Beckett he second I caught a glimpse of her sexy new look, I knew the likelihood of surviving the next sixteen days without fucking Arianne was pretty much nil. As much as I’d love to watch Rhys’s defeated face as he hands over the keys to his vintage four hundred-thousand-dollar bike, there are things I want with more fervor—like riding Arianne. I need to dominate and own her. I don’t know how I managed to hold back after she came so beautifully. All I wanted to do was sink balls de ep inside her pussy and lose myself in there for days. Patience. Two weeks without sex is an eternity for a guy like me. I don’t think she would’ve survived what I was likely to unleash on her. I never thought the day would come where I’d feel the need to mentally pr epare myself to be inside a woman again. Thanks for nothing, Rhys Hartford. After some naughty fun, we’re now at the Quintus Hotel for dinner. “Mr. Christensen,” Larkin says, approaching our table. I get up to greet the elegant man who’s as tall as I am. “Larkin.” I shake the hand that’s extended to me. “It’s always good to see you.” “Likewise,” he says. His gaze slides to the beautiful woman sitting at my table. “‘Holy Chic’ indeed,” he says with an appreciative glance. “I hope you also bought the ‘Holy Gorgeous’ t-shirt.” I still can’t get over how the photos and headlines spread all over the internet like wildfire. My evening with Arianne went viral so fast, it dethroned the speed with which everyone was talking about my forbidden night with the pastor’s daughter. “She’d also need the ‘Holy Freaking Smart’ t-shirt.” I add to Larkin’s cockiness. “The whole package?” Larkin nods, answering his own question. “The whole package,” I say. “Okay, I don’t know what to do with myself.” Arianne’s cheeks flush in a lovely shade of pink. “Larkin Gallagher, I’d like to introduce you to Arianne Buchanan. Arianne, Larkin owns the Quintus Hotel.” Since Arianne thoroughly enjoyed last night’s dining experience, I decided to treat her to the same level of excellence. Exc ept tonight, we’re sitting at a corner table in Moonlight restaurant, one of the four five-star restaurants located inside the hotel. “It’s a pleasure,” Larkin says with a nod. “The pleasure is mine,” Arianne says. Larkin’s amber eyes bounce from mine to a blushing Arianne. “It’s no surprise the press can’t seem to shut up about you two,” he says. “Everything got blown out of proportion,” Arianne says. “I disagree, Miss Buchanan. It’s not every day a notorious bad boy like Mr. Christensen st eps out to a private function with a mysterious beauty.”
Arianne’s eyes widen like saucers. I chuckle. She looks flawless. She’s reapplied her makeup with care and smoothed down her hair. It’s still loose, flirting with her shoulders. You’d never know two hours ago I had her across my lap, submitting to my wicked ways, and begging me to let her come. I’ve never done anything like this before. My relationship with the women I work with is always strictly professional. Arianne is my rule breaker. She’s the perfect playmate. “I can’t stay,” Larkin says. “Since I wasn’t able to catch you yesterday, I wanted to make sure to come by.” “Always great to see you.” His eyes ping-pong between Arianne and me. “Well done, Mr. Christensen.” Larkin taps me on the shoulder. “I hope I’ll see you and Miss Buchanan at the club sometime soon. We have a theme party coming up. It could be a lot of fun.” “What club?” Curiosity colors Arianne’s eyes. “We haven’t talked about the club yet,” I say. “I hope you’ll rectify that,” Larkin says. “The night is still young.” “As it should be,” Larkin says. “Please, enjoy your dinner. Good night.” And he’s off. Two beefy security guards who were standing at a distance follow close behind him. When I sit back down, Arianne leans into me. “Wow. He’s a bit intimidating.” “He exudes power. You don’t want to mess with Larkin Gallagher.” “Noted.” Arianne nods. “What club was he talking about?” “Dark Compulsion.” “Is it a dance club?” Such innocence. “There’s dancing, but there’s a whole lot more that happens there. Dark Compulsion is a private members’ only club located behind the hotel. It’s a place where the biggest celebrities, Hollywood’s Who’s Who, the rich and famous come for a night of no strings attached hookups with the guarantee that whatever happens behind closed doors, stays behind closed doors. There’s an understanding among members. No one is there looking for a soul mate.” “Like a swingers’ club?” “Some members are married and they’re into that, but a lot of members are single and looking to hook up with other singles. At Dark Compulsion you can have an illicit encounter for a few hours, a few days, or a few weeks. There are different shades of kinky, but nothing hardcore and nothing demeaning.” “Oh,” she says with a frown. “Women there know better than to expect forever.” “You’re a regular?” “Yes.” She nods. “I really don’t know what you see in me, Beckett,” she says in a soft voice, if I weren’t this close, I would’ve missed it. “Whatever shit your ex did to you to erode your self-confidence pisses me off—” “His fiancée didn’t help.” “Fuck them both,” I say. A few patrons look our way. I lower my voice. “I’m not going to lie, Arianne, I’m used to fast women.” She winces. “It’s easy. I don’t have to work hard for it.” “That’s what I—” “You didn’t drop your panties in the elevator. The same applies for the first day we officially met. You told me off on your second day at SCORE. I didn’t know what to make of you. You were a challenge.” She smiles. “I couldn’t resist you last night... even if I tried. Corrupting you has become my new favorite pastime.”
“You’re funny.” “Now that Larkin has extended an invitation, I’ll have to take you as my date to the next theme party.” “Really?” “Don’t be so excited. You have no idea how kinky it gets.” She gulps. “Who thinks of these things?” Arianne’s eyes are glued to her empty dessert plate. “I gather you liked it.” “I’ve died and gone to heaven.” She lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’m tempted to chain myself to this table because I’ve never tasted anything like this.” For a minute there, I thought she was going to lick her plate clean. Then again, I don’t blame her. Moonlight’s signature dessert—chocolate chunk cookies stuffed with fudge brownies served with a heaped serving of homemade vanilla ice cream—is heavenly. “Larkin’s motto is ‘above and beyond’. It applies to every single aspect of his many businesses.” “No kidding.” I grab the neck of the bottle. “More champagne?” “A little bit.” She pinches her fingers together. “The champagne is also amazing.” I top up her glass and then mine. Larkin sent us a complimentary bottle. Although I’ve been a longtime member at his club, I doubt this is about me. My guess is, Arianne had quite the effect on him. “I have a question,” she says. “Shoot.” “How did you get into the music business? You mentioned your father is a businessman. Is your mom a singer or musician?” “No. Mom is Dr. Blythe Christensen. She’s one of the best neurosurgeons in North America. She’s also a caring and loving mother.” “I see.” “My older brother Holt, my cousin Jace, and I were obsessed with the idea of becoming world renowned musicians. We didn’t want to be good. We wanted to dominate. We’d spend hours practicing. Our parents didn’t object because our focus k ept us out of trouble. After sending God knows how many demos to record companies and agents, and a crushing number of rejections, we got our lucky break when we least expected it. Not long after that, drummer extraordinaire Rod Wolfe joined our band when our former drummer’s dad forced him to st ep down. The rest is history.” “Your band didn’t win a TV talent show?” “We went at it the old-fashioned way.” “I can’t believe you’ve had two formidable careers and you’re only thirty-one.” “I can’t believe it myself.” I chuckle. “I don’t take it for granted, though.” “It shows. You take your company seriously.” “I do.” It fills me with pride she’d notice. “So does Rhys.” “You two have a great partnership.” “I’m lucky. What about you? Can I ask how old you are?” “Twenty-nine. I’ll be thirty soon.” “The big 3-0.” “Yeah.” “Good? Bad? Not sure?” “Not sure.” “What’s missing to make it good? Better yet, what’s missing to make it fucking good?” “The last two years have been like starting from scratch. I saw myself at a different place in my life by now.” “Sometimes a detour can be so much better than a well laid out plan,” I say. “Another stay at rehab wasn’t part of the plan for me.”
“I doubt anyone has that on their bucket list.” “No one does.” I shake my head. “I was hoping to come out of there clean and more in control of my life. Meeting Rhys was totally unexpected. I wouldn’t have a second career—that could trump the first one—without that detour. Rehab was a godsend in many ways for me. Maybe it’s the same for you. Maybe LA has a lot to offer... you just don’t know it yet.” I tap the tip of her nose. “Maybe.” She doesn’t sound too convinced. I don’t push. “What else is there to know about the great Beckett Christensen?” “I doubt there isn’t anything you haven’t read online. Other than my legendary partying,”—and fucking—“and my troubled days struggling with drug d ependency, my life has been pretty easygoing. My parents have had their ups and downs, but they still love each other and they’re still together after so many years. My brother and I are tight. Same goes for my cousins and my boys.” “What brought on the name of your company?” “SCORE, as in music score.” “Oh, that’s so smart. Was it your idea or Rhys’s?” “Mine, obviously.” “Obviously.” We laugh. “So, you’re from Philly and your parents are Scottish. Do you have any brothers or sisters?” She hitches a breath. For some reason, I feel like I committed a faux pas. “I never knew my older brothers. They were twins and died in a swimming accident at Pymatuning Lake.” “I’m so sorry, Arianne,” I say. “My parents were devastated for a long time.” “Understandably.” “They blamed themselves for the accident.” “Why?” “Let me start from the beginning,” she says. “Okay.” “My mom’s youngest sister, Aunt Moira, has a history of dating losers —she still does. She took Rylan and Dylan—the twins—with her daughters Marley and Mirai for a weekend camping. Weekends were so busy at the restaurant, my parents thought it would be good for the boys to be away. At the time my aunt was on a hiatus from her on-again, off-again main squeeze and father of her three girls, Fraser Golightly. He didn’t want to put a ring on it, so she was on a rebound, using—I mean, dating—this guy Arvin Judas Dive—” “His name is Arvin Judas Dive?” “Yes,” she says. “Arvin was supposed to be the adult, instead, he turned out to be a real douchebag and a bully.” She pauses. “Dylan was the shy and introverted twin. Mom said he was scared of his own shadow. Arvin decided to poke him by provoking him. He dared Dylan to man up by taking a swim in the lake because only wimpy crybabies still wet their beds. Aunt Moira told Arvin Dylan was still wetting the bed at eight—” “She betrayed her own n ephew?” “She wouldn’t know a private matter even if it hit her across the face,” Arianne says. “Sorry to interrupt.” “Not at all,” she says. “Aunt Moira was napping—her second favorite activity after stirring up shit. Marley and Mirai were with Arvin and the twins. Poor Dylan jumped in the lake. When he started to panic, Rylan jumped into the water, but he never surfaced. Marley and Mirai were so freaked out they didn’t know what else to do other than to run and get their mother. Dylan drowned and got sw ept away by the current.” Jesus Christ. Sad eyes meet mine. “Mom said Arvin told the police later he didn’t know how to swim, so he couldn’t even save them.”
I’m dumbfounded. “Dad wanted to kill him.” “Did Arvin go to jail?” “No. It’s not like he pushed Dylan in the water, and he wasn’t responsible for Rylan hitting his head on a rock.” “He was the adult in charge,” I say. “There was no recourse.” There’s such finality in her words. Such injustice. I shake my head. “What about your aunt? Your mother left your brothers in her care. Her lazy ass shouldn’t have been napping, leaving four kids under the supervision of her idiot boyfriend.” “Morally, she’s a lowlife—like Arvin—but in the eye of the criminal justice, she wasn’t a killer. Aunt Moira was responsible for the well-being of my brothers. She dropped the ball big time, but she didn’t commit a crime, per se.” “Unbelievable.” “Arvin denied having any in volvement in the accident, but Mirai, who was seven at the time, was the whistleblower. Marley was five.” “Asshole.” “That, he is,” she says. “For a long time, Mom couldn’t stop mourning my brothers.” “It’s understandable.” “It took a while, but she got in a better place in life where she wanted another child. She didn’t want to get pregnant because she didn’t want to risk having a boy—she couldn’t handle the reminder. She was getting older as well, so that’s another reason that pushed her to consider adoption. That’s where I come into the picture. From what Mom told me, my birth parents dropped me off at a teen center in a laundry basket, wrapped up in blankets. They left a note. My biological father was fifteen. My biological mother was fourteen.” Good God. “They didn’t want to ke ep me.” She takes in a lungful of air. “It was late November, and I was only a few weeks old.” Jesus. “Mom and Dad had one restaurant at the time, and things were tight. Mom used to work as a cleaning lady at the teen center at night to make ends meet. She found me crying at the top of my lungs. A lengthy adoption process later, and I became Arianne Buchanan.” I’m rarely speechless. She powers on. “There’s a tradition in my family. All the girls’ names start with an M. Even after Mom and her three sisters immigrated to America, they continued the tradition. My great-great grandmother was Morag. My great grandmother was Maude. My grandmother was Meredith. Mom is Muriel. There’s Aunt Moira and her three daughters—Mirai, Marley, and Mariah. Aunt Maeve has six boys and Aunt Margot has four, so they’re exempt.” Her lips twist. “Aunt Moira never missed a day reminding me I was different and Mom stamped it on my forehead by breaking with tradition.” “She has some nerve putting you down,” I say. “I’ve always called them the Golightly witches behind their backs, including my aunt, even if her baby daddy refused to marry her.” She smiles wide. I like that rebellious side of her. “Dad calls them go-fuck-yourself hags. Dad had to make the insult a wee bit Scottish.” I laugh. “Did your parents meet in Philly?” “No. Muriel Mac Dowall came to America at twenty-one. She left her longtime sweetheart behind. It took a little longer for Gregor Buchanan to follow, but he did. They got married soon after he arrived.”
“I see. From the sound of it, there’s no love lost between you and the Golightly witches.” “None whatsoever. Although, I’ve warmed up to Mirai given the horrible thing her baby sister Mariah did to her.” “Mariah sounds like a go-fuck-yourself hag,” I say in the best Scottish accent I can muster, imitating my buddy Collin Dennison when he’s drunk. She laughs. “Yeah, she’s a queen bitch. Even though we were born the same year, we’re worlds apart.” “You’d think you’d be closer,” I say. “Jace and I are practically the same age and we’re like brothers. Same goes for his cousin Loki. Growing up, the three of us were as thick as thieves.” “Mariah was born seven months before me. Even as a baby, I swear she hated me and always found ways to hurt me... as early as when we were in the playpen. For a long time, I was a people pleaser in my family. Mom told me at a young age I was adopted. Aunt Moira drilled it into me. Same for her daughters. Growing up, even though Mariah was always quick to belittle me, I always helped her with her homework, hoping she’d come around. She always r epaid me by being a total bitch. When I started at Maccabeus Learning, I decided I had enough—” “What’s Maccabeus Learning?” “A school for gifted kids in Philadelphia,” she says. “I see.” “It was my ticket to a more challenging education and my excuse to stop helping my cousin with her homework. Dad was so proud of me for cutting her loose. Mom always treaded carefully with her youngest sister. Mariah’s grades slid, and she hated me even more. I held my ground. Aunt Moira preferred to focus on fostering her daughters’ outer-self. Finding a man to support you is a heck of a lot easier than studying or working a job, hence why a woman should put emphasis on her assets and not her intellect. Because men can’t see a brain at first glance... breasts on the other hand, jump out at you. And huge breasts are the way to a man’s heart, aka wallet.” “I won’t deny we’re wired like that—we’re visual—but I’d be willing to bet my entire fortune when I say the vast majority of men want the perfect combination of brains and beauty.” I wink at her. She blushes. “Aunt Moira would argue your point until she’s blue in the face. She’s a piece of work and her daughters—” “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” “No, it doesn’t,” she says. “As the years rolled by, it became clear my scholastic abilities were different from other kids at Maccabeus. One of my math teachers noticed. With his help and guidance, I was able to secure a scholarship.” “He believed in you,” I say. “He did. Without him, I doubt I would’ve ever made my way to New York. My grades at Maccabeus Learning and the school’s stellar r eputation allowed me to get a full scholarship for my bachelor degree and get the hell out of Philadelphia—” “And away from the Golightly witches.” “Free at last... so I thought...” Her words trail. “When my proud mother started to tell anyone willing to listen how her daughter was a lot more intelligent than most, the Golightly witches turned up the bitch factor. They became mean bullies. The months preceding my d eparture to college were atrocious. Mom cut ties with her sister. She didn’t ostracize Aunt Moira after the twins’ death—I still don’t know how she managed to do that —but Mom wasn’t going to standby as the Golightlys destroyed me.”
I would never have guessed all this about her. “Your mom sounds like a strong woman,” I say. “She’s been through a lot, but she’s still standing. The same for Dad. Like your parents, mine have also had their ups and downs.” “But they’re still together.” “As Mom loves to say in her still pronounced Scottish accent, they still love each other hard.” I laugh. “Going back to your cousins and your aunt, it sounds like they’re jealous of you.” She shoots me a side gaze. “What?” “Dad has been saying that for years. I didn’t believe him at first, but he was right all along. Especially, Mariah. She’s an envious cow, willing to steamroll you for the sake of one-upping you.” “Remember what I said yesterday about sluts? They don’t have much going on for them. You’ve achieved impressive milestones, but they weren’t rooting for you.” “They weren’t. I’m the first person in our family to ever go to college and I’m the first to hold a master’s degree. No one even knew what a CFA was until I acquired the professional credential. The Golightly witches made me feel like an outcast and an ugly duckling my whole life. Then, one day, I grew out of my awkward teenage years with two university degrees and a coveted accreditation in hand at the tender age of twenty-three. After that, I landed a ridiculously high-paying job in Silicon Valley. In other words, I left them in the dust. They hated me even more.” “All those milestones made you untouchable,” I say. Her face contorts in disgust. “What’s that expression about?” She shakes her head. “Nothing.” I don’t believe her, but I don’t push. “What kind of restaurants do your parents own?” I change the subject. She looks around the room. “Nothing like this fancy eatery. Scots are renowned for their love of fried food. My parents own two chicken nugget restaurants.” “Chicken nuggets? That’s it?” “Chicken nuggets are the main attraction at Wee Nugget,” she says. “We also serve sweet potato fries, onion rings, fried pickles, French fries, and homemade coleslaw. It’s not haute cuisine. The menu is simple. Dad concocts eight tasty seasonal dipping sauces that ke ep the crowds coming back. On weekends, the desserts outsell the chicken wings.” “What’s on the dessert menu?” “Two British donut favorites—the Isle of Wight doughnuts and Jersey wonders. De ep fried Oreo cookies are also super popular. A restaurant owned by Scotts, wouldn’t be Scottish without the famous de ep-fried Mars bar. Dad took it one st ep further by de ep frying other chocolate bars––a different one every weekend.” “You’ll have to take me sometime.” Her brown eyes grow so wide, I’m surprised they don’t pop out of her head. The shock emanating from them, forces me to bite off a smile. “Our friendship in volves meeting the parents?” I reach out and brush a strand of her hair behind her ear. She trembles under my touch. “Why not?”