Page 5 of Dirty Little Secret, Baby
All I see is a bunch of pot-bellied, balding men with what's left of their gray hair, accompanied by their usually much younger wives, more than half of whom have surely had their breasts enhanced by the local plastic surgeon.
In the back, a small band is playing boring music next to a boring buffet where guests are helping themselves.
Maybe these people want to be here as little as I do. I know this crap is essential for maintaining my company's image. So I'll shake a few influential hands here and there, smile nicely, and make a few compliments so I can open a few more locations of my fast-food chain in New York, which is pretty much the hottest shit in the city right now and soon to be all along the East Coast. And when that's done, then...
"Well, look at that," I murmur softly as my eyes fall on a flock of women whose dresses seem to cling even more tightly to their slender bodies than Dilara's.
Maybe they're the wives of those men who've just retired to the next room with cigars and brandy. Or they're single, and my assistant invited them because she knows my reputation and what I want. But I don't really care why: they don't interest me.
What does interest me, however, is that fuck-me look on the little one with the fiery red hair. Our eyes meet, she throws her hair back over her shoulder and grins at me, and I catch myself wondering when I last had a redhead in my bed.
I almost have to grin when I remember it was just last weekend. And come to think of it, she bears a striking resemblance to the little one who's walking toward me right now. Maybe her twin sister? That would be kind of crazy. I glance at the small name tag on the redhead's lapel. The name seems familiar, but I can't place it.
Then the little thing is standing in front of me, still grinning. It's crystal clear what she wants. It almost seems too easy, and I wonder if she'll let me spank her ass too, like the one from last week who looks so damn much like her and...
"Ouch!"
That was fast. I have to admit, I didn't see her small, flat hand coming, and my cheek actually stings a little from it.
"For last week," she snaps, turns on her heel, and walks back to her giggling friends.
"What a bitch," I mutter to myself, rubbing my cheek absently and looking around. Why didn't Dilara warn me? Where is she, anyway?
Then I see her shaking the hands of some men, who are of course also mainly staring at her cleavage, and I realize again why I hired her. Maybe she did it on purpose to distract them from me? Although, I don't think she's that clever. Still, the horde of men she's gathered around her didn't notice a thing about the incident with the redhead.
But of course, it didn't go completely unnoticed. Here and there, I catch some furtive glances from the invited guests, and the gazes of the female companions linger on me longer than usual. Either because they'd like to sleep with me too, or because they think I'm a simple-minded playboy. Usually, it's the former.
I don't care about their opinions, though. What I do care about are the building permits and the approval for my new locations, and if her husband happens to be a big shot at city hall, then the lady will, of course, get the full force of my charm.
Then Dilara approaches me, holding an iPad in her hand.
"The gentlemen over there were quite impressed with your expansion plan," she says. "But will that be enough for the next meeting if the undersecretary finds out you fucked his assistant?" I don't know exactly what she's getting at. "Theredhead who likes to hand out slaps," she says, nodding toward the group of women.
"She didn't mention any of that," I reply, trying to sound innocent, but I can't help but grin.
"It's all just a game to you, isn't it?" Dilara says sullenly.
"But you like it, don't you?" I smile, place my hand on her hip, and pull her toward me. Our eyes meet and I know I could have her if I wanted. But not now.
"Do you have the analysis of our business figures for me?" I ask her, amused by her irritated look. She probably expected anything but that business-related question.
"Of course," she says, taking a step back, seemingly struggling for a moment to compose herself. Then she switches the app on the iPad. On it are a few columns of numbers that might be confusing to an outsider. However, it's a detailed analysis of my business and also includes a comparison with the fast-food chain that my former friend Jake founded a little over a year ago after he left me, taking several employees with him.
Or rather: After he stabbed me in the back like Judas, copied my business, and turned into a backstabbing bastard.
And all that, even though I had wanted to make him my partner.
I try not to get worked up about it again, but I don't like what I see here at all. Jake's business is growing faster than mine. The profit per location seems to be higher. His stores are apparently positioned in more heavily trafficked areas.
"Everything okay, sir?" asks Dilara, who of course neither understands the numbers nor knows the history between me and Jake. She hasn't been with me long enough for that.
"Escort the lady out through the back exit," I say to Dilara, nodding my head toward the group. "And write her a fat check. Tell her to buy herself some shoes, get her tits done... or whatever. Although, no, I think the tits were just fine."
"But, sir, I can't just..." she stammers.
"Yes, you can," I interrupt her. "You take care of my trash. That's what you're here for. Forgotten already?" I pause for a moment, waiting for her nod. Then I continue. "I'm going to have a quick word with the city councilman now, give his wife a few compliments, because that's the only reason for this event. Looking at the rest of the guests, they're nothing but puffed-up wannabe influencers I've never seen before."
"Got it," Dilara says obediently and turns on her heel.
