Finally.
Another bland woman waits by the side of the car, a chauffeur’s uniform in place. She’s no whore either. Too unperfected. It’s whores I need, ones who offer themselves willingly. I need effective fucking and for nothing else to get in my way until I can organise my damn mind again. She stands by the open door, a smile in place as I make my way to it.
“Good evening. Welcome,” she says, a heavy French accent in place. “I’ll be transferring you to the water taxi, Sir.”
I nod and slide into the car, intent on my destination and nothing more, but then I notice the drinks cabinet and scoff at its presence. Maybe that’s another thing I need. Alcohol. Fucking and alcohol. The car pulls off as I stare at the lines of crystal decanters. I’ll hole up, have a different woman each night and let everything blur into indecision rather than the constancy of discipline and regime. Fuck the numbers.
Fuck thought.
I smile and reach for the first one, ready to pour myself one motherfucker of a drink. I damn well deserve it. Years I’ve put up with his shit. Turned myself into whatever I needed to be for Cane. I’m done with it. Finished.
My neck cricks as I pour, finally content with the image in my mind. Just me. Just what Nate Cane wants and nothing more for a while. I’ll fuck and drink, wallow in my own crap and find a way out eventually. I’ve got time, money, and resources if I need them. What the hell else is there now? Screw the laptops and never-ending coding. Screw the accounts and my ability to cajole quantitative data to organise statistics. And screw all those years of breaking codes I should not have been breaking, all for the power he needed us to have. The fact that he’s never known half of what I can do should I choose to means fuck all now. He can go get himself lost in what I’ve created, see if he can figure it out without me.
Good fucking luck with that.
The thought has me tugging at my tie and throwing it towards the foot well. No suits either. I can’t even remember the last time I didn’t wear a suit. Lines of the damn things hang in my wardrobe, all of them crisp and clean so the appearance of the Cane accountant is effective enough to cause fear in the enemy. He fucking does, too. Always has. My brother taught me well. Stone cold. Eyes always focused, threat laced in every moment.
“Would you like me to arrange anything for you, Sir?” the woman asks from the front. I look up into her shaded eyes reflected in the rearview mirror and lick my lips, then turn to look out at the view again. “I can have the resort send it straight to your bungalow.” She probably could, but I’ll do that on my own. Whores are easy enough to spot. And if I can’t find one, maybe I’ll find something else to play with.
“No,” I reply, watching the coastline go by.
There’s nothing but endless sea, white beaches and greenery flooding up into the hills. If perversion wasn’t running through my mind I might find it idyllic, hypnotic even, but fucking is what I need now. Perhaps after that I’ll look at the view and appreciate it, but not yet. There’s too much emotion in me, too much chaos. It’s churning up my insides, making me messy and cluttered with sentiment for someone who deserves none of it. Because much as I might damn well hate it, Quinn is still with me. He’s in my mind, lurking, telling me to come home and do what I do.
No more.
We arrive at our destination ten minutes later, and I’m ushered to a waiting water taxi to take me over to the luxury resort. Thankfully, it’s a quick hop across the strait, so less than fifteen minutes goes by as I keep staring out into the sea wondering what the hell I’m doing. But it refreshes me from the close humidity at least, bringing a breeze to help reduce the stifling heat of wearing this suit.
People greet me on the other side with various symbolic gifts that the island offers to honeymoon couples or blissful holiday makers. I’m neither, so I wave them off as they advance on me and walk through the throng towards the lobby. This isn’t happy fucking times. This is Nate Cane coming for some respite from his life. Escaping his brother.
Drinking and fucking.
That’s it.
So I get myself straight to the bar, sit at the first available stool and order more booze, wholly invested in continuing to drink my way into oblivion until I can be bothered to get to my villa. I’m not yet. I’m not ready for alone, and the view out onto the terrace shows a sparse population who might keep me entertained for a while. Men in shorts and floral shirts, women in practically nothing. They’re barely worth watching and might as well be the whores I’m searching the place for, but I need a little time to process what the hell I’m doing here. Get comfortable with it.
No one notices me. No one looks or nods, knowing a Cane’s just walked into the building. No bowing or scraping at my feet in case they piss me off or say the wrong thing. They’re just on holiday, relaxing their days away, and for the first time in fuck knows how long, I feel invisible as I let another swig slide down my throat.
The thought makes me chuckle as a couple walk by, both of them laughing about something, and look past the people milling about towards the sea. The afternoon sun beats off its surface, ripples and loose waves idling over the expanse. A few jet skis catch my attention further out, high arcs of water pumping out of the back of them as they careen around. I peer closer, getting up to wander out, and see some yachts anchored in a way off coast. It’s an inviting thought. Solitude and nothing but the ocean to drown my sorrows in. Perhaps I’ll have one for a while, explore the coast and do something new.
Before I realise where I am, I’ve made it to the beach, causing me to look down at the pristine white sand coating my suit trousers and black shoes. The image is so juxtaposed that I snort and look around for another wooden pathway to get back to. There isn’t one close, only the one I came from, and I’m not going backwards for now. I need to get to my villa, change out of this suit and relax like everyone else is doing. I snort at that, too. I haven’t even got any shorts or casual attire to wear in this sort of place. What the hell would I have it for? I was going to LA, putting some distance between us.
Fuck.
I stand still, chuckling to myself about the absurdity of it all, and look around for a sign as to where the hell my villa actually is. I must look like a damn fool stood here in a three-piece suit, the last of the day’s heat pouring down onto me as dusk begins to settle in. Jesus Christ. Talk about unprepared. It’s not something I’ve been for a long time. It’s enough for me to start retracing my steps, glugging the last of my drink back as I shift onto the wooden walkways and travel towards the water villas. One of them has got to be mine. I’ve got keys for the damn thing. Why is the floor moving?
I chuckle again, snorting and tittering at myself as I try to avoid the edges of the elevated bridges over the water.
Where the hell is the villa?
I’ll find it eventually.
