The Wrong Thing To Do Ch. 04

"Abbey, we can work this out, come on," Mark said as a voice neared the room.

Abbey chose not to reply. Mark got up and started walking towards the door, but when the door opened it blocked the sight of his body from the doorway. It was Abbey's sister, Blair.

"Before Mark gets here...please don't break up with him. He is cute as hell." From behind the door Mark began to smile inwardly at Blair's defense of him. "Okay...if you have to break up with him, do it after we come back from Aruba," Blair said, causing Mark's smile to turn into confusion.

"Blair, do yourself a favor and shut up," Abbey said, trying to shut her sister up.

"What? You know I want to use The Margaret. Going to one island is a waste of two weeks," Blair said, speaking about the six-hundred-foot yacht named after Mark's long-deceased mother.

"God, Blair you are selfish," professed her sister.

Before Blair could respond, Mark moved from behind the door and looked at Abbey's twin with contempt. On this occasion she was dressed opposite to her twin, a silver strapless mini hugging her thin tall frame and amplifying her already substantial bust.

Spotting the tuxedo-clad Mark, Blair attempted to turn around but decided against it as she was now a part of the awkward moment.

"Wow, awful fucking timing, Blair," he declared.

"Well, can we get the boat or not?"

Mark turned his head toward Abbey. "Is she serious?"

Abbey nodded. "I'm sorry for this, Mark," Abbey said consolingly.

"No need to apologize. I'm fine...I'm going to go now," Mark said, hiding the full depth of his emotions.

"Where still friends, right?" Abbey replied.

"Sure," he replied, grinding his teeth.

He began walking past Blair whose flair for fashion clearly made her the artistic socialite of the two twins.

Broken hearted and now a little disgusted, Mark headed for the hallway and speedily moved toward the exit.

As he gripped the curved handle of the door, a soft hand covered his. He tilted his head slightly, a sweet flowery scent sweeping through his nostrils. "My sister's an idiot. Yacht or not, we can still do whatever you want—like old times," Blair said, licking her lips, bringing up the three-girl foursome she and her sister had with Mark on his birthday the night they met.

Mark shook his head. "Goodnight, Blair."

He exited the room, but her hand remained on his shoulder. So, The Margaret? Mark laughed and left. "Wow," he said aloud to himself with Casper following behind.

Casper knew better than to ask and waited for Mark to provide the driver's directions. Mark's laughter soon turned to agonizing reality as he directed the driver. "The Chateaux, please," Mark requested as he somberly slid into the lavish cabin. Still, the driver didn't change course from the Met.

The Rolls Royce came to a rolling stop on East 79th Street at Fifth Avenue outside his seven-story palatial home. Its handcrafted sculptures, peaks, and century old limestone came together to solidify its name, "The Chateaux." Mark stepped out onto the walk directly in front of the imposing manor and looked across Fifth Avenue at Central Park, then turned his head to the right to see the structure that was the Met.

"Huh!" Mark breathed aloud. "Two minutes away," he mumbled, thinking about how close but how far he was from the moderately enjoyable gala. 'What was tonight? We don't do anything, my ass,' he thought before walking through The Chateaux's large Victorian doors, held open by a stereotypically dressed butler.

He quickly walked through the foyer, his legs feeling heavy, and up the winding stairs past the Pollock and the Van Gogh's.

He continued climbing even though an elevator was just a few steps away. Arriving on the floor of his bedroom Mark passed the portraits of Bryce past patriarchs, billionaires who used and abused and made up for it with superficial philanthropy.

These were the thoughts running through Mark's head. It was his house now but he still complied with the parameters of old parental rules. He could sleep anywhere, even the master King George suite, but he climbed further to the room his parents had long ago assigned him.

Lying in bed, Mark thought, 'So I don't take every liberty!'

He tossed and turned. Hours later, with the sun now set to rise, he hadn't slept a wink. One sleeping pill later and he was out. Waking up in the afternoon he called in to the office at Bryce Plaza where he interned and arranged to work from his laptop from home, drawing up his engineering drafts. Three days later his room was filled with used plates, cups, and general evidence that he'd been hibernating. Deciding to distract himself by taking advantage of the upstairs gym, a place he had learned to frequent during his time on the Dartmouth Wrestling and Rowing teams, Mark began to move beyond the craziness of extreme seclusion. Both Dartmouth teams had been out of character for him. Thinking back, Mark realized he had joined the Rowing Team first to impress a temporary crush, but had kept at it long past the crush. Once she had found out how much he was worth, nothing else mattered; she wanted him, but he no longer wanted her.

Wrestling was double edged; it was a way for Mark to vent his frustrations and gain attention and approval from his dad. The latter ended up fueling the former, as Mark's dad had never attended a match, not even championships. John Bryce showed little attention, sometimes only congratulating his son on winning a track meet. You could tell he was paying a little bit more attention when he would confuse Wrestling with Boxing instead of Track and Field.

Hours on the rower and doing pushups and lifting weights did little to enhance the years of already toned muscle. All the seclusion still left Mark alone with his problems. The more he thought about them, the deeper he focused on the workouts.

In the middle of the deep workout, Mark's phone began to buzz. It had been ringing for days, but he had ignored it until now. Looking at his glass cell, he saw that it was Edward, the most grounded, and his only middle-class best friend. He'd been ignoring calls from him, his other friends, and Blair for days, but decided to briefly open the lines of communication with Edward specifically.

"Hey?" Mark said, not able to think of anything else to say.

Multiple voices spoke up at once. "Dude the fuck? We've been calling."

"She was not fine enough for you to turn to into a pussy," said a Latin accent.

"Sorry about them. Richie took my phone. Still, I heard you've turned into Howard Hughes and that you went off the handle and turned into a recluse. This is Edward, by the way."

"Over some eighteen-year-old pussy too; what a shame, you pedo," said the infamous Richie.

Mark broke into a broad smile, not having heard from his best friends in days. Richie, Edward, and Enrique had a knack for pulling Mark out of ruts. If they had been in town things would have been different. However, they were currently in the middle of some international nation-hopping partying spree.

"Fuck you, Enriqueee, you Spanish man-whore," Mark said with a laugh. "Ed, I know your voice. I haven't suddenly become retarded nor am I a subscriber of AT&T so you should know that I can hear and understand you just fine. Oh yeah, the last and actually the very least, Richie, go fuck yourself. It's not about her; I'm just taking time to reflect, that's all."

"Bullshit it's not about her, my ass. Every single time you get dumped you fixate and you reflect. The last time you 'reflected' for four years!" Richie stated firmly with air quotes that Mark couldn't see.

"It's not that simple."

"Like Richie said, you always get like this when you get dumped. Man, you're the richest person in New York; you can get any pussy you want. Just get up and take it. For the record I'm from Brazil, I don't speak Spanish, and I speak Portuguese," Enrique said, thickening his accent to mockingly make his point.

"You're right, Enrique. Everything's all better now. I'm gonna go pay some girl to suck my cock right now because gratification is the key to everything."

"Nothing's wrong with hiring a call girl!" Enrique yelled heatedly, causing Mark to stop his exercise.

Mark scratched his head as loud laughter filled the cell's glass speakers.

"You don't know how on target you are," Edward stated.

"What? What are you guys talking about...what happened...what? Clue me the fuck in!" Mark begged.

"I don't care if she's the hottest porn star ever," shouted Enrique from the other end. Mark was on his toes due to the shock of it all.

"Did you pay her? Just answer. Did you pay the slut?" Richie asked like a cross-examiner.

"It doesn't fucking matter," Enrique said, followed by an explosion of laughter from both ends. "It was Isis Taylor...Isis Taylor."

"True," Richie said as silence reigned.

"Dude, really?" Mark questioned, his cock hardening as his mind thought of the light bronze-skinned beauty.

"Yeah, I fucked her sideways," Enrique said, with Mark and Richie laughing.

"Desired porn star or not, she's still a call girl. You really are a man-whore," Mark said into the phone, heading back to the bed.

"I don't think that's the proper definition of whore, Mark. Isis is the whore. Enrique is simply your average slut," Edward clarified.

"Edward, thanks, so I guess you're supporting my 'Spanish man-slut' nickname for Enrique."

"Okay, forget this nonsense. We've been to Amsterdam, Ibiza, Prague, and Los Angeles. You missed all that. We're in Vegas now. Hop onto one of your Gulfstream jets. Summer is almost over for you and Edward. Soon you two will be heading off to that crap school in Cambridge, Massachusetts. So get your ass down here," Richie stated.

"I don't know. I'll think about it."

"Come on...just do it; fly down here. It's amazing. Remember your birthday? You fucked three girls, twins too. I've never even had a foursome. I was impressed until you started dating one of them. You need to slam it and ban it. Stop burying yourself in the details. The devil lives in that shit," Richie said encouragingly.

"I'll talk to you guys later," Mark said, ending the conversation with whatever's and laughs resonating on the other end.

The next day, Mark was running on the treadmill when his phone buzzed. He was going to ignore it when he saw that it was Richie.

His tone was heavy and direct. "Hear me out, okay?"

Bypassing his better judgment, Mark said, "Okay."

"You need to fuck someone random to get your mind off this."

"My mind is fine. I'll hear you, but I'm not going to one of your seedy strip clubs again."

"It was Manhattan's best gentlemen's club...and no...not that. You need to book an escort."

"You're not that fucked, Richie. Yes, thinking about it you are that shady. Are you serious?"

"There's nothing wrong with having a bachelor party from time to time. You and Edward are such prudes."

"Not going to a strip club and not hiring a hooker. Richie, you're fucked!"

"Calm your shit. I was fucking with you. You know the Standard Hotel?"

"Yeah, Abb...my ex wanted to go to this supposed rooftop club there."

"It's called the Boom Boom Room. Go there tonight and you'll hook up like that. Your honest game somehow works. even when they don't know that you're worth north of fifty billion. The guys and I will fly in tomorrow and then we can go out together if you want to still stay cooped up in the city."

"I don't know about that."

"You're going there tonight. It's nine-seven right now. The Boom Boom Room opens at ten. Don't be a loser so don't go earlier than eleven.

"Being a bit presumptuous aren't we?"

"Look, why the fuck not?" Richie asked.

"Probably tomorrow night?"

"It's Saturday today. Tonight's a prime night."

"I'm not going."

"Yeah, you are."

"Really."

"Yes."

"How are you going to accomplish that? I know your construction boss dad has mafia connections. Are they going to drag me out? Casper and the others might have objections."

"Rumors and bullshit from the guy now responsible for an empire more corrupt than Standard Oil."

"Bullshit. Corrupt how?"

"Every Forbes and financial ranking ever released that listed your family's net worth, what is now your singular net-worth, makes sure to add multiple question marks after the estimated politically correct amount—with editors afraid to use the truthful larger multi-hundred billion dollar figure. The corruption behind your wealth is irrelevant to my point, unlike your point."

"Fuck you! Is this supposed to make me feel better; what's your point?"

"You're nearly a trillionaire. Go out and take the world by the balls. Fuck your feelings; take the world for a joyride."

"Richie, you're really pissing me off. I'm not fucking going anywhere."

"Okay, I'm going to have to step this up. Remember those porn stories you wrote and posted to that site, back when we were roommates at Adam's Academy, before your dad put you in public school?"

"What?" Mark thought, not understanding at first. When he finally did, his running on the treadmill slowed to a standstill causing him to nearly fall off.

"Are you serious?"

"I'll quote a line: 'their toned feminine bodies rubbed against each other, Katie's red hair washed over Melisa's soft flesh, Melisa's fingers glided into Katie's gripping moist pussy forcing her lover's kissing lips to form into a blissful puffing O—"

"Richie, how the fuck? I took those stories off Literotica five years ago."

Richie began laughing on the other end. "Dude, there's like eighteen stories here. How the hell did you find time to write this shit? Assistant Headmaster Leyland made sure we never had any spare time."

"Richie, what the fuck are you playing at? Before you were being a jerk, but now you're being a disloyal asshole."

"Just go out tonight."

"This is so not cool, Richie, you fucker. I'm not doing jack. You'd better not be serious because if you are, I swear to God...!"

"Look, you know I'm fucking with you. I'm your best friend and I wouldn't do that. You know where my bodies are buried and I know where yours are, and I've done a hell of a lot more digging than you."

"Over the fucking top, Richie. If I didn't know you, I swear...! You didn't share this with Edward or Enrique, did you? You're the only one that knows about those stories."

"Of course not, and no one else will know, but you need to stop being a hypocrite. You need to do the shit you practice in your stories. The stepmom story you wrote, I have to say that was hot. Can you imagine if you fucked Tiffany? She was only your dad's girlfriend when you wrote this, but—"

Mark choked up a bit saying, "Yeah, I wrote them so long ago it's hard to remember, but the character wasn't me. Let's stop talking about these stories. There's a reason why I took them down. This really wasn't cool, Richie, definitely not cool, man."

"When have I ever been cool?" Richie questioned, before taking a deep breath. "I'm sorry. You're my best bud and I was just trying to draw you out of the dark place you're always in. Just get some pussy to clear your mind."

"I'll think about it."

"That's all?"

"You're lucky I don't fly out to Vegas and kick your ass."

"I'd prefer that," Richie said with a throaty laugh.

"I thought you would...look...even though that was an asshole move, I just might go to the club...and I might not."

The call soon ended and shortly afterwards, Mark smiled and left his upstairs gym with intent. He entered into his recently cleaned bedroom, the staff having taken to cleaning it during his exercise sessions. He stood in the center of the apartment-sized space, thinking, before making a beeline for the shower.

He toweled off and went to his spacious closet, picking out a combination of a Burberry shirt, Dolce leather jacket, and Tod's suede Buck shoes.

He threw on the fashion-consultant dictated look and began to move downstairs where he had not been in days. Casper stood at the bottom of the stairs with his dark suit, glasses, and white-streaming wire running from his left ear, all culminating in a vigilant stance.

Mark waved and asked, "Don't you ever sleep?"

"You do enough for both of us. Are we ready to rejoin the world, young Mr. Bryce?"

"It appears so, but I'm gonna need a car."

"We have the Range Rovers outside. We can get an Escalade, Bentley, Rolls-Royce, Maserati—" Casper said, about to add in the Jaguar XLJ before Mark cut him off.

"Maserati. Forget the others."

The ever-perceptive Casper shifted his eyes, focusing his pupils. "Are you asking for a car to drive yourself?"

"Bingo!"

"Where are we going tonight?"

"Do I need to clear everything with you?"

"I'm not your parents; you're more than of age. Moreover, this is all yours. I'm just trying to keep you alive. You and Ms. Porter are both to travel in chauffeur-driven and specific vehicles because they're armored."

"I've noticed and I've always thought it ridiculous."

"Corporate executives get kidnapped all the time. Two years ago the regional CEO of Ellis Oil, which is a Bryce subsidiary, was taken outside of his home. If it weren't for Section Nine, it would have cost fifty million dollars to get him back. From then on, your father gave me full authority over personal security for him as I see fit."

"What backwater was he in at the time for that to have happened?" Mark asked Casper smartly.

"A city called Calgary in a country called Canada," came the reply that shut Mark up.

"Your loyal bodyguards are the best, and they're discreet. If you like, they can be discreet and unnoticeable. So I ask again, where are you planning on going tonight?"

"Look, I'm sure I'll be fine. I'm not leaving Manhattan. Like you said, I'm in charge now..." Mark took a deep breath and released the air. "Just get me a car, please!"

Casper took a second, and then whispered into his watch.

A man with an earpiece, clearly another bodyguard, appeared from the long hallway under the stairs, handing keys to Casper.

Casper turned back to Mark saying, "In two minutes a Lamborghini Reventon and Bugatti Veyron will be outside. The cars I mentioned before are there too. If you don't like them, there's more back in the garage that I can have driven up."

"Doesn't really matter. The Maserati is fine."

"Thought you didn't care about safety," Casper said with a sly smile.

"I'll take the Maserati, but for tonight I don't want to see any Bryce Security."

Casper nodded and tossed Mark the keys. The billionaire, dressed for a night on the town, was soon off through the front door.

Casper followed Mark to the large oak Victorian door, watching as Mark slipped into the red-leather cabin of the sleek, silver Italian sedan.

Five seconds after the Maserati took off, Casper spoke into his watch communicator. Four motorcycles were in hot pursuit, followed by two Range Rovers.

There were initial creaks and unintentional sparks caused by Mark's unfamiliarity with the sedan. Soon he straightened things out, switching from gear shifting to automatic fluidity, zipping through blinking yellow lights at shooting speeds. Minutes later the car came to an abrupt shock-testing stop outside the dynamic art deco landmark, the Standard Hotel. His eyes admired the uniqueness of the modern hovering-looking structure with an engineer's eye.

He disembarked from the sleek vehicle, pre-tipped the valet and was soon through to the lobby, his coiffed dark-brown hair lifting up as his suede shoes propelled him into the free-expressive lobby. 'Now, how do I get to this damn club?' he thought to himself as he moved toward the hotel's front desk which had a gorgeous raven-haired young woman behind it.

"Excuse me?"

"Welcome to the Standard Highline. My name is Jenny." Mark's eyes drifted from her cute face to her nametag and unintentionally to her chest.