4. Liam

CHAPTER FOUR

liam

"Hello, Mr. Gunn. This is Brooke. How may we help you today?" Her voice stings my ear through the phone. She's the manager of the escort service I've been using for the best part of last year. She's efficient, so I make an effort to ignore that annoying, childish, overly nasal tone.

That's me. Ever the gentleman.

"Why, Brooke, hello." For fuck's sake. I slide my hand over my face. This pretend friendliness distorts my voice into something I barely recognize. "I realize this is very short notice, but I wonder if you could arrange someone for me tonight." I'll play nice even if it hurts. That is, until I get what I want. "I'd appreciate it immensely. Feel free to charge any extra fees necessary."

I can hear her typing away. "Okey-dokey, sir. Let me have a look on the system. Hmmm, most of the girls available today are girls you've booked before."

Impatience grates my nerves and taints the view granted from my office on the 42nd floor. "That won't do. You know that." I'm sick of her voice already and my tone lets it show. Well, that was short-lived .

Brooke turns it around fast. "Hang on, hang on, let me see if I can change any of the current bookings. Some clients don't mind seeing the same girl twice, you know?" I hear a popping sound and stare incredulous at my phone screen. Is she chewing fucking gum while talking to me? "In fact, most of my customers prefer to repeat and many have a personal favorite they keep coming back for. Ever considered that?"

"I'm not looking for a pet, Brooke. I want a good fuck with a fresh face. Do you have someone that fits my preferences or not? I don't have time for this."

I'm not known for my patience and Brooke is well aware of that. Although, maybe she's forgotten if she thinks she's safe to test it over the phone.

"Well, Mr Gunn, by that rate, you're going to go through my entire portfolio of girls real soon and I'd hate to lose you as a client."

This has been a shitty day, having to manage sponsors threatening to withdraw their funds from my club and I'm fresh out of fucks to give. "You might lose me tonight if you don't give me a straight answer right about now."

Her gulp is audible. "Got it. Her name is April, thirty years old, brunette, green eyes, athletic. I can send over a photo. She just started with us but already has rave reviews and?—"

I don't let her plow on. "No need to send me anything. Your standards have yet to disappoint. Make sure she follows the script and knows how to act tonight."

"I'll personally fill her in and train her myself. You will, as always, feel like you're on a real date," she assures me.

God, when she says it out loud, it sounds utterly pathetic. There are far worse kinks out there. This shouldn't even qualify as one. It's not a kink, it's just a pleasant illusion.

I stare at my phone again, twice offended, as if she didn't say something I asked her for.

Unsure if I can remain civil enough to end this conversation, I hang up instead.

I don't have the time or the need for a relationship. Many women have accused me of misleading them before, even though I've always been crystal clear that I'm not looking for a girlfriend.

I've never wanted to commit to anyone. Never craved it. My first and last girlfriend was at the age of fourteen. I realized then that a relationship wasn't something that interested me. The only things I wish to take care of are some of my younger siblings—the ones the international law failed to make my father honor his parental responsibilities to—and my business.

Well, businesses, as I own more than one. Or twenty.

My success comes with a shit ton of stress. Yes, I was born into money, but I turned millions into billions and don't take a penny for granted.

To keep myself centered, I meditate, do boxing, jiu-jitsu, yoga.

Oh, and I fuck.

Hard and a lot. Therefore, I hire a quite luxurious and discreet escort service that provides me with women to do that.

This way, there's no fuss in the press. Paparazzi were already a pain in my ass since some idiotic magazine listed me as one of the UK's most eligible bachelors. What a dense fucking list. The harassment worsened even more after I bought Chelsea FC. An unintended fuck you to my precious privacy.

So, I turned to escorts. There's no awkwardness after it's done, no expectations. And no repeats, just to keep things interesting and unattached. But just fucking them in a hotel room got boring after a while. I missed the flirt, the small talk.

Hence my little demand.

All the professionals that come to me are instructed to act like they're on a regular date. Most of them quit a failing acting career prior to escorting, anyway.

For the money I pay, I'd expect them to play any role, from my date to Mac-fucking-beth. Tonight it will be April. Let's see what kind of stories she makes up.

I've been on ‘dates' with NASA scientists, Nobel prize winners, preschool teachers, shark tank cleaners, dog surfing instructors. Their wild creativity is certainly part of the fun.

My desk phone beeps, cutting my trip down memory lane—or red-light district—short. I've been fencing fidgety Chelsea FC board members the entire morning and I'm ready to call it a day.

"What now, Mia?" I grunt over the speaker. Mia has been my secretary for two years—a record—and has long learned to ignore my mood swings, for both of our benefits. "If it's another whiny ass sponsor, tell them to shove their money up their asses." I stop to take a calming breath. "Feel free to phrase that however you deem fit."

She stifles a laugh, but the undertone of mockery tinges her voice. "Will do, sir. Your new trainer confirmed the extra session today. Do you want it at his gym or yours?"

"Mine. I'm heading there now, actually. See if he can meet me there earlier. Cancel whatever was on the agenda for this afternoon." I shut my laptop and unplug it to fit it in my briefcase. "Oh, and Mia?" What I'm about to say puts a smile on my face. "If your name pops up on my phone one more time today, you're fired."

I hang up, but not before I catch her snickering at my empty threat. It has become an inside joke of ours since I say this almost every day.

We both know I'd be doomed without her and her no-bullshit approach to my non-existing good manners. I make sure to give her generous and frequent bonuses to compensate for my arrogant ass.

As it happens, I stole Mia from my brother, Noah, before she even completed her three-month probation period as his PA. At first, I did it to save him from a sexual harassment charge. And, yes, to piss him off too, of course, but in the end, it was a goodwill gesture to keep his criminal record clean.

She's his type down to a T. He was borderline ogling at her with a hand on her shoulder when I stopped by his office for lunch. I offered triple her salary, paid off her student debt, and oblivious to Noah's infatuation, she was more than happy to join my team. I did him a favor because now he can fuck her without being sued. The half-witted fucker still hasn't. But now that I've gotten to know Mia, she might be too good for him.

His loss. Twice.

"Not too bad, Gunn." Kyle, my new trainer, is a sadistic fuck. He's a retired heavyweight UFC champion who coaches new athletes and trains wealthy bastards as unattached to money as I am.

"Not too bad?" My objection would hold itself better if I wasn't so out of breath. We had a great sparring session. I'm covered in sweat and the half a pint of water I just poured down my neck. "I landed several solid punches," I argue.

"Sure, Gunn." His smirk is obnoxious. "If you say so." Bloody wanker. He's not much bigger than me, but he's a fucking pro. Every punch and kick that hits that war machine disguised as a human being is a win, no matter how unfazed he may seem. When I'm as pissed off about work as I am today, fighting him is the best way to blow off some steam. Well, second best. But that's on the books for later too.

It's close to six in the evening, so I head straight for the shower. My date is at seven and I make sure to always arrive first to have time for a drink by myself before the escort arrives.

Pretending it's a date makes me put in some minimal effort. A shower, a splash of cologne, nice clothes and, of course, a fake smile that comes too easy with a lifelong practice of putting my teeth on display.

I had to perfect it to conduct business, keep people comfortable, and make me look trustworthy. Spoiler alert: I'm not. The only thing you should trust me with is your money. And that's if it's going to make me more money, of course.

One last check in the mirror and I'm out the door. My driver, George, greets me and I get into the back seat of the car for the six-minute drive to the restaurant. I could easily walk, but I won't risk being jumped by a fucking paparazzi and have my night ruined. I've created a stealth routine to make evenings like this work and I'll stick to it.

The hostess shows me to my regular table at the back of the room and I let her know I'm waiting for Miss April before I sit down. Seconds later, the ma?tre d' greets me with a nod and a tumbler of Macallan .

I check my watch; it's 6:45 pm. I sip my whiskey, and people watch as I wait for my companion for the night.