Chapter 16
Cal
‘Stop it, for fuck’s sake,’ I tell Maddy. I swear to God, she’s like an annoying little sister. She’s far more annoying than I ever remember my actual sister being.
‘What?’ she asks, giving me her best innocent, doe-eyed look. ‘Belle and I are just excited about meeting your girlfriend, that’s all.’
‘You know damn well she’s not my girlfriend,’ I say through clenched teeth. ‘She’s my… business associate.’
‘Of course she is.’ Maddy narrows her eyes at me slyly. ‘And you’re going to work her so hard, aren’t you?’
‘Zach,’ I grit out, turning to him in frustration, but he just laughs.
‘If you think I have an ounce of influence over her, you’re deluded,’ he tells me with a worshipful look at his girlfriend, and I sigh, because Maddy does whatever the fuck she wants and none of us can do anything about it.
I have to admit, she and Belle both look incredible in the perfectly dim light of Alchemy’s bar. Unlike The Playroom next door, which is a writhing, pulsing mass of bodies on any given night, our bar is a sophisticated hangout for members and their friends.
The vibe on this side of the heavy double doors that separate socialising from sin is fully clothed and refined.
The main focal point is the huge bar that stretches almost the length of the room.
It’s crafted from pink onyx that’s luminous in the glow of its backlights.
The crowd is every inch as refined, as expensive, as the decor, but even in a Thursday-night sea of beautiful people, Belle and Maddy are the true pearls.
They’re on low bar stools next to each other, thick as thieves and complementary as fuck.
Belle sits erect, skin and hair and aura all pure gold after summering with Rafe in Cap Ferrat.
She’s in a black jumpsuit that consists, as far as I can work out, of swishy black trousers and two elongated triangles that cover her perfect tits and tie at the back of her neck.
Modest it’s not, but her sheer allure, and the beauty of her figure, makes it classy.
Maddy has darker hair and paler, if equally flawless skin. Her glossy brown mane is in long, tumbling curls tonight, and she’s in a cream mini dress that shows off her killer legs. Zach has a hand firmly clamped on one thigh, while Rafe is draped around Belle like a scarf.
It makes me laugh.
My friends are hopelessly besotted, poor fuckers. I should take a photo and show them how pathetic they look.
Not that a single person here would spare them a second of pity. Not with their much hotter, much younger girlfriends.
Maybe that’s unfair. Both my mates are decent looking.
The tantalising prospect of having drinks with Aida tonight really has brought out the crowds.
Gen’s here too, with her boyfriend, Anton.
Or should I call him her partner? He’s getting on a bit—fifty-two, I think—though I suspect he could have any woman he wanted in this place.
Is fifty-two too old to be called someone’s boyfriend?
I’d be horrified at the thought of turning fifty if Anton Wolff wasn’t a poster boy for how fucking good life can be in one’s sixth decade.
Tall, outrageously good-looking, seemingly in rude health, a billionaire God knows how many times over, fuck knows how many homes and yachts, and a kinky fuckboy until he fell hopelessly, irrevocably in love with our beautiful friend.
I have to admit, he’s nailed this aging thing.
Several women come over to say hi, introduce themselves or wave their tits in his face, which is equally rude and stupid given he’s quite clearly with the woman who could revoke their membership with a wave of her hand.
But, to his credit, Anton treats each of his unwelcome admirers with a brusqueness bordering on rudeness.
Gen’s the only woman he’s got eyes for. Tonight she looks as flawless as ever, in a golden dress that makes her look like a goddess and a choker around her neck that glitters with diamonds—a choker that’s a gift from her besotted Anton.
I sigh and subtly check my watch. Aida said she’d be here at nine, and it’s ten past. Not that I’m keeping track.
‘He’s pining.’ Zach nudges Maddy, who has to smack a hand over her mouth to stop herself from spitting out her champagne. ‘Do you think she’s stood him up?’
‘Grow a pair,’ I growl at him. I don’t give a shit if she turns up on time, or late, or not at all.
It just seemed like a convenient time to get her to meet the rest of the Alchemy crew, given the documentary team will do some filming inside the club when empty and she’ll eventually be interviewing all four of us co-founders.
‘She’s here,’ Gen says a moment later, the warning to us all to behave evident in the pointed tone of her voice.
‘Yes she is,’ I mutter, shooting to my feet, because even in a club that houses the elite of London’s financial and political sectors, Aida Russell stands apart.
Her dress is long. Cream. Floaty. I couldn’t tell you much about it except that it has a high collar that lies flat around her neck, while the armholes are cut all the way up to intersect with it.
The pleasing effect of this cutaway design is that her toned, bronzed shoulders are fully on display, as are her bare arms, cuffed halfway up each forearm with a huge gold bangle thingy.
It’s perfect. She’s perfect, her posture statuesque, her poise faultless. That mouth I sucked on last week is its trademark scarlet. Full. Glossy. The kind of highly pigmented fire-engine red that I just know would leave a gratifying ring around my cock.
Several seconds pass before I notice she has her friend with her, seconds during which I hasten over to her so she’s not left standing on the periphery of the merry-making. Her friend, Simone, needs no introduction. She’s another household name, a newsreader I’ve watched since my uni days.
Gen reaches them before me. Of course she does. The three women exchange noisy greetings and effusive kisses before Aida turns to Anton, who’s also beaten me to it, kissing him with what looks like genuine pleasure and affection.
I roll my eyes. Of course all these heavy-hitters, these grownups, know each other.
And, even though Gen and I are the same age, I have the uncomfortable feeling that she belongs effortlessly at the grownups’ table by virtue not only of her relationship with The Big Bad Wolff but of her innate, undeniable gravitas.
I’ll probably spend the evening at the equivalent of the kiddies’ table, lobbing metaphorical cocktail sausages and Hula Hoops at Maddy and Belle while the grownups chat nicely in the corner, discussing Ukraine and The Booker Prize and rising mortgage rates.
For some reason, the thought pisses me off, which is probably why I call, more loudly than I mean to, Aida, while, behind me, Rafe openly sniggers.