King studied the bottles, deciding on which drink he was going to have. His eyes flicked to mine as he held up a bottle of Scotch.

“Would you like a glass?”

I shook my head.

Something else I was starting to notice about him was that he was very specific in the way he made his drinks. He did it lovingly and with a certain finesse. I knew there were only three reasons why a person was that particular about their drinks preparation. One: They’d worked in a bar, and it was grilled into them for life. Two: They were collectors/hobbyists who collected vintage and expensive liquors. Three: They were alcoholics.

I hated to be so callous in my labelling, but it was true. I just hoped King fell into group number two, because I knew he didn’t belong to group number one, and group number three was too painful to contemplate. I remembered our conversation about Bernie Black, the dealer who supplied drugs to those working high-powered jobs in the The City. I was reminded of what King had said, and not for the first time.

When I’m stressed out, a nice glass of top-shelf whiskey usually does the trick.

It took us just over thirty minutes to reach Hirota’s place, which was a quintessentially Roman villa surrounded by acres of lush land and gardens. It was dark; however, the place was illuminated by lights placed all around the entrance and lawn. I noticed some horse stables off to the side, and there were a couple of fancy cars parked out front.

I’d been counting King’s drinks on the drive, and he’d had no less than four large glasses of Scotch. The fact that he wasn’t even acting tipsy indicated a high tolerance, which was also a worrying sign. It felt like the more time I spent around this man, the more clearly I was beginning to see him. The more I got the sense he had secrets he tried his best to keep hidden.

He slid across the seat until his thigh met mine, and I felt him lean down to smell my hair. His closeness caused me to tremble, and I knew he saw it.

“I’m sorry, Alexis,” was all he said before the driver came around and opened the door for us. We both stepped out, and I saw King’s eyes go to my hand a few times, as though he wanted to hold it. And I got the sense he wanted to do it for comfort rather than as a social show. The thought made my heart ache, because I always wanted to be able to comfort him if he needed it. In the end, he never touched me, and one of Hirota’s household staff let us inside before leading us to a spacious dining room.

“Oliver, Alexis,” said Hirota, standing. “So glad you both made it.”

This time the businessman wore an even stranger outfit than before; he was decked out in British countryside chic. Something posh folks back home might wear to go on a hunt or clay pigeon shooting. We were introduced to his wife, a slim blonde who had the desperate look of a woman who took prescription meds just to get through the day. I felt bad thinking it, but it was the truth. He also had twin sons. Both were in the awkward chubby phase of puberty, and looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. The remaining parties at the table were the same men who’d been at the strip club the previous night. All employees of Hirota.

I sat next to King as the meal was served, our arms brushing every so often. King was left-handed, I was right-handed, which meant there was an awful lot of elbow knocking going on. My heart leapt as we were being served dessert and King’s hand disappeared under the table to rest on my thigh.

His mouth was close to my ear when he said, “Stay with me tonight.”

I wanted to say yes, but he had continued his drinking all through dinner, and my concern was outweighing my lust right then. So, even though his touch melted my insides, I pushed his hand away and answered, “I don’t think that’s wise.”

I could feel him staring at me as I swallowed, trying to remain stoic when I really wanted to stand up and demand he tell me what was going on. I was so preoccupied that I was hardly able to take three bites of my dessert. Then the staff came and collected my plate before refilling the wine glasses of those still drinking.

“Laura,” said Hirota to his wife. “Be a dear and take Alexis on a tour of the house. Mr King and I just have one or two matters to discuss before I sign the contracts.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The last thing I wanted right then was one-on-one time with Laura Hirota, but I didn’t have another choice. Their sons had already left to go play video games in the lounge, and seemingly Hirota was a sexist ape who didn’t think women had any place in business dealings.

“Of course,” said Laura, eyes finding mine. “I’ll show you my collection of china.”

Laura’s collection of china was truly riveting. I stood there as she oohed and aahed over the design details and boasted how expensive it all was, wishing I were anywhere else in the world. Oh, did I also mention that she expelled a shitload of venom about her selfish husband and her spoiled children along the way? It was like, oh, yeah, go right ahead and use me as an outlet for all your dissatisfaction. She walked me through the various rooms, and then we did a quick sweep of the garden before returning to the house.

Laura yawned. “I think I’ll go get some sleep now. It was lovely meeting you, Alexis.” She didn’t sound like she thought it was lovely at all; she sounded like it had been a burden. I made my way through a spacious lounge area, trying to find King, when I spotted him sitting in front of a grand piano that I was sure Hirota placed there purely for show.

King stared out the window, a glass of wine in his hand, as I closed the distance between us.

“Well, Laura Hirota hates her life,” I deadpanned, and King shot me an arch look. “The contracts all signed and sealed?” I went on as I came to stand in front of him. He turned his head to face me and nodded.