Seven Night Stopover (The Mile High Club #3)

Chapter 1

Noah King stared back at the grave faces across from his desk with a growing sense of disbelief. For several seconds he was sure they were joking. But then nobody, least of all he, was laughing.

“Let me get this straight. You three are here to stage some sort of fucking intervention ?”

Gabriel shrugged. Mike folded his arms in a defensive gesture that hadn’t changed since the fourth grade. Damon, his oldest friend, rubbed the side of his nose before staring him square in the face. Noah knew he wouldn’t like what came next. Not that he liked what they’d just announced.

“Take it easy, man, we’re just watching out for you,” Damon said.

“By ambushing me in my office? What are you, The Real Housewives of Corporate America?”

Mike laughed, then sobered quickly, his palms out in a “chill, man” gesture when Noah glared at him. “Damon’s right. We’re worried. You haven’t been yourself for a long time now?—”

“Yeah, I wonder why,” Noah cut across him, his insides clenching with the effort it took just to breathe through the vice around his heart and the anger boiling in his gut.

The three guys—his best friends until exactly five minutes ago—exchanged wary looks.

Gabriel stood and paced a few steps to the window before turning to face him. “Noah, buddy, it’s been two years,” he said quietly.

“Dammit, I know exactly how long it’s been.” His tight smile held no mirth. “What I didn’t realize was that I was on a goddamn clock.”

“I told you he wouldn’t make it easy,” Mike muttered.

“Yeah, you two should’ve listened to Mike and killed whatever it is you’re cooking up,” Noah growled. Bitterness still burned like acid, and he would’ve given his right arm not to be having this conversation.

“Hey, that wasn’t what I said,” Mike protested.

“I don’t give a fuck what you ladies decided on your way over here. This… whatever this is, is over. I have a meeting in ten minutes, so…” He gestured toward the door. None of them moved. Noah’s sense of disbelief grew. “Are you kidding me with this bullshit?”

Damon grimaced. “Yeah, we’re not leaving, pal. We kinda made a pact.”

The back of Noah’s neck tightened. “A pact ? Do you have any idea how very eighties high school sitcom you sound right now?”

“We’re not leaving here until you agree to hear us out.”

“Then get to the point,” he said through teeth clenched hard enough to crack his jaw. “So I can kick your asses out the door and carry on with my day.”

“You need to get out from behind that desk, and we don’t mean just to go home, crash and return at 6a.m. We mean, have some sort of life beyond making your next billion.”

“What the hell are you talking about? I get out plenty. I’ve never missed our monthly poker matches.”

“You arrive late and are the first to leave,” Gabriel said.

Noah exhaled slowly. “Again, I didn’t realize I was on a timer.”

Mike shook his head. “You can be defensive all you want. Bottom line is, you’ve given up on living. You play poker with us because you feel obligated. Aside from riding your desk, everything you do these days is an obligation.”

His gut clenched harder. “Seriously, watch it, Mike.”

Mike glared back. “Fuck, man, you’re throwing your life away because of her. You know that by shutting yourself down she’s winning, right?”

Noah’s breath caught on the jagged anger ripping through him.

“That reverse psychology bullshit hasn’t worked on me since we were kids, Mike, and even then it worked like, what, once? Frankly, I’m disappointed you think I’d fall for it.”

“Shit, man, we have to try something before you turn into a goddamn zombie.”

He collapsed back into his seat and clenched his fists tight to stop himself from going for Mike’s throat.

Of course, not so deep down he knew the anger that rode him was directed at himself than anyone else.

So was the unrelenting tide of anger and confusion that washed over him every time he thought of his ex-fiancé.

Had he pushed her too far in those final months before his life had descended into hell? He’d thought he’d made his feelings and expectations clear enough. Hell, he’d even come straight out and told her what he wanted from her. What he wanted for both of them.

Only, things had gone spectacularly wrong.

He scowled at the narrow-eyed, concerned faces staring back at him.

Jesus . He didn’t want to do this now. Or ever . Ashley was his past, his hell to inhabit for however long he chose.

Whatever his friends wanted didn’t matter.

His intercom buzzed. He leapt on it with relief.

“Yes, Maddie?” he asked his PA.

“The clients are here. They’re on their way to the conference room.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

He scraped his chair back pointedly. They made no move to budge. He sighed and speared his fingers through his hair.

“Seriously guys, I’m not doing this?—”

He paused as Gabriel reached into his suit pocket, extracted an envelope, and tossed it onto his desk.

Noah picked it up and turned it over. The indigo-colored envelope looked expensive and normally he would’ve used a little care in opening it. Right now though, he felt no compunction in ripping it open. The contents made him grunt in disbelief.

“No.” Hell, this was the last thing he needed. There was a reason he’d been so careful not to put himself in a situation like this… A reason he didn’t let the hunger within take over…

“Show some appreciation, man. We shelled out a quarter mil each to get you that ticket?—”

“Then get a refund,” he snapped at Gabriel, then immediately regretted it.

He didn’t want to be drawn into a lengthy argument, but the last thing he wanted was to cause offence.

The three guys eyeing him with varying degrees of concern were the same who’d stuck by him two years ago.

They had his back, whether he liked it or not.

And they were stubborn enough to remain put when he wanted them gone.

“Shit, I can’t do this. I’m keeping seven Japanese businessmen waiting who will consider it an insult if I’m any later than I already am.

I’ll give you my answer on the next poker night.

” It’d still be a no, but by then he’d have found a way to refuse without pissing his friends off.

Mike shook his head, the stubborn streak which had seen him battle through a shattered ACL and shattered dreams to head one of the most successful baseball teams around, in full residence. “No can do. Like I said, we made a fucking pact .”

Noah hung on to his patience by a very thin thread. “Did you pinky swear too?”

Mike shrugged. “You can snark all you want, as long as you say yes.”

He looked down at the invitation. He knew about the Indigo Lounge—the A-class adults-only clubs operated from luxury super jumbo jets.

There was no way he’d let himself be talked into taking the trip.

For two years, he’d managed to stay away from temptation, to avoid the urge to lose himself… to indulge.

No way.

His hand curled over the thick envelope. “Okay. You win. I’ll go.”

Shocked faces stared back at him, then Damon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re not jerking our chain? Because if you’re humoring us so we’ll leave…”

He maintained the poker face that had won him more games than he cared to count. “I said I’d do it. Now, can I get on with the rest of my day, or are you going to break out the tutus and perform the Nutcracker for my enjoyment?”

“Fuck,” Gabriel huffed. “You’ve just proven that we were right to worry about you.

Your imagination has strayed very deep into Tim Burton territory.

” He tugged on his custom-made Armani jacket before turning for the door.

“See you at poker on Thursday. And don’t even think about coming up with some lame excuse to cancel the IL trip.

We may be buddies, but don’t think I won’t sue your ass if you let my money go to waste. ”

The other two delivered equally pithy warnings before they exited.

Even before he strode down the hall towards the conference room, Noah had come up with several plausible reasons to turn down the invitation. If worse came to worst, he’d refund them the cost of the ticket with a firm no thanks .

Their friendship worked because they each knew when to push hard and when to back off. They’d come close to overstepping today.

It was nothing he wasn’t willing to forgive, but by accepting the invitation to the Indigo Lounge, he would be placing himself in a position where his control could be tested.

Only Gabriel knew the true extent of what had happened two years ago with Ashley, and he was surprised his friend was advocating this.

So far, he’d resisted the temptation of the Indigo Lounge, had listened, unaffected, as Mike, Gabriel and Damon rhapsodized about the sheer hedonistic pleasures of the luxury outfit.

He’d told himself he was okay with it, that the CFR— catch-fuck-release —mantra he’d adopted with regard to his sex life served him well.

So what the fuck if sometimes the mantra rang hollow? Or that the sex barely scratched the deep, clawing hunger he’d locked away under concrete and titanium?

It was the way it needed to be. The only way it could be.

Except when midnight rolled around, he was staring at the indigo-colored invitation.

Rising from his desk, he strolled to the window, envelope in hand, and gazed out at the blazing nightlife that pulsed through Miami, the place he’d made his home for the last eighteen months.

February in Miami was a hell of a lot different than February in New York, but once he’d accepted that New York wasn’t big enough to contain both him and Ashley, the choice had been easy.

He caressed the envelope. He’d ignored his phone’s incessant reminders to confirm his next CFR, this one with an accomplished pianist he’d met at a client luncheon on Monday.

Her curvy, petite frame and large blue eyes had tweaked his interest, but even as his mind had clocked her generous attributes, it’d immediately drifted to who would replace her come next week.

The hollow feeling in his gut expanded. It grated to admit his friends were right. Finding risky and cutting-edge opportunities to invest in had become 99 percent of his life, with a marathon sex session with a decent lay who knew the score thrown in once a week.

It didn’t even satisfy him anymore that King’s Ransom, his venture capitalist business, had made him billions, more money than he would be able to spend in one lifetime. He could make money in his sleep.

That is, if the other 1 percent didn’t keep him awake at night.

He glanced at the envelope and drew out the invitation.

Seven Nights. Seven Highs.

An Experience Not for the Faint-Hearted.

He read the brief description, and his pulse began to throb. A heady combination of extreme sports, unique cultural experiences and uninhibited sex.

He allowed the forbidden door to crack open a cautious inch, granted himself a tiny glimpse into the vault he usually kept slammed shut.

Sucking in a breath, he clawed his fingers through his hair and realized they were trembling.

His ex-therapist would no doubt have informed him that he was at breaking point, that denying his needs was taking a physical toll on him, if he’d still been seeing her.

She’d been right about more than a few things.

Certainly, she’d been right that the weekly sexual escapades with faceless women would eventually cease to satisfy him.

Just as he’d been right to warn her he’d never see her again if she kept up the sexy come-ons and he fucked her.

She’d kept them up. He’d fucked her on every surface in her office. And then walked away.

Which was a shame because she’d been marginally useful on the rare occasions he needed to unburden. She would’ve been useful now. Because he was stroking the edge of his endurance. And something had to fucking give.

The inner door creaked wider, and he tensed. But the words hammered relentlessly through his brain.

Seven Nights.

Seven Highs.

Could he do it? Take what he needed and walk away after? If the cracks were showing enough for his friends to be worried, he was in deep shit.

Seven Nights.

Seven Highs.

He could carry on as he was, ignoring the ache shredding his gut and the need fucking with his brain. Or he could grow some balls and do something about it.