As for me, I was just the chairman, president, and CEO. For what it's worth, I didn't mind blood at all.
Chapter Three
MADDOX
The limo pulled up to Foxy's on the Alley spot on the hour. Plenty of time for our power move of being five minutes late for a meeting scheduled for seven.
Foxy's was my favorite tax write-off; my gentleman's club and restaurant, and since I was a firm believer in home-field advantage, it was the perfect venue for what I had in mind.
We wound our way through the expansive lobby, the one I'd insisted be modeled after the Huntsman's Cove in New Zealand. It was a luxury lodge where big corporate types went on He-Man vacations, to pretend they were big game hunters and shoot things.
There was no real challenge to the Cove's advertised hunts, as its grounds were purposely overstocked with elk and moose, bear, pheasants, fox, whatever you wanted.
It was basically like those ponds where they stuff them full of trout, give you a pole, and when you pull one out five seconds later they take your picture and claim you're a master angler.
All those fish want to do is get the fuck out of the water. So the Huntsman's Cove, like those ponds, was all shit and lies. They made a hell of a lot of money, though.
I'd only been there once – at Martin's insistence, something about networking and the human element – but as soon as I found out it was male only, I was on the next flight back to the states.
What I liked, though, was the overpowering testosterone of the place. Don't get me wrong, I'm speaking in sub-context. The thing that struck me was the primitive nature, albeit wrapped in lavish amenities. I was enthralled by the mounted heads on the walls, animal skin rugs, weapons both modern and archaic, chandeliers made of antlers. Funny, because I wasn't the outdoorsy type at all. I'd get burned at the very thought of the sun, and my idea of roughing it was slow bottle service at Maison Pic. But the Cove was Manly. Powerful. A testimony to the stronger sex, and what I saw left a lasting impression.
So I brought it home with me.
Martin and I headed through the bar, nodding in polite professionalism to the patrons gathered in iron-studded, red leather chairs, toward my private table out back. I liked to keep my most precious things in the back. Out of view, like hidden treasure, or a cache of weapons. Meanwhile, in another part of the city, there was a crazy Latina in the back. The back of my office suite. Just waiting.
…waiting…
…waiting…
I wiped my mouth.
“Your head on straight, partner?” Martin said just before we entered the dining suite.
“Like an arrow, Martin. Straight like a fucking arrow.”
He drew back the curtain, and I followed him inside. You didn't always have to be the front of the parade. The best emperors always have their lackeys ahead of them, and for a moment, I pictured Martin tossing rose petals onto the carpeting for me and my Italian loafers to trod across.
There was only one representative seated at the table. Shanna Ryon, a drop-dead gorgeous bombshell of a natural blonde, cleavage hocked up to the ceiling, and her long legs crossed to the side. She smiled slyly when she saw me, making my entrance all the more efficient. I put on my best dominant and most patronizing smile. I knew Drixoll sent her on purpose. Someone had done their homework.
Good on them, I thought. Better than a fat asswipe in an executive suit.
“Ms. Ryon,” Martin said, extending his hand for the customary shake. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Thank you, Mister Stiller. And you as well.” She flashed her blue eyes up and down, scoping out my goods. “Mister Petersen? Delighted to make your acquaintance,” she held out her hand.
I was in the process of returning the gesture, when my phone went off.
Normally I'd ignore it. Normally I could ignore it, but this was Phyllis' ring tone. Phyllis didn’t call for no reason. And seeing as I had given her an assignment, I needed to hear what she had to say.
“And yours as well,” I said, pulling the phone from my pocket. “Pardon me for just a moment?”
“Of course.” She smiled again, though the disappointment behind the smile was clear to see.
Martin glared at me, making it very obvious he would have liked nothing more than to see my head on the wall, right in between the moose and the ten point elk.
“Thank you,” I said, slipped back outside the suite, and answered the call. My palm was sweating, just a little. “Alright Phyllis. Shoot.”
Phyllis cleared her throat, and I could hear her tapping her pen on her paper pad. It was a nervous habit of hers, one she did when she was about to be the bearer of bad news.
“You're not going to like this, Mister Petersen,” she said.
I wasn't a shoot-the-messenger type of guy. There was no point to it. But when Phyllis admitted she couldn't remember seeing the girl before, a strange stab of nerves rolled through my gut. She was supposed to know. Or at least have a vague fucking idea.
Phyllis could remember my conquests sometimes better than I could. They were all on file. And it was a big, big file.
A man in my position had to be very, very careful. All things considered, any woman who wanted to be my special lady friend was required to sign a contract. Non-disclosure agreements.
I would be damned if I was going to set myself up to become another Bill Cosby, or Charlie Sheen, any celebrity asshole stupid enough to think they could get away with the shit they pulled. Not that I was
