Do you think they got hacked, or do you think they’re really going to pull the plug on their streaming service and somebody goofed and released the notice prematurely?
Best,
Jian Laio
And then Hisham, who was totally in for anything that would cause chaos in the greater world, though not his household, and certainly would participate in a caper that would lead to an interesting stock opportunity, replied to Jian’s post in full view of the entire board:
GameShack’s servers went down like a new twink in the back room. The service collapsed with a death rattle, and this message came up on the screen. Note the frickin’ date, man. That’sthisFriday, five days from now. I’m downloading all my content and data right now in case GameShack folds like an anxious bunny playing Texas Hold ‘em.
Hisham posted a screenshot of Tristan’s message to the creators on the chat board.
And hundreds of savvy personal assistants had a hot stock tip for their billionaires at breakfast:Sell GameShack. That stock will be worthless by Friday.
Tristan’s private jet touched down at eight o’clock local time on Tuesday at the airport in Nice, France, which was two in the morning back in New York.
As Tristan had arranged, a French customs official met the plane, collected and cursorily examined their passports, and glanced at the rear of the jet where Colleen had squeezed into a new extra-large roller bag they’d bought in Newark.
There was something a bitfunabout sneaking his little around in luggage, like a real-live sex toy for the taking. Tristan reminded himself not to get used to it. If everything worked out, he would get Colleen a damn passport at the first opportunity.
The customs official left, and Colleen walked down the stairs to the tarmac with the rest of them.
A helicopter was waiting, which ferried them to the heliport in Monaco, and then Tristan had a town car shuttle them over to the yacht club and his boat.
Tristan put Jian in the front seat because he didn’t want him to get elbowed in the ribs as they were driving, and then Colleen sat in the middle of the back seat between Tristan and Anjali.
She kept climbing over Tristan and Anjali as she peered out the windows, craning her head to look at the bustling city that had been crammed into eight-tenths of a square mile. White skyscrapers soared, but most of the houses and older buildings were Italian red-and-pink earth tones, a relic of the noblemen and their armies from Genoa, Italy, who’d conquered Monaco a millennium before.
The streets curved and twisted, and the driver of the staid Mercedes sedan must have been under the mistaken impression that he was driving a Lamborghini. He skidded around turns, and Colleen tumbled over the two of them as she gawked out the car windows.
Watching her become wiggly with excitement was the best part of Tristan’s day, and the wonder shining in her dark eyes was entrancing.
She fell on his lap again as the chauffeur took a corner like a Formula One race car driver.
One time when he caught her, he managed to slide a pinch over her nipple, which earned him a secret smile from Colleen.
The next time, when he made sure that Anjali had her face pressed against the other window, he slid a finger up the leg of her shorts and skimmed his fingertip just once over her clit.
That startled her, and she whipped her head around and looked at Anjali, who had both hands plastered to the glass and was staring somewhere up above the car. Her glance back at him threaded a little fright in her smile.
He raised one eyebrow at her, though he kept a smile on his face. He turned her face back to the window, letting his lips and breath brush the pink shell of her ear as he whispered,“Mine.”
She blinked a few times and glanced behind herself at Anjali, who was still stuck to the window, and then resumed looking out her window with her hands braced on his thigh, the one closest to the door.
Nice.
He rested his hand on the back of Colleen’s knee, which could have looked like it was to steady her, and occasionally stroked just an inch up the delicate inside of her thigh but no farther as she stared at Monaco rushing by outside the window.
The car dodged sideways and then dove down a ramp, rocking all of them. Anjali fell backward from the window, bumping Colleen’s butt and driving her breast into Tristan’s hand, where he ran his thumb over her nipple that he could feel beaded through her shirt and bra.
The girls were laughing and apologizing, but Colleen’s cheeks were pink when she turned back to him. She settled herself over his thighs again, ostensibly to look out the window.
Tristan said, “We’re here.”
The Monaco Yacht Club was a long, rectangular building of glass and steel, constructed just a few years before. The architectural lines vaguely resembled a superyacht, with an elongated deck and pool area on the fifth-floor roof pointing toward the dark blue waters of the Mediterranean Sea where the prow would have been.
Tristan led them down the sidewalk of the quay, their smaller suitcases bumping over the seams and down the long pier lined with yachts toward his boat. He carried Jian’s bag and his own. He would’ve preferred to carry Colleen’s and Anjali’s bags, too, but couldn’t.
The yacht club’s marina was situated in a deep-water harbor at the foot of the towering gray headlands calledLe Rocherin French, which translated as The Rock. The Prince’s Palace occupied the seaward side of Le Rocher, as it was the fort that defended Monaco from invasions from Genoa to the south and the French in the north.
