No, no, no. Girl, donotthink about him. Focus on the pleasure. Think about that thing Bryan could do with his tongue…one of the few times I didn’t have to fake it. Nope, I hate Bryan. How about the actor on the cover of thePeoplemagazine that’s getting splashed on the side of the tub? Nah, too young and scrawny and delicate.
And there he is again. Axe. The way he looked at me, that sharp glint in his dark blue eyes. Those rugged, weathered features, like he’s seen things, lived in different worlds before Shelton. Thataccent, holy fuck, the accent.No, Josie, you cannot let Axe bring you to climax. He did his job; find someone else. Literally anyone.
Aye, don’t slow down, lass!I hear the lilt of his Scottish brogue in my imagination, as soft and teasing as I imagine his tongue would be.
And then it’s too late. I’m gone.
Fifteen
Axe
Niles von Grafenhagen has been out of pocket for three weeks, and looking at him as he strides into my corner office tells me why.
He’s had another nose job, plus a new hair transplant.
I don’t know what looks worse, a nose like a Barbie doll or a head of baby hair sprouting from his scalp like pickleweed after a Highland gale. But I do know that he fully expects me to tell him how smashing he looks.
His smile is as hopeful as an eighth-grade girl with her braces just off.
“Let’s get to it,” I say. I’m a good liar, but even I can’t compliment that face without wincing. He should sue the doctor who let him go under the knife. Again. God, the poor man is an addict. I’d feel bad for him, if I didn’t hate him so fecking much.
Von Graf’s smile fades, but he didn’t become a billionaire because he gave a shite about winning fans.
“Time is money,” he agrees, his voice edged with impatience. He smooths down his new hair. Despite his troll-like stature and his daft plasticky, mismatched face, von Graf exudes his own jarring sort of Napoleonic power. His desperate attempts to cling tohis youth have turned his face into a freakish blend of stretched skin and eerily smooth features.
These, along with the obvious lifts in his shoes, make him look like some odd wee man who’s gone through Willie Wonka’s taffy-pulling machine and come out on the other side a bit overstretched.
But he wears a hundred-thousand-dollar watch and a suit so perfectly pressed, I wonder if he keeps a steam iron in the back of his chauffeured car. I happen to know his sneakers are 1985 Air Jordan 1s—possibly worn by Jordan himself, now specially shrunk to von Graf’s elf-man feet.
To each his own, I think, but my mouth is closed for no more than ten seconds before it just pops out. “How’s that new nose treating ya, laddie?” I ask.
Von Graf takes the jab with a shrug.
“If it helps me smell bullshit, then it’s a success.” But he’s pissed. Me and my big yawp—ach, it’s just how I am. He’s such a shithead. No way I can put sugar on it.
“No bullshit here. She’s the One is going to make us a fortune,” I assure him, and then we’re off to the races as I lower the lights and unveil the wall screen to reveal a full presentation on the project.
Von Graf is a formidable businessman, and his calculating eyes and shrewd, me-first questions got him the nickname von Grab. The tabloids also love to highlight the fact von Graf shuffles houses, cars, and women like a croupier, so when the first photo of AI Josie splashes across the deck, I’m surprised he reacts with such hawkish intensity.
“Who’s this?” His eyes narrow as if she’s a challenge I’ve thrown him. A dog about to pounce on a T-bone.
“We’re beta testing this prototype. We call her Gemini.” Bit ofan inside joke, because even though I’m not an expert in astrology, I do know thatGeminimeanstwinsin Latin. Two different Josies. I’ve not told her about the code name yet. I wonder if she’ll find it funny or just plain insulting. Maybe both. Either way, it helps protect her identity. No way would I ever let von Graf know her real name.
“I mean, who is she really?” he snaps. “What woman are you basing her on?”
Something about his tone puts me well on my guard. This presentation is bait, aye, but Josie most definitely is not. “Don’t get your knickers in a knot. She’s nobody,” I say. “It doesn’t matter. She’s been hired to add finishing details. That’s all.”
Von Graf nods, and as I carry on with the presentation, he takes tiny sips from whatever special antiaging tonic he’s got in that sleek, futuristic silver thermos of his. Another bit of gossip I’d love to unlearn about this wanker is his obsession with dodging death. He’s convinced he’ll live to be three hundred or some such notion.
Time’s the one thing a billionaire can’t buy, so naturally, he’s throwing millions at the idea of cheating fate. I’d happily be the first to give this man a leg up into his time machine or whatever fever dream he thinks will grant him immortality. Wherever his earthly body ends up rotting for eternity, his soul will be burning in Hell.
But I’ve got to dot myi’s and cross myt’s first. I don’t take anyone down until everything is proved beyond a shadow of a doubt.
I have rules. My own nonnegotiable code of ethics.
I’ve been following von Graf long enough to have a solid lead that he’s behind a sex-trafficking ring that could involve up to a thousand women. My source says the lasses are mostlyUkrainian—the wives, sisters, or daughters of men killed in the war—kidnapped by Russian militia and sold to the highest international bidder.
Von Graf “buys” in bulk—sickening, unconscionable, but that’s the way of it—and then he “rents” the women out to his fellow billionaires at exclusive parties held across the globe. It’s a side hustle for him—one I reckon he does for the power, the control, and the sex just as much as for the money he doesn’t need.
