Love Arrangements

XAVIER

This is a fucking nightmare, day in and day out.

There has to be something more for me out there, or just fucking more to life in general. I refuse to spend the next thirty years trapped in this dead-end, nine-to-five job where I have so little say in how I want things done.

Sure, I get some creative liberties inside my office in the manner in which I approach my patients and the way I conduct my sessions, and that I very much enjoy.

But the minute I step outside and my patient goes on his merry way, the bureaucratic bullshit comes tumbling in.

The problem is that this forsaken place is run by fucking fossils. They are so damn stuck in their old ways that they won’t even consider or acknowledge my expertise or the benefits I could bring.

And to think that just months ago, I was days away from becoming the CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Nothing could match up to my managerial and leadership skills.

Well, maybe just my after-hours nightlife. The amount of pussy being thrown at me the minute I stepped foot in any joint was both ridiculous and impressive.

Chicks would be fighting for even a speck of my attention, and I used to bed at least a couple of them in a single outing.

Usually, the fun would begin right there in a private booth, getting sucked off while I enjoyed a nice single malt. If I was satisfied by her performance, she’d get the chance to come back to my penthouse for a night she’d never forget.

Call me anything, but a selfish lover I was not. Well, most of the time, anyway. I very much enjoyed hearing random women yell my name in pure ecstasy as they rode their releases.

It was my signature move, if you will, leaving them wanting more but never engaging with them again.

Sure, the fucking press vultures would get a kick out of the juicy stories about my sexual performance and prowess, but print not a fucking single word about my business accomplishments. Ever.

Which was total BS considering I had an impressive amount of those as well. Not that it would matter anymore. Top companies would take one glance at my name and throw my resume straight into the shredder.

You can imagine the rush the paps got, snapping pictures of me getting escorted out of my fucking company building and weaving completely fabricated stories.

Newsstands all around New York got covered in crappy magazines that had printed in bold letters the scoop about the newly disgraced billionaire and formerly coveted playboy.

This went on for over a month while they kept spinning their tales that have absolutely no merit. Hence my current conundrum. Everyone apparently reads trashy gossip magazines and trusts them like they do the Bible.

And that was only the beginning: all my accounts were frozen until the end of the investigation; my penthouse was taken away, as were my cars and a few other properties because my dad’s name was on all of them.

Speaking of my esteemed father, I have no idea if the jackass is even alive or not. Though, knowing him, he probably has some remote villa on an island in the middle of the Pacific where he plots his return.

Not that any of it will help me in any shape or form.

So here I am, two months into a job I absolutely hate. And to think I even had to schmooze and mingle with individuals I would have never cast a second glance at before to get it in the first place.

But there’s no way I could afford my two-bedroom apartment in fucking Brooklyn without it. Not to mention my car.

Like going over the bridge from Manhattan to find accommodation, wasn’t enough of a kick in the teeth, I also had to forgo my amazing Tesla for a fucking Prius.

This morning though, I woke up determined to pitch my management plan to Mr. Lavinicus, the old hag that runs this fine establishment.

If the wrinkly dinosaur would just fucking look over my ideas, he’d see how much capital I’d be able to bring in. With that in mind, I made my way to his office, taking full advantage of the fact that he was the one to call me in.

Standing in front of his office I was debating whether to knock or not. In the end, I had to stay true to my fabulous self as much as I could. So I just waltzed right in like I fucking owned the place.

The smell that hit merely seconds later was as horrid as ever and the office overall had seen better days. So had Mr. Lavinicus himself with his huge under-eye bags and unnatural orangey skin.

"You summoned me, boss?"

“Stop smirking like a jackass and sit your behind down. I need you to take over for Dr. Trace next week. He’s taking a leave of absence, so you’ll be responsible for his patients as well.”

“What? Why me? I already have a full roster, and I’m the newest doctor here! I don’t even know his patients, nor do they know me. However, I’d be willing to consider it if you run an eye over the investment plan I put together.”

“That was not a request, Knights! So stop fucking wasting my time and do as you are told. Be grateful I ever considered hiring you in the first place after the stunt you and your bastard of a father pulled. Now sign this and get out of my sight!”

“Yes, sir, it was a pleasure, as always,” I said through my clenched jaw, as I made my way out the door, slamming it as hard as I could.

What the actual fuck? There’s no way this thing is even legal. I can’t believe I have to put up with all this crap, and there’s nothing I can do about it—if I want to keep this damn job. Which, as I mentioned before, I fucking hate.

But it’s not like there’s anyone else willing to take a chance with a liability like me… And I sure as fuck have no means or enough resources to invest in a good PR company that would be able to clear and restore my name.

That means I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future. Or as long as it will take for people to forget that my name comes attached to the disgraced millionaire moniker…like that’s ever going to happen.

But hey, at least I have tomorrow off to get blackout drunk and drown my fucking sorrows. Hopefully, by the time I wake up, all of this will have been just a nightmare.