The Dirty Truth

“The two of you discussed this, did you?” I swipe it from her hand and give it a careful exam as the scents of mothballs and time fill my lungs.

The day I saunter into corporate with a smelly and comically vibrant pocket square is the day I officially lose all credibility with my team.

“And what else did the two of you discuss today?” I ask.

“Maybe you should’ve joined us; then you’d know.”

“There’s a thin red line between spirited conversation, Scarlett . . . and blatant disrespect.”

Throwing her hands in the air, she groans in true Scarlett fashion. “Ugh. I can’t win with you!”

A second later, she disappears behind a slammed door. Steeling my nerves, I retreat to my study, close the door like a civilized gentleman, and text Elle.

ME: How was she?

ELLE: We had a good time!

ME: That’s not what I asked . . .

ELLE: I know. I was answering your question based on what you should have asked.

Smart-ass.

ELLE: Friendly reminder—I’m not her babysitter and I don’t work for you.

ME: Friendly reminder—I’m her uncle and sole caretaker and prefer to know if she’s being respectful to the adults in her life.

Three dots fill the screen before disappearing completely. A full minute passes before she replies.

ELLE: She was great . . . all things considered.

Shifting in my chair, I cross my legs and huff.

ME: All things considered? Care to elaborate.

ELLE: Is that really necessary? You know more about her situation than I do. I’m sure you understand this isn’t easy for her.

ME: Of course.

I set my phone aside, lean back, and wait for her response. Only when my phone vibrates again, it isn’t Elle filling my screen.

It’s Nadia.

My fuck buddy—for lack of a better term.

NADIA: Hey, stranger. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Hope all is well. I’m in town for the week . . . lmk when you want me to come over. ;-)

Dragging my hand along my jaw, I force a hard breath through my nostrils as a river of blockaded tension floods through me. It’s been over four months since I’ve had a true release. A record for me. But hosting hookups with Scarlett under my roof feels wrong on a myriad of levels, and leaving Scarlett alone for more than a handful of hours at night is completely out of the question given her track record.

NADIA: Btw, I had the craziest dream about you the other night . . . I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. Maybe we can recreate it.

NADIA: Spoiler alert—it involved handcuffs and that thing you do with your tongue . . .

If it were this time last year, I’d be sending a car to pick her up immediately. We’d be holed up in my bedroom for an entire weekend, subsisting off takeout and multiple orgasms. Nadia is the only woman I’ve fucked who has been 100 percent okay with my no-strings requirement—unlike her predecessors, who have played the part before inevitably springing “the talk” on me when they start to grow attached.

As she’s an international jet-setter and bona fide Russian oil heiress, there’s nothing I can offer Nadia that she doesn’t already have. And settling down is akin to nonsexual handcuffs in her book. At twenty-five, she has no interest in relationships, nor does she attempt to get to know me on a personal level. We can talk caviars, fine wines, and foreign films until four in the morning, and not once does she ask the kind of stirring, soul-rousing questions that suck the life out of a good time.

I reread Nadia’s messages, my thumb hovering over the keyboard, frozen.

What could potentially be a few hours of mental and physical freedom doesn’t hold the same lure it once did. My heartbeat doesn’t falter from its steady tempo. My cock doesn’t strain against the inside of my boxer briefs. There’s no sense of urgency. No hedonistic desire saturating my core.

Darkening my screen, I push the thought of Nadia away. Until everything with Scarlett is sorted out, gone are the days of meaningless liaisons.

Exiting my study, I head up to my private office and lose myself in work for the hours that follow. This week we’ll begin a search for Elle’s replacement and discuss our new staff structure and chain of command once the merger is finalized, and I’ll stop by the photo shoot for August’s cover. We booked a temperamental, egotistical A-list actor for that month’s feature, and those types are typically offended if I don’t make a personal appearance.

Years ago, when I was first launching this rag, I used to live for those moments. They validated all my late nights and obsessive dedication. They confirmed that everything I’d sacrificed wasn’t for naught. Only somewhere along the line, the shiny parts of this endeavor lost their luster. I thought, perhaps, I was going through a funk.