Page 9 of For Your Eyes Only
“You’re in town early.” His hands are in his pockets and his nylon shirt ripples in the breeze. “I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow.”
“Don’t put yourself out. I’ll crash at The Villa.” Debbie’s always going on about the former Versace mansion turned into a boutique hotel.
She’s obsessed with the murdered designer. Personally, I think it’s a bit macabre to walk up the white marble steps where he was gunned down twenty-five years ago.
“Fuck that. You’re coming with me back to your place. I’ll call and have the penthouse ready when we arrive.”
“It’s a two-hour drive.” I groan, watching the lean bodies spilling out of the clubs onto the street. “I’d rather have a few drinks and walk to bed right here.”
“You’ll be glad when you’re in your own place tomorrow morning.” He grips my shoulder, pulling me close and slinging his arm around my neck.
It always takes a minute for me to remember how physical men are in South Beach. My instinct is to shrug him off, but I don’t. I lean into the friendly gesture. God knows, I’m sick of being on my guard all the time.
“Can I at least have a drink before we hit the road?”
“You’re the boss,” he laughs, dragging me inside the Clevelander courtyard before releasing me and going straight to the bar.
Two tequila drinks later, I’m in the passenger seat of a gunmetal-gray, convertible Lamborghini, flying north on Interstate 95.
“I think I’m paying you too much,” I joke, stretching my legs straight on the black leather passenger seat.
“You want a Lambo?” He grins at me from where he’s driving. “Because I know a guy.”
“A car in New York is about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.”
He laughs, bearing down on the accelerator and letting the engine eat as he swerves around the slower-moving vehicles. The top is up, but the speed at which we’re moving is palpable.
“Doesn’t matter. You can afford it. I’m telling you, investing in this business was the smartest move you’ve ever made. Profits have gone through the roof in the last two years. The Private Eyes girls are out-earning the cam girls three to one, and we get twenty percent off every account.”
My eyebrows rise, and I shift, trying to make peace with this aspect of my business. Sure, I’ve worked in vice for years. I’m no saint. I’m perfectly fine separating overly wealthy, old, white men from large sums of their money either through slots, real estate side deals, or other forms of grift, but doping horses and selling women are two areas I avoid.
If it weren’t for Grish assuring me this “subscription-based social media service” was legal and private, I’d have walked.
“Last month, we partnered with a group in India that helps maintain our largest accounts, replying to DMs and posting new videos.”
“But the girls are still in control? They only do what they want?” I have a vague understanding of how the business operates.
“First, it’s not just girls. It’s male models, singers, dancers, fitness instructors…” He hesitates, tightening his fist on the wheel. “Speaking of dancers, we picked up two new girls last week. They’re staying in the house.”
“Whatever.” I glance out the window with a wave. “Just be sure they’re legal and cover their costs. No minors.”
“Of course not. I didn’t want you to be surprised is all. I’m trying to get them into the subscription side.”
I’m not interested in what the girls do. I don’t even visit the “house,” which is actually an entire floor in a luxury West Palm highrise on the bay.
It sounds extravagant, but the sex trade in Florida is astonishingly lucrative. My group of investors is different—at my insistence. I’m not a pimp. I insist the women who work for us are safe, healthy, and have decent accommodations. It was my one requirement for going in on the deal.
Franco manages the details. Personally, I don’t even know their names. When I visit this area, I come to relax, hit the links, check on my family’s properties, and make sure everyone’s following the rules. Drop-in visits only serve to keep people on their best behavior.
“You should stop by the club and catch a show. I think you’d be impressed, and it’s good for morale to know the boss cares.”
It takes all my strength to suppress a grimace.
Strippers don’t interest me. Their performances have the opposite effect. Instead of being enthralled by their movements, my mind drifts to the forces that have driven them to such a state.
I wonder if they’re taking off their clothes to make ends meet. I wonder if it’s to save money for school or to support a dying relative. Perhaps I’m overthinking it.
Once I was informed some women strip to demonstrate their power over men. I’m not sure I buy it, but as someone who grew up with a complete asshole, I can respect wanting to hit back.