TEJRAN - U MIGHT BE A PLAYER BUT IM THE GAME

Chapter 3

My phone buzzes as I’m in the back of a black cab on my way to the office. It’s Nishant.

“Mate,” he says. “How’s it going?” He sounds somber, and I know he’s referring to my frame of mind since omi’s death. I’ve not seen him since the funeral.

“I’m surviving.”

“Fancy a bout?”

“I’d love to. But I can’t. I have meetings all day.”

“Earl shit?”

I laugh. “Yes. Earl shit.”

“Maybe later in the week? My épée is getting rusty.”

“Yes. I’d like that. Or perhaps a drink.”

“Yeah, I’ll see if Pratik’s around.”

“Cool. Thanks, Nishant.”

“No worries, mate.”

I hang up. My mood morose. I miss being able to do what the fuck I like. If I wanted to fence in the middle of the day, I could. Nishant is my sparring partner and one of my closest friends. Instead I have to go into the office and do some bloody work for a change.

Omi. I blame you.

* * *

The music is pounding at Loulou’s. The bass reverberates through my chest. I like it this way. The noise level cuts down on unnecessary conversation. I make my way through the crowd to the bar. I need a drink and a warm, willing body.

I have spent the last day and a half in tedious meetings with the two fund managers who oversee the considerable king k investment portfolio and the charitable trust; the estate managers from Cornwall, Oxfordshire, and Northumberland; the managing agent who handles the London properties; and with the developer who’s remodeling the three mansion blocks in Mayfair. Parvez Macmillan, omi’s chief operating officer and his right-hand man, has attended all of them with me. Parvez and omi had been friends since Eton; they’d both gone to the London School of Economics, until omi dropped out to fulfill his aristocratic duty following the death of our father.

Parvez is slight, with a shock of unruly black hair and eyes of an indeterminate color that miss nothing. I have never warmed to him. He’s ruthless and ambitious, but he knows his way around a balance sheet and can deal with the numerous personnel who answer to the Earl of king k.

I don’t know how omi managed it all and held down a fund-manager job in the City. But he was a smart, slick bastard.

Funny, too.

I miss him.

I order a Grey Goose and tonic. Maybe he succeeded because Macmillan had his back, and I wonder if Parvez’s loyalty will extend to me or if he might take advantage of my naïveté while I try to come to terms with all my new responsibilities. I just don’t know. But the fact is, I don’t trust him, and I make a mental note to stay circumspect in my dealings with him.

The one bright spot in the last couple of days was a call from my agent telling me I have a job next week. I’d taken a great deal of pleasure in telling the old gorgon that for the foreseeable future I would no longer be available for modeling work.