I TURNED MY ATTENTION away from the window and noticed James, with his signature bouncy strut, heading toward me.
We made for an odd pairing, but then, people connected to those who offered something they lacked. In James’s case, he was easygoing and extroverted, which was the opposite of me.
He flopped down onto the leather armchair by my side. “Sorry I’m late. A big night.” His eyebrows lifted, and a playful glint explained clearly what he’d been up to.
“Let me guess. A flat-chested blonde teetering on spindly heels that ended up around your ears in some seedy restroom?”
James laughed. “You’re as dry as that Scotch swishing in your glass. Speaking of which…” He turned toward the waiter and lifted his chin.
We met regularly at our club—a club for gentlemen, in the old sense of the word, and not one of those sleazy joints where men lurked about watching scantily clad girls hanging upside down on poles or gyrating over some desperado’s hungry crotch.
I’d been frequenting that members-only club since leaving Cambridge, which was where I’d met James. Coming from a peerage that went back to the Tudors, he’d invited me onto the club’s books.
Being exclusive, the club fitted me like a glove by protecting me from the glare of cameras and gossip. When a Times article catapulted me into the limelight, journalists dying to ask me about my bedroom habits had hounded me. Apparently, according to the magazines, I was one of London’s most eligible bachelors.
Eligible for what? A happy life?
Our club offered a private environment to enjoy a quiet drink. Generally, I’d meet with James and share a few Scotches while listening to stories of a wild night he’d had cavorting with one or two attractive girls.
I lived a short walk away from the club in a two-story mansion James referred to as my Mary Poppins house.
After draining half his glass, James sighed. “Ah… that’s better. Nothing like the first drink of the day to get the heart pumping.”
I smiled. “So, what have you been up to?”
“I have discovered this new little club.” His eyebrow arched.
“Let me guess. Dark, sticky, and tacky?”
He laughed at my sardonic tone. “All of that, but with class.”
“Okay… so the eighteen-year-olds come from money?”
He sniffed. “Wealth alone doesn’t always deliver class. Look at you. You epitomize sophistication.”
I sat up. “I’m filthy rich, James.”
“But its new wealth, isn’t it?”
James was right. My beginnings were anything but classy. I liked to think of myself as a man of taste who’d cultivated an interest for the finer things. Why be rich otherwise?
“Do continue,” I said, steering James back to his story.
“A friend dragged me to this new little hidden gem in Soho.”
“Trendy, I suppose,” I said.
He shook his head. “Nothing like the typical club scene at all.”
“Oh… a sex club?”
“Of sorts.” He sat back. “Let’s put it this way. There was not one limp dick in the house.”
“Mm… that sounds really sordid. Go on.”
“It’s a club where girls sell their virginity.”
“That’s gaining popularity. I received an invite to a viewing from an agency. I don’t even know how they got my name.”
He held his chin. “Mm… let me guess. That little something called Forbes top one hundred. And that sweet article about you being the man to hump.”
“Huh.” I sniffed. “That fucking Times article. I’d prefer to keep my wealth private.” I jiggled the ice in my glass.
“You’re a girl magnet, Blake. Tall, dark, and handsome. If I weren’t into girls, even I’d screw you.”
I chuckled at his ridiculous suggestion. We were both hot-blooded heterosexual men. Period.
The waiter arrived and lowered our drinks onto the table between us. I nodded with gratitude.
“Now, back to girls selling their virginity,” said James. “Have you ever slept with a virgin?”
“I don’t sleep with young girls.” I lowered my brow. “And I don’t sleep with women in general. I only fuck them.”
He lifted his hands in defense. “Hey… steady. They’re not that young.” Sitting back, James shook the ice in his glass. “What about that happily-ever-after scenario? Don’t you want one of those?”
“I don’t believe in those. I’ve yet to witness a happy marriage. It’s a life sentence where two individuals trap each other out of fear of loneliness only they end up lonely anyway.”
He grimaced. “You make it sound so fucking grim. Don’t you think it’s nice, the idea of a baby bouncing on one’s knee and a hot little wife baking a cake in a skimpy maid’s outfit?”
I laughed. “How inappropriate and nineteenth century.”