Page 3 of London’s Calling, Part 1 (London’s Calling)

Chapter Three

Mickey

Reclined in my chair, with my foot resting atop the other knee, I flip my pen top to bottom repeatedly on the table as Don yaps on about expenditure and over-heads for the new site.

“Do you have anything new, Don, or are you just rehashing last week’s figures?” I ask, dropping my head back in my chair and praying for some divine intervention that will save me from this sleep-inducing meeting.

“Mr Rawlins, we have to consider—”

“No, we really don’t,” I say, raising my head and pinning Don under a harsh glare.

“Until we sign on the dotted line, all of this is just speculative bullshit. And it’s giving me a headache.

” Dropping my foot to the floor and tucking the pen back in the breast pocket of my suit jacket, I push my chair out and stand.

“Get me that fucking signature, Don. Then you can toss all the figures you want at me.” I gather up the file for the Whitechapel site and leave without another word.

Jesus! My father is a fucking saint for spending years listening to this crap day in and day out. And here I was thinking taking over from my father was a gift. It’s more like a fucking curse. Between the meetings and politics and red tape, I’ll never live long enough to reap the benefits.

When I pass Prudence, she’s on the phone, but she holds up a finger for me to wait a minute.

I tuck the file I’m holding under my arm and slide my hands into my suit trousers as I look out the panoramic windows that line the hall to mine and my father’s offices.

From here, London looks like a war zone with people rushing around and cars, buses and bikes fighting for space on congested roads.

If the window was open, the city sounds would drown out the muffled voices of the people in here.

Horns tooting, engines revving and people shouting just to be heard above the din.

But I love this city.

It’s been my home, my playground, since the day I was born. And one day, I’m going to own a piece of it.

“Mickey, sorry about that,” Prudence says behind me, and I turn to face her. “Your father had to leave and asked me to give you this.” She rifles around on her desk a moment before pulling a folder free. “He said you’d know what it was about.”

I step forward and take the folder from her. “Thank you. Did he say where he was going?”

“He has a meeting across town, then he’s heading home for the rest of the day.”

I flip open the folder, reading enough to understand what this is before snapping it shut.

“Thanks, Prudence,” I say with a nod, then I stroll to my office, my thoughts on where my father has gone.

He never mentioned anything about a meeting today.

And we don’t have any business across town. That’s Hart’s territory.

Tossing the folder on my desk, I put the Whitechapel file back in the filing cabinet before sitting at my desk, tapping my fingers against my lips. I know my father’s businesses aren’t all legit, and I know he’s aligned with some serious players but not the Hart family.

My father and Franklin Hart grew up together, were best friends, business partners with grandiose plans to own the best parts of London one day.

That all turned to shit when I was small.

My father has never divulged the nitty-gritty details to me, but what I know—all I need to know—is that Franklin Hart screwed my father over.

It was around the same time my uncle stopped coming around, and I later found out he died because of whatever happened between Franklin and my father.

Grief births the worst type of rift between families and friends. Not that I’ve suffered much grief in my short life, but I’ve seen my share.

I flip the folder Prudence gave me open again and carefully scan the details.

This is the first time my father has trusted me with something of this magnitude.

I have no fucking intention of messing it up.

It’s why my father invested in the best education money can buy and the reason I made damn sure I finished top of the class in school and university.

My father has his eyes on one of London’s largest hotels which, he has on good authority, is about to go into administration.

It seems its current owner doesn’t understand the simple concept of making a profit to stay afloat.

Instead of maximising his profits and investing it back into the business, he’s content to snort it up his nose while screwing working girls.

The Simmonds empire is about to crumble and only a year after Simmonds Jnr took over. If I ever needed an example of what not to do in business, Clayton Simmonds is it. And I will gladly demonstrate how to raise a sinking ship.

I spend an hour going over the details in preparation for a takeover bid, making sure it’s airtight and irresistible to a money-hungry idiot like Clayton. Once I’m certain my bid is in the bag, I pack up and head home.

My driver is waiting for me outside, and as I slip into the back seat, my phone buzzes with a message.

“Where to Mr Rawlins?”

“Home, James,” I say with a smirk, and my driver chuckles and shakes his head as he starts the car.

“I’m really starting to hate my name,” James says.

I bark out a laugh, pulling my phone from my pocket. “Some might say you were made for this job. Right down to your name,” I say continuing to chuckle at James’ expense as I check my phone.

Priest: Hurry up and get your arse here!

Shaking my head, I type out a reply.

Me: Sorry. Washing my hair.

His response is the middle finger emoji, then another message telling me they are at his. I could do with a few drinks and a laugh with the guys. As long as Roni Hart isn’t there again spoiling my vibe, then I’ll be good.

I ask James to stick around so he can drop me off at Priest’s once I’ve showered and changed, and thirty minutes later, I’m stepping out of the car in Priest’s drive as the pounding echo of base from inside greets me.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” I mutter as I step up to the front door only for it to open before I get there, revealing Fletch.

“Mickey, my man. Priest owes me a bullseye.”

I shake my head as Fletch bows, waving an arm in a welcoming come in gesture. “Thought he fucking knew better than to bet against me after the last time,” I say, stepping inside. Any further conversation is pointless as the loud music I could hear outside is practically deafening in here.

As usual, Priest’s parents are absent. No doubt on another trip around the world. His parents aren’t the worst among our circle, but any issue is easily dealt with by throwing money at it. And if that fails, then you pay off the next in line and keep going until the problem goes away.

Just like me, Priest and Fletch were given the best education money could buy. But unlike me, my friends don’t have a legacy to take over and can instead use their education, money and status to do what they like.

“Pay up, Priest,” Fletch calls as the music is lowered to a more comfortable level, and we trot down the three steps into the sunken lounge area.

“And here was me thinking we were friends, Rawlins,” he groans, rolling his eyes.

“Says the guy who texted to hurry my arse up and get here.” Too late I see Fletch swiping a hand across his neck in a cutting motion. Realisation dawns and I laugh as Priest leaps from the couch, displacing the chick beside him, over the back and grabs Fletch in a headlock.

“You cheating prick! I’d say you owe me now,” Priest grits out as he rubs his knuckles across the top of Fletch’s head.

I’m still laughing as I scan the room and drop down into the empty love seat. A few of the other guys are playing beer pong in the kitchen and a couple are shooting some pool. My arse has barely touched the seat when the space beside me dips, and a beer appears in front of me.

“Hey, Mickey. I got you a drink,” says the chick who claimed the seat beside me.

I take the bottle she’s offering and rake my gaze over her.

Ebony hair, green eyes, tits spilling out of the tight lace cami top she’s wearing.

Her legs are encased in a pair of skinny leather hotpants leading to a pair of knee-high heeled boots.

I’ve no clue who she is, but she’s pretty, so I indulge her and relax back into the seat, slinging an arm around her shoulders as she relaxes back with me.

A couple of hours later, several beers and a few shots down, I’m balls deep in the nameless chick who I’ve dubbed Snow White. Gripping the edge of the sink, she watches me in the mirror, her mouth hanging open and panting out breaths as I drive into her hard.

“Yes, Mickey,” she cries, her head dropping down.

Without Snow White’s eyes to focus on, I notice movement at the doorway behind me in the mirror and realise we aren’t as alone as I thought.

I keep going not at all bothered by our little voyeur.

In fact, it gives me an extra thrill. Which is almost derailed a second later as the person watching inches forward, allowing their face to be bathed in the dim light from the hall.

Roni Hart.

Rage mixes with excitement, and I use Snow White here to exorcise it.

Gripping a handful of ebony hair, I piston my hips, tilting up as I thrust forward, in a punishing pace.

My eyes burn with a fire of hate as I watch Roni’s eyes widen.

The little hitch in her breaths is a dead giveaway of her arousal, and the thought brings a smirk to my lips.

“You like that, don’t you?” I rasp. Snow White let’s out a cry, but she has no idea my question wasn’t for her. “That’s it, baby. Take it all! I wanna feel your cunt milking my cock.”

Eager to please, her cunt tightens around me, squeezing me in a vice like grip, as she comes.

My grip on her hair is fierce and my thrusts relentless as my release spills from me, made all the more potent thanks to our spectator.

Roni’s cheeks flush a delicious pink hue with desire, yet her eyes flash with hate.

My hips jerk with the last of my orgasm, and my grip on Snow White’s hair loosens. Gripping the base of my cock and the condom, she moans as I slip free, and I can’t help a satisfied chuckle.

Removing the condom, I quickly tie it off and toss it in the small bin. Looking to the doorway, I’m not surprised to see Roni has vanished. Seems watching me fuck was too much for the Ice Queen.