Chapter 29

As Teterboro International Airport fell away behind the plane, Paige turned to Max. “You know, I’m starting to think you might legitimately be flying me to Saint Martin for the weekend on a private plane.”

Max had just brought out his iPad and booted it up. He looked out the window. “You thought I was punking you maybe?”

“I had to consider the possibility,” said Paige. “It seemed unlikely, but so did my new boyfriend flying me to Saint Martin in a private jet. I wanted to be ready for both.”

Max laughed. “That would certainly be epic, but it seems a little cruel for my tastes. I think I come off better in the one where I just fly you to Saint Martin.”

“Definitely.” Paige looked around the plane behind her. “Do you think there’s somewhere we could have sex here?”

Max nodded. “I think the card with the security instructions had a sexatorium on the diagram of the plane.”

“Cool.” Paige cuddled up next to him. “We should go and find that once we reach cruising altitude.”

Max’s flip answer had suggested he thought Paige was kidding. His smile seemed a little less certain of that point. Paige wasn’t kidding. She was excited and horny and wanted Max to have an incentive to keep borrowing his super-rich friend’s private jet to fly her places. Paige had made a conscious choice to date guys who made her laugh and challenged her intellectually instead of ones who would shower her with gifts for being pretty, sexy, and willing. She hadn’t expected to catch one who could do both. It wouldn’t be hard to fall in love with Max.

Seeing Max was making some notes on his iPad, Paige asked, “Are you going to be working this weekend?”

“Sort of.” Max showed her the document he was working on.

Paige laughed. “Campaign notes? You’re working on D&D stuff?”

“I’m working on our first project,” said Max. “Are you an actress, Paige?”

“You’ve seen our videos. What do you think?” Paige wasn’t asking an idle question. She wasn’t sure of the answer herself.

“I think they’re very funny and you’re good in them,” said Max. “But I meant more along the lines of dramatic acting.”

“I’m a communications major, mostly focused on the technical side of things - video and sound editing,” Paige said. “I did some musical theater in high school.”

Max nodded, frowning. “We’ve been working on combining Nick’s ten years of campaign notes with our research into real-world problems to create a uniquely twenty-first century product - an open-license fantasy world that anybody can build on if they want to. I think we can make it huge. Imagine if anybody with a camera or a computer could set something in Westeros.”

“Like fan fiction?” Paige asked. “Doesn’t that happen all the time?”

“It does, but it’s illegal ... or against license or something. Andretti could explain why fanfic is legally murky,” said Max. “What if you could write something, get it funded, shoot it, put it out, sell it, but never have to pay George R. R. Martin for the privilege?”

“Wouldn’t that be terrible for Old George?” Paige asked.

“In his case, yes. He spent an enormous amount of time developing his universe and getting it turned into a TV show and he did it to make a living,” said Max. “What we’re doing, we’re not doing for profit. We’re doing it to make sure we can work as a team before we try anything that actually impacts people’s lives. And we’re using it as a medium for a message. The more people play with the product, recombine it, make it their own, the more it becomes less of a product and more a part of the mythology. Nick ran this adventure where we all went down into these flooded caves to fight elementals that had broken through from the Plane of Water. Instead of closing the portal, we wound up fighting our way through to release the water into a nearby aquifer and sealing the caves. It would make an awesome movie, but all those water effects would be insanely expensive. Making that movie is outside of our mission. But if somebody else decided to make that movie because they thought they could make a buck, they could do that and our message that heroes bring water to the desert goes out without our having had to do anything.”

The attendant came over and said. “We’re going to be at cruising altitude for the next couple of hours. Can I get you two anything?”

Max ordered a beer. Paige said, “In honor of our Caribbean adventure, I’ll have a rum and Coke. Also ... is there anywhere we could have sex on this plane?”

The attendant wrote down their orders with a smile and a twinkle in her eye. “I’ll get those drinks for you then, if you like, I can ride up in the cockpit and give you some privacy until you signal you need something with this button.” She pointed to a spot above their heads. “Would you like me to do that?”

Paige looked to Max, who was blushing, but just shook his head and said. “Uh, yes please. Thank you.” When she’d gone off to get the drinks, he looked at Paige, grinning. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Paige said happily. “Why were you asking if I was an actress?”

“I ... um,” Max frowned. “I thought I might like to cast you in something. Beyond that, I think we’re going to have to talk about it later. I seem to have been distracted from my train of thought by something.”

Paige kissed him happily. Max might be able to pull a private plane out of his ass for a weekend trip, but a pretty girl without shame was never at a disadvantage long. She patted her eyes and switched to an Old Hollywood accent “Are you a big-time movie producer? I would do anything to star in your next picture.”

Max kissed the tip of her nose. “Actually, I’m hoping to be a small-time movie producer. I’m going to recommend we shoot some videos of our own to prime the pump - low-budget stuff with no special effects, just good stories. I was going to pitch the idea to Connie and Hall and see if they were interested. If we do wind up doing it, we could use every drop of star power we can get.”

Paige laughed. “And you think I rate a drop?”

“Assuming a drop is the smallest amount of fame possible - like how Internet famous I am from that one video, I figure you could fill a fair-sized pond,” said Max.

Paige shook her head. “I suppose the definition of ‘pond’ could be stretched far enough for that to be only a massive exaggeration and not a genuine sign of mental illness.”

“Does that mean I shouldn’t put you on my call sheet, Miss seven million hits on YouTube?” Max asked.

“Nine million,” Paige corrected him.

Max smirked, “hashtag humblebrag.”

Paige punched him playfully. “You’re lucky I have a shameful weakness for rich, sarcastic assholes.”

“I’m not rich,” Max reminded her.

“No, but you signal rich and my lady-parts can’t tell the difference,” said Paige.

The attendant brought over a cart with their drinks. After those had been handed over, she pointed out what else was on the cart. “I brought you some towels and hot washcloths in case you’d like to freshen up later. The washcloths are freshly microwaved, so you’ll want to test the temperature before you put them anywhere too sensitive.” She gestured at the overhead, “There are blankets up there if you get cold and you can signal for me if you need anything. We’ll be landing in Saint Martin in a little over three and a half hours. Is there anything else I can help you two with before I head up to the cockpit?”

Paige looked to Max, who shook his head. “Uh ... no thank you, Monica.”

As a credit to her professionalism, Monica didn’t even smirk as she headed off to the front of the plane. Max watched her go. “I guess this isn’t the first time she’s heard a request like that.”

Paige reached under her skirt and extracted her thong, then unbuckled her seatbelt and climbed onto Max, straddling his lap. “Why would it be? This whole plane is basically a flying hotel suite that rich guys and the women who love them are stuck in for hours at a time. You don’t think they play video games the whole time. Do you?”

Seemingly by instinct, Max’s hands traced their way up the backs of Paige’s thighs and under her skirt, cupping her ass and massaging it. “I’m not sure I ever thought much about that. And I certainly don’t intend to start at this particular moment.”

Paige knelt over him and kissed down. “Come on, Max. How many milliseconds after Nick lent you his plane did the words ‘mile high club’ enter your mind?”

Max slid a finger between her thighs from behind. “Honestly, I have a lot of fantasies, Paige. But none of them are altitude based.”

Paige closed her eyes and ground against his hand. “So...” she panted. “Are you saying you don’t want to do this?”

Max squeezed her ass with one hand and found her clit with the other one. “What do you think?”

Paige gasped and writhed against him. “I think ... we’re going to need those warm washcloths sooner or later.”

She was topless, primed, and more than ready to go when Max asked. “Do you think people in Denver get into the mile-high club on a technicality?”

“Max,” she whimpered. “Focus, please.”

She could almost hear him mind loading up another joke, so she gripped him by the chin and kissed him hard. “Get your pants down and get inside of me or I’m hitting that fucking service button and asking Monica to finish me off.”

That got Max out of his pants and inside of Paige in pretty short order. With one leg over his shoulder and her hands braced on his knees, she managed to get enough leverage to generate some friction. It felt good, but it wasn’t going to lead to a happy ending.

“Put your arms around my waist, lock your hands together, and unless you want to explain to my family how I got a concussion, don’t drop me,” said Paige. When Max complied, she threw her other leg over his shoulder, hooked her hands behind his neck and added, “Now, fuck me.”

Max fucked her, pulling her towards him hard and raising his hips over and over again. It was rough and awkward and hot and the possibility that everyone could hear them over the engines and through the cockpit door just added to the moment. When Paige came, she held her breath so long, she started to see spots before her eyes.

When she climbed off of Max, she wanted to play it cool, but her legs were stiff and made her stumble against some tiny bit of turbulence. Max caught her by the arm to keep her upright and she nodded her thanks.

The washcloths were still warm, but not by much. She offered one to Max. Once they’d cleaned up, she sat down next to him still topless, pulled a blanket over them from knees to chest, and drew her phone out of her purse.

“Are you taking a selfie?” Max asked.

Paige nodded. “If there are no pictures, it never happened.”

Max put his arm around her, holding her close. After she snapped the picture, he asked, “You’re not going to post that. Are you?”

“Not publicly, just for friends,” said Paige.

“Aren’t you and Harold friends on Facebook?” Max asked. There was a hint of warning in his voice that gave Paige pause.

“Harold knows where I am and who I’m with,” said Paige.

Max didn’t say anything, but his silence spoke volumes. Paige sighed. “You don’t think I should rub his face in it.”

“I wouldn’t want to see it if our roles were reversed,” said Max. “Harold’s a nice guy.”

“How would you know?” Paige pulled her t-shirt back on.

“I met him in the park,” said Max. “We talked.”

“When?”

“Well, I walk in the park pretty much every day and he’s there pretty much every day. We made like weird, awkward eye contact a few times and then yesterday, we made eye contact and it wasn’t weird. He said ‘Hey, Max.’ I said, ‘Hey, Harold,’ and we wound up talking.”

“So, was there a lot of chest puffing?” Paige turned sideways to face Max. “I would have liked to see some chest puffing.”

“There was some handshaking - not the literal kind, but an exchange of geek bona fides,” said Max. “Howard’s a much better programmer than I am. I’ve pretty much got him crushed in all the other categories. We have a lot of hobbies in common.”

“Besides me?” Paige asked.

“You’re not a hobby. You’re a vocation,” said Max. “I invited him to come playtest our campaign during the grand opening. He’s really stoked about that.”

“It sounds like you seduced him good,” grumbled Paige.

“I did mention Casey and Hall were planning to be there and that Felicia was a firm maybe,” said Max. “But, you said yourself that you thought we’d be friends if we met and we probably will.”

Paige crossed her arms. “So, no amok time?”

“With Harold? I’m hardly a fighter, but I would snap him like stale Pocky.”

“He was already intimidated by you,” Paige said.

“Good. He’s intimidated by you too.” Max sat back. “Honestly, I couldn’t ask for a better romantic rival. I wouldn’t want to meet him in a hackathon, but I’m not intimidated by the possibility of him sweeping you off your feet. And if I turn out to be completely wrong about that, I have just enough nerd solidarity in me to imagine I’d prefer to be losing to someone like him.”

Nick was at his desk, working through ten years of campaign notes on his PC when Simon knocked on his open door. “Shelby and I are going to be heading uptown to talk to the people from the Helen Project at this dinner event they’re holding. We’ll be back later tonight.”

Nick had already been frowning. Now, his frown deepened. “Really? You’re going to a dinner for an anti-sex trafficking charity?”

Simon nodded. “They want me to hear some presentation from this Chicago cop about public-private anti-trafficking partnerships and probably try to convince me to give them your money again.”

“Are you leaning that way?” Nick made another note on his computer.

“As far as I’m concerned, they can have it,” said Simon. “They’re not another weird anti-sex Christian group; they aren’t wasting their energy trying to eliminate prostitution all together; and they’re not trying to fight a 2015 problem with technology from 1982. That pretty much puts them head and shoulders above everyone else I’ve talked to.”

Nick shook his head. “Didn’t you tell me at one point you didn’t want to work on the charity side of things?”

“That was before you started letting us hand out big seven-figure checks,” said Simon. “Giving your money away makes me kind of hard.”

“I wouldn’t lead with that at the dinner,” said Nick dryly.

“Part of why I’m making Shelby come with me. She keeps me classy and makes it less weird that I’m going up there to judge the worthiness of a bunch of women dedicating their lives to helping other women,” said Simon. “Plus, she likes to dress up and I like to make her dress up.”

Nick sat back and considered one of his oldest friends. “I was kind of surprised you decided to fund this particular cause.”

Simon laughed. “Did you see Arwen’s face when I said ‘human trafficking?’ If I wasn’t sure when I said it, that really put me over the top - that and Max asking ‘for or against.’”

Nick nodded. “Well, I’m glad you’re taking an interest. If one of you were going to convince me my approach to charity was bullshit, I figured it would be you.”

“No woman should be robbed of the right to sell her body for her own benefit.” Simon gestured with his head. “What are you working on?”

“Just trying to figure out if there’s enough in my campaign notes to even make a product,” admitted Nick. “So much of this stuff is derivative or straight-up copying of other D&D products, so we either can’t use it or we need to work out some kind of licensing deal on it. Every time I see the word ‘Drow’ in my notes, a cash register rings in my head.”

“Have you considered just buying Wizards of the Coast?” Simon asked.

“Hasbro already did back in 99 for three hundred twenty five million dollars,” said Nick. “And Hasbro as a company is actually worth more than I have. Even if they would let go of Wizards for their original purchase price, I don’t really want to drop a year’s revenue to avoid untangling IP problems.”

Simon looked amused and Nick realized his friend had been joking. He wanted to tell Simon that he hadn’t seriously considered buying a company for this vanity project, but Simon just said, “I guess it’s back to the editing board for you then. Are you okay being alone for dinner?”

“I won’t really be alone,” said Nick. In truth, he’d been looking forward to having Simon around as the one member of his inner circle that hadn’t flown off to some exotic location this weekend. “Emily and Tanvi are still here.”

“Right. If you get lonely, you could sleep with one of them.” Simon turned to go. “Or both of them I imagine. Have fun.”

Nick just rolled his eyes and went back to his editing. But, it wasn’t long before the relative silence of the office combined with unfinished business from earlier in the week made it impossible to concentrate. He slacked Ainsley, asking her to meet him on the roof.

When she arrived up there, Nick was standing by the roof access door, watching the workers finally lower his hot tub into place. “Are they going to be done with that tonight?”

“They say they will,” said Nick. “They’ve been saying that since Tuesday. I’m just hoping they finish before everyone gets back on Monday.”

Ainsley held her hands together behind her back, mimicking Nick’s pose. “Did you want me for something?”

“I e-mailed you some questions about intellectual property law for our meeting with Rhonda on Monday,” said Nick. “But, it’s not really important that I get the answers to them in advance. I’m just going to close up the office for the rest of the day I think. I’m not planning to need you for anything until Monday, counsellor. You should ... live your life as you see fit for a couple of days.”

“As I see fit?” Ainsley raised an eyebrow. “Let my hair down, you mean?” She didn’t wait for an answer and must have been planning for such a moment because a single pull of an unseen pin combined with a head-shake sent her crowning glory cascading down to her shoulders. Even without context, it was a sight to behold, but Nick could still feel the memory of how it curled around his fingers when he buried them in it.

He turned so he could only see her in profile, looking out over the street. “You should go home, Ainsley - get a nice, hot bath, dress up, and pick up where you were so rudely interrupted last weekend.”

“Failing to find a man worth having a one-night stand with?” Ainsley asked matter-of-factly. “I had a pretty good candidate, but when I told him I was your lawyer and I had to go, he said I was too pretty to be a lawyer.”

“Idiot,” muttered Nick in spite of himself. He shook his head. “I’m sure you won’t have a hard time finding someone to replace him.”

“I already have. I’ve slept with a couple of billionaires since then.”

Nick frowned. “Maybe the other...”

“I’m not Jesse’s type,” Ainsley cut him off. “That was a one-time release of stress for both of us. And I never promised to serve him.”

Nick turned to glare at her. “I don’t need you to serve me like that, Miss Davenport. I just need you to be my true and faithful lawyer.”

“I didn’t ask if you needed me for anything, Nick.” Ainsley reminded him. “I asked if you wanted me.”

“I’ve had you, Ainsley,” Nick said harshly. “Why would I want to do that again?”

“Because you’ve had me.” Ainsley crossed her arms. “And because you do still want me. None of the signs have gone away. Whatever you got out of fucking me once, you want more of it. And I want more of what I got out of it, too.”

Nick gave her a sharp look while at the same time trying to not really look at her. Ainsley Davenport was tall, slender, pretty, poised, clever, and probably a good deal smarter than Nick. Something about that combination in that particular package made Nick want to throw her down, rip her suit off, and fuck her until she couldn’t remember her own name. Having failed to convince himself not to have sex with her again, he tried to convince her to walk away. “You got to have sex with a man who dislikes you more often than he likes you. Why would you want more of that?”

“I don’t think you really dislike me that much. I think that’s mostly distrust. And I think you distrust me a little less than you did last week. The more I demonstrate that I really have surrendered to you, the more you trust me and the better you like me.” She looked him over. “Even if I’m completely wrong about that, you already like me more than Arthur Black ever did and I slept with him for years.”

“He set a low bar,” Nick acknowledged, turning to the roof access door. “Come on, counsellor. I’ll walk you home while you tell me what we’re up to on that front.”

To Ainsley’s credit, she gave no outward sign that Nick had capitulated as they descended the stairs, crossed the lounge, took the elevator downstairs, and exited through the lobby. Only front desk security and workmen saw them, but there was nothing to see except a young man walking with his lawyer two steps behind, discussing business. If anyone suspected anything nefarious was going on, it would have been a lucky guess.

“I couriered the paperwork over for the liquid asset transfers to Black and Stringer this morning and haven’t been answering any calls since I sent them,” Ainsley told him as they walked. “They’ll either have to comply with the requests as written or hold off on most of them waiting for some clarification from me when I go in on Monday. Art will almost certainly opt for the latter. Every day they hold those assets generates a few thousand dollars in management fees for the firm and he never met a nickel he couldn’t squeeze until Jefferson begged for mercy. That will give us casus belli to call for an audit of how they’re managing your assets.”

“Is ‘casus belli’ a legal term, counsellor?” Nick asked.

“Not the way I used it. It means...”

“Cause of war,” said Nick. “I know what it means. I just wondered if you were dropping some Latin into the conversation in order to sound more lawyerly and remind me I’m out of my element.”

“Actually, I’ve heard Max use it twice when you were discussing your game project and nobody asked him to explain what it meant. I figured it was part of the inner circle patois you guys speak and that it wouldn’t come from outside of your element,” said Ainsley. “I can stop using it if it discomfits you.”

“I ... thought it was a lawyer trick,” Nick grumbled. “My apologies, counsellor.”

“Maybe a small lawyer trick,” said Ainsley equanimously. “I studied philosophy and history as an undergraduate.”

Out on the sidewalk now, Nick turned to look at her. “Why do I have a hard time imagining you as a philosophy major?”

“Probably because a fair number of my classmates walked around needing a bath and a shave, regardless of gender,” said Ainsley. “The philosophy department was a refuge for a certain kind of student at Yale. But it wasn’t that long ago that the study of philosophy was considered essential to anyone who wanted a higher education. Plus, my father thought it was a waste of time and money.”

“So, your act of youthful rebellion was to study philosophy at Yale?” Nick smirked.

“Well all rebel in our own ways, Mr. Coyle,” said Ainsley primly. “John Aleister Davenport III hereinafter referred to as my father hates nothing more than he hates wasted time. He believes we have a huge potential for achievement and, as a society, spend an absurd amount of energy finding ways to blunt that potential. You may be unimpressed with my level of rebellion. But I assure you I could drive my father into a fit of rigidly-controlled apoplexy just by quoting two philosophers in rapid succession.”

“He sounds like a utopian,” said Nick.

“That statement would also enrage him,” said Ainsley. “Could you clarify the point so I have enough corroborating detail to repeat it to him?”

Nick smirked. He knew Ainsley was probably trying to get on his good side by being more relatable. He assumed that everything Ainsley said or did was a tactic of some sort, but it was impossible to call her out every time he caught her and not sound like a total asshole even to himself. He needed to pick his battles for important things like why she wanted him to have sex with her. They would have to talk about that right after he had sex with her one more time. “A lot of the utopians think there’s one thing humanity is doing wrong that will completely revolutionize our lives if we just stop doing it. Mother Ann thought we’d be fine if we just stopped having sex. John Noyes thought our problem was monogamy. Fourier...” He frowned. “Honestly, Fourier was probably just mentally ill. He’s a bad example.”

As they entered the lobby of Ainsley’s building, she said, “Plato seemed to think a better society would flow from a proper definition of justice.”

“Your knowledge of utopias is probably better than mine,” Nick summoned the elevator that went to Ainsley’s apartment, but also the penthouse he was negotiating to acquire from Jesse. There were perfectly legitimate reasons for him being here. “I read one book.”

“One more than I’ve read. Any knowledge I have of nineteenth century America is incidental. Focusing on the era when our branch of the Davenports gambled and drank away their legacy would have been too much of a red flag even for my father.” Ainsley joined Nick in the elevator and pressed the button for her floor. “I focused on Medieval Europe and the coopting of ecclesiastical law by secular authority.”

“That sounds incredibly esoteric,” Nick said.

“It’s actually pretty sexy as a study of history goes.” Ainsley led Nick out of the elevator. “A lot of what the Medieval church regulated was about establishing very rigid sexual norms. Codifying that into secular law was mostly how Christian morality got translated into formal statute. It was a favorite topic of my faculty advisor.”

“He sounds like a dirty old man,” said Nick, more as an attempt to break Ainsley’s placidly calm demeanor than an indictment of the theoretical professor.

“She was ... not a man, but certainly a fan of the more pruriently fulsome aspects of history.” Ainsley unlocked her apartment door and ushered Nick in. “‘Fulsome’ is one of her favorite words, by the way. Can I offer you a drink? I haven’t had time to stock the wet bar for proper entertaining, but I think I’ve got most of the essentials.”

Nick almost refused out-of-hand, but he’d resolved to drink enough to not have his teetotaling make people around him uncomfortable about drinking around him. And he really could use a drink. “What are you having?”

“I was thinking Lagavulin twelve year.” Ainsley took off her jacket and hung it on a wooden coat rack, then walked up to Nick and turned her back to him. “It seemed like a very Mad Men thing to drink before an afternoon tryst. Unzip me, please?”

Nick looked down at the zipper on her skirt. “I don’t remember agreeing to a tryst this afternoon, Ainsley.”

“You’re here. Aren’t you?” Ainsley looked back over her shoulder. “Did you walk me over here to talk about utopians and ecclesiastical law?”

“We were supposed to be talking about our strategy with Black and Stringer.” Nick reminded her. “We got a bit sidetracked.”

“Right.” Ainsley glanced down. “Unzip me, please? This is my best suit and I’d like to wear it again when I go in to the lion’s den on Monday.”

“Right.” Nick could hardly stand on formality alone with Ainsley. He stepped in, unbuttoned, and unzipped the back of her skirt before stepping away and letting her wriggle out of the garment herself. She did. “I still haven’t heard exactly what we’re doing to punish Arthur Black for SWATting my home.”

“First, we’re moving most of your assets out of the trust.” Ainsley slid off her high-heeled shoes, then wriggled out of her skirt leaving herself in a dress shirt and nude silk stockings. “The bylaws say we have to leave a hundred million dollars worth of assets under Black and Stringer control, but that still drops the trading revenue from forty or fifty million dollars a year to two or three million. That’s still enough to make you a very desirable client.”

She padded on stockinged feet to the bar in the corner of the room. “Did you want to try Lagavulin? It’s kind of an acquired taste.”

“Most booze is. I’ll try it.” Nick asked. “How do we get from having a very desirable client to dying alone in a ditch?”

Ainsley poured. “Because we’re such a big client, we can still demand things. Tomorrow, I’m going to demand that Arthur Black focus exclusively on our accounts. That will mean a big hit to his revenue and his ability to network and use your money to accumulate favors. Once he adjusts to his reduced, but still fairly successful circumstances, we can squeeze him by inches - less legal work each month to start, then change how you use the funds you let Black and Stringer manage.”

Ainsley brought two tumblers over and gestured Nick to an overstuffed armchair. “You’ll want to sit down the first time you drink Lagavulin.”

Nick sat and accepted a glass. Ainsley sat on the arm of the chair, ankles crossed. “With a fortune your size, you can easily be using a hundred million dollars to establish a hedge. Black and Stringer’s trading fees mostly only kick in when they make you a profit. Hedge instruments usually operate at a small loss unless some extraordinary circumstance occurs. The one Simon pointed me at really only pays off if the stock market collapses.”