Chapter 70

Ira

"Don't look so fucking glum," my father says, shoving another scotch in my direction. "I need you to be on your best game this month. Besides, I have it worse than you. I don't know what you're pouting about, but I win."

Thanks, Dad.

I'm home, although I'm seriously dreading it now. My father's office smells and looks the same as it did when I was a kid. Mahogany walls and furniture. Piles of folders, books, and God knows what else that are meticulously organized in their chaos. The only clear spaces outside of the floor are a couple of chairs and the couch I'm sitting on. A never-ending supply of scotch and brandy flows freely.

I can smell Stephanie May's perfume.

"Women," I mutter into my glass. "That Kathleen Allen is going to be the death of me."

That's all I want to say about that, and my father is so self-absorbed that it doesn't matter anyway. He's pacing in front of me, downing glass after glass until he becomes tipsy enough to slouch against his desk.

"This hotel is going to be the death of me."

"I don't know why. Everything has gone off without a hitch." We've been open for a few days. Outside of some minor hiccups that come with any establishment, it's merely a matter of following protocol and getting employees settled into their new roles. So far, guests have enjoyed the amenities and the styling we've chosen. Reviewers are praising our taste.

We Mathisons should be celebrating, not acting like children.

"It's Ravenwood," my father finally says. "He's gone off the map. Nobody can get a hold of him, and we sure as fuck never got the money he promised us."

I get another drink.

"Fifteen million. That's how much we need to transfer by the end of next week." My father chuckles, but nothing is reassuring or jovial in the way he acts. He's about to lose his damned mind. "Don't suppose you've got fifteen million dollars collecting dust somewhere, Ira."

"Hardly." Tale as old as time. I'm loaded, but it's not like I can go out and extract fifteen mil from my account while not batting an eyelash. Sounds like the situation our friend Helen Warner found herself in a few months ago. Except I don't have a BDSM auction to offer myself to. "I could spare up to five, perhaps, but I'm still waiting to earn back on my initial investment." Wanna know how much that was? Go on, guess.

Twenty-five million. Technically, I invested more than my father.

If we hadn't been in such a hurry to remodel and saved money that way, I could've spared fifteen. Maybe even twenty. However, I'm in the hole on this project, even if we're projected to make it back within a year.

"We have to find some way to get that money." Squeaks enter the air as my father sinks into his desk chair. While many things haven't changed in this office over the years, he has gotten older. Graying hair. Wrinkles. A paunch. Money can't buy a man his youth back. "I've talked to your mother already, and I don't think it's coming from her. She's still mad at me."

"Wonder why."

"Don't start. Just remember you get your inability to deal with women from me."

"Excuse me…"

"It's a family curse, kid." Papers flutter to the floor as my father kicks his feet up on the desk. "Your grandfather, God rest him, went through three wives and as many long-term mistresses. Not including the ones who turned into wives."

I've heard this story before. Think I'll close my eyes and take a nap.

"So don't fret too much if you find yourself unable to keep a woman around. These days you don't even have to marry one. Fuck it, who cares about bloodlines. I'm not attached to ours. Adopt a kid to make sure we have an heir. You can hire a nanny to take care of it. Make sure she's hot, though. You'll probably be fucking her."

I open my eyes and glare at him.

He points at me. "I never fucked your nanny."

"Only my ex-girlfriends."

"I've explained that to you how many times now?"

"Please don't marry her." I don't need my stepmother to be a woman who went down on me in public and then heard me call her the wrong name while I was fucking her. Nope.

Not to mention, a woman almost ten years younger than me. Although that would be expected around here, knowing both of my parents.

"Carolyn isn't going to give me money," my father continues. "And neither are any of our other investors. I've already talked to Silas. He's stretched thin with his other projects and donations. Caught him at the wrong time of year."

He's looking at me. I don't like his look.

"You need to ask Kathleen."

I sit up with a start. "Excuse me?"

"Kathleen Allen has a ton of money. I know she already gave us a few mil for The Ace back when we started, but ask her if she can come up with more."

"Why don't you ask her?"

We both know why.

"Fine." I hold up a hand as if that's enough to make my father shut up. "I'll talk to her. Don't expect anything. I'm not in her best graces." Don't ask me what's going on with Katie. She's as cryptic as a puzzle to me. Are we still dating? Are we still having sex? I have no clue.

Somehow, I doubt she's going to give me any money. She'll barely give me her love at this point, even though she's overflowing with that too. All the more reason for me to get to the bottom of this bullshit and find out what the fuck she wants!

I'm never dating a Domme again. Kathleen Allen, you're it.