Granted, most women probably only sleep with me because I am Asher Haven, but I don’t sleep with them to get off.
I sleep with them to get lost and to feel something other than the fucking hate I have for my life. The moment I’m eighteen, I’m out of here. My parents are going to wake up one day and realize I am gone. I’m not going to leave a note. I’m not going to call. I’m not sending a fucking postcard.
I am out of here in four months.
The limo comes to a stop outside of the event center, and the driver runs around the back to open up the door. My mom reaches her hand out for the driver to help her out. The cool night’s air whirls into the car, adding to the ice that’s already frozen tundra in the cab.
I follow behind her, and the flashes from cameras come quickly, blinding me. I’m a professional, and I don’t let it get to me. I lift my hand and wave, buttoning the blazer of the tuxedo I’m wearing, and smile, making sure my dimples show.
Everyone loves the handsome son of Senator Mike Haven. I’m the golden boy.
The flashes multiply when Dad steps out of the car and takes my mother’s hand. We all smile, pretending to be the cookie-cutter family that’s nothing but happy.
We start our way to the front doors, and security is blocking the reporters from getting too close. Microphones are being shoved in my face, and the journalists throw questions at me.
“Asher
, do you plan to go into politics like your father?”
“It’s been said you were accepted into Stanford; is that true? Are you going? What about your legacy to your Dad’s school? Yale? Have you given that any thought?”
“Is it true you’re engaged?”
My god, I’m seventeen. Why the fuck would I be engaged? Unless my parents have set up a marriage I have no clue about. I probably am engaged and I don’t even know it. I keep my mouth shut when it comes to the reporters. It’s another rule I have to follow. I nod, then slip inside the doors just as security opens them.
I let out a breath when I’m inside and survey my surroundings, wishing I could be anywhere other than here. I thought I was excited to be here, but this gala is just like every other one. Expensive, tasteless food, great booze, fake people, and I’m too tired to care about any of it after what happened in the car.
Tucking my left hand in my pocket, I reach and snag a glass of champagne off the caterer’s tray as he walks by. No one cares that I’m seventeen and drinking. I do what I want. Sipping the bubbly, I see the one woman that never gives me the time of day.
Heather Thomas.
She has beautiful brown hair that is cascading down in luscious waves but clipped all to one side, sliding down her shoulder. She has long legs and a dress that doesn’t do her figure justice. She has an hourglass shape and tits I want to lose myself in, but that isn’t the main thing that draws me in. It’s her smile, her grit, her take-no-shit attitude.
Every time she sees me, she hates me, and I think she hates me because I made out with her sister a year ago. Grace and I decided to remain friends instead because we agreed kissing each other was like kissing a brother or a sister. Might be because while I kissed her, I thought of Heather.
I always think about Heather, with every woman I’ve ever been with, and she’s smart enough to stay away from me.
I have dirty whore blood in my veins, after all. I’m not good enough for a woman like Heather. She tosses her head back at Jake, the son of David Lossareu, a billionaire who invented some app I don’t give a shit about.
He stares at her like he wants to eat her, and it pisses me off. He reaches up and slides his hand down her toned, tan arm, and I grit my teeth, toss my drink back, and begin to look for Grace. She has to be here somewhere, and I haven’t seen her in a few months since Dad tossed me in a different private school.
I am not meant for this life.
Being a part of the rich and famous isn’t so bad, but being a part of an emotionless life sucks.
There is a string quartet playing in the corner, playing a beautiful song that no one is dancing to. I make my way around the room, starting near the wall, smiling at who I need to smile at as I look for Grace. Heather and I lock eyes, and the look of pure hate she gives me has my stomach turning. She’s the only one I wish saw through the mask I wear for everyone else. I’m not a bad guy. I don’t treat women poorly even though with my parents' track record, I should be just like them, but I’m not.
Her eyes roam my body, and I puff out my chest, then run my fingers through my dirty blonde hair. She watches me as I work my way around the room and her stare almost has my foot catching behind the other. She’s the only woman that I know of that can take my confidence and flip it upside down.
And I have barely spoken five words to her since I’ve known her.
The marble swirling staircase comes to view, and I glance down to make sure I don’t miss a step. As I ascend, everyone on the lower floor reminds me of a heard of sheep doing what money tells them to do. Heather’s eyes meet mine again, and I pause on the staircase, locked in the beautiful gaze of a woman I know I’ll never have the pleasure of knowing. At least, not in the way I want. I pretend the smooth banister is the silk flesh of her leg. I take my time climbing the steps as my teenage imagination holds on tight and has blood rushing south.
When I get to the top of the stairs, the hairs on my arms fall, and I know her attention is on someone else. Before I can get too involved in my feelings, I see Grace’s friend, Jennifer, talking to Zach, the star quarterback, who isn’t really talented because daddy pays for everything.
When she sees me, she smiles, and I lift my chin as I make my way to her. “Hey, Jenn, have you seen Grace?”
Jennifer’s red hair is up in a pretty twist, and her lipstick matches the flame of the perfectly placed strands. There’s a silver clip laced with real diamonds and sapphires in her hair, and she is wearing a diamond neckless with a huge sapphire that reminds me of the gem the lady wore in the Titanic. Her father owns a chain of fancy restaurants along the West Coast and is a major contributor to my dad’s campaign. They have been friends since high school, and I think they expect me and Jennifer to get married, but I’d rather cut off my own foot than be with a hyena like Jennifer.