Noah
I assumed the position of CEO of Blackstone Industries at twenty-four, half the board doubted me, the other half tried to take me down before the first meeting. Today, they all call me Mr. Blackstone with respect, with fear, as it should be. My father, Blackstone, built the empire, and I transformed it, I grew up hearing about profits, mergers, investments, and how the world swallows the weak, I learned early on that either you step on someone, or you get stepped on, and I was never the type to accept being bossed around.
I started as chief operating officer at twenty-one, while my college peers went out drunk in fraternities, I was already making decisions that moved millions. My mother, Victoria, is the balance that my father doesn't have, intelligent, elegant, subtle like a silver knife. My younger sister, Ivy, is the only one capable of making me smile sincerely. She's 22, talks too much, and is always dragging me into social situations that I'd rather avoid. Like the nightclub that night.
I was only there to pick up Ivy, who had disappeared with a group of friends after saying she was "just going out for dinner." It was past midnight and my cell phone was vibrating with alerts about meetings the next day, I should have been sleeping or, at most, having sex with some redhead or other, but there I was: surrounded by sweat, alcohol, and needy people trying to fill their voids with dancing. Relationships? Love? Those things are for those who have time or for those who need distraction, I don't have room in my schedule for that. They've already pressured me to marry, of course "It's time to start a family, secure heirs, consolidate the Blackstone name," my father would say, between one cigar and another, but marrying for convenience is something that even my ego can't accept, I could even play at being engaged if it were advantageous for business, but emotions? Commitment? That's weakness disguised as romanticism.
I was already at the tenth bar that night, ten!
That's right, ten different establishments, all packed with drunk people, smelling of cheap vodka and uncontrolled hormones, and still no Ivy. If my sister thought she was going to make me run all over Chicago after her without consequences, she was very mistaken, she was going to pay for it, dearly, I seriously considered cutting off her black card for a week or making her do an internship in the tax sector, that would be punishment indeed. The blonde next to me wouldn't stop talking, she was on monologue number three about how every decent man was already committed or emotionally unavailable, funny, I was there in silence, available and clearly bored. I shook my head, pretending to listen, while I swirled the ice in my glass, it was time to go, to get out of there and, who knows, find another more civilized place where I could track down my damned sister.
That's when I felt a light touch on my arm.
I turned around with the automatic intention of rejecting yet another approach, but I stopped. She wasn't like the others, first: clothes weren't revealing at all, a simple long black dress, somewhat old-fashioned, no neckline, no glitter, no effort to attract attention, and yet, she did. A lot. Second: her face was pretty, no, pretty was an understatement, she was stunning, one of those rare beauties that can't be bought, that aren't manufactured, fair skin, eyes that seemed a little lost and a little determined at the same time, loose hair, with that natural air of someone who wasn't trying to impress anyone, and perhaps because of that, impressed even more. Third: she was drunk, that was evident, the smell of the drink mixed with the sweet perfume, her eyes a little heavy, but her mouth? Firm. Smiling, and then came what I least expected.
She gestured with her finger, asking me to lean down. For some reason that I still don't understand, I obeyed, perhaps because of the audacity, perhaps because no one had ever approached me that way or with that courage. When I leaned in, she looked at me as if she already knew me, as if she had chosen me as one chooses a destiny.
And then she said, in a drunken but absurdly clear voice:
"Would you spend the night with me?"
For a second, I thought I had misheard.
But no, she said exactly that out of the blue, in the middle of the chaos, as if it were the most normal thing in the world, and the most curious thing? I was about to say no.
But then she completed, seriously, as if it were a challenge:
"Because if you don't want to, I'll choose another."
Oh, no, darling, not that, if she wanted to ignite my curiosity, she succeeded. And, honestly? To hell with logic.
I looked again at that woman with angel eyes and a tempting proposal.
"Yes." I replied, as if I were closing a contract. "Let's go."
She didn't hesitate when I offered my arm.
She walked a little crookedly, stumbling slightly, but didn't complain about anything. She was the type of drunk who was determined, the worst category. The one who knows exactly what she wants, even if she stumbles over her words, I led her to my car, I had also been drinking, but I was sober enough to continue being a man, I still knew the difference between right and wrong, but that night wasn't made of rules.
"What's your name?" I asked, just out of formality.
She smiled.
"You don't need to know."
"And are you…?" I hesitated.
"Nineteen," she replied quickly, as if guessing what I was going to ask. "I'm already of age, worried man."
I laughed lightly, she had sharp answers, even though her eyes were a little glazed, that put me on alert, but also made me more curious.
We arrived at the hotel that I used to frequent when I wanted discretion, a place that knew my name, my car, and that never asked questions, I took the usual room without plans, without messing around. When the door closed behind us, something changed, she stopped in the middle of the room, her eyes scanning the environment with childish curiosity as if it were the first motel room she had ever set foot in, as if everything there was exotic and new.
I found it strange, she approached the bed slowly, as if she were exploring a new dimension.
"Is this your first time?" I asked, more seriously than I expected.
She looked at me, said nothing, just nodded, as if she were ashamed, damn it. I stepped back, running my hand through my hair.
"You're too drunk to consent, and it's your first time."
But before I could continue, I heard the zipper of her dress.
She let it fall to the floor with a theatrical delicacy. And then she began to walk towards me, that scene with her hair loose over her shoulders, her skin illuminated by the indirect light of the room, the newly made tattoo since it was still partially visible with the protection, in the curve of her groin a small drawing in black, did she get it done today? An act of rebellion etched on her skin.
She was an angel but not one of those who sing in heaven, she was the type of angel who was expelled for being too good at provoking sin, she stopped right in front of me, looked me in the eyes and with a low, almost broken voice, asked:
"Am I pretty?"
I took a deep breath.
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
She smiled.
A small, shy, but real smile.
And then, she touched my face with both hands.
"Can I kiss you?"
I shouldn't, but I didn't say no.
"You can."
And before our lips met, she murmured:
"Sorry if I'm clumsy… I don't have much experience with kissing."
And then she kissed me.
It was surreal, nothing like the technical and repetitive kisses of the women who had been in my bed before, there was no rehearsal, no intention, just truth. Her mouth was warm, sweet, uncertain
and yet, it seemed like the eighth wonder of the world, a kiss that didn't seek to conquer me, but to give me something pure, a kiss that dismantled any armor and I, a man who thought he had seen everything, realized at that moment that I was wrong. She didn't know it, but she had just destroyed all my certainties with just a touch of her lips.
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