2. Olivier

I've shocked him, and this makes me happy. Drew needs to lighten up. I live my life by one rule: Have fun. Life is a fucking party, and if you're not having fun, why bother? I don't care if you're a CEO or a doorman, fun is for everyone. "You are late."

"Apologies," Drew says, holding out my deliveries.

I casually stroll over to take them off his hands. Just as he's turning to leave, I say, "Would you mind grabbing me the scissors? They're in the knife block."

He scowls, casting a dark gaze down at me. "Excuse me?"

"Just over there," I point to the kitchen.

My night doorman appears momentarily stunned, and then his jaw clenches hard before he does as I ask.

I walk my deliveries over to the coffee table in the living area, snort a line of coke, and take a seat on the sofa. The leather is cold against my bare ass as I sniff, rubbing the tickle from my nose.

The drug goes immediately to my head, brightening the apartment by a factor of ten.

Scissors appear over my left shoulder.

"Will that be all?"

Ooo…he sounds pissed. I laugh, but it comes out more like a giggle. Ah…cocaine.

I take the scissors and notice him looming. He's handsome. Too good-looking, really. He should be in movies.

But he's not. He's done nothing with his looks or his life for reasons I can't begin to fathom, nor would I want to. He probably gets laid as much as I do, although I get laid because I'm rich as shit—he's actually built and good-looking. If he were rich, too? He'd be drowning in pussy. Smothered 24-7 with it. Living the dream. Too bad he's a doorman. He probably could have been a model. Those cheekbones. The lips. Even his glare is tailor-made to be photographed from every angle. What a waste.

"Aren't you curious what I got?" I ask, mainly to drag this moment out and annoy him. I'll buy myself a present if I ever manage to coax a laugh out of him, but he doesn't seem to care for my sense of humor if past is predicate.

"All due respect, why would I be? I just work here."

"Because sometimes I get fun shit. You know what fun is, right? Drew?"

"I'll see myself out. Have a nice day, sir," he says like it's taking all his willpower not to bitch-slap me on my own couch.

I snicker and reach for the first package as the door to the penthouse snicks shut.

I laugh again when I notice I'm sporting a semi. Cocaine makes me horny. Really horny. So horny that the package is going to have to wait five minutes.

I take hold of my cock, stroking it until it's thick in my grip. Leaning my head back, I picture Elise and Sierra in my bed upstairs, touching each other the way they had for me only a few hours ago, their tongues swirling together while delicately licking my dick, their fingers greedily rubbing each other's clits as they writhed between my legs, high and drunk and loud and messy. I could go up there and put my erection to better use, but I'm halfway to coming already and lost in my own musings.

As the fantasy evolves into lesbian face sitting, a powerful spurt of pre-cum has me thrusting my cock into my fist. I'm moaning loud enough for the Yankee next door and his kids to hear.

I jerk faster, the cocaine giving me superhuman speed, and then I come—choking around a laughing cry as my jizz sprays the packages two feet away on the coffee table.

Fucking awesome.

Today's gonna be an amazing day.

After engaging in one more round of debauchery with my guests, I send the ladies back out into the world, high on the best coke in the city and with a few more marks to remember me by.

Once they're gone, I shower and dress for brunch with my parents. It's a daily affair, and the one appointment I never break no matter how late I stayed up, or how fucked up I am.

"Have a nice brunch, Mr. Arnaud," the doorman says as he facilitates my exit. This one, Killian, is a ray of sunshine compared with Brooding Drew. Brewd. I grin to myself as the crisp, bright morning smacks me in the face.

Foot traffic is light at this late morning hour, and I strut casually up the block past nannies strolling babies to the park, bicycle couriers, and retired folks out for their daily constitutionals. I've lived in this neighborhood my whole life with no plans to ever leave. It's The Good Life?? up here, and in the Hamptons, of course.

Another doorman welcomes me inside my parents' building. He's new to me. Handsome, older. And though I've never laid eyes on the man before, he greets me by name. Doormen are interesting. In a way they creep me out because they always seem to know too much, and in another way, I find it sort of comforting—like they give a shit about the people they're gatekeeping. I probably think about them more than most people do just because Brewd is such a fascinating case study, and I find I look forward to our interactions more and more. He's one of the few people in my life I can't predict, although, lately, he has been sort of boring and predictable.

"Staying warm today?" this one asks. "I heard a blizzard's coming."

"Hmm…" I shrug off my coat in the heated lobby. "When?"

"Tomorrow night. Supposed to drop a few inches."

"Bummer. I had plans."

"You never can tell with the weather," he says, pushing the button on the elevator bank for me so I don't have to lift a single finger. Mark is the name on his name tag.

"How'd you know who I was?" I ask him out of curiosity.

He lifts his dark brows and gives me a questioning glance. "You arrived on time," is all he says as the doors open. He nods me into the elevator. Like I said—creepy.

My parents own the building's entire top floor. My father's offices are there as well as my mother's "she-shack" as she calls it, which is really just an elaborate apartment where she entertains her friends and goes to escape from the "help." All her words, not mine.

Their penthouse proper is two-storied like mine, but theirs has a full complement of staff, which includes a housekeeper, butler, chef, and house manager. It's formal, stuffy, and it's where my parents host potential business partners, parties, and me.

Jefferson greets me at the door, takes my coat, and asks how my day is.

"Perfect," I tell him. "Yours?"

"Busy."

"Ollie, there you are."

My mother sweeps into the room looking radiant in ice-blue chiffon. She keeps her hair long and blonde, and I inherited my large eyes from her. She's in her mid-fifties but doesn't look a second over thirty-five thanks to the miracles of plastic surgery and talented aestheticians. She links an arm through mine and plants a kiss on the cheek I lean down to offer her.

She tuts. "You look like you haven't slept."

"I slept a little."

"How little?"

I snort. "Very little."

"Coffee, Mr. Ollie?" Petra asks as we pass through the living area.

"Cappuccino, please."

"Two minutes," the middle-aged woman says, and then she's off, disappearing behind the kitchen doors. She's worked here for as long as I can remember.

"And what were you up to so late?" my mother asks.

"I met some lovely people out last night and brought them home because I didn't want the night to ever end."

"Mmm…anyone special?"

"No, but I'll keep looking," I promise.

"Is that Olivier?" My father's stern voice calls from the dining table around the corner.

"It's me, Dad."

"About time, I'm starving."

My father is on the older side compared to my friends' dads. I'm an only child, born when my mother was thirty. She couldn't be bothered with getting pregnant the conventional way, so I was created in a Petri dish and implanted into her womb. Meaning, I've been expensive since day one.

My mother and I round the corner to find a grinning Frenchman at the head of a long table already bedecked with an array of fruit and pastry.

"Your new doorman said I was right on time," I tell my father, bending down to give him a light kiss on each cheek.

"New? Mark? He's been here for years."

"How come I've never seen him, then?" I ask, taking my seat on my father's right.

My mother scoots up to the table across from me. Behind her, Jefferson helps push in her chair. "I think he was working evenings until recently."

"Ah." That explains it. "How is everyone?"

My father peers at me over his reading glasses. I blame him for my big nose. "Better rested than you, I imagine."

No one misses a thing here.

"Who had the pleasure this time?" he asks. "A singer? Actress?"

"Actress. And a model."

"Ollie!"

My mother's shock is quickly snuffed by my father's low chuckle. "Boys will be boys, Simone."

She huffs. "Hardly an excuse. In this social climate? Be careful, Olivier. I won't be supporting any bastard children of yours."

"Of course you would," I say with a smile. "They'd have our eyes."

"Oh, you…"

Brunch passes with the usual jabs and laughs and an excellent hollandaise. Afterward, I walk home and immediately take my post-brunch nap. I wake up several hours later horny. Hard.

Aching to get off again.

Ever since I started growing pubic hair, I've been like this—sex-crazed. While I haven't fathered any bastards, at least to my knowledge, I have fucked my way through at least a quarter of the available women in uptown Manhattan. I had a girlfriend briefly, but that ended after about three months when she questioned whether I wanted her for more than sex and it took me too long to answer.

While it had been nice having her available to me at all times, I've discovered it's variety that really gives me life. While I'm not an obvious stud like Brewd, I don't have any trouble finding women who'll fuck me. Between Tinder and the City that Never Sleeps, I'm never out of options. It helps that I've gained a reputation for being well-hung and good in bed, proving not all rumors are bad.

Having the face of an angel and the wealth of royalty doesn't hurt either.

I rub a sheet-soaking orgasm out to my own filthy thoughts before taking another shower and preparing for Odessa's party. The rock singer knows how to throw a great shindig, but sadly lives in SoHo because no one's perfect.

I dress in head-to-toe black for my trip to the other side of town and phone the valet to have my car ready. I don't often drive, but sometimes I'm in the mood. Tonight, the idea of the powerful Porsche engine vibrating my ass and thighs sounds sexy, and let's face it—it's a chick magnet.

I get lucky with finding a parking spot in SoHo and with traffic in general. Since I learned to drive in Manhattan, it's all I know, and I'm used to the stops and starts, the aggressive lane-changing, the constant flow of jaywalkers. But if I ever find myself on an open road—watch out, world.

It's freezing out, but Odessa's loft is packed, hot, and pulsating. I sniff out my friend group right away, in the center of everything, chatting up the band and falling all over each other for attention.

There's Trip, my best friend since grade school—now a trader on Wall Street, Becca, that ex I mentioned—an heiress in her own right, and then there's Dominick, who also went to school with Trip and me, but splits his time between New York and London where he does some genius-level finance job I don't care enough about to try to understand, but I'm pretty sure is illegal.

The most important thing about my group of friends is we know how to party.

And this one's a rager. Drugs, liquor, people fucking in dark corners.

I don't know what her name is, but I'm calling her Khaleesi because she's petite and blonde like that, and whenever I whisper the pet name to her while she's on my lap, she wiggles her ass against my crotch.

I'm hard, leaking, and fucked up as hell on booze and a few pills Dom gave me when Khaleesi pulls me off the couch and drags me to the bathroom. The door closes behind us, and that's the last thing I remember.

When I wake up, someone's barking my name, metal rattles, keys jingle, and I feel like I've been run through a woodchipper.

"All right, rich boy, you're out. Someone posted your bail."