Page 4 of Revenge On Her Dad's Best Friends

They had penthouses across all the major cities in the world and used them as debriefing destinations, or layovers from country to country. Running multi-billion-dollar organizations meant they were on the move almost all the time, and they preferred to crash in their own space rather than a hotel. This was their last catch-up before they scattered around the globe again for a few weeks. But now they had an unexpected visitor.

Zach had long stopped paying attention to the round man who sat sprawled on a leather couch.

John Wayne––his name for real––was a heavily tanned oil man who heaved when he spoke, wheezed when he laughed, and continually tried to buy some of their premium land off of them. But in the grand scheme of things, they humored John Wayne—he hadn’t outstayed his worth yet. He also didn’t come alone.

Six women in total, dressed in heels, mini-skirts, and shirts altogether too small for their breasts, flanked his sides. John Wayne referred to them as his secretaries, except he made themsqueal when he slapped their asses and giggle when he squeezed their tits.

Yes, they were not his secretaries. They were in fact his offerings to Zach, Bradford, and Reece.

John Wayne honestly expected they were going to seal his new proposition with an orgy. The man had balls, which also explained why they entertained his bold methods of doing business. He was definitely not boring, so he had that going for him.

This wasn’t the first time they were given such offerings, too. They were sent trained courtesans, heiresses, celebrities, and princesses, all willing and quite eager to kneel before them and suck their dicks.

“Tell you what, John Wayne, you can have the land,” Bradford said, leaning forward. He broke into Zach’s thoughts, and both he and Reece knew their friend had reached the end of his very short rope of patience. They ushered Wayne and his brothel out with him and promised their lawyers would be in touch soon.

Selling John Wayne some land was harmless. What wasn’t harmless was the hostile takeover they’d sunk themselves into in the last six months. But they needed a distraction, a dangerous one, and who better to mess with than a Russian company with ties to the Bratva?

Now that they were a breath away from successfully taking over the Russian company under extremely hostile conditions, they were back to square one, where their pursuit of wealth and power hit differently. There was a layer of indifference they couldn’t shake.

“Fuck,” Reece said as they sat around their now-empty lounge with the sun setting across the Manhattan horizon and casting the entire penthouse in an orange glow.

Reece’s expletive encompassed their mood collectively. Every year around this time, they would throw themselves harder into work, trying to escape the loss of their friend, Hank Saunders. The strategy seemed to work less and less for them as the years went by.

“Five years. Can’t believe it’s going to be five fucking years since he died,” Zach said, twirling a gold-plated pen between his fingers, a gift from John Wayne. Time didn’t make things easier to deal with, that was for sure.

In their case, it made it only heavier. But there was also some unfinished business between them and Hank. Business they were determined not to touch with a ten-foot pole. Business they’d made their sole focus the last half decade to ignore entirely until the day they fucking died.

There wasn’t much they didn’t share, the three of them. Five years ago, it had been the four of them: Zach, Bradford, Reece, and Hank. They grew up together in stressed, dire, and violent conditions and had dreamed the same dreams together. Being poor and defenseless was not an option when they got older.

But growing up in foster homes made the bonds they shared that much stronger. They’d made a pact in the bleakest moments of their lives to live in a house as big as a castle with four wings, one for each of them. Those were the dreams that kept them fighting.

Hank fell in love and got married instead. He’d chosen a wife, a daughter, and an office job where he reported to someone above him, and damn, he was happy. Despite losing his wife so earlyon, Hank had been content until the day he died. Fuck they missed him.

Zach, Bradford, and Reece had chosen to crush the world with their power and take all of its money. They succeeded too. They got themselves that house they dreamed about, big enough for three wings. Zach loved that house, and so did Bradford and Reece, but they also made a point of avoiding going home. Something was missing.

“Maybe we need a vacation... like we’re ordinary fucking people,” Reece said in disgust, because ordinary they were not. Ordinary wouldn’t have made them the richest men in the world. The most powerful. The most dangerous. They didn’t doholidays.

“We’re too old for this,” Bradford said, rubbing his forehead as if he had a headache.

“We need to get laid,” Zach muttered under his breath, leaning back in his chair and swinging his feet onto the glass table, near a stack of documents that were bound together with a paperclip that John Wayne had left for them to peruse. It was about some other venture or another. They sold him land, they would not be looking at his proposal.

“Never thought I would say this,” Zach continued, “but my fucking dick is going to fall off.”

That was the other thing.

For some weird reason, they hadn’t fucked a woman in the last sixty-odd months. It happened overnight. They just stopped. They declined each and every fucking offer without a moment’s hesitation. They’d become bored out of their skulls with the whole act of it, something they never had a problem withbefore. They were fucking billionaires; they were surrounded by a constant parade of free pussy day or night, and nothing teased their interests enough to act on it.

The truth was, their dicks were collectively broken. Unfixable. Dead. Nothing stirred their blood anymore. Misery fucking loved sad cocks, apparently. They were a trio of billionaire monks. There was no other way of putting it.

“Best we can do is a bottle of Macallan each?” Reece offered, going to the bar.

“The sixty-year-old?” Zach asked, sitting upright.

“Only forty bottles were made, and we have four of them. Had them delivered here yesterday,” Reece replied.

They didn’t need to say the words, but one of those bottles would be for Hank. They’d drink it in his honor instead.

What the fuck were they doing drinking scotch that cost over a million dollars on a Friday night like three old men when they should have been balls deep in the bodies of beautiful women? The question wasn’t what they were doing. It was what had they become.

---