Page 1 of Starving for Her

James

Thots.Thots as far as the eye can see, and I don’t use that term lightly. When I put out the ad for a new live-in, private chef, I thought I’d actually get some girls with talent—

or at least one who knew how to cook a steak without turning it to charcoal. I guess I was wrong.

But it’s no surprise. It’s hard finding honest help when you’re a guy like me. Whether it’s people submitting fake resumes, lying about their qualifications or just straight up plotting to steal from me, I run into people trying to screw me over all the time.

It comes with the territory. Being a billionaire-playboy-genius-inventor means you’re constantly having to stave off people trying to take what you’ve earned. And that’s fine. I can get down in the dirt with the best of them, but tonight, all I wanted was a decent, honest interview process for my new chef. Fuck me, right?

My last guy, Ian, was a damn good cook; he made a scallop and potato dish that would knock Gordon Ramsay’s socks off, and he never complained about me calling him down to the workshop for a 2AM snack. And why would he? I paid him well for his time. But I guess that just wasn’t enough for him. I caught him going through my watch collection, stuffing his pockets with Rolexes and Audemars.

I didn’t have my security get rid of him; I tossed him out on his ass myself. See, I’m not like the rest of those billionaire CEOs you see on TV being heralded as geniuses when really, they just stole other people’s work and passed it off as their own. I am a hands-on guy who came from nothing, and no matter how many expensive suits or supercars I buy, I guess I still have a bit of that working-man’s mentality in me. I’m less Bill Gates and more Tony Stark—only without the Iron Man suit.

But of course, getting rid of Ian left me without a chef, and seeing as how I don’t trust anybody else’s opinion on who I should be hiring and bringing into my home, I’m going through the interview process this evening myself. I had all the applicants cook a dish for me that showed off their skills, but as I look across the smiling, seductive faces of the girls lined up in front of me, I don’t have much hope for filling the position tonight.

“It’s a lobster risotto—Maine lobster—with thyme and pomegranate,” a girl with winged eyeliner and oversized fake tits tells me, smiling through her lip injections.

“Pomegranate?” I ask skeptically, picking up a fork. “That’s…different.”

“I like to be different,” she tells me. “You know—not basic? And that extends to all aspects of my life.”

I bet it does.I take a taste of her dish, and as I suspected, am not impressed. I don’t even bother trying to hide it. She doesn’t want the job; she wants me. And I’m not interested. I move along without saying anything.

“Good evening, Mr. Russell,” the next girl says with a smile. Her hips are about to rip the apron she’s wearing; she’s had injections or a Brazilian butt lift, and is pushing the boundaries between human and cartoon. Her derriere would make Kim Kardashian look like she had a flat ass.

“What I have for you is a grilled hickory rub watermelon with a soft-boiled egg.”

I stare at her blankly. She responds by biting her lip, leaning forward on the table and twisting her hips to give me a side view of her over-the-top booty.

“Seriously?” I ask her. “And this would be…a dinner? Dessert?”

“Well,” she whispers, leaning even further forward to show me she’s not wearing a bra. “It could be dinner, and I could be your dessert.”

I look at her, look down at the charred bit of fruit, ignore the fork and move on. It’s going to be a long night.

I go down the line, try a decent steak, a burger that’s blackened on the outside but raw on the inside, a pasta dish that’s okay but nothing I’d hire a personal chef to make me, and a tofu dish that I almost had to spit out. Tofu? No thanks. I don’t wear my hair in a man bun.

“Okay, girls. Thank you,” I say, turning around to their eager faces. “I’ll be in touch. Al will see you out.”

Al, my assistant and basically the only man I truly trust in my life, comes out of the corner where he’s been sitting and guides the line of thots out of the room and to the front door. Sighing, I slump back in my chair, my stomach rumbling.

“What a fucking disaster.”

Al comes back in the room with his eyebrows raised.

“Shit show,” I tell him. “Guess we’re ordering pizza.”

“Maybe not,” Al replies. “We have one more if you’d like to see her. She just arrived.”

I scoff and wave my hand. “Fuck it. I’ve seen enough. I’ll have to call Mark downtown and see if he’ll let me poach one of his sous-chefs.”

“James,” he says. “You want to see this girl.”

As I said before; Al is the one person I truly trust, so if he says I should see her, then I should see her.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Send her in.”

A lot of guys with my kind of money would have invited all of those girls back to his bedroom for the night and run through them like a hungry bear gorging himself on honey. But truth be told, I’m over that playboy lifestyle. I became a millionaire at eighteen, after selling an app that helped people find cars in their price range, and by thirty I was a billionaire after developing longer-lasting consumer grade and cell phone batteries that are now sold basically everywhere.

---