“Good night?” He asks as I shrug off my jacket and roll up my sleeves before slumping on the huge couch, the cushions scattering as I toss them into oblivion.
“I’m fucking exhausted.”
He shrugs. “It was necessary. You can sleep when you’re dead.”
“Who says I can sleep, anyway?”
He takes a seat. “Shall I call Su Yin?”
“No.”
My sigh is barely audible.
“I’ll watch the game. I recorded it earlier. Care to join me?”
“Sorry, boss, but my guest is arriving in–” He studies his wristwatch. “Ten minutes.”
I’m aware of his guest. Spencer is currently ‘dating’ a socialite named Mary Donovan. She is the daughter of an Irish racehorse owner who boasts a stable of three hundred thoroughbred racehorses. Spencer appears to like her, probably because her proclivities appear to match his, and as she is in town this week, I’m guessing they are wasting no time.
“She’s been to a gala at the Savoy with the industry. I only have one night with her before she’s expected to return with her father tomorrow.”
“I understand.”
His excuse is not needed because Spencer is a loyal companion who deserves some downtime – hell, we all do, and I resign myself to a night spent in front of the television as always.
“You should take something for your insomnia.”
He appears concerned, and I shake my head, reaching for the remote.
“Perhaps you can arrange some coffee on your way out. That’s all I need.”
“If you say so.”
Spencer is worried and has been for some time. I barely sleep; work is my medicine, and Su Yin is my pleasure. Occasionally I fuck women in my club up the street. It’s a welcome hobby of mine, close to home, that brings in millions of pounds of profit every year under the radar.
Illegal dens of iniquity are the easiest profits to accumulate, and preying on men’s and women’s carnal desires and weaknesses has become a skill I’ve sharpened over the years.
This is my empire, aside from my father’s. I run his business interests in London, and he allows me this hobby for pocket money. All my brothers enjoy some form of escapism, and the house up the street is mine.
Number ten Grosvenor Crescent. That is how it is referred to. A membership of number ten is an ironic twist to the address of the prime minister and much the same as number ten Downing Street; what happens inside my walls is just as corrupt. In fact, many members of Parliament are customers, if they can afford the membership fee, of course.
I decide to head to my room to shower and change into sweatpants and a t-shirt, wondering if a workout would help.
I possess a gym in the basement along with a swimming pool, and it’s a possibility that sometimes enables me to relax. However, I’m interested in catching up with soccer—football asit’s known in London, and my team is playing a giant of Europe, and it will help cleanse my mind.
The coffee is waiting when I return, and as I flick on the game, I reach for the strong espresso that I really drink too much of and attempt to empty my mind of nothing but the game.
* * *
The sun is scorching today,and sweat is rolling off me like waves off a beach.
Thump followed by a groan.
“Joe.”
His triumphant smirk causes me to recover, and I land a punch on his shoulder.
“Ow.”
