Chapter 160
The footage was a masterpiece—pure, kinetic energy captured in 4K. Even Sasha looked impressed, and she was a woman who had seen everything. As we wrapped the review, Lana stood up, her movements fluid and satisfied, ignoring the ghost of her husband lingering in the shadows of the room.
She walked me toward the foyer, her hand trailing playfully along my arm. "That was... enlightening, Druski," she murmured, her voice a low purr. "But I think the cameras missed the best parts. We should definitely do another scene. And if we can’t do it for the fans, we can always shoot a private one. Just you, me, and no script."
I looked at her, remembering the way she’d tasted—rich, complex, and intoxicating, like a vintage wine that only got better with age. "A private session? I was thinking the same thing. Maybe a hotel next time, though. Somewhere your husband won’t be lurking in the hallway like a haunted house attraction."
Lana laughed, a genuine, throaty sound. "A hotel it is. I like you, Druski. I really do. Honestly? I wish you could just stay here and fuck me for all eternity."
I gave her a crooked, knowing grin. "As tempting as that sounds, Lana, I’ve got a heavy burden to carry. There are a lot of women out there depending on this cock for their spiritual awakening."
She tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "A cock for the people? A regular philanthropist."
"Not the people," I corrected, leaning in until I could smell the champagne on her breath. "A cock for the women. The beautiful ones who know exactly what to do with it. You’re at the top of that list."
"So, what about the rest of the slate?" I asked, leaning back. "Did you and Sasha finalize how we’re moving forward?"
Lana nodded, her eyes gleaming with the professional side of the business she usually kept hidden. "We did. Your next scene is with Jackie Blake. We’ve already cleared the logistics."
"Jackie Blake?" I let out a low whistle. "She’s a goddamn icon. Four hundred and sixty-five career scenes and she’s still at the top of the game at forty-seven. I just hope she doesn’t break my back."
Lana smirked, a challenge dancing in her eyes. "Please. If you could handle me, you shouldn’t be worried about Jackie. She’s a professional, Druski. She’ll know exactly how to push you."
"Fair point," I conceded with a grin. "I’m going to go track down Sasha and get the specifics."
I found Sasha near the buffet spread, cornered by Michael. He looked completely out of his depth, trying to talk shop with a woman who lived and breathed the industry.
"I mean, I know the big names," Michael was saying, his voice sounding desperate for a foothold in the conversation. "BangBros, Brazzers... those are the industry standards, right?"
"Of course you do," I interjected, stepping into his space and cutting him off with a look of pure pity. "Those are the ones you pay for, Mike. We’re building something you can’t just buy a subscription to."
I didn’t wait for his stuttered response. I caught Sasha’s eye and tilted my head toward the foyer. "Sasha, can I talk to you for a second? Privately."
I led her away from Michael, leaving him standing there with his lukewarm scotch and his outdated knowledge, looking like a man who had realized too late that he wasn’t even the protagonist in his own house.
I led Sasha to a quiet corner of the foyer, the vaulted ceilings making our voices drop instinctively. Behind us, I could see Michael still standing like a statue in the living room, staring at nothing.
"Change of plans for the ride home," I said, keeping my tone low and focused. "You’re heading back with Two-Bit. Don’t wait up for me; I’m going to be late."
Sasha arched an eyebrow, her director’s brain already calculating the schedule. "Late? We have a massive week ahead, Druski. I need you fresh for Jackie Blake."
"Relax. It’s business," I said, a slow smirk tugging at my mouth. "I’ve got a meeting with Monet. We’re going over the revenue splits and the final details for the studio launch next week. The foundation needs to be ironclad before we go live."
Sasha scanned my face, looking for the lie, but she knew the stakes as well as I did. Monet didn’t just summon people for small talk, and the launch was the pivot point for everything we were building. If the "King" and the "Queen" weren’t on the same page, the whole empire would crumble before the first trailer dropped.
"Fine," Sasha said, leaning back and crossing her arms. "Go handle the boss. Just make sure ’discussing revenue’ doesn’t leave you too exhausted to perform on Monday. Jackie doesn’t tolerate amateurs, and she definitely doesn’t wait for anyone."
"I’ll be there," I promised. "And I’ll be ready."
I gave her a sharp nod and turned toward the massive front doors.
I was halfway to the door when Lana intercepted me one last time. She moved with a feline grace, the silk robe she’d thrown on doing little to hide the fact that she was still glowing from our session.
"Leaving so soon, Druski?" she asked, her voice a low, teasing hum.
"Duty calls," I replied, meeting her gaze. "I’ve got business that won’t wait."
She stepped into my space, ignoring the fact that her husband was likely within earshot, and pulled me down for a deep, lingering kiss. It tasted like expensive champagne and the lingering heat of the pool house. "I enjoyed the company, Druski," she whispered against my lips. "More than you know. Don’t make me wait too long for that hotel room."
"Soon," I promised with a wink.
I headed out into the cool night air. The gravel crunched under my boots as I navigated the sprawling parking lot toward a sleek,black Cadillac idling near the gates.
I expected Abigail to be in her usual "Black Widow" attire—utilitarian, cold, and ready for a fight. But as I approached the car, the interior light flickered on, and my breath hitched.
She was wearing a red silk dress so tight it looked painted onto her curves. The plunging neckline showcased a daring amount of skin, and the bold color made her pale, flawless complexion pop. Her short blonde hair was slicked back, highlighting the sharp, aristocratic lines of her face and the icy intensity of her eyes.
She didn’t look like a driver or a bodyguard that had welcomed Monet at the airport; she looked like a high-end assassin who had decided to moonlight as a femme fatale.
She didn’t turn her head as I opened the passenger door, but I saw her grip tighten slightly on the leather-wrapped steering wheel.
"You’re late," she said, her voice like velvet over gravel.
I slid into the seat, the scent of her perfume—something dark, floral, and expensive—filling my lungs. I took my time looking her over, letting my eyes linger on the way the red silk strained against her thighs.
"If I knew you were dressing like this, I would’ve finished ten minutes ago," I said, leaning back and letting a slow grin spread across my face. "What’s the occasion, Abby? Did Monet tell you to dress up, or did you do this just for me?"
Abigail shifted the Cadillac into gear, the engine’s low growl mirroring the irritation rolling off her in waves.
"I have a date," she said, her voice clipped and colder than the AC.
I let out a short, disbelieving laugh, my eyes drifting from her sharp profile down to the way that red silk hugged her hips. "A date? I didn’t think you did those. I figured you just recharged in a high-tech pod between missions."
"Fuck you, Druski," she spat, her knuckles whitening as she gripped the steering wheel.
"Easy, Red. I’m just curious," I leaned back, stretching my legs out. "So, how does this work? Is it a normal guy who thinks he’s getting lucky with a beautiful woman, or do female assassins only date other hitmen? Is there an app for that? Killer-Connect?"
She turned her head just enough to give me a look that could have curdled milk. "Don’t make me break your jaw, motherfucker. We’re in a moving vehicle; I can make your ’accident’ look very convincing."
"Whoa, calm down, baby," I said, putting my hands up in mock surrender, though the grin never left my face. "I’m just trying to build some rapport. Create a little pre-meeting conversation."
"You call that a conversation?" she hissed, swerving through a yellow light with aggressive precision.
"We were talking, weren’t we?" I shrugged, my tone dropping into something more serious. "Fine. Let’s talk shop. What does Monet want this time? She doesn’t usually pull me away from a wrap-party for a PowerPoint presentation."
"You’ll find out when we get there," Abigail said, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. The red dress shimmered in the passing glow of the streetlights, a stark contrast to the dark, lethal energy she was radiating. "And if I were you, I’d spend the next ten minutes thinking of something smarter to say than what’s been coming out of your mouth."