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I do not own Glee or the characters and I do not own The Billionaire's Embrace.
SAM
Three months later...
The girl leaning against me couldn't possibly be twenty-one. Her hair, her makeup and her sparky halter top... she looked about eighteen, probably an NYU sorority girl on the loose.
But somehow she had gotten into the nightclub. Flashed her tits at the door, no doubt.
I hated dance clubs.
And yet, here I was, fending off this underage harridan who was saying something in a hoarse shout necessitated by the thumping music from below.
Her nail salon, the Porsche her daddy bought her, who knew...I wasn't really listening.
Instead, I was scanning the crowded balcony for Santana.
She had brought me here and then abandoned me. I would've left, but she had my wallet. She'd fished it out of my pocket as we walked through the door and told me I couldn't have it back until she decided it was acceptable for me to go home.
And knowing her, that wouldn't happen until the club's closing time.
The girl shifted closer to me on the leather couch. And I tried to edge away without being too obvious about it. If I snubbed her too blatantly, she'd sell some fanciful concoction to the tabloids.
I could see the headlines now...
"HAD SEX WITH SAM EVANS AND THEN ABANDONED BY HIM! SECRET LOVE CHILD ONLY NINE MONTHS AWAY!"
I shouldn't have let Santana talk me into this.
"You're too boring," she kept saying. "Forget that woman. You are a rich man, Evans! Enjoy your wild youth!" All in that over-the-top accent.
She grew up in a fairly upscale town in Bergen County and barely spoke any Spanish, but she thought she would find more success if she played up her 'exotic' roots.
And she'd certainly made a name for herself, so it was difficult for me to criticize her decision...even though she sounded like a poor imitation of Salma Hayek.
Sorority girl said something about getting another drink and I gave her a tight smile, ignoring her obvious hint.
I'd made many poor decisions in my life, but I wasn't about to add purchasing alcohol for a minor to the list.
She gave me an exaggerated pout and staggered off towards the bar.
Alone, I relaxed back against the couch. Eighteen-year-olds weren't to my taste, but I couldn't deny that there were plenty of beautiful women in the club that night.
I loved women. Everything about them, their soft skin, the way their hair smelled and the hollows of their lower backs.
Most men did too, unless they were gay; and I am pretty sure that gay men had the same fervent aesthetic appreciation for other men that I did for women.
It was part and parcel of having a Y chromosome.
I had probably drunk too much whiskey. I was starting to feel the effects.
One of the women dancing nearby gave me a sly look, shaking her hips with her arms above her head. And I permitted myself a long, slow perusal.
This was no schoolgirl. This was a confident, sensual woman with her hair pulled back in a sleek up-do. She had the look of an executive enjoying a wild night out.
Just my type.
I liked women who were smarter than me and who fucked like it was going out of style.
I raised my glass to her and she danced closer, her lips curled in a smile.
With that, I downed the rest of my drink and stood up. Santana wanted me to make the most of the night, well...mission accepted.
The woman turned her back to me as I approached her, feigning disinterest in that coy way some women had. So I took it as an invitation and moved directly behind her, standing with my chest pressed against her bare back, one hand settling lightly on her hip.
She leaned back against me, silently welcoming my presence and I leaned down to press my lips against her ear and murmur,
"You look like you could use some company."
She responded by curling her raised hands around the back of my neck, her spine arched, her body a perfect curve begging for my touch.
I was happy to oblige. I moved my hips in time with hers, swaying to the beat of the music and slid my hand down to the expanse of bare thigh exposed by the short hem of her dress.
She was soft, warm and yielding against me, her head tipped back, her eyes closed, and I didn't think twice before I brushed my lips against the sweet-smelling skin of her neck and said,
"Let's take this somewhere more private, shall we?"
Twenty minutes later, I stepped out of the single-occupancy bathroom and tossed the woman's phone number into the trash.
She'd handed it to me with a wry twist to her mouth and said,
"I'm sure you aren't going to call me."
And she was right, I wasn't. Why plow the same field twice?
I went to the balcony railing and leaned against it, gazing down at the dance floor below. It was all familiar to me... the music, the scantily clad women and the overpriced drinks.
I had spent most of my 20's at clubs exactly like this one, living out a tired cliché of Rich Boy Rebels Against Parental Mores.
But I stopped when I started business school, having decided that I would make something of myself; and now it all seemed like a sad charade...people seeking a meaningful connection in the last place they would find one.
I had grown up, perhaps, or maybe I had just become boring.
None of which explained why I had let Santana dragged me here.
Stupidity? Temporary insanity? Heartbreak?
Maybe all three.
I needed another drink...
I fought my way to the bar and was making good progress through some very nice Scotch when Santana found me again.
Some lanky model type had made his way into her orbit, his stubble and elaborately coiffed hair designed to make him appear just masculine enough to avoid androgyny.
I sighed and set down my glass, preparing myself for what would inevitably come next.
Santana sat down beside me on the sofa I had managed to procure and said,
"Sammy, my darling, this is Jean-Luc. We've just found each other. He told me about the best club, the absolute best. We should go. All of the best people are there. We will have so much fun. Say that you'll come with us."
And there it was...
If I agree, we would spend the rest of the night gallivanting around the city, going from club to club to maximize her chances of being photographed somewhere with cachet. My role, of course, was to provide entry to any doors that were reluctant to open.
"No," I said firmly.
She gave me a look of such extravagant, wide-eyed incredulity that I couldn't help but laugh.
"But Sam! Jean-Luc knows people. You wouldn't want anyone to think that you are old and boring, no? You must get out of your house every once in and while!"
Jean-Luc opened his mouth to say something, but she help up one hand and he subsided. Smart boy.
"I'm out of the house right now," I said, amused.
She leaned closer and spoke into my ear, her lips almost brushing against me.
"Perhaps I forgot to mention, Fish Lips, you owe me."
Of course she wouldn't have forgotten about that. I was terrible at poker and yet I never learned to avoid placing bets.
"Fine. One club."
"Yes, of course," she said, sitting back and beaming. "Just one! Absolutely!"
As a promise, it rang falser than most.
"Just let me finish my drink," I said. I would need the fortification.
But maybe she was right. I should make the most of my wild youth.
I woke with a start when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.
Christ. What time was it?
My tongue stuck to the roof of my dry mouth.
I rolled over and squinted at the clock, but the blurry numbers wouldn't resolve into anything I could read.
It was light in the bedroom, though. Full daylight. Which meant I should've been at work hours ago.
What day was it?
I was fairly certain it was Friday.
I grabbed my phone and looked at the screen. My secretary had texted me. I had a meeting that started in an hour; and she was wondering if I was planning to make an appearance at work.
Fuck! It was a conference call about an upcoming merger...not something I could reschedule. So I rolled out of bed and staggered towards the bathroom.
My head felt like it was being squeezed in a vise. And I wasn't entirely sure what had happened last night.
Shower, painkillers, quick shave, suit and I was out of the apartment in half an hour flat.
I needed coffee, some fried eggs and a nap. Two of the three my secretary would have waiting for me at the office. The nap would have to wait until after my meeting.
I knew some executives who kept cots in their offices, but I would have to settle for the floor under my desk. At least the carpet was thick.
I stared out the window as Harry drove south along the Hudson, my aching head resting against the glass.
Maybe I needed to take some time off.
With a few exceptions like food poisoning and a cousin's wedding on the West Coast, I had worked every single day since my father died. Even on the days I didn't make it to the office, I still spent a few hours on my laptop.
And as much as I enjoyed the endless variety of problems that was presented to me on a daily basis, sometimes I had the urge to do nothing but sit on my couch and watch football.
It was impossible, of course; football didn't have irate board members who would call me to yell about share prices.
It wasn't that I had set out to be a workaholic, though. Necessity drove me to it.
When my father died, I was fresh out of business school and was forced to learn how to run the business practically overnight.
My father's death was unexpected...he was only in his early 60s and apparently in good health...and I had been completely unprepared for the intricacies of running a multinational corporation.
I spent the first six months getting by on five hours of sleep a night, going home only to shower and change clothes. By the end of it, I was running on fumes, but the company survived. And by then, working seven days a week had simply become a habit.
A vacation would likely do me some good. Bora Bora, the Comoros...possibly Mustique. I could escape from the dreary New York winter and find some sun-dappled maiden eager for a fling.
I sighed... There was no time. I had three mergers to oversee in the next six weeks.
An image from the night before surfaced in my brain... a woman with her skirt hiked up around her waist, moaning my name...
I rubbed my eyes. That had been at the third club, after Santana had jettisoned Jean-Luc and ensnared a larger, more muscular victim.
No more clubs, no matter how much she pouted. I wasn't twenty-three anymore; my liver couldn't handle the alcohol and my dick couldn't handle the multiple women. If I wanted to have a breakdown, it would have to take a more discreet form.
Something in private, with no risk of the tabloids finding out.
Golden Cross Men's Club, maybe.
But I couldn't risk it. I hadn't been there in over two months, not since Mercedes broke up with me over the phone just before Christmas.
Christ. Mercedes...
I wasn't prepared to think about her.
Fortunately, Harry pulled up outside of the office before I had a chance to delve too deeply into that particular well of misery. He slid open the partition and said,
"See you tonight, sir?"
"Most likely," I said. "I'll give you a call."
He nodded at me and I opened the door and went out into the world.
Evans Industries occupied the top floors of a large skyscraper in the heart of the financial district. I had considered the idea of constructing a building exclusively for the company's use, but discarded it as ostentatious and unnecessary.
We had no use for an entire building and I had little desire to be a landlord.
Renting suited me well enough. Let someone else deal with it when the heating went on the fritz.
I strode into the lobby and took the elevator all the way to the top floor, where my office was located.
There was a little room for ostentation in a CEO's life, and I found that my expansive view of lower Manhattan and the Harbor satisfied my urge for world domination.
As a life-long New Yorker, I shared the common belief that nothing of importance lay west of the Hudson, but I enjoyed being able to survey New Jersey and reassure myself that I had no need to ever go there.
As soon as the elevator doors slid open, my secretary descended on me like a wrathful harpy...
"Mr. Evans, your conference call is scheduled to begin in fifteen minutes..."
"Yes, I know," I said, accepting the coffee mug that she handed to me and taking a scalding sip. "I've been very bad, and you're tremendously disappointed in me. You still have breakfast for me, though, right?"
She pursed her mouth at me, but I could tell that she was amused. She and I had reached an understanding... I would make her life extraordinarily difficult and in return, I paid her a salary fit for a king. It suited both of us.
"I shouldn't feed you, but I will," she said. "Egg and cheese biscuit, waiting on your desk."
"My savior," I said. "Bless you."
I headed towards my office, anticipating greasy food and a second round of painkillers.
"Don't let anyone in until at least noon, would you?" I called back.
She said something behind me, but I didn't listen, already halfway through the door into my office.
I closed the door behind me and leaned back against it, exhaling, allowing my eyes to close for just a moment.
"No more drunken escapades," I told myself sternly. The hangovers weren't worth it, and they severely limited my ability to be productive the next day.
When I was younger, I could stay out all night drinking like a fish and feel fresh as a daisy the next morning, but age had taken its toll on me.
Time and tide wait for no man.
I had enough time to cram the egg and cheese biscuit into my mouth before the conference call began and the rest of the day passed in a steady blur of work...phone calls, papers to sign, executives to confer with and an unexpected crisis in the Nairobi office.
Before I knew it, six o'clock had arrived, and my secretary was knocking on my door frame and saying,
"I'm heading home, Mr. Evans."
I put down my pen and rubbed my eyes.
"Is it that time already?"
"It's that time," she agreed. "You should get going, too. You know it makes the staff nervous when you're here late."
"Yes, they always think the company is collapsing," I said. "All right. I'll just finish this up and then I'll leave."
"Right," she said, giving me a suspicious look, but I gazed back at her with such bland innocence on my face that she rolled her eyes and headed for the elevator.
She was right, though. It wasn't good for me to spend so much time at the office. I forgot what the outside world looked like sometimes.
Trees and fresh air...not that the air in Manhattan was ever particularly fresh, but it was a step above the dry, recycled wind that constantly gusted through the overhead vents in my office.
I stood and went to the window, looking down at night falling over the city, the lights across the water and the tankers slowly moving out towards the sea.
I was a wealthy, powerful man living in the greatest city on earth. I had more money than I would ever be able to spend and I was respected by my employees and my peers.
The worst thing that had ever happened to me was my father's death, and that came after I was a grown man and abundantly capable of processing my grief.
I led, in short, a charmed life.
And yet, at this very moment, I felt like my chest had been scooped clean. Like if I thumped on my breastbone, it would sound hollow.
I didn't want to think about the reason why so I turned away from the window and put my coat on.
It was Friday night and I didn't want to go home and sit in my empty apartment.
So I pulled out my phone and dialed Santana's number. There were worse things in life than having a good time...
Stay safe!