Darien stared down at the blond lying beside him, her golden hair sprawled over his broad chest like a trophy. She shifted sleepily on the bed, letting a contented sigh escape her pretty lips. She was just like the others, another trophy girl, thinking she was special when in truth, he wasn't sure of how she even got there much less her name. He couldn't remember exactly what had happened the night before. He was sure he hadn't touched a drop of wine, but it had become all so routine to him, and they were always so eager. Even without sex, his name was enough.
"They're all the same," he thought, "waiting for me to ask them out to dinner and pick up the check with my big fat wallet." It was long since he had given up on love. He decided Andrew had been right. In the long run, love never won—not anymore. Now, love was expressed in monetary terms and the varying sizes of bank accounts.
"Mornin' sunshine," she purred. Her make-up had faded after the long night, and along with it—her beauty. A greasy sheen of sweat shone off her skin, and her mascara had smudged, leaving a heavy ring around her eyes. He hated seeing them in the morning, unpolished and raw. Tramps were always so deceptive—warm and inviting in the evenings but never any other time. He pushed her to the side in distaste and reached for his cotton-terry robe, ignoring her comment. There was a sour taste in the back of his throat; he assumed it was her.
"Your clothes are somewhere in the apartment. Try to get all of it before you leave. I wouldn't expect to be invited back."
"In and out, just enough to get the job done," he thought grimly. That's what Andrew always said. "Screw business, screw corporate success," that's what he wanted to respond with, but he didn't. Andrew was right; he was beginning to be right about a lot of things lately.
He didn't care about the job; he didn't care about the money, and it had become repetitious, cycling through woman after woman. He wasn't even looking for love anymore. A young, willing body in his bed each night would suffice, but the company would get its money. Women could be easily fooled, especially when love was involved and especially when banks were involved.
He sighed. There was a time when they actually had a purpose—doing this for the good of other people, but all that had gone down the drain long ago. One day during the holiday season, they had made a routine stop at the Abused Wives Center, just one in the network of charities their school hosted. He remembered, up until then, he hadn't even been aware of such suffering, but it was there, plain as day—right in front of his face. The children came in, just as dejected as their mothers, several of whom fought voraciously to overcome inhibiting drug addictions. They had nothing—no holidays, no Christmas, and the meager meal provided for them had been a rare feast, something he would have considered petty food. The next year, he went back alone with Andrew bearing gifts. They had worked together, piddling away their summer to make toys for the children. It was all in fun at first, but with the gratitude they received—it had become addicting. They brought toys as often as they could, working whenever time could be spared and always taking care to make sure no child was left gift-less, but after a year or so, they began to watch their money supply dwindle. Toy making had become too expensive even for their spoiled wallets. So they acquired a sponsor—Mr. Billings. He loved their plans and ideas and supported them…almost one hundred percent, but being a greedy man by nature, he convinced them to turn their holiday cheer into a franchise. For the first two years, he controlled them like puppets, and he took the liberty to name the company Toy Billings, but they grew at an amazing rate. It wasn't long before Andrew wanted to become independent of Billings, and so, as legal owners of the company, they told the old man that his sponsorship was no longer needed, and he was fired. They were renamed Shieki's Toys—a combination of their names: Shields and King, and today, it had become the country's top manufacturer in youth marketing.
"Success is bittersweet," he thought. Satisfaction only sates a man for so long. He had been happy when they had been a small business, steadily growing. Small businesses didn't lead him down the booze ridden paths of clubs and sluts. Small businesses didn't lead him down the path to her. Without looking back, he shouted for her to leave, letting a menacing note creep back into his voice.
"I expect you gone when I re-enter this room. If you can't remove yourself, I will be happy to provide you assistance."
The blond stared after him shocked. No one rejected her; it just wasn't done, not even by Mr. Darien Shields.
"He's not so hot," she grumbled. But she wasn't fazed for long. She knew men and how their heads worked—both of them.
"What's the matter baby? Didn't sleep well last night?" she cooed, "I know I didn't." A seductive purr escaped her throat as she slinked over the bed sheets, never attempting even once to cover her nude form, but it was all in vain.
He was already gone.
****************
Darien grimaced as hot water pummeled his skin. He scrubbed mercilessly, trying to cleanse himself of whatever he had done the night before. Women were like a vice to him. Drugs and alcohol he seldom touched, but god—women. They were always there, always around every corner, and always just waiting, begging to be touched. He knew they were using him, hoping to get past his bed and straight to his paycheck. He did the same. They were a night's worth of fun, nothing more, nothing less. He was just returning the favor.
None of them ever managed to capture his interest, none after Rei. Although, he never loved her, and she sure as hell never loved him. She was a drug, a euphoria he couldn't get enough of—fatal attraction if you will. With Rei, it was purely physical, raw and animalistic, and he never seemed to mind anymore. He grinned, thinking of the delicious encounters they still shared from time to time. No one else was like her; she was a spitfire, always unpredictable, while being with other women was somewhat akin to a good, clean business transaction—just do your job and no one will know you were even there. Lately, he had twiddled with the idea of asking her to marry him and then send her along her way with a portion of the inheritance. It was the only way she would ever agree, but he knew another woman would do it for free. So many of them had foolish hopes of changing him, they were all looking for their own storybook romances in a world that ate people alive. If given the opportunity, his blond friend outside would be the same, falling in love and then pitifully attempting to convince him of his desire for her.
Some women were just stupid.
They never seemed to want to leave; he knew. She was still lying in his bed, refusing to be removed, and so he had called the Hotel service ten minutes ago to make sure she made a smooth exit. Her type was always the most difficult to deal with. She would put up a fuss, refuse to dress herself, even try to seduce him back into bed—all things he didn't tolerate. He made it a point to tell them to be merciless.
Darien shut off the water and stepped out into the steamy bathroom, wrapping a towel around his waist. The air was cloudy with mist, obscuring his sight. He liked his showers hot, no matter what time of year. They were reassuring, as if the heat would scour away his filthiness, but it never did. He couldn't escape his actions, and he knew it. After time, he had come to rely on artificial fixes. Anything to make him feel a little better—life wasn't in his interest anymore. He wiped off the mirror and frowned at his reflection. He always looked too soft—his eyes too kind. Rei commented on that several times. He was a paradox, and his eyes gave him away, revealing the existence of the little nudging itch at the back of his mind, how at the end of the night, he still wanted softness. He still wanted someone in his arms to love and hold, but he had come to learn just how improbable it was. Women were beginning to bore him; they had become tedious even. He had had such high hopes before—notions of princesses and fairy-tales in his head. He tried to love each and every one that came along, straining with all his will to see something more than lust in their eyes, but it never worked. All they ever saw was the penthouse suit and a handsome face. No one ever saw past it, and he was convinced no one ever would. He was a man cursed a thousand times over, even by beauty. His dark hair was matted against his head, and his skin shone with residual water from the shower, producing a devastating effect, and he knew it. His lean torso was riddled with wonderfully toned muscles, his neck strong and shoulders broad. His features were fine and delicate but with a man's proportion. He had been described as stately, royal, and there was a certain distinguished air about him that was decidedly difficult to decipher—making him a mystery. His was the face that launched a thousand broken hearts.
He smiled radiantly at his reflection, just for effect and brought a hand up to muss up his hair just as the door swung open, causing him to jump. The woman would have been gone long ago. It could only have been Andrew. The man had little respect for privacy.
"Don't you ever knock?" he growled?
"You'd been in there forever. I knew you were either having a private moment or checking yourself out."
"Also private," Darien interrupted grinning.
"Yeah, yeah. Well, it'd been so long, I figured you'd be done and dressed already. Pardon me, I suppose I was wrong. But, first things first, who was that blond woman I saw being escorted out the front door? I know she was yours Darien. The hotel doesn't do morning-after clean up for anyone else."
"She's just some girl I met last night."
"A special girl?" he asked hopefully.
"If there was anything special about her, she'd still be here," Darien muttered. He should have expected that. For two years, Andrew persisted to find him a wife, and for two years, he endured it gritting his teeth. He moved to leave the bathroom, but Andrew stopped him.
"You can't keep doing this Darien. This isn't just about the contract; it's not right. You used to have some respect for women. At least tell me you know her name."
Darien pushed past him, "must have slipped my mind."
"What the hell has gotten into you? You go through women like some people go through packs of cigarettes. Was she the third this week? Or are there more I don't know of?"
"Fourth, but the week's almost over," he said dryly.
Andrew lowered his voice dangerously, "You have a month Darien, a month until your twenty-fourth birthday. That means a month to find a woman to marry or you'll lose your inheritance, and we'll lose the chance for Shieki's Toys to go international."
"Everything's about the contract with you," Darien snapped, "You've had a one-track mind these past years. It's all about the company, and it's ruining you." It was ruining the both of them. He knew of the prime example—of his friend's one wasted chance at happiness, thrown away for the sake of business.
"It's the reason you lost Mina." Darien watched Andrew's face pale to an ashen white. Even months later, the mere mention of her name had a profound effect. She had changed everything about him—turned his world upside down, or rather, right side up. All the while, his was crumbling. They had changed roles, Andrew gained a sense of romanticism, and Darien lost his.
"You don't know anything about that," he shot back. Both his voice and position were defensive, as if he were savagely protecting whatever image of love he had remaining, but the sounds of pain rang clearly in his pitch, leaving Darien with the feel of regret.
"She told me herself Andrew."
"Leave Mina out of this. She has nothing to do with it."
"She has everything to do with it. You. Of all people, you should understand. You've had your own foibles with love and all because of the business, but you still expect me to join the next woman I see in holy matrimony. Why can't we just chuck this all away and go back to the way we were before?"
Andrews mouth set into a hard, fine line; his eyes flashed angrily, "All these years and you still don't understand how much we have at stake. There are people depending on us Darien…"
He laughed coldly, "You don't still fancy yourself as Santa Claus do you? Because we lost that aspect of the business the minute we met Billings. So stop trying to play hero. It's all about the money, and you know it. I'm doing this for you; I do this all for you."
"Well, I don't know if I should feel flattered or cheated. You haven't done shit Darien. In all our time together, you haven't pulled your weight in anything, so I ask you for one thing, and you haven't been able to deliver."
"You've asked me to forsake my life to some woman I don't know or love! How can I comply?"
"I've asked you to find a woman to love and marry. It's hardly torture," he sighed, "You don't pull through on your end of the deal Darien, and we lose everything."
He felt the heat rise in his chest, and his anger rose exponentially. The blues of his eyes raised to meet Andrew's in a defiant glare.
"So let us."
***************
A dull thud rang through the hall as Andrew kicked the door to the elevator savagely just as it opened, angry at both Darien—and himself. They were both strong men, and both accustomed to getting as they wished. Darien especially. They had grown up as brothers, and he had been the older one—Darien the younger. Although it was no excuse, it accounted for a lot of his behavior. He was idealistic, romantic, and quixotic, babied into thinking he could have anything his heart desired. Andrew, on the other hand, had been the more practical. The lines of fantasy and reality had been drawn out for him at an early age, and they remained clear—until he met Mina. It was then that he began to see what Darien saw in his illusions. Things were loosened and freed, and the world, which had had him in a chokehold for so much of his life, was weakened. He was mighty, invincible, and he controlled his own destiny—but only with Mina. Now, he had been so long without her that he dared not declare any form of belief in love. There was no way of being sure anymore. Darien was undergoing the same things, he knew, but with more intensity. He was bitter and stubborn, having finally to release the beliefs he had held all his life.
"Prince Charming deconstructed," he thought, almost with a slight satisfaction. He had always preferred the pragmatic life, but Darien was an object of envy, living so carefree—until recently. However, it was improbable that anyone on the outside looking in would think otherwise. Nothing had changed about him. In fact, his quick-paced life style had intensified nearly ten-fold, going out almost every night. Most people would testify that he just liked to have fun, but Andrew knew the difference between a man who loved life and a man who tried to drown himself in it. He studied the smiling bellhop as he entered the elevator. He was just a boy, young with medium build. His face was fair, spotted with freckles, and his smile was lopsided. He was homely—average looking, but on him, it was endearing.
"To the lobby," he instructed, looking the boy over yet again. There was nothing special about him, nothing stood out, and he provoked no particular feelings. He was the type that no one ever bothered to turn around for, and it was wonderfully refreshing. Andrew often wondered what it would be like to be average and to have gone through life devoid of any distinguishing achievements—middle class family with a middle class income, plain face, and mediocre intelligence. He thought it would have been nice and especially soothing to get away from it all, the money, the publicity, and most of all—the company. Running a large business was complicated, more complicated than he could have ever imagined. It was one thing to study it—another to make it come alive, and the latter was clearly the more difficult. He found himself overwhelmed by the stress of it all more and more often, and as for Darien—he had managed to keep himself as detached from the industry as possible. He did the minimum work and pulled his weight when necessary, but never more. That had been tolerable before when he had Mina. It was amusing to him to imagine himself ruling a vast empire with her by his side as his queen. And she would have made a beautiful queen, he never envisioned her as the princess type. In times of crisis, she was his backbone; she knew little of business and most of her advice was inane, but she had always been big on support, and from her, that was all he needed to keep him going. However, now, he could feel himself cracking. He saw it even, every time he looked in the mirror, in his tired eyes and the perpetual stooping of the corners of his mouth. He was beginning to hate the company, even the idea of it. He hated what it had become, and most of all—what had become of him. There was still the knowledge, though, the whispering in the back of his mind that told him he couldn't ever escape. Both him and Darien had boxed themselves in and were much too proud to throw away all the years they had dedicated to it and everything they had sacrificed—like Mina.
What could have been a bigger loss? After the ordeal, he remembered feeling almost nothing, nothing he had expected. No pain, no anger or hurt, and that was what had devastated him. She was his life, the reason he trudged on through each day, the reason he even chose to get out of bed in the mornings—with the exception of the times she was in it. It was as if in the time they had been together—their beings had merged, and she had become part of him, at least, the part that wasn't already consumed by the industry. Apart, he had been forced to discover himself again, and he finally began to mourn her absence. He never felt as if he had regained everything that was him before—that it was still with her, and it had all been lost for the sake of the company. Darien was right.
When it all came to end, he had wanted to throw it all away. He had found several potential buyers, each offering profitable sums, and he would have given it to any of them for nothing if she would have just stayed with him. But after she discovered his plans, instead of meeting them with gratitude as he had expected, she accused him of putting on a show of chivalry. And she was right. He had known somewhere in a corner of his mind that she would have refused. She said it meant too much to him; and without that knowledge—he wouldn't have even tried, throwing it into the ever growing stack of lost cause. He had discarded love—his one chance at happiness, and all for the sake of business. Even Mina hadn't been enough to save him.
He shut his eyes, trying to drown his thoughts in the lobby noise that rushed through the opening doors. It had almost become a physical pain to him-thinking of what he had let go and knowing that he wouldn't have been behind any other decision one hundred percent.
Then, without even a glance at the young bellhop he asked, "Do you believe in love? Or maybe the possibility of love? I've..." He paused, "I've begun to think that it doesn't exist."
"Or maybe just not for people like me," he added as an afterthought. His eyes flashed, frantically thinking that if perhaps one person still held on to romantic ideals of fantasy-he could too. And so he waited, desperately hoping for a positive answer, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw the boy's face was a blank slate, the only expression that shone in his eyes was a hint of bewilderment. If he had heard at all, he chose not to respond.
"I suppose," he said, to the boy's relief, "It's not an easy question to answer, but thank-you." A bitterness crept into his voice as he choked up his last words, and he pulled the tip from his wallet.
"Think of this as my tribute to love," he pronounced, "Perhaps it will be better to you than it has been for me." And it was only then, after having the bill pressed into the palm of his hand, that any emotion at all came to the palate of the young boy, shocked by the generous donation of one thousand dollars.