Chapter 9 Harrison
HARRISON
As I work big hours back in the zone, I split my time. I still need to run my three media, movie, and advertising agencies as CEO, but I am focusing on trying to build out my entertainment conglomerate.
It is complex, and very.
But if I can pull it off and pool my interests, two friends in the business and I will allocate our energy and capital and create the world’s biggest entertainment conglomerate.
We will also own a huge slice of the overall media space, and we will start to produce everything possible. Movies, TV, streaming, advertising, and magazines. Everything in media.
For it to work, I need a partner in Asia and likely a major Asian entertainment company. If I am going to leave my mark on the world, now is the time, and here is the right place to do it.
With massive focus, no traffic, no commute, and no staff around.
Also, no women.
Only that has become messed up.
As I shun Sam and her energy, her body, plus that perfect smile from my imagination, I push on. As CEO of several companies, I still have many duties. The current rolling Zoom calls with my attorney and bankers are also burning time.
They are needed to push towards one legal entity, with around ten billion in capital. I just need to do this for it to work; I have to avoid her. I have to avoid her lips. And I have to avoid her taste.
I am now deep in my personal lock down, and I am asking for all meals to be delivered. In the day, the top floor of the chateau had been a massive ballroom. It was later converted into living quarters for my grandfather and his dear wife.
He had been a farmer, who sacrificed his life and put it all on the line. He’d pulled it off and built the place with his bare hands like I am trying to do now.
A small army had helped him, but he had been the driving force behind the giant farm.
As he and my grandmother aged, they lived up here while my parents resided downstairs.
Now, it is just me.
A year back, I turned the top floor into my office and bedroom. I had large tables and leather couches peppered around.
No one ever comes here, which is how I like it. Unless it’s my two buddies, who are coming in on the deal, this place is hidden.
Hidden from the world.
Entertainment pitches, plans, and movie scripts are scattered about everywhere; it is basically my war room.
Doing eighteen-hour days, planning, discussing, shifting money around, shifting global staff around is exhausting.
Reading movie scripts, media pitches, talking to producers, and getting ready to close on the overall super-deal is tiring. As fuck.
It is also taking all my attention.
I work hard for the next three days and do not see a soul. I do not leave my apartment in the chateau. I do not even see William, or her.
I get up, I run, I have meals delivered to my door, and in the evenings, I do a hundred laps in the indoor pool.
I work hard, with zero time lost. I read the best of the best movie screenplays. They come from my team in Manhattan and they have been pre-approved. I then decide which ones to finance, and we greenlight fast.
At times, I stand on the balcony to get fresh air, and every now and then, I ride my horse.
The only regular time out of my apartment is my daily sunrise run or my visit to the massive enclosure to see Tusk.
Tusk, the tiger cub my sister and I grew up with. Tusk has a massive part of the forest, and he needs it. He needs space, as do I. We have grown up, and grown old, together.
My sister and I played with him when he was young and cat-sized.
Tusk’s mother had been shot in the wild, so he is an orphan. An orphan that must be protected.
My mother and father traveled to exotic countries in the day, and they gave money to various causes, as do I.
After learning of the tiger cub and hearing it would likely die in the jungle, they asked a diplomat friend in Washington to help.
Stamps and paperwork followed, and Tusk was brought here, from India, to be protected. He was handed to my darling sister. She and I then brought him up, and he was like a brother.
My daily time with Tusk is something that has never changed.
The camaraderie Tusk and I have is important for us both.
Tusk is the only family I have left in the world, and he is the only family I will ever have.
After several intense days, the master plan and media conglomerate is going well. I am finally back on schedule, which is a heck of a relief.
I suspect we will need five hundred staff in NY, Chicago, LA, and Miami. At times, it’s hard to calculate and hard to imagine.
I work hard and remain in the zone. I also avoid the distractions of her, and I ignore the distractions of the lingering storm as it continues to batter our estate.
As I pace near the old leather books and paintings, I try to think.
To think of the perfect Asian ad agency, media company, or entertainment company to buy.
I want a major Japanese media company in on the deal, and I have a billion set aside to buy one.
We, in return, will get access to Japanese clients. Japan is still a massive economy and a powerhouse of tech and innovation.
We will also use the Tokyo company to help promote and pump movies, media, TV, and magazines. It will be a win-win.
My two old friends, Troy and Rhett, whom I’ve known for a decade, are locked in.
We’ve all done very well and are all media billionaire bachelors. Somehow, none of us have managed to settle down and find a woman.
I suspect they will both settle one day, but I will not.
Ever.
I am too used to my freedom. Too used to my ways, and I do not date or screw anymore.
As I pace, I think about the top three Japanese media companies and what media they have access to. I stare out the window, deep in thought.
I work hard talking to my bankers for the rest of the day. We finally arrange the capital needed, and we even have the buffer in place.
I feel like I’ve done well, and I feel like releasing some pent-up energy. I go down to my indoor pool and I strip down. I then see her, in my fucking pool.
She is doing lengths topless.
Distracting visuals cloud my mind, and my imagination runs wild. Her naked. Her naked on my cock. Her unravelling. I growl, fight to keep my focus, and dive in.
As I do lengths, I try to stay focused and calm. I am doing well when I start to think about the water sliding over those perfect nipples.
The same I’ve had in my mouth and nibbled on. I lose my rhythm, and then I snap back in the zone.
Minutes later, I think about the water running over her black bikini bottoms. I then remember her tight wet pussy that would be inside them.
It takes me back to riding her and tasting her. I think of working my tongue inside her core and tasting her. Smelling her. And savoring her, again.
Suddenly, I lose focus and take in water. I stop in the pool, coughing as I purge the water from my lungs. Ripping off my goggles, I suck in air.
She is climbing out now, holding a towel to herself. She’d not known I was swimming until now.
I like to be a ghost, but now, our eyes meet.
I leap out, and water runs down my torso. She looks at me with her lower lip down. We’ve not seen each other for days, and that is good. But now… Now, I am screwed.
I walk past her, pissed, and at least she has the decency to cover her breasts, and quickly.
She looks down as I pass.
There is only one problem. I saw a breast and her dark nipple. I also feel like a bastard for ignoring her when, in reality, I need her like oxygen.
I read the newspaper in the morning sun, downstairs for the first time in a week.
Samantha delivers my poached eggs again, as well as the exquisite salmon dish. The dish that has no name. No name because she won’t tell me what it is called.
Eating the food I’m becoming addicted to, I turn a page.
As she pours coffee, now next to me, I notice she is in the uniform.
“How is the market?”
“Up,” I say, viewing the stock market page.
“Always?” she asks.
I shake the paper to keep it straight. I then pause. Why not?
“With me, yes.”
“Good to know,” she says, leaning over and placing another hot croissant on my plate.
Not fucking helping.
I try to shake it off and look up. She now looks boring and sensible. “I’m glad the uniform fits.” Samantha twists her neck and sighs. She looks dreadful. “It actually looks like…”
“A sack,” she says jumping in.
“Please, turn if you will.”
Samantha turns in a super boring, old-fashioned style as if on some 1950s catwalk. The sack is truly hideous.
“You’re not wrong,” I say. “It is a sack.”
I rub my jaw, now believing I have her finally under my control. At least now I’ll not be hard around her. The thing is it is disgusting!
“Feel free to wear normal attire. Just don’t look hot,” I command, looking back at the paper.
“I’m not hot!”
I am about to start eating when I pause and look back at her. “You are, some.”
She should now leave, only she doesn’t.
“How?”
We exchange a look, and my eyes are darkening. I am also losing patience. “Just don’t,” I say.
“Maybe you just need to control your imagination.”
I laugh loudly at her cheek. How could I fucking not?
“What?” she asks, not even aware.
“Look, dear,” I say, crossing my legs in my navy suit trousers.
I inhale and look up at her. “I made a career with my vivid imagination, and it now pays for all this. I have created hundreds of advertising campaigns and convinced global clients to do what I thought would visually work. For car manufacturers, banks, telecom giants, even fashion brands. I also now finance media and movies with the same energy and imagination.”
“Well, if your imagination is so good, then you can control it, no?”
I inhale, finally finding calm.
She steps closer, a brow raised. “You were good at controlling things when we met.”
“Dear, that was commanding.”
Things get weird as she steps closer. “Sorry, you’re right. It was. And I liked it!”
Before I can say anything, the flirt turns and walks. “Nothing too hot!” I yell, put out and distracted.
For fuck’s sake!
Ten minutes later, after eating my poached eggs and the wicked dish she now makes me, she walks back in.
“May I have three minutes of your time, Sir?”
I close my eyes, sigh loudly, and finally look up. Here we go.
“You may,” I say, leaning back. She is now dressed in her cute denim mini skirt and a tight, black T-shirt with some retro print on it. The top shows off her perfect breasts, and she turns. Her curves are spectacular.
“Yes, no?”
I growl out a “Maybe.”
“Sorry. I didn’t expect the fashion police, so I have limited options.”
I raise a screw-you brow, and she grabs another outfit from a chair. I double-blink at her holding it up. It is tight black yoga pants and a skimpy top.
“Yoga and tank?”
“Are you serious?”
The lunatic looks miffed and quickly holds up another look. I adjust my legs and try to hide my hardening cock.
“Tight white tee and camo pants.”
I raise a brow, not buying it at all. “That doesn’t cover your naval, does it?”
“Not when I reach up.”
I gulp, hardening fast. This coming downstairs is turning to shit, and fast.
“Comments?” she asks, hands on hips and completely serious.
“It’s all too fucking hot is my comment,” I then grumble as I get harder.
“Oh,” she suddenly says. “I still have that business shirt of yours. What if I wear it?”
“You have to be kidding.”
“I could even tie it in a Daisy Duke style, so it doesn’t hang like a sack.”
“Do not Daisy Duke my shirt, you crazy vixen, you’ll corrupt it more. Got it?”
“Okay, grumpy!” she says. “Just calm down!”
I stand and put my navy suit jacket back on. I like to dress the same way every day, like Einstein did . It is one less life distraction, and one less decision to make daily.
Distraction is the enemy of focus. Dressing up also helps my mind focus on business and remain ultra-productive. Not that that would work while she is around and messing with my mind.
As I try to regain my center, I huff, “Just not too fucking hot.” I walk away and toss in, “Understand?”
Reaching the swinging door, I pause to make things clear. “I. Can. Not. Get. Distracted!”
Just before I walk out to get back to my office for ultra focus, the lunatic says, “Look, I’m not hot. This is just me.”
I look back, and her arms are now wide. She is serious. Actually serious.
“And no makeup.”
We stare daggers, and then she walks forward as if confused. I growl, knowing she can hear me. I walk out fast, losing my shit. “Not hot! Not fucking hot!” I yell.
“Then what?” she yells back.
“My business shirt!” I yell louder as I walk up my marble staircase.
“Alright!” she yells loudly. “Got it!”