4. Gibson

4

GIBSON

“ H ave you thought more about it?” Marianne asks as she spears a cube of cantaloupe with a fork and lets it hover before her lips, waiting for a response from me.

I’ve thought of nothing else since we spoke yesterday evening. “It’s too risky.”

She chews her fruit and examines me like she’s trying to find the cracks. There are plenty, so it’s a ruse—her acting like she doesn’t know their exact locations. “Avery’s devastated.”

“Does she have proof?”

“An apartment she never knew about in a neighborhood she’s never been? Proof enough, I’d think.”

“It’s suspicious, granted, grounds for further investigation, probably, but why do you need to be involved?”

“She’s one of my dearest friends.”

I can’t remember the last time love or friendship motivated Marianne to do anything. I give her a look that indicates this.

She responds with a dismissive glare. This morning, she’s got her hair piled in a messy bun atop her head. She’s wearing nothing but a white silk robe, a generous glimpse of cleavage available for me to drink in as I see fit. It’s difficult to focus on much else, but her proposal is dangerous.

Taking on a U.S. senator is bold even for her. Despite all her family political connections, she’s never shown more than a passing interest in politics—or politicians. Now that I outmaneuvered Ben Levin and am out of assistants for her to toy with, she must need something juicer to sink her teeth into.

“Men like him don’t deserve women like Avery. Nor do they deserve a say in Congress. I have nothing against living a double life, but don’t you agree the spousal contract requires complete openness?”

I do not. Not now that I know what all that entails—how much I know that I’d rather not know. Marianne hardly sees a husband when she looks at me. Not in the traditional sense of the word. She sees an ally. A partner in her forever vendetta—to put men in their place.

But what she has planned for the senator is next level. Blackmail. She wants to play with him. While I’m glad she feels she can confide in me, I don’t want to be involved in anything illegal that would threaten my business. Yet, I wouldn’t be who I am now without her.

I didn’t come from a rich family like hers. My parents ran a local restaurant that barely managed to break even most months. I grew up in Erie, Pennsylvania while Marianne was raised here, on the Upper East Side of Manhattan by a family steeped in generational politics. Currently, her younger sister is a city councilwoman, and her uncle serves in the White House. Her mother is a party committee chair here in New York.

Marianne is no activist. She doesn’t even vote, but a large portion of our money goes to campaigns and progressive causes of her choosing, which means I’m political since I’m the face of our partnership. Marriage. Whatever.

“Is she hiring an investigator?” I ask .

“I let her know we would take care of that if you agreed. Graham controls the finances.”

“Fine. Let me know if it turns up anything, but let’s not jump in until her suspicions are confirmed. Taking down a senator isn’t something I want to be involved with.”

“Then what good are you, darling?” she asks. Her tone is teasing, but the words cut.

I push my chair back from the table, pick up my coffee, and turn in the direction of my bedroom. I need to get out of here. I’ll check on Pet and then go into the office. I have arrangements to make if Christian is going to be with me in Italy. While I don’t mind working from home most days, and Marianne can be just as relentless via text as she is in person, I need to focus on something else. I barely slept last night after she brought up Avery’s issues and asked for my help.

“Gibson, stop being such a sensitive child,” she calls out as I walk away.

Right. Because I’m the one acting out.

I dress in a suit and call for my driver. Before I leave the building, I stop by the club where Pet is curled in a ball on the bed in my private room. I tickle her outer thigh to wake her.

Her mouth curls into a grin, and she crawls to me. I unzip my pants and let her blow me—her reward for waiting around all night.

My head drops back, and I focus on the sensation of her tight mouth. Tantalizing suction draws through my limbs. When I come down her throat, she swallows dutifully, and I look into her big brown eyes. She sits back on her heels, squirming as she stares at my spent cock.

I tuck it in and zip back up. Unlocking the wrist restraint that keeps her on the bed, I stroke her hair and allow her to rest her cheek on my chest. “I’ll have breakfast sent in, and I expect you to eat it all. Understood?”

“Yes, Daddy. ”

“When I come back tonight, if you’re dripping for me, I’ll give you an orgasm.”

“I’m dripping now.”

“Then you should have shown better judgement with your dirty mouth,” I say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Mmm. I’m not angry, Pet. You did well.”

“Can I touch myself?”

“You may.”

She purrs, rubbing her face on my shirt, her hand already between her legs. I slide my thumb into her mouth, and she sucks it while she brings herself to a quick, messy climax.

“Better?” I ask.

“Yes. Thank you, daddy.”

“Eat the food. I’ll see you tonight.”

“I’ll be soaked for you,” she assures me, her voice soft and satisfied.

“Good girl.” I give her a quick peck on the crown of her head and leave the room, giving my instructions for her care to another club employee, Aiden.

“And if she tries to use me, sir?”

“She knows the rules. I expect you can control yourself.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pet isn’t an employee. She was sent by my wife who finds these sorts of people with ease. She knows my tastes, and even since her withdrawal from me, she does at least attempt to satisfy me. Having a kitten is simple enough. They’re low maintenance and ultra submissive. My favorites are the ones who thrive on being told no, but this one likes to test her limits. She rarely leaves the club. I doubt she’ll stick with our agreement, and I doubly doubt Aiden can resist her. She’s quite skilled, though. When I grow tired of her, I may offer her a job. If I consider our “relationship” an audition, she’s acing it.

However, my needs are changing. The building frustration in me begs an outlet kittens don’t sign up for. I’m not sure how many more gentle touches I can offer before the need to smack something overrides my better judgment.

Christian is emerging from the basement stairwell when I step off the elevator, both of us poised to enter the lobby at the same time.

“Good morning,” he says.

His bright blue eyes make a quick study of my face before he turns his head in the direction we’re walking. He looks like he slept about as well as I did. His blonde hair is already falling in his face, not as put together as usual. I refrain from asking about his night. I wouldn’t want him prying into mine either. He’s always made me somewhat self-conscious, and I find myself straightening my tie and running a hand over my hair. I even do a quick pat to make sure my fly is zipped.

“Were you able to take care of your shifts?” I ask.

“Yes. No problem. I got all the paperwork signed and sent back, too.”

“Perfect. I’m on my way to the office, so I’ll make sure neither of us missed anything. I assume you have a suit or two?”

He snorts a laugh. “I don’t know why you’d assume that. Other than what I wear here.”

I scowl. The cheap suits my doormen wear look nice enough to the less discerning eye, but those aren’t they types of people we’ll be dealing with in Rome. Especially in Rome. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to entertain my tailor during your lunch hour. I can have a few more appropriate ones made before we leave.”

“One is fine,” he says. “Since this is only a trial.”

“I’ll take it,” I tell him as he steps behind the desk. Greg, one of the night doormen, hands him the elevator keys. I don’t linger, itching to leave the building and get some fresh air into my lungs, some sun on my face. “His name is Tomas. I’ll see to it he’s here no later than noon. ”

Christian nods, Greg gets the door for me, and I step outside. I relax almost instantly.

Not a hundred percent, but it’s easier to pretend my problems don’t exist when I put some distance between myself and Gramercy Place.

My office is on Wall Street, which is a bit of a commute, and I take the time in the car to review Christian’s paperwork. Nothing like a free trip to Italy to ensure someone dots every I. I grin at the fact that travel was the thing that sold him. He didn’t even ask about the salary, but I’ll have more than enough time to go over those details with him on the flight, if not sooner.

I’m not even through Midtown when Marianne texts.

Marianne

I hired an investigator and gave him our emails and cells, so we’ll see whatever he finds out as soon as he’s got something.

She’s not going to rethink this. It makes me wonder if her feelings for Avery extend beyond friendship. Not that it’s unlike my wife to go after a man she deems corrupt, but I’m struggling to see what’s in it for us at the end of the day. She probably would have told me if I hadn’t lost my temper over breakfast. Tomorrow, I’ll ask, if I decide I’m in the mood to hear it.

I allow my thoughts to drift to Italy for the rest of the ride. I go every four or five months to meet with investors and assess properties. My international business is focused mainly on hospitality—hotels. It’s the part of my company Marianne isn’t involved with. Her interest begins and ends in New York—mostly Manhattan, occasionally Brooklyn. I’m interested in some New Jersey properties, but she says I might as well put up a tacky billboard outside the Holland Tunnel if I want to degrade the business that way.

She wasn’t always like this. Age, wealth, society, and trauma have made her more cynical than the bubbly socialite I fell for online my senior year of high school in Erie. We dated long distance for a year before I moved here to be with her. I worked as a waiter for several years before I was able to get into a good school and study finance. Meanwhile, she was getting her degree in political science.

I wanted to marry her from the beginning, but her parents wanted her to graduate first. They wouldn’t even allow her to live with me, which resulted in my introduction to all the housing issues in the city. Nothing is big enough or affordable enough, and there’s so much empty space, it borders on obscene. The city is an embarrassment of riches and bullshit red tape. I have a theory that if every square inch were usable, the cost of living would drop significantly, making the dreams of more kids from Erie achievable.

But I have a ways to go and a lot of greedy bastards to compete with.

Before I forget, I call my tailor Tomas and tell him to be at Gramercy at noon to get Christian out of all that polyester.