Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 125(@200wpm)___ 100(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Chapter 4
I’d waited to the last minute possible to show up, intending to be fashionably late as opposed to being rude. I’d learned proper etiquette by watching others. Like the many trust fund babies I’d met in my days as a college kid. Not that most of those guys followed proper protocol. No, it was when I’d been invited into their homes that I’d seen first hand the way things were done. The way their parents wished they’d learned to do things. What I hadn’t learned there I’d researched until I knew all the intricacies of fine dining. It didn’t hold much appeal for me. I was never going to be that person but it paid to know these things. There were still some left who thought the young nobody from the streets of New York had no place among them. I gave less than a fuck what they thought. I let my money and my success speak for me but this was my way of showing them up. Of showing them that although I might’ve had a rough start they were no better than I because they knew which fork to eat a fucking salad with. The higher I went the more I realized how fickle life really was. The things people put stock in was almost comical when you though about it. As long as I had a roof over my head and food on the table that was enough. There was only so much you could do with money after all. But for some that green paper was master of all. Not me, I went after it to serve a purpose but it would never rule me.
I was led to my place setting at the head table where other couples that I’d dined with before at other formal events in the past were already seated. Pleasantries were exchanged and small talk ensued before the show began. Tonight’s entertainment was a fashion show to raise funds for a new wing at the burn center here in the city. It was a worthy cause or I wouldn’t be here and I settled in to be bored. These things were usually set up for the foolishly rich to spend exorbitant fees on their wives and girlfriends or mistresses, sometimes all the above for some. Models would parade on the stage in the latest that some top designer had to offer. Usually fashion that had not been exposed to the public as yet; all so some society maven could boast that she owned an original whatever the name happened to be at the time. I had no one to buy such things for, not on this particular night at least. I’d broken things off with my latest bed partner when she started hearing wedding bells and I started hearing the lock click into place on the chain she was trying so valiantly to put around my neck. Not even close, I had no interest in marrying the beautiful Sabrina. The spoilt daughter of a wealthy Greek tycoon who thought she could use daddy’s money to get whatever she wanted, including me. When I’d broken things off the sweet and biddable debutante had turned into a she cat from hell. Who’d vowed to make me pay for spurning her. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in two months, and since then the bad taste she’d left in my mouth had lingered for so long that I hadn’t had any interest in seeking out a replacement. She had been the last in a long line of many who had thought to trap me with what they held between their thighs, but no such luck. When the time came; if the time ever came I would be the hunter not the prey. I’ve always been fascinated by the women I chose to take to my bed. A good observer would say it was very telling. Only the crème de la crème for the bad boy from the tough streets of the Bronx. It could be that I liked that look of delightful surprise when they saw me unclothed for the first time. When that thin veneer of civility was stripped away and the beast that dwelt beneath the five thousand dollar suits was revealed. Tattoos do strange things to women of a certain class. I don’t know what it is about them, but of the twenty or so women I’ve fucked since college every last one of them would juice like a ripe peach at just the sight of my ink. It wasn’t something I advertised; they never knew it was there until my shirt came off around about the second date. Which is about as long as it took me to decide if we were going to fuck. Why waste time? I savored the quick intake of breath, the hunger that would flash in their eyes and I could almost say what they were thinking out loud. Most everyone who knew me knew my life story. I did not hide it or shy away from my roots. I am what came from that place; it’s something to be lauded not swept under the rug like some dirty little secret. However women as soon as they saw the tattoos, I could see the wheels spinning. Street kid, tattoos, must be a wild man in bed. And that’s before I got them under me to prove to them just how much of a wild man I really am.