Page 1 of Wreck Me

Chapter One

JAMES

I look.

But I never touch.

I love women, but I never pay for sex. It’s a matter of principle. It’s not because some silly society magazine voted me Ireland’s most eligible billionaire three years running.

Even if the sheer carnality of being surrounded by stunning, half-naked women, while I sip whiskey with my brothers appeals to the caveman in me. Which is precisely why I’ve scheduled tonight’s family meeting in the Luxor Lounge, Dublin’s most exclusive gentlemen’s club. We’re the wealthiest family in the city, but we’re usually only gentlemen when our mother is around.

The club is only a stones’ throw from the opulent Grafton Street headquarters of our family business, Beckett Enterprises. The dancers employed at the Luxor Lounge are privately educated, intelligent, and stunning. Many of them are also willing to provide additional services in the sultry confines of one of the numerous private rooms flanking the main stage, for the right price.

But I have no interest.

Never have.

Never will.

I like a woman to take my cock because shewantsto take it, not because she’s being paid. Perhaps I’m more gentlemanly than I thought? A small scoff catches in my throat as I approach the door. The name of the Luxor Lounge is scrawled in a rich gold italic font across tinted glass.

Two burly guys in black Armani tuxedos greet me with a curt nod. They could pass for wedding guests instead of security guards, which is why I’m certain they’re my brother Killian’s men.

Beckett’s Whiskey was founded by my grandfather and is the original source of our family’s wealth. Over time, we’ve acquired a number of lucrative subsidiaries, each different division run by a different brother.

Killian runs one of the country’s most prominent security companies, catering to high-profile clients and venues, providing everything from high-end security systems to highly trained men. And his employees are always immaculately dressed, discreet, and deadly – just like Killian himself.

‘Good evening, Mr Beckett.’ One of the bouncers holds open the door.

As I step inside the dimly lit lounge, tucking my hands casually into my suit pockets, the familiar scent of orchids and jasmine fills my nostrils. I bet Christopher Cole, the club’s sycophantic owner, paid some expensive perfumer to create this signature scent. It’s the kind of egotistical bullshit he’d get off on.Eau de Sleaze.

Cole was two years ahead of me at school. He golfs with my father and the rest of Dublin’s elite, ruthlessly exploiting eighteen holes to ass kiss anyone he thinks can help him slither up the social ladder, like a snake gliding through the grass. It could be a hundred degrees outside and I still wouldn't warm to him.

Mind you, I don’t warm to many people outside of my family. My brothers are my best friends. We feel like killing each other at times, but we always have each other’s backs. Blood is thicker than water, and everything in between.

As I enter the main lounge, the beat of a loud bass thuds through my body, heavy and sensual. My eyes are drawn to taut, tanned flesh, expensive scraps of strategically placed lace, and the subtle contours of what lies beneath.

Even if I refuse to pay for sex, my dick can’t deny the lasciviousness of the scene in front of me.

Dancers dot the room, some on elevated platforms, hips swaying, fingers grazing over slick, sweat-misted skin. Others linger at tables, drinking champagne, perching on laps, and subtly gyrating their hips in time to the beat.

Strategically placed lilac lighting lines the low-coved ceilings. Spotlights illuminate an elevated circular platform which forms the main stage, punctuated with a gleaming chrome pole. A slender dancer wearing a silver silk thong and sky-high stilettos swings gracefully around it, bending, contorting and exposing herself in a slow seductive show.

Giselle, the manager, approaches. In a tailored pencil dress and suit jacket she looks more suited to the managerial role of a hotel than a high-end strip club.

‘Mr Beckett, it’s lovely to see you again.’ She points to my brothers, sprawled across a private booth to the left of the stage. A bottle of whiskey sits on the table between them.

Fucking O’Connor’s Whiskey, of all things.

The O’Connors are our bitter rivals. The feud between our family spans decades. I swear Cole stocks it just to piss me off.

‘The girls will be with you immediately.’ Giselle pats her chignon. ‘If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

I stride across the polished concrete floor. Every eyeburns on my back as the crowd parts in front of me like I’m Moses and they’re the Red Sea.

I’m used to scrutiny. As the CEO of Beckett Enterprises, I’m permanently in the public eye. In under a year, I've steered the business to the forefront of the global whiskey market, doubling our net worth. My name is featured as regularly in the Financial Times, as it is in the society pages.

Unfortunately, today, I’m on the front page of The Irish Insider, one of the less reputable papers.

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