Page 8 of The First Deal

Diane gave me a flat look, and then she was shoving the cash into her apron pocket and hurrying over to a table in the far corner where a man was irritably demanding her attention by rudely clicking his fingers.

I pulled my phone from my pocket as I left the restaurant and climbed into my waiting car. Boris had arrived back at my place at around 2 am after he had taken Hannah back to Dorset. I had attempted to grill him on his time with her, but in my half-asleep state, I was less than successful.

All that I had managed to get out of him was that Hannah wasn’t in a bad mood, not even a little bit, which was good for me.

“If she wasn’t in a bad mood, what kind of mood was she in?” I asked, not looking up from my phone as Boris pulled away from the curb.

“I’d call it playful, Mr Hudson,” my driver replied.

The unexpected word—playful—and the amused tone he had used drew my attention away from the email that I had been replying to. “Oh?”

Boris laughed. “She’s not like any of the others, this one has that…je ne sais quoi,” he said, glancing at me in the mirror with a sparkle in his eye.

After many years in my service, Boris had become more like family than staff, and although he rarely called me Shane—much to my annoyance—he was comfortable enough to speak openly with me.

I snorted. “So in other words, you think she’s the one that I should settle down with.”

“I do,” he said matter-of-factly. “But we both know it’s not in your nature.”

He was right, it wasn’t the life I led. Never married, never committed. I enjoyed women, and they enjoyed me. That was as complex as it ever got. The women I attracted didn’t mind that our time together was fleeting, a single encounter. They usually grew bored easily anyway. On to the next man. We were always so alike.

“And yet… I have this burning desire to see her again.” I surprised even myself with that statement. Perhaps though, it was because I felt that I hadn’t enjoyed the stunning, raven-haired beauty completely. There was one part of my body that ached to be inside her, just one time.

Boris laughed. “Just one more time?”

He knew me well. “One more time.”

Nodding to myself, I went back to my phone, finished up my email to Lynda regarding one of our artists who was causing quite the stir on his current tour, and then pulled up Hannah’s number.

I typed out a message, read it over, and then promptly deleted it. I typed again. Deleted again. By the time Boris pulled into my building’s underground garage I had deleted five drafts and my head was beginning to hurt. I had never struggled with what to say before.

I must have just been having an off day.

Tucking my phone away, I decided that I would text her later when my headache had subsided, I was well fed, and able to form a decent, charming sentence.

“Thank you, Boris. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early,” I called through his open window, dismissing him for the day, then headed to the elevator.

Inside, I punched the key to the top floor, then leaned against the cool, mirrored back wall until the doors pinged open. I shrugged my jacket off as I stepped out of the elevator, folded it neatly over my arm, and headed towards my door.

There were only two doors up here, one led to the apartment that I called home, the other to a smaller place where guests would stay. I’d had the top floor split this way a few years back when I’d had family come to stay and had woken up one morning to my ‘date’ in the kitchen wearing nothing but a lace thong, leaning over my younger sister to grab the jug of milk as she ate a slice of toast. My sister had managed to keep a straight face and ignore the display of nudity before her, but when my ‘date’ had left, she had exploded, losing her ever-loving shit with me.

“If I wanted a lap dance with my breakfast, I’d have gone to a strip club,”Trish had said. It was in that moment, with my sister shouting in my face, that I had decided that guests needed a whole separate place to stay.

I hired a contractor, and they got to work straight away, knocking down walls and rebuilding, creating a cute little one-bedroom guest apartment, complete with kitchenette and ensuite bathroom.

I could’ve just bought out a lower floor, but having my guests so far away didn’t feel right.

My apartment didn’t feel much smaller after, much to my pleasure, even though I had lost more than just a room to the conversion. Tall ceilings, wood flooring, and pale walls made up the structure of my home. The lounge, dining area, and kitchen were open-plan, making hosting dinners that much more enjoyable for me as I flitted between the oven and my guests. Along the furthest wall from the entry door was a stretch of sliding doors, beyond them was a small, unimpressive balcony, but if you followed it along the side of the building you’d find a set of stairs, and if you ascended those stairs you come to a rooftop patio, set up with comfortable chairs and loungers, a sheltered barbecue, hot tub, and a bar.

It was one of my favourite places to be. High up above the city where the world gets a little quieter and my head gets a little clearer.

Entering my apartment, I slipped my shoes off, tossed my jacket over the back of the brown, leather corner sofa, and then made a beeline for my bedroom to change. I didn’t need to head into the studio today, but I did still need to work on my plan to convince Lynda to take on Nate. When I had dropped a hint to her about an older solo artist she had scoffed and changed the subject. It wouldn’t be easy to get her on board, and we rarely chose to overrule each other. Partners and all that.

So I quickly got changed into a loose linen shirt with matching shorts, slipped my feet into a pair of beige sliders, and grabbed my laptop, sunglasses, and phone. The sun was beating down, and I did my best thinking out in the open air. I slid open the balcony doors, headed up to the roof, and poured myself a refreshing lemon drink to sip as I got comfortable on a lounger and waited for my laptop to power up.

I groaned as I looked at the little red bubble beside my emails. I had cleared it once already this morning, but now I had twenty-three emails sitting in my inbox. Twelve of them were from Lynda though—as I had expected—mostly complaining about Leo Birch, an artist of ours who, as it seemed, didn’t particularly want to be the most famous solo artist in the world.

He thought that we didn’t know about his band, his little ‘side project’. He was half right, Lynda didn’t know about them, but I did. I’d heard them play too, they were pretty good, but it was not the type of music thatIcould sell. In the right hands, that band could be something. But Leo was in our hands, firmly grasped by Lynda. She had big dreams for him, and he had begun to push back.

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