunette, and she giggles.
“The party is awesome.” The redhead from earlier clings to me. “Do you remember me from last time, Rexy?” She bats her fake eyelashes.
If only I could forget.
“You’re Jenny with the best lips from Trésor six months ago.” I pull her closer and whisper in her ear, “You were wearing the red minidress with sky-high heels.”
She also had a penchant for moaning like a porn star when she gave head. Her technique? More teeth than tongue, more slobbering than suction.
I had to concentrate really hard to come that night. My malfunctioning dick didn’t help, but I couldn’t disappoint the ladies.
“You remembered!” She rubs herself all over me, her barely covered tits grazing my abs.
But my dick doesn’t stir.
The brunette, clearly not wanting to miss out, turns my face toward her, and gives me her best come-hither look. “We can get out of here and celebrate your birthday privately. I don’t mind sharing, Rex.”
The three of us are now writhing on stage in a sexy dance.
I should be turned on. I should haul them into a kink room and bury my guilt into their warmth.
But my cock doesn’t twitch. My nerves might as well be dead. The alcohol, the Velowake, the abundance of tits and ass around me—nothing works.
Only darkness pulls me in.
Frustrated, I tear my eyes away, noticing the club goers finally turning their attention away from us.
“Rexy, what do you say? I’ll let you come inside me bare,” Jenny whispers.
I swallow a snort. That’ll never happen. I never have sex without protection. Too many gold diggers want child support from one of the richest families in the country.
But before I respond, I spot a flash of innocent, angelic white among the sea of glitter and black.
Olivia.
She hasn’t left yet. I didn’t imagine her earlier.
The crowd jostles her, and she tumbles. I’m hit with an irrational urge to jump off the stage and cage her in, to snarl at the bastards who weren’t paying attention because they got too close to her.
Because they almost hurt her.
I want to feel her trembling in my grasp. I want her to hold on to me for dear life as the room devolves into madness.
I want to tell her she doesn’t belong here in the den of sin, dressed like a little nun, not with her elfin face, her hair the color of midnight, her whiskey-colored eyes that see too much.
I want to mark up her white dress, shred it with my teeth, and mess up her hair before I fist those luscious strands in my hand and pull.
Then I want to demolish the control and poise she wears like a second skin, the very qualities I desperately crave but don’t have.
Will she see the brokenness, the ticking time bomb within me?
How do you deal with fucked-up bombs outside your safe little office, Olivia?