It’s Pierce Industries’ biggest event of the year, and I’ve got women on my mind.
Two, specifically. One, Angela, has been sending me text messages all evening. Photos with hot little captions. In each photo, she’s wearing one less piece of clothing, and it’s only 7:30. By the time I get out of here she should be wearing absolutely nothing. I sneak looks at my phone every few minutes as I continue pretending to appreciate the live jazz band playing tunes from a small raised stage at the far end of the ballroom.
Unfortunately for Angela—and despite how tempting the smooth curves of her body look in the photos—she’s no longer an option. We’ve been on three dates, the absolute maximum number of dates I ever go on with a woman.
I can’t let her get any closer.
The thought creeps into my mind like a foggy paranoia, and I brush it away. A tuxedoed waiter whisks past balancing a full tray of champagne flutes, the bubbly liquid glittering inside, and I grab one. It’s the next best thing to sneaking out the back entrance and heading straight to the Purple Swan or my penthouse.
I’m just lifting it to my lips when the second woman who has dibs on my attention slinks up next to me in a silky red dress that leaves little to the imagination. “Another drink?” she teases, her smile amped up with dark red lipstick. It’s a little too much for my taste, but Christian Pierce isn’t particular about shit like makeup.
I give her a sly half smile. “Melody. We just keep running into each other.”
“It’s a small ballroom.” She swipes a glass of champagne off another waiter’s tray for herself, giving him a saucy wink as he goes by. “You’re quite the attraction tonight, Mr. Pierce,” she says, glancing sideways at me. Her lips don’t leave a stain on the edge of the glass. How the hell do lipstick manufacturers pull that off?
As if to prove her point, three high-ranking partners, all about my father’s age, approach me right then, their voices loud and boisterous. They’ve clearly been taking a little heavier advantage of the open bar than I have.
One of them, Stuart, shakes my hand, then claps me on the back. “You’ve finally made it, son. Clawed your way right to the top.”
“Of course I did, Stuart,” I respond graciously. Never mind the fact that I save my wild side for the Swan and the other bars and clubs I frequent in the city, not the office. “You think a son of Harlan Pierce would leave an opportunity on the table?”
Stuart guffaws, his face pink from drinking, his tie already loosened. “Not for a goddamn instant.” His buddies take turns shaking my hand and murmuring their congrats. The official announcement hasn’t been made yet, but word is out.
Is it ever.
Once they’ve finished their little display of loyalty, Stuart finally notices Melody. In the skintight red gown she’s wearing, it’s impossible to overlook her, but Stuart is the kind of ass who likes to play women for second-class citizens. To him, she’s just window dressing.
Like you’re any better. A twinge of guilt arcs across my chest. I’m not any goddamn better than Stuart. In the game I’ve been playing for the past ten years, women are nothing more than pawns, entertainment.
And that’s the way it’s going to stay.
Stuart’s eyes practically pop out of his head as he lustily scans up and down Melody’s body, all the way from her cleavage down to her stilettos. “Well, hello there,” he says, his tone leaving nothing to the imagination.
“Hello,” Melody says icily. She’s not much for fat older men, even if they happen to be wealthy. Not when she can go after younger billionaires like me. I’m a fucking prince compared to Stuart.
Stuart juts his chin at me. “This guy giving you trouble, young lady?”
Melody gives him a thin smile that barely disguises her disgust. “Oh, no. Not at all.”
Her tone is cutting, but Stuart just laughs indulgently. “You’re a fiery one, aren’t you?”
I’m about to step in and defuse the situation with some witty remark that will steer Stuart back to the bar, but just then the music fades and stops. My father has stepped up onto the stage.
“Good evening,” he says, the same winning smile that I’ve inherited plastered across his face. All around me people set down their plates of expensive hors d'oeuvres to applaud in acknowledgement.
“Gotta go,” I whisper to Melody. I set my champagne glass down on a waiter’s empty tray, and start making my way through the maze of tables as my father addresses the gathering.