Page 8 of Boss Abroad
“I’ll personally fill her in and train her myself. You will, as always, feel like you’re on a real date,” she assures me.
God, when she says it out loud, it sounds utterly pathetic. There are far worse kinks out there. This shouldn’t even qualify as one. It’s not a kink, it’s just a pleasant illusion.
I stare at my phone again, twice offended, as if she didn’t say something I asked her for.
Unsure if I can remain civil enough to end this conversation, I hang up instead.
I don’t have the time or the need for a relationship. Many women have accused me of misleading them before, even though I’ve always been crystal clear that I’m not looking for a girlfriend.
I’ve never wanted to commit to anyone. Never craved it. My first and last girlfriend was at the age of fourteen. I realized then that a relationship wasn’t something that interested me. The only things I wish to take care of are some of my younger siblings—the ones the international law failed to make my father honor his parental responsibilities to—and my business.
Well, businesses, as I own more than one. Or twenty.
My success comes with a shit ton of stress. Yes, I was born into money, but I turned millions into billions and don’t take a penny for granted.
To keep myself centered, I meditate, do boxing, jiu-jitsu, yoga.
Oh, and I fuck.
Hard and a lot. Therefore, I hire a quite luxurious and discreet escort service that provides me with women to do that.
This way, there’s no fuss in the press. Paparazzi were already a pain in my ass since some idiotic magazine listed me as one of the UK's most eligible bachelors. What a dense fucking list. The harassment worsened even more after I bought Chelsea FC. An unintended fuck you to my precious privacy.
So, I turned to escorts. There’s no awkwardness after it’s done, no expectations. And no repeats, just to keep things interesting and unattached. But just fucking them in a hotel room got boring after a while. I missed the flirt, the small talk.
Hence my little demand.
All the professionals that come to me are instructed to act like they’re on a regular date. Most of them quit a failing acting career prior to escorting, anyway.
For the money I pay, I’d expect them to play any role, from my date to Mac-fucking-beth. Tonight it will be April. Let’s see what kind of stories she makes up.
I’ve been on ‘dates’ with NASA scientists, Nobel prize winners, preschool teachers, shark tank cleaners, dog surfing instructors. Their wild creativity is certainly part of the fun.
My desk phone beeps, cutting my trip down memory lane—or red-light district—short. I’ve been fencing fidgety Chelsea FC board members the entire morning and I’m ready to call it a day.
“What now, Mia?” I grunt over the speaker. Mia has been my secretary for two years—a record—and has long learned to ignore my mood swings, for both of our benefits. “If it’s another whiny ass sponsor, tell them to shove their money up their asses.” I stop to take a calming breath. “Feel free to phrase that however you deem fit.”
She stifles a laugh, but the undertone of mockery tinges her voice. “Will do, sir. Your new trainer confirmed the extra session today. Do you want it at his gym or yours?”
“Mine. I’m heading there now, actually. See if he can meet me there earlier. Cancel whatever was on the agenda for this afternoon.” I shut my laptop and unplug it to fit it in my briefcase. “Oh, and Mia?” What I’m about to say puts a smile on my face. “If your name pops up on my phone one more time today, you’re fired.”
I hang up, but not before I catch her snickering at my empty threat. It has become an inside joke of ours since I say this almost every day.
We both know I’d be doomed without her and her no-bullshit approach to my non-existing good manners. I make sure to give her generous and frequent bonuses to compensate for my arrogant ass.
As it happens, I stole Mia from my brother, Noah, before she even completed her three-month probation period as his PA. At first, I did it to save him from a sexual harassment charge. And, yes, to piss him off too, of course, but in the end, it was a goodwill gesture to keep his criminal record clean.
She’s his type down to a T. He was borderline ogling at her with a hand on her shoulder when I stopped by his office for lunch. I offered triple her salary, paid off her student debt, and oblivious to Noah’s infatuation, she was more than happy to join my team. I did him a favor because now he can fuck her without being sued. The half-witted fucker still hasn’t. But now that I’ve gotten to know Mia, she might be too good for him.
His loss. Twice.
“Not too bad, Gunn.” Kyle, my new trainer, is a sadistic fuck. He’s a retired heavyweight UFC champion who coaches new athletes and trains wealthy bastards as unattached to money as I am.
“Not too bad?” My objection would hold itself better if I wasn’t so out of breath. We had a great sparring session. I’m covered in sweat and the half a pint of water I just poured down my neck. "I landed several solid punches," I argue.
“Sure, Gunn.” His smirk is obnoxious. “If you say so.” Bloody wanker. He’s not much bigger than me, but he’s a fucking pro. Every punch and kick that hits that war machine disguised as a human being is a win, no matter how unfazed he may seem. When I’m as pissed off about work as I am today, fighting him is the best way to blow off some steam. Well, second best. But that’s on the books for later too.
It’s close to six in the evening, so I head straight for the shower. My date is at seven and I make sure to always arrive first to have time for a drink by myself before the escort arrives.