Chapter 12
Twelve
" S o, what's the drama? Come on, lay it on me." Keira gestured, her perfectly manicured fingers waving delicately. Her chestnut hair was tied back in a ponytail and there was a smudge of glitter on her cheek.
I launched into my story, keeping my voice low at the raunchier parts so the other patrons of the pub wouldn't hear me.
"Wow," she whispered when I showed her the card with the x-rated message. "Okay, I kind of love this guy."
I rolled my eyes at her. "Want me to hook you up?" I was joking, but the thought of her with Alfie turned my stomach all the same.
"I don't want your cast-offs!" She laughed and waved the card at me. "So, what're you gonna do?"
"That's why I called the emergency meeting, remember? You're supposed to tell me what to do."
"Meet him. Actually, no you shouldn't. You can't have dinner with him after all this.
He's clearly a nut, or he's just so full of himself he can't possibly believe you'll say no.
Either way he's not good enough for you.
Then again, he's loaded and he's gorgeous, so maybe just sleep with him and get it out of your system.
" She grinned, as if she hadn't just given me the most confusing advice in history.
"Well thanks Keira, that was super helpful." I took a miserable bite of my panini.
"Do you want to see him again?"
Did I? My first instinct was to deny any and all attachment, but if I was really honest with myself…
"Yes, but I don't want him to bully me into it."
"You don't want to let him win, you mean." Keira had known me since we were two, so I should have known she'd be able to explain me to myself better than I ever could.
"Right."
"Well, having dinner with him isn't sleeping with him and he did say he wouldn't lay a finger on you. Keep it public, keep it professional, but change the date. Like, he asked you to do it tonight, so text him and say you have plans and pick another night."
"Why?" I asked. A peal of male laughter burst from a nearby table and I looked over, finding four guys blatantly checking out my friend. Keira took a slow sip of her Diet Coke and smiled at them before turning back to me.
"It puts the control and decision-making firmly back in your court."
Wow. My friend was actually something of a genius.
"Okay, yeah, I can do that."
"Good," she said and clapped her hands together, still ignoring the men openly ogling her. "Now that we've got that sorted we can get down to the important stuff." She leaned in as if we were having some kind of secret meeting. "What kind of car does he drive?"
“I don’t know. A shiny one?" Keira cringed at my answer and shook her head. "What?" I asked indignantly, but she just sighed.
"A billionaire is so wasted on you."
On my way back to the office, I texted Mr Tell as Keira had instructed.
Mr Tell, I've thought over your request/demand and I've decided that I will have dinner with you (dinner and nothing else) but not tonight. I have plans. I'm free tomorrow.
His reply was instant.
No. Cancel your plans. Elliot will pick you up from work today at 5.30. You don't need to fight me yet, O'Connell. It's just dinner. I'll behave, I promise.
A
‘I'll behave, I promise.’ Those words sent tingles up my spine. ‘ You don't need to fight me yet .’ What did 'yet' mean?
I tossed the stupid phone in the drawer and threw myself into my work. An hour later, I finally gave up. I couldn't focus. Mr Tell pinged around my brain, refusing to let me think about anything else.
It struck me that I knew almost nothing about this intense man.
My instincts were all telling me to run, but why?
I had no idea. So I did a stupid thing. I decided to Google him.
I bypassed the many images of him, the sight of that mouth making my skin flush.
I didn’t need to get lost in the memories of what that mouth had done to me last night.
I needed a clear head and cold, hard facts.
I scrolled through dozens of articles before I spotted one written ten years ago that caught my eye.
Alfie Tell: The scandalous life of London's most notorious playboy.
By David Hanson
Oh hell. I knew it. I knew he was trouble. I also knew I shouldn't read it but if this man had a sordid past, I needed to know about it. So I took a deep breath and read on…
Arriving at the infamous Never Tell Clubhouse in London, I feel a twinge of trepidation.
Inside lies a man who, at just 23, is already a legend.
Alfie Tell, the second offspring of hotel tycoon Joseph Tell, began his rebellion at the tender age of 16 when he threw a party at his boarding school in Sweden. A party that resulted in 18 arrests and ￡50,000 worth of damage.
At 18, he - along with four of his friends - founded the exclusive Never Tell Club. In the years since, the young Lothario's name has become synonymous with lavish parties attended by the highest in society—sporting royalty, Hollywood royalty and, of course, actual royalty.
It pains me to tell you that I am explicitly forbidden from describing the exterior or surrounding gardens of the mansion.
All I will tell you is that what I see has me awestruck.
I stand outside the club, the doors as intimidating as their owner's reputation, trying to prepare myself for whatever I might find inside. I swallow my nerves and knock.
The door is swung open a moment later by a half-naked woman wearing what appears to be the bottom half of a maid’s uniform. Her breasts are bare and she has her mouth taped shut.
Before I can comment on her bizarre attire, she gestures me into an impressive foyer.
Her eyes cast down, she turns and leads the way up upstairs. I follow her like a lamb to the slaughter.
I trail a hand along the banister as we ascend, then follow her down a narrow hallway. It is dark and poorly lit and I feel a growing sense of unease as I follow the gagged, half-naked woman.
We pass a series of open doors and I can't help but sneak a peek. There is a room with a hot tub, another room full of cushions and an abandoned hookah, another containing an enormous bed with a series of hooks and ropes attached.
It is unnerving to see rooms like that empty, rooms that echo of debauchery and hold the ghosts of past sins.
Finally, the maid comes to an abrupt halt at a door painted blood-red. The faint sound of classical music reverberates through the door. She knocks twice, then abandons me.
A haughty voice inside commands my entrance and I let myself in, whereupon I am immediately greeted by a dart that whizzes past my face and sticks in the door approximately two inches from my left eye.
A raucous bout of laughter follows from a group of four young men surrounding a billiards table, each of them shirtless and wearing only trousers and braces.
These are his Tellers. Co-owners of the Never Tell Club.
Kal Strauss, Eli Roth, Cas Nova and of course, Damien Marx.
A young woman's legs stick out from under the billiards table, revealing slender ankles and one Louboutin shoe.
"We didn't interfere with her if that's what you're thinking," a bored voice says behind me.
I turn and there, sprawled on a chaise-lounge with a cigar in one hand, is the infamous Alfie Tell.
The sickeningly handsome young man is dressed in a blue-black three piece, his jacket cast aside, his shirt-sleeves rolled over.
"Vivaldi?" I ask and nod at the record player where the Winter section of Vivaldi's The Four Seasons is playing.
The young Lothario seems vaguely pleased with my knowledge of classical music. He waves his cigar at the chair nearest to him, apparently inviting me to sit down.
"Is she alright?" I ask, nodding at the girl under the table. I reach for my phone to record our conversation before remembering it isn't there, as recordings of this interview were strictly prohibited.
"I imagine so," he answers in a bored, half-drunk drawl.
"And the maid?"
"A club member." He waves his cigar again, this time dismissively. "She broke the rules last night."
"So she's dressed that way as a punishment?" I ask, though the question I really want the answer to is what rule did she break that warranted that punishment?
"She's free to leave any time she wants. Don't look at me like that, reporter. I don't force girls into anything. What’s the point when if one won't do what you want, another will."
"Do you always view women as throwaway commodities?" I ask, after being momentarily stunned by this cynical observation.
"I view them with as much depth as they view themselves, which is very little. Did you come here to talk about women?" He turns his cold, grey eyes on me and I understand then why this young man holds so much power over those he encounters. There is magnetism behind that gaze.
"I came here to talk about you. Do you always keep such early hours?" It's barely 6.00 am.
Alfie Tell takes a long drag on his cigar and watches the smoke plume up to the ceiling where it encircles the chandelier.
"Grow up, reporter. I haven't been to bed yet. Are those your questions?" He nods sharply at the notepad on my lap.
"Yes, although I'd rather have a conversation with you than just ask questions."
"I wouldn't. Just run down the list, reporter." He is dismissive of me. I am a pest, an annoyance, and yet he invited me here and I wonder why.
"Alright, how do you think the public should view you?"
"I don't give a damn," he answers, not missing a beat. I turn to my next question.
"You were an exceptionally bright student throughout your schooling. Do you think you are wasting your potential?"
"You sound like someone's mother. Next question."
I want to ask him to expound on that remark. I am a journalist. Pushing for the truth within is what I do and yet, I am ashamed to say that this half-drunk 23-year-old has knocked the nerve right out of me. So, I move on.
"What do you want in life?"
"A good time. Freedom. Adventure."
"Do you think you're a good person?"
"There's no such animal."