Page 26 of Queen Of Dark Money

Ilet her sleep whileIentertained myNairobicontact in the next room.Asecurity tablet showed me a live feed of my office while we sipped on some brandy and discussed shipping logistics.

Twohours later,I’dimbibed far more thanIplanned to, and the liquor sloshed dangerously in my empty stomach.Holdingmy liquor was never a problem whenIwas being responsible, but in my aggravation,I’dforgotten to put something in my stomach to absorb the damn liquor.

Thewalk to the kitchen for a glass of water was a slow one, accompanied by a spinning in my head thatIdidn’t like and a general feeling of being unbalanced.Nauseahadn’t set in yet, but it was only a matter of time.

Coldwater splashed from the shiny steel faucet as the glass in my hand shook, keeping very little liquid inside asIstruggled to rehydrate.IfIcould get something in myself—hydrate and feed myself—before the worst of it hit,Imight miss the next morning’s hangover entirely.AndImight avoid a night sleeping on the floor of my bathroom.

Thathad been embarrassing the last time.Myassistant had come in to find me shivering under the fucking floor rug, covered in sweat and feeling like a miserable sop.Ihated myself for the next two days; it felt like a truck had run me over and backed up over me.Inever wanted to go through that again, which is whyIusually watered down my drinks.

Iwasn’tRiverBlake, for fuck’s sake.Ihad my limits and fucking respected them.

Theroom spun around me, and finding a seat to anchor myself in became imperative.Otherwise,I’dbe getting very well acquainted with the floor in a few seconds, and we couldn’thave that, now could we?Ihad a job to do, after all.Ihadresponsibilities.

ButsurelyIhadn’t had enough to take me down this quickly, right?

Itried, and failed, to do some mental math regarding the bottle sitting on my counter, which was half full.Itwas a large bottle, and assumingIheld my own against the visitor,I’dstill downed a significant amount.Almostan entire fifth of brandy, by the looks of it.

Ifonly he’d been a bourbon or rum fan.I’dprobably still be standing on my own two feet, walking around without a care.Instead,I’dchosen to offer him anything he wanted, and he picked brandy, the one liquor guaranteed to fuck me up and fuck me over faster thanIcould blink.

Andit was barely mid-afternoon.

Fuckme.

Therewere a lot of fucks swimming in my head right now.Noneof them were any help, either.

Myforehead met with my palms asIfought against the way the room continued to remind me dangerously of a damn tilt-a-whirl, nothing staying still thatIlogically knew had to be immobile.Likemy table, for instance.Ithadn’t moved an inch sinceIbought it and brought it home.Butright now, it looked like it was slowly sliding across the carpet on its own.Igagged a little at the sensation of sliding and closed my eyes.

Iwould not fucking lose my lunch over a fifth of brandy.Iwouldn’t.Iwas better than this.

Atleast, that was whatItold myself untilIcouldn’t anymore, bent over the kitchen sink, thankful thatI’dmanaged to make it that far.

“Ipassed out for a few hours, and you managed to get wasted?”

Hervoice was like ice picks in my brain, the headache finally making itself known in the worst way.Igroaned, rinsing the evidence of my inhibitions and over-imbibing down the drain.Imight feel like shit, butIwouldn’t give her the satisfaction of feeling superior.

“I’ma grown man who can do whatever he wants in his own home, thank you,”Isnapped, holding back the second wave of sickness that threatened to rise up and turn me into a liar.Onething was clear–Icouldnothandle a fifth of brandy in a three-hour span. “You–”

“Iam dying of thirst, soIcame looking for the kitchen for some water.”

Theimage of her bent over the bathroom faucet, lapping at the flowing liquid like a dog, sent me into a drunken spiral, andIslapped my hands over my mouth whenIrealizedIwasgiggling.

Wordlessly, my finger pointed in the direction of the cabinet, my brain connecting just enough to realize she might need to know where the glasses were.Inmy drunken stupor,IforgotIwas supposed to hate her for her presence.ThatIwas angry about the inconvenience she posed to my daily life.Iwas supposed to be pissed.Notconcerned that she needed water and food–shit.

Sheprobably hadn’t eaten since the day before.

Iwas a bastard through and through, cold and hard to the outside world, but she’d done nothing but simply exist.Shedidn’t deserve to fucking starve because some assholes dumped her on a stranger’s doorstep.

Istumbled from my chair to the fridge, yanking it open to reveal the fully stocked shelves that were always waiting for me shouldIwant to cook for myself.

Spinningon my heel was difficult and dangerous, but the fridge door behind me served as an anchor asIproudlydisplayed the food for her.Mygrin felt too large on my face, like it was a foreign entityIhadn’t put there in ages—probably hadn’t, whenIthought about it.It’dbeen a long time sinceI’dbeen happy enough to smile or drunk enough to forgetIwasn’t.

“I’vegot food, you know, to feed you, in case you’re hungry,”Islurred, hoping she got the gist of my words. “Butjust ‘causeI’mdrunk doesn’t mean you’re going to sneak out.Guardsare still posted.I’mnot that drunk, either,”Iclarified, straightening up as she approached me, trying desperately to hide the wince as the nearness to the lights made my head throb and the wayIswayed on my feet, fighting the sickness again.

Shesquinted at me and chuckled, shaking her head, those pretty waves bouncing around her head like a cloud. “You’reridiculous,” she muttered, bending over next to me to check out the offeringsIhad. “Thisis all nice food, butI’mnot digging cooking right now.I’mkinda bad at it,” she admitted with a shrug. “Neverwas my forte.”

Myeyes trailed to her chest, which was on full display as she stared off into the distance, seeing something or remembering a memoryIwasn’t privy to. “That’sokay;Itrained under a classical chef in college.”Hereyes shot to me, andImanaged to drag mine from her tits in time to avoid being spotted ogling her.Icould feel the censure in that gaze, the disbelief, soIshrugged as she had earlier, miming her in the hopes it might set her on an even keel again. “What?Iwas bored and had a ton more money thanIknew what to do with.So,Ihired a chef to train me in my dorm room whenIhad downtime.Itseemed like a good idea.”

“Youcan cook?”Shesounded like believing that one single fact was her breaking point. “Richguys don’t cook.”

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