MADISON'S POV
She shrugs. "It's just you, Madi. I keep telling you that you have a certain… elegance to you. Class. It draws people in."
I try not to snort. A memory of me back in Clonmel, Ireland, clad in torn, dirty clothes and picking pockets, comes to me. I violently shove it back and change the subject.
"Anyway, help a girl out. It's raining sexy men here, so I'd like to meet someone. Now, I've just ruled out Maxwell…"
"The doctor?"
"Yep, he's out. Ryan, too. But everyone else is fair game. You know most people here. So, tell me, who would you suggest?"
She looks around, rubbing her palms excitedly. "Oh, there's so many to choose from. Let's see, what was your type again? Coloring, build, personality?"
"Muscles, a clever tongue, and a working cock would be a good place to start."
"Well, that simplifies things then! Shall we find out how much they're charging?" Ella and I are still giggling when Jordan and Calhoun reach us.
From Jordan's grin and the thunderous look on Calhoun's face, I know they overheard our conversation.
Geez, lighten up, man. Your virtue is safe.
Calhoun folds his tall frame into the chair opposite from me and then collects a drink from a passing waiter.
"Can I steal this gorgeous woman beside you, Madi?" Jordan asks. He'd been whispering to Ella prior to him asking me the question, and he's now helping her out of her seat.
"By all means!"It's not even been fifteen minutes, and already Jordan wants his wife back. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.
Ella goes with her husband, and we watch as he spins her on the dance floor as she giggles like a little girl.
I feel Calhoun's eyes on me. The silence grows heavy with what I know he wants to say, so I mentally steel myself for another round of verbal sparring.
No need to get a hernia restraining yourself on my account. I sure as hell didn't hold back my thoughts yesterday when we were introduced.
"So, Harvard," I say cooly. "I heard you lost a game of poker."
He shrugs. "I suppose you can't be great at everything, can you?"
Arrogant, aren't we?Why does every word out of his mouth irritate me so much?
"Well, I have to tell you, poker isn't the only thing you're bad at. You certainly weren't the man for the job tonight. I've seen elephants with better finesse."
I hate the way his eyes bore into me. "You'll have to forgive me. I'm not that much into showmanship, you see."
How dare he say that to me after the silly speech he gave? "And I am? You think I put on a show?"
He glances pointedly at my black curls with its dark purple highlights and my dress, which has no neckline to speak of, as it opens down to my amethyst belly button ring. I feel naked under his perusal.
And inexplicably achy.
His face swings back up to mine, shuttered and unreadable.
"Whatever gets you through the night, Madison."
What the hell does that comment even mean?"Don't presume to know or judge me."
"Why would I judge you Madison?" His tone softens.
"Oh come on! You've been doing that since yesterday. Especially this morning. Your expression said it all: the twist in your mouth, the stiffness in your spine. Oh, wait, that might have more to do with the giant baseball bat shoved up your ass, actually."
Still no reaction. "And you got all of that from the two seconds I was in that hallway?"
"It doesn't take long to recognize disdain. What exactly was your issue this morning, Harvard? Have you never seen a woman do the walk of shame before? Or maybe you've never had a one night stand?"
I'm not sure why I said that. I'd spent the night in Brooke's hotel room. But for some reason, I want to shock him, ruffle his cold, contained demeanor.
"Is that what you were doing this morning then, Madison? A walk of shame?"
"What did it look like?"
"Like a drama queen getting her rocks off."
He's not smiling. He's not frowning, either. He just has this cold, bland, irritatingly contained demeanor. And the reflection from his glasses mocks me.
I want to break them.
I wish I could see his eyes. They were so expressive when I caught a glimpse of them as he knelt at my feet. I bet if I could see his eyes now, I'd know what exactly he's thinking.
"Maybe if you took that log of bias out of your eyes, you might see better, Harvard."
He doesn't respond, so I continue. "Speaking of, I've been meaning to ask, haven't you heard of this little thing called laser eye surgery? It's all the rave these days."
He's a billionaire. Why would he insist on wearing those weird glasses?
He adjusts them in response. "As it happens, I've heard of it. You, on the other hand, might want to invest in a truth filter. And a sober stylist."
Before I can fully process what I'm doing, I grab for my drink. Only, my fingers narrowly miss the champagne glass I was reaching for as he deftly collects it, somehow already sensing I was about to empty the contents on his head. Still with that bland expression, he drains the glass and carefully puts it back on the table.
"Evening, Madison." He stands and stalks off, leaving me helplessly fuming.
*****
CALHOUN'S POV
Three months later
The gym on the executive floor of the Acercraft Group building is dark and completely empty at 10:30 p.m. As a creature of habit, I work until almost midnight on most days, although my workload in the last few weeks has dramatically increased since my partner, Jordan, dropped his hours.
Acercraft is a product of a collaboration between my friends, Jordan Farrington, Mike Waldrow, and me. We teamed up a little over five years ago, and now, the online gaming platform is already worth tens of billions.
We'd connected on a virtual conference, and upon realizing how well our goals aligned, we started creating video games using our unique platform and game engine. The games went viral and consistently outdid big names in the market within the first year of the company's launch.
The most surprising part was the even higher demand for the platform and game engine by developers and companies. The profits skyrocketed, and we quickly scaled up our company and operations, focusing more on providing and maintaining the online gaming platform for others to create their video games.
Jordan oversees systems and security, Mike sales and marketing, and I look after product engineering. Although we have a few other partners in key management positions, the three of us have more or less retained our original roles.
Since Jordan started stepping away from his duties, Mike and I have had to step in.
Actually, Mike has done more bitching than stepping in, but hey, systems security isn't his strong suit. Besides, putting in long, grueling hours isn't really Mike's thing. Give him quick and intense activities, and like a sprinter, he'll shine.
I, on the other hand, am the marathon runner, pulling long days and all-nighters fueled by nothing but caffeine and perfectionism. Having had another one of those days today, I wanted to work out my cramped muscles.
I don't bother with lights, and I still unerringly locate the treadmill on the far side of the room. My vision isn't the best either way, but it's significantly better in the dark.
Hemeralopia, it's called. I call it a fucking pain in the neck.
My doctors have been after me to get stem cell transplant, even going as far as to confer with a team of ophthalmologists in Germany, reputedly the best in the world.
The answer, as ever, remains a firm no.
Suffering through a botched surgery and anesthesia awareness at the age of sixteen thoroughly messed me up in the head, especially with situations where I have no control.